J`écris sur la musique - University of Wisconsin–Madison


“J’écris
sur
la
musique”:
Writing
on
music
in
Three
Texts
by
George
Sand
By
Anna
Bachman
Barter
A
dissertation
submitted
in
partial
fulfillment
of
the
requirements
for
the
degree
of
Doctor
of
Philosophy
(French)
at
the
UNIVERSITY
OF
WISCONSIN‐MADISON
2012
Date
of
final
oral
examination:
08/24/12
Approved
by
the
following
members
of
the
Final
Oral
Committee:
Richard
Goodkin,
Professor,
French
Florence
Vatan,
Associate
Professor,
French
Steven
Winspur,
Professor,
French
Aliko
Songolo,
Professor,
French
Susan
Cook,
Professor,
Music
©
Copyright
by
Anna
Bachman
Barter
2012
All
Rights
Reserved
i
This
dissertation
is
dedicated
to
my
parents
who
introduced
me
to
music
and
literature
and
helped
me
to
cultivate
my
love
of
both.
ii
Acknowledgments
In
writing
this
dissertation,
I
have
tried
in
part
to
understand
the
extent
to
which
words
are
able
to
convey
George
Sand’s
most
heartfelt
emotions.
Strangely
enough,
it
is
not
until
I
try
to
express
my
gratitude
to
all
of
those
people
who
helped
to
make
this
project
possible
that
I
finally
understand
her
predicament.
Richard
Goodkin,
my
thesis
advisor,
has
guided
me
from
the
very
beginning
of
this
project.
My
“lifeline”
between
Madison
and
Washington
D.C.,
he
made
geographical
distance
irrelevant
with
his
readiness
to
work
with
me
via
phone,
e‐mail,
and
FedEx.
His
detailed
comments
and
thoughtful
questions
were
invaluable,
and
he
always
pushed
me
to
think
more
clearly
and
make
my
work
better.
I
am
honored
to
have
worked
with
someone
whom
I
admire
and
respect
so
much.
Florence
Vatan
and
Steven
Winspur
offered
me
insightful
commentary
during
the
writing
process.
I
appreciate
that
they
read
my
work
with
such
care
and
helped
me
to
think
of
fruitful
ways
of
expanding
this
project
further.
I
also
want
to
extend
my
thanks
to
Aliko
Songolo
and
Susan
Cook
who
served
on
my
committee
and
took
part
in
my
doctoral
defense.
Their
questions
provoked
new
ideas
for
me
to
consider
as
I
go
forward
and
develop
this
project.
In
addition,
I
would
like
to
mention
William
Berg
and
Deborah
Jenson
whose
courses
helped
me
to
develop
my
ideas
pertaining
to
nineteenth‐century
French
literature
as
well
as
the
comparative
arts.
The
origins
of
this
project
began
at
Dartmouth
College
where
I
earned
my
M.A.
in
Comparative
Literature,
and
my
thanks
go
to
Lawrence
Kritzman,
John
Rassias,
and
iii
Keith
Walker
who
offered
me
much
encouragement
even
after
I
left
campus.
I
would
like
to
especially
thank
Faith
Beasley.
If
she
is
the
professor
who
inspired
me
to
start
a
Ph.D.
in
French,
she
is
also
the
one
who
inspired
me
to
finish
it.
Much
of
this
project
was
completed
while
I
was
teaching
at
Georgetown
University,
and
I
thank
the
French
Department
for
being
my
academic
home
away
from
home
for
the
past
three
years.
Their
constant
encouragement
and
genuine
concern
for
me
served
as
motivation
to
return
to
the
library
day
after
day.
Thanks
are
due
to
my
friends
and
fellow
graduate
students.
Andrea
Magermans
acted
as
my
proxy
when
depositing
the
thesis.
Linda
Brindeau,
Elizabeth
Carter,
Mary
Claypool,
Allison
Connolly,
and
Jennifer
Wacek
all
helped
me
at
different
stages
of
the
writing
and
editing
process.
Sara
Wonderlich
Biebl
and
Laurie
Hohberger
reminded
me
that
a
kindred
spirit
is
never
far
away.
To
my
parents,
John
and
Joan
Bachman,
as
well
as
my
brother,
Sam,
and
my
sister,
Maria.
When
they
joined
Andrew
and
me
at
the
Sunroom
Café
before
the
defense,
I
thought
to
myself,
“I’ve
got
all
that
I
need.”
Their
love
gives
me
courage.
I
also
feel
fortunate
to
have
shared
this
experience
with
my
grandmother,
Eileen
Berger,
a
writer
of
books,
and
my
grandfather,
William
Bachman,
a
writer
of
music.
Last
but
not
least,
I
want
to
thank
my
husband,
Andrew
Barter,
who
held
my
hand
and
protected
my
heart
at
every
stage
of
this
dissertation
process.
I
am
humbled
by
his
unwavering
faith
in
me.
His
patience,
understanding,
and
love
helped
me
to
write
each
and
every
page.
This
project
could
not
have
happened
without
him.
iv
Table
of
Contents:
Abstract………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….v
Introduction…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..1
A
Musical
Life………….…………..……………………………………………………………………………..4
A
Comparative
Approach……………………………...………………………………………………….13
Chapter
1:
Broken
C(h)ords
in
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre…………………………………………………………………………………………20
Chapter
2:
Musical
Mo(n)des
in
Les
Maîtres
Sonneurs…………………………………………………………………………………...………….68
“La
Seule
langue
commune”……………………………………………………………………………..73
Reading
Music…………………………………………………………………..………………………………82
Great
Expectations………...………………………………………………………..………………….…..98
Reaching
(for)
Resolution……………………..………………………………………….…….………107
Chapter
3:
Punctus
contre
Punctum
Consuelo
contre
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt…………………………………………..……………..….113
Conclusion…………………………………………………………………………………...………….…………………164
Bibliography………………………………………………………………………..…………………………………….176
v
Abstract
This
dissertation
examines
the
relationship
between
literature
and
music
in
the
life
and
literary
corpus
of
George
Sand,
the
most
prolific
female
author
in
nineteeth‐
century
France.
Although
she
enjoyed
considerable
literary
success,
Sand
expressed
regret
at
not
having
been
a
musician.
Because
of
music’s
ability
to
convey
many
“meanings”
in
a
single
performance,
Sand
envied
its
pure
suggestiveness,
which
she
saw
as
superior
to
language
due
to
the
referential
nature
of
words.
While
a
composer
writing
a
melody
might
conjure
up
any
number
of
images
in
a
listener’s
mind,
it
is
difficult
for
a
writer
to
capture
a
similarly
openended
evocative
power
using
words
that
are,
of
necessity,
conventionally
defined.
Because
Sand
acknowledged
the
inadequacy
of
Romantic
writers’
attempts
at
conveying
consecrated
moods
like
a
sense
of
mystery
or
of
the
sublime
in
a
literary
medium,
she
turned
to
music
as
the
ultimate
form
of
artistic
expression
and
sought
various
means
of
incorporating
its
effects
into
her
writing.
One
of
the
main
goals
of
this
dissertation
is
to
problematize
music
itself
more
than
literary
critics
have
generally
done,
addressing
the
musicality
of
the
texts
themselves,
that
is,
the
ways
Sand
attempts
to
appropriate
the
evocativeness
of
music
and
thus
expand
the
parameters
of
literary
expressiveness.
Drawing
upon
musico‐
literary
theories,
I
demonstrate
how
certain
theoretical
concepts
of
music
contribute
to
the
improvisational
and
ineffable
nature
of
Sand’s
prose.
Chapter
1
examines
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
(1839)
and
the
eponymous
instrument’s
ability
(or
lack
thereof)
to
produce
harmony
and
melody
so
as
to
inscribe
new
ways
of
obtaining
knowledge.
vi
Chapter
2
explores
the
significance
of
musical
modes
(major
and
minor)
in
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
(1856).
This
musical
structure
illuminates
the
essential
nature
of
the
novel’s
characters
and
particularly
of
their
origins
and
problematizes
its
sense
of
resolution.
Chapter
3
discusses
the
ways
in
which
Sand
borrows
the
musical
notion
of
counterpoint
to
structure
Consuelo
(1842)
and
its
sequel,
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
(1843).
Creating
narrative
lines
that
interweave
with
one
another
while
retaining
their
autonomy,
Sand
communicates
her
ideals
as
they
pertain
to
her
personal
and
professional
life.
1
Introduction
To
Write
on
Music
All
art
constantly
aspires
to
the
condition
of
music.
‐Walter
Pater,
“The
School
of
Giorgione”
(1877)
Throughout
the
nineteenth
century
in
France,
it
is
most
often
poets
who
claim
that
music
motivates
their
creative
processes.
Alphonse
de
Lamartine
pronounces,
“La
musique
est
la
littérature
du
cœur;
elle
commence
là
où
finit
la
parole"
(qtd.
in
Gottschalk,
106),
and
Paul
Verlaine
proclaims,
“De
la
musique
avant
toute
chose”
(qtd.
in
Collognant‐Barès,
97).
For
poets
such
as
these,
music
provides
the
vehicle
through
which
they
convey
a
full
range
of
thoughts
and
emotions.
Conceiving
of
their
poems
as
chansons,
chants,
rondeaux,
harmonies,
hymnes,
or
simply
musique,
they
hope
to
manipulate
words
in
such
a
way
as
to
create
the
impression
of
music.
As
David
A.
Powell
observes,
“Poets
often
have
recourse
to
techniques
that
replicate,
to
a
certain
degree,
the
sounds
and
the
movements
of
music:
onomatopoeia,
alliteration,
rhythmic
movement,
and
the
like”
(14).
Rather
than
simply
imitating
music
however,
poets
also
seek
to
convey
the
very
idea
of
music
in
writing.1
As
Stéphane
Mallarmé
makes
clear
in
Crise
de
vers
(1895):
“Je
dis:
une
fleur!
Et
.
.
.
musicalement
se
lève
idée
rieuse
ou
altière,
l’absente
de
tous
bouquets”
(368).
Mallarmé
reinvents
language
so
that
words,
1
See
Joseph
Acquisto’s
French
Symbolist
Poetry
and
the
Idea
of
Music
(Aldershot,
UK:
Ashgate,
2006).
2
rather
than
simply
serving
a
referential
purpose,
convey
the
effect
of
an
experience.
He
intends
not
to
define
but
to
suggest
an
ideal
essence.
Indeed,
he
seeks
to
infuse
his
writing
with
the
same
sense
of
mystery
that
envelopes
music.
It
is
this
sense
of
mystery,
this
“mobility
of
meaning”
(Monelle,
8),
this
“music”
that
distinguishes
poetry
from
prose.
Or
does
it?
The
long
list
of
French
novelists—Balzac,
Hugo,
Stendhal,
to
name
just
a
few—who
include
musicians
and
musical
references
in
their
texts
also
attests
to
the
important
role
bestowed
upon
music
in
the
nineteenth‐century
literary
circles,
and
no
novelist
of
this
generation
proves
as
consumed
by
the
art
as
George
Sand
(1804‐
1876).
Although
Sand’s
historical
image
incorporates
the
fact
that
the
author
spends
a
significant
amount
of
time
with
musicians
and
even
falls
in
love
with
one
of
them,
fewer
realize
that
she
ever
expresses
the
desire
to
become
a
musician.
In
a
letter
to
the
acclaimed
mezzo‐soprano,
Pauline
Viardot,
Sand
exclaims,
“Ah!
Que
je
voudrais
parfois
avoir
quinze
ans,
un
maître
intelligent,
et
toute
ma
vie
à
moi
seule!
Je
donnerais
mon
être
tout
entier
à
la
musique,
et
c’est
dans
cette
langue‐là,
la
plus
parfaite
de
toutes,
que
je
voudrais
exprimer
mes
sentiments
et
mes
émotions”
(Correspondances,
IX:
63).
Sand
envies
music’s
pure
suggestiveness
and
sees
it
as
superior
to
language,
perhaps
due
to
the
unavoidable
referentiality
of
words.
For
Sand,
music
signifies
a
question
rather
than
a
response,
an
ideal
rather
than
a
reality.
As
musicologist
Lawrence
Kramer
observes,
“The
question
of
whether
music
has
meaning
becomes,
precisely,
the
meaning
of
music”
(2).
While
a
composer
writing
a
3
melody
might
conjure
up
any
number
of
images
in
a
listener’s
mind,
it
is
difficult
for
a
writer
to
capture
a
similarly
open‐ended
evocative
power
using
words
that
are,
of
necessity,
conventionally
defined.
One
need
only
recall
the
first
time
that
Sand
hears
Beethoven’s
Pastoral
Symphony
(1808)
and
mistakes
the
song
of
a
nightingale
for
the
cry
of
Milton’s
fallen
angel
to
realize
music’s
capacity
to
communicate
a
plurality
of
“meanings”
directly
to
audiences
(Lettres
d’un
voyageur,
85‐86).
Recognizing
the
inadequacy
of
her
attempts
at
conveying
consecrated
moods
like
a
sense
of
mystery
or
of
the
sublime
within
the
confines
of
a
literary
medium,
Sand
thus
turns
to
music
for
inspiration
and
seeks
various
means
of
incorporating
its
effects
into
her
writing.
At
the
outset
of
her
career,
shortly
before
the
Baroness
Amantine
Aurore
Lucile
Dudevant
introduces
herself
to
the
world
as
George
Sand
for
the
first
time,
she
pronounces
her
artistic
aim
in
a
letter
to
her
husband:
“J’écris
sur
la
musique”
(Correspondances,
I:
807).
Although
seemingly
straightforward,
this
statement
proves
complex
and
provocative
as
a
comment
on
Sand’s
relation
to
music.
The
letter
is
written
in
February
1831,
the
same
year
that
Sand
collaborates
with
Jules
Sandeau
to
write
and
publish
Rose
et
Blanche
and
La
Prima
Donna,
two
novels
that
feature
the
plight
of
musicians
as
well
as
their
music.
The
instinct
of
the
critic
might
be
to
assert
that
Sand
has
one
of
these
works
in
mind
as
she
composes
her
letter,
but
I
see
this
pronouncement
as
evocative
of
a
more
ambitious
goal.
Sand
does
not
want
to
simply
write
about
music
but
rather,
she
wants
to
create
a
literature
that
is
tantamount
to
a
kind
of
music.
Margaret
Miner
discusses
the
notion
of
“writing
on
music”
in
Resonant
Gaps:
Between
Wagner
and
Baudelaire,
and
in
her
estimation,
“This
[preposition]
‘on’
4
hints
at
the
effort
of
all
these
authors
[Baudelaire,
Liszt,
Wagner,
Nietzsche,
Mallarmé,
and
Proust]
to
superimpose
some
of
their
writing
so
directly
onto
music
that
the
two
might
become
fused—inseparable,
if
not
indistinguishable,
from
each
other”
(1).
Although
Miner’s
study
does
not
include
Sand,
her
words
readily
apply
to
Sand’s
writing.
Music
encapsulates
the
most
emotional
moments
of
Sand’s
life
and
proves
to
be
a
force
that
shapes
her
life
and
work,
thus
forming
part
of
the
substance
and
undertone
of
her
texts.
This
dissertation
examines
the
relationship
between
literature
and
music
in
the
life
and
literary
corpus
of
George
Sand
and
explores
the
ways
in
which
her
creative
process
challenges
the
boundaries
between
these
two
forms
of
artistic
communication.
A
Musical
Life
Music
permeates
Sand’s
entire
life.
In
Histoire
de
ma
vie
(1854‐1855),
she
recounts
that
she
was
born
to
the
accompaniment
of
her
father’s
violin.
“Elle
est
née
en
musique
et
en
rose;
elle
aura
du
bonheur,”
declares
her
Aunt
Lucie
(Correspondances,
III:
316).2
Although
a
talented
musician,
Sand’s
father
never
has
the
opportunity
to
share
his
love
of
music
with
Sand.3
He
dies
in
a
horseback
riding
accident
when
Sand
is
only
four
years
old.
Sand’s
mother
is
said
to
have
had
a
beautiful
voice
and
to
have
sung
popular
songs
to
her
daughter,
but
Sand
learns
the
more
formal
aspects
of
music
from
2
The
phrase
“en
rose”
refers
to
the
color
of
the
dress
worn
by
George
Sand’s
mother.
3
In
a
letter
to
his
mother,
Sand’s
father
writes,
“J’aime
la
musique
par
passion.
.
.
.
Je
pourrais
devenir
musicien”
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
I:
195).
5
her
father’s
mother,
Marie‐Aurore
de
Saxe.
Responsible
for
Sand’s
education
after
the
death
of
her
son,
Madame
Dupin
de
Franceuil
makes
sure
that
her
granddaughter
becomes
familiar
with
classical
works
at
an
early
age.
Sand
remembers
crawling
under
the
harpsichord
as
her
grandmother
performs
music
composed
by
musicians
such
as
Gluck,
Leo,
Piccini,
Hasse,
and
Durante
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
IV:
315‐316),
a
peculiar
listening
practice
that
she
continues
as
an
adult.4
In
fact,
even
after
coming
into
contact
with
some
of
the
most
accomplished
musicians
of
her
day,
Sand
cannot
admit
that
their
performances
rivaled
the
memory
of
these
private
concerts
given
by
her
grandmother:
C’est
qu’en
dépit
des
infirmités
de
cette
voix
et
de
cet
instrument,
c’était
de
la
belle
musique
admirablement
comprise
et
sentie.
J’ai
bien
entendu
chanter
depuis,
et
avec
des
moyens
magnifiques;
mais
si
j’ai
entendu
quelque
chose
de
plus,
je
puis
dire
que
ce
n’a
jamais
été
quelque
chose
de
mieux.
.
.
.
Son
goût
[Le
goût
de
ma
grand‐mère]
était
pur,
sévère
et
grave.
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
IV:
315)
That
the
beauty
of
her
grandmother’s
music
could
equal
if
not
eclipse
the
performances
of
professional
musicians
such
as
Franz
Liszt,
Frédéric
Chopin,
and
Pauline
Viardot
reveals
the
indelible
effects
these
first
musical
experiences
had
on
young
Sand.
In
the
mind
of
Madame
Dupin
de
Franceuil,
however,
Sand
must
not
only
learn
to
recognize
and
appreciate
good
music
but
also
read
and
perform
it.
At
the
age
of
4
In
a
letter
to
Marie
d’Agoult,
Sand
reveals
that
she
often
sits
under
Franz
Liszt’s
piano
as
he
plays:
“Vous
savez
que
je
me
mets
sous
le
piano
quand
il
en
joue”
(Correspondances,
III:
475‐476).
6
seven,
Sand
thus
begins
to
take
formal
musical
lessons
under
the
watchful
eye
(and
discerning
ear)
of
her
grandmother:
“Elle
m’enseigna
les
principes,
et
si
clairement,
que
cela
ne
me
parut
pas
la
mer
à
boire”
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
IV:
316).
She
studies
music
theory,
piano,
voice,
and
harp.
Even
when
she
leaves
for
Paris
to
attend
boarding
school
at
the
Couvent
des
Anglaises,
she
continues
her
musical
training.
In
fact,
the
one
possession
that
she
makes
space
for
in
her
cramped
dormitory
room
is
her
grandmother’s
small
Louis
XV
harp.
Although
Sand
later
admits
that
she
does
not
always
devote
enough
serious
energy
to
her
lessons
at
the
Couvent,
she
seems
to
have
more
than
made
up
for
lost
time
upon
her
return
to
Nohant.
With
her
grandmother
and
their
frequent
guests,
she
spends
a
great
deal
of
time
performing
and
listening
to
music.
To
a
friend
Sand
writes,
“La
musique
et
le
dessin
occupent
tellement
nos
loisirs
que
nous
ne
nous
occupons
guère
d’autre
chose,
si
ce
n’est
d’anglais
que
nous
parlons
matin
et
soir.
Il
y
a
toujours
3
ou
4
partitions
ouvertes
sur
le
piano,
duos
et
romances
traînent
sur
chaque
chaise
.
.
.”
(Correspondances,
I:
34).
Performing
and
listening
to
music
in
the
company
of
others
proves
an
essential
part
of
Sand’s
daily
life
in
Nohant.
In
hindsight,
Sand
goes
so
far
as
to
claim
that
she
would
have
become
a
musician
had
she
remained
under
the
sole
tutelage
of
her
grandmother:
“Si
ma
grand‐mère
s’en
fût
toujours
mêlée
exclusivement,
j’aurais
été
musicienne,
car
j’étais
bien
organisée
pour
l’être,
et
je
comprends
le
beau,
qui,
dans
cet
art,
m’impressionne
et
me
transporte
plus
que
dans
tous
les
autres”
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
II:
269).
Here,
Sand
expresses
not
only
her
desire
to
be
a
musician
but
also
her
belief
that
she
was
capable
of
becoming
one.
Although
Madame
Dupin
de
Franceuil
ignites
Sand’s
love
for
music,
Sand
suggests
that
such
7
passion
comes
from
within.
Indeed,
she
believes
to
have
possessed
the
innate
sensibilities
of
a
musician
that
can
be
drawn
out
but
never
taught,
a
quality
that
she
praises
in
many
of
her
novels.5
That
is
not
to
say
that
Sand
takes
music
for
granted.
In
fact,
she
finds
a
tremendous
amount
of
solace
in
the
art.
Feeling
torn
between
the
attention
of
her
grandmother
and
her
mother,
Sand
invents
an
imaginary
companion,
Corombé,
whose
many
talents
include
“la
magie
de
l’improvisation
musicale
surtout”
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
VI:
59).
At
the
Couvent,
she
admits
that
some
of
her
happiest
times
include
the
hours
during
which
she
is
allowed
to
retreat
to
her
room
to
play
the
harp.
Once
married
to
the
nobleman
Casimir
Dudevant,
Sand
wishes
for
a
piano
so
as
to
distract
herself
from
the
realization
that
she
does
not
love
the
man.
As
she
reminisces
to
him
in
a
letter:
Nous
ne
nous
entendions
pas.
Je
ne
pouvais
passer
une
heure
chez
moi.
Je
ne
tenais
pas
en
place,
un
vide
affreux
se
faisait
sentir.
Je
l’éprouvais,
j’en
souffrais,
et
ne
m’en
rendais
pas
compte
.
.
.
Je
me
soignai
pour
mon
fils
.
.
.
mais
dès
que
Maurice
me
fut
sevré,
un
ennui
inconcevable
s’empara
de
moi.
Mon
mal
avait
dormi
dans
mon
cœur
pour
ainsi
dire.
Il
se
réveilla,
je
ne
savais
que
devenir.
Je
désirai
un
5
In
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs,
for
example,
Père
Bastien
distinguishes
the
talented
Joset
from
other
musicians,
saying,
“Il
y
a
ceux
qui,
avec
des
doigts
légers
et
une
mémoire
juste,
disent
agréablement
ce
qu’on
leur
a
enseigné;
mais
il
y
a
ceux
qui
ne
se
contentent
d’aucune
leçon
et
vont
devant
eux,
cherchant
des
idées
et
faisant
à
tous
les
musiciens,
le
cadeau
de
leurs
trouvailles.
Or
je
te
dis
que
Joseph
et
de
ceux‐là”
(259).
8
bon
piano.
Quoique
nous
fussions
gênés
tu
le
fis
venir
à
l’instant,
je
m’en
dégoûtais
bientôt.
.
.
.
(Correspondances,
I:
269,
my
emphasis)
Even
though
music
provides
only
momentary
relief
to
Sand’s
suffering,
the
fact
that
she
instinctively
turns
to
the
piano
in
order
to
combat
her
inner
torment
underscores
music’s
privileged
place
in
her
life.
Her
husband’s
resistance
to
buying
the
instrument
only
draws
attention
to
the
couple’s
ill‐matched
marriage,
a
deteriorating
union
that
eventually
propels
Sand
to
move
to
Paris
and
pursue
a
literary
career.
Even
after
Sand
becomes
important
within
literary
circles
with
the
release
of
her
highly
acclaimed
work
Indiana
(1832),
she
still
retains
strong
ties
to
the
world
of
music.
She
makes
a
point
of
attending
all
of
the
major
concerts
and
operas
in
Paris.
She
even
admits
to
forgoing
meals
because
she
wanted
to
have
enough
money
to
attend
as
many
as
four
operettas
a
week.
During
this
time,
Sand
also
gains
the
attention
of
many
celebrated
musicians,
including
Franz
Liszt.
The
young
virtuoso
contributes
greatly
to
Sand’s
sensibilities
and
more
particularly
to
her
attitudes
toward
music
and
musicians.
A
composer
of
program
music,
Liszt
often
stresses
the
need
to
write
on
music.
In
a
letter
addressed
to
Sand
in
1837,
he
states,
Il
n’est
pas
inutile
.
.
.
que
le
compositeur
donne
en
quelques
lignes
l’esquisse
psychique
de
son
œuvre,
qu’il
dise
ce
qu’il
a
voulu
faire,
et
que,
sans
entrer
dans
des
explications
puériles,
dans
de
minutieux
détails,
il
exprime
l’idée
fondamentale
de
sa
composition
.
.
.
De
cette
façon
elle
[la
critique]
éviterait
une
foule
de
traductions
erronées,
de
9
conjectures
hasardées,
d’oiseuses
paraphrases
d’une
intention
que
le
musicien
n’a
jamais
eue,
et
de
commentaires
interminables
reposant
sur
le
vide.
(qtd.
In
Eigeldinger,
72)6
In
addition,
Liszt
introduces
Sand
to
Saint‐Simonian
ideals,
such
as
unity
and
equality
amongst
all
people,
as
well
as
to
the
writings
of
Félicité
de
Lamennais,
an
abbé
who
believes
that
the
artist
plays
a
crucial
role
in
the
advancement
of
society.
As
Liszt
states
in
another
letter,
“Un
individu
n’est
vraiment
puissant
qu’autant
qu’il
groupe
autour
de
lui
d’autres
individus
auxquels
il
communique
son
sentiment
et
sa
pensée;
seul,
il
étonnera,
il
charmera,
mais
l’effet
qu’il
produira
sera
éphémère”
(qtd.
in
Altenburg,
278).
Liszt
and
Sand
share
the
belief
that
it
is
the
musician
who
has
the
task
of
leading
others
to
the
mysterious
and
sacred.
As
Liszt
performs
for
her
on
the
piano,
Sand
recognizes
that
his
musical
abilities
allow
him
access
to
this
divine
language—“la
plus
parfaite
de
toutes”
(Correspondances,
IX:
63)—in
which
she
most
wishes
to
write.
Sand’s
fervor
only
intensifies
after
Liszt
introduces
her
to
Frédéric
Chopin,
the
Franco‐Polish
composer
with
whom
she
will
have
a
romantic
relationship
for
almost
ten
years,
thus
securing
her
place
within
the
realm
of
musical
history
and
scholarship.7
In
6
Each
of
Liszt
symphonic
poems,
for
example,
was
published
with
a
preface
which
discloses
the
source
of
its
extra‐musical
inspiration,
whether
it
be
a
poem
written
by
Victor
Hugo
or
an
Etruscan
vase
in
the
Louvre
on
which
was
depicted
Orpheus.
See
Alan
Walker,
et
al.
“Liszt,
Franz.”
Grove
Music
Online,
Oxford
Music
Online,
July
29,
2012.
7
No
biographer
who
approaches
Chopin’s
life
and
work
can
speak
of
the
composer
without
taking
into
account
his
relationship
with
Sand.
There
are
some
scholars
who
have
devoted
entire
volumes
to
the
author’s
and
the
musician’s
time
together.
Bartolomé
Ferra
writes
an
account
of
their
trip
to
Majorca,
Chopin
and
George
Sand
in
10
her
letters,
Sand
often
refers
to
the
delicate
musician
as
mon
ange,
implying
that
he
and
his
music
are
more
suited
to
the
heavens
than
to
the
earth:
Mais
je
me
suis
tellement
habituée
à
le
voir
dans
le
ciel
qu’il
ne
me
semble
pas
que
sa
vie
ou
sa
mort
prouvent
quelque
chose
pour
lui.
Il
ne
sait
pas
bien
lui‐même
dans
quelle
planète
il
existe.
Il
ne
se
rend
aucun
compte
de
la
vie
comme
nous
la
concevons
et
comme
nous
la
sentons.
(Correspondances,
IV:
646)
Sand
believes
that
Chopin
is
not
of
this
world.
Music
consumes
him
to
such
an
extent
that
he
often
appears
cut
off
from
those
around
him,
a
fact
that
Sand
often
resented.
During
a
stormy
night
in
Majorca,
Chopin
even
admits
to
having
imagined
his
own
death.
Sand
recalls,
“En
jouant
du
piano.
.
.
.
Il
se
voyait
noyé
dans
un
lac;
des
gouttes
d’eau
pesantes
et
glacées
lui
tombaient
en
mesure
sur
la
poitrine”
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
X:
239).
Chopin’s
dream
leads
Sand
to
realize
that
music
can
create
the
illusion
of
new
worlds
and
even
the
afterlife,
but
it
is
her
ensuing
conversation
with
the
distressed
composer
that
becomes
key
to
her
own
understanding
of
music,
an
episode
that
Peter
Dayan
highlights
in
Music
Writing
Literature
from
Sand
via
Debussy
to
Derrida.8
After
Sand
tries
to
relieve
Chopin’s
anxiety
by
claiming
that
his
dream
stems
from
nothing
Majorca
(1974).
William
G.
Atwood
gives
a
detailed
account
of
Sand’s
and
Chopin’s
relationship
in
The
Lioness
and
the
Little
One:
The
Liaison
of
George
Sand
and
Fréderic
Chopin
(1980).
Marie‐Paul
Rambeau
offers
an
insightful
study
that
explores
the
intersections
between
the
worlds
of
the
author
and
the
musician
in
Chopin
dans
la
vie
et
l’œuvre
de
George
Sand
(1985).
8
See
“Translating
the
Raindrop,”
pp.
1‐10.
11
more
than
the
sound
of
raindrops
hitting
their
roof
overhead,
Chopin
angrily
refutes
her.
Sand
writes,
Il
nia
les
avoir
entendues
[ces
gouttes
d’eau].
Il
se
fâcha
même
de
ce
que
je
traduisais
par
le
mot
d’harmonie
imitative.
Il
protestait
de
toutes
ses
forces,
et
il
avait
raison,
contre
la
puérilité
de
ces
imitations
pour
l’oreille.
Son
génie
était
plein
des
mystérieuses
harmonies
de
la
nature,
traduites
par
des
équivalents
sublimes
dans
sa
pensée
musicale
et
non
par
une
répétition
servile
des
sons
extérieurs.
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
X:
239‐240)
Chopin
helps
Sand
to
appreciate
music
as
an
art
that
does
more
than
merely
imitate.
The
Prélude
that
he
performed
does
not
stem
from
Nature—“des
sons
extérieurs”—but
from
the
mysterious
harmonies
that
exist
within
himself—“son
génie”
(Dayan,
5).
In
fact,
Chopin
never
admits
to
having
heard
the
sound
of
the
rain;
it
is
Sand
who
brings
up
that
possibility.
He
rejects
the
very
notion
that
his
music
could
imitate
anything
outside
of
itself,
an
argument
that
Sand
eventually
acknowledges
and
accepts.
As
Sand
sets
out
to
write
on
music,
she
thus
does
not
employ
poetic
techniques
such
as
onomatopoeia
or
alliteration
in
order
to
imitate
musical
sounds
or
recreate
a
musical
score.
In
fact,
she
never
publishes
a
single
poem.
That
Sand
never
attempts
poetry
proves
surprising
given
the
fact
that
her
artistic
aim
coincides
with
many
of
the
views
expressed
by
nineteenth‐century
poets,
but
as
she
writes
in
La
Mare
au
diable
(1846),
“Celui
qui
puise
de
nobles
jouissances
dans
le
sentiment
de
la
poésie
est
un
vrai
12
poète,
n'eût‐il
pas
fait
un
vers
dans
toute
sa
vie”
(15).
And
although
Sand
speaks
of
poetry,
her
assertion
might
have
just
as
easily
been
applied
to
music.
As
in
the
present
day
the
margins
between
various
communicative
and
artistic
modes
like
the
visual
image
and
the
written
word
are
becoming
increasingly
blurred,
Sand’s
musical
writing
offers
serious
and
provocative
reflections
on
the
field
of
music.
It
provides
the
reader
with
a
valuable
and
under‐examined
perspective
on
the
way
in
which
a
novelist
might
push
the
confines
of
her
literary
medium.
It
is
in
this
sense
that
my
study
builds
on
past
approaches
to
analyzing
the
importance
of
music
for
Sand
and
her
writing
set
forth
by
excellent
critics
such
as
Thérèse
Marix‐Spire,
Léon
Guichard,
Simone
Vierne,
Peter
Dayan,
and
David
A.
Powell.
Encompassing
and
transcending
contradiction,
music
enables
Sand
to
create
literary
works
that
defy
categorization
and
provoke
irresolvable
questions
under
the
guise
of
a
harmonious
end:
it
renders
Sand’s
novels
open‐ended
and
even
unsettled
because,
as
Sand
is
well
aware,
“La
musique
n’a
pas
de
caractère
par
elle‐même,
et
se
ploie
à
exprimer
toutes
les
situations
et
tous
les
sentiments
possibles
.
.
.
C’est
le
champ
le
plus
vaste
et
le
plus
libre
qui
soit
ouvert
à
l’imagination
.
.
.”
(Lettres
d’un
voyageur,
85).
Music
provides
Sand
with
a
vehicle
through
which
she
can
convey
a
full
range
of
emotion
and
better
impart
her
expansive
ideals
as
they
pertain
not
only
to
art
but
also
to
politics,
society,
history
and
religion.
Thanks
to
her
musical
education
and
the
social
circles
of
which
she
is
a
part,
Sand
is
able
to
draw
from
theoretical
concepts
such
as
harmony,
melody,
mode,
and
counterpoint
in
order
to
engage
with
many
of
the
more
sophisticated
problems
that
arise
in
music
13
without
forgetting
the
importance
of
attending
to
music’s
emotional
effects,
which
transcend
a
more
theoretical
discourse.
A
Comparative
Approach
To
facilitate
such
a
comparative
study,
it
is
important
to
note
the
three
categories
in
which
to
study
the
relationship
between
music
and
literature
as
presented
by
Steven
Paul
Scher,
one
of
the
pioneers
of
the
interdisciplinary
field:
music
and
literature,
literature
in
music,
and
music
in
literature
(Interrelations,
175).
Music
and
literature
consists
primarily
of
vocal
music.
In
vocal
music,
a
literary
text
and
a
musical
composition
are
inextricably
intertwined
in
a
single
work.
A
good
example
of
this
is
the
opera,
composed
of
lyrics
and
musical
scores.9
Literature
in
music,
the
second
category,
includes
program
music
inspired
by
a
nonmusical
ideal
that
is
usually
indicated
in
a
suggestive
title.
Antonio
Vivaldi,
for
example,
entitles
a
set
of
four
violin
concertos
The
Four
Seasons
(1723),
and
Ludwig
van
Beethoven’s
Symphony
No.
6
in
F
Major,
Op.
68
(1808),
has
come
to
be
referred
to
by
its
more
suggestive
title,
The
Pastoral
Symphony.
The
final
category,
music
in
literature,
is
more
closely
bound
to
a
literary
medium
and
thus
proves
most
relevant
to
the
present
study,
although
only
as
a
starting
point.
It
deals
with
poets
who
attempt
to
achieve
acoustic
effects
similar
to
music.
Altering
the
9
There
are
instances
when
poets
and
composers
work
together
in
order
to
create
an
opera
but
most
often
a
composer
is
inspired
by
a
literary
work.
Giuseppe
Verdi,
for
example,
composed
Macbeth
(1847),
Othello
(1887),
and
Falstaff
(1893),
all
inspired
by
Shakespeare’s
plays,
as
well
as
Luisa
Miller
(1849)
and
Don
Carlos
(1867),
which
are
derived
from
Friedrich
Schiller’s
dramas.
14
length
and
rhythm
of
his
poetic
lines,
Victor
Hugo
creates
the
effect
of
a
crescendo
and
decrescendo
in
“Les
Djinns”
(1829).
Edgar
Allan
Poe,
meanwhile,
suggests
the
music
of
ringing
bells
using
poetic
techniques
such
as
alliteration
and
onomatopoeia
in
his
aptly
titled
poem,
“The
Bells”
(1849).
There
are
also
writers
who
emulate
various
musical
forms.
Eve’s
morning
song
to
Adam
in
John
Milton’s
Paradise
Lost
(1667)
takes
its
inspiration
from
the
musical
form
of
theme
and
variations,
and
Marguerite
Duras’s
Moderato
Cantabile
(1958)
attempts
to
encapsulate
the
same
effect
as
Anton
Diabelli’s
Sonatina
in
F
Major,
Op.
168.
No.
1.
Regardless
of
the
various
musical
models,
all
of
these
works
seek
to
achieve
the
subjective
response
that
results
from
listening
to
a
piece
of
music.
In
exploring
Sand’s
attempts
to
create
verbal
music
and
emulate
certain
musical
forms,
one
of
my
goals
is
to
problematize
music
itself
more
than
literary
critics
have
generally
done.
Thus,
I
will
focus
more
particularly
on
the
theoretical
concepts
of
music
that
Sand
inserts
into
her
texts
in
an
effort
to
dissolve
the
boundaries
that
separate
her
writing
from
music.
Each
of
the
texts
examined
in
the
following
chapters
features
a
theoretical
concept
of
music
that
illuminates
our
understanding
of
it.
While
other
works
could
have
been
added
to
this
list,10
I
have
tried
to
hone
in
on
texts
that
illustrate
particularly
well
Sand’s
aim
“to
write
on
music,”
to
lessen
the
distance
that
separates
music
from
literature.
It
is
quite
obvious
that
Sand
creates
characters
who
are
musicians,
inserts
the
titles
of
well‐known
musical
compositions
into
her
narratives,
and
10
Such
works
include,
for
example,
Sand’s
short
stories
such
as
“La
Prima
Donna”
(1831),
“Le
Contrebandier”
(1837),
and
“L’Orgue
du
titan”
(1873).
15
even
includes
the
lyrics
to
various
folksongs
and
opera.
Most
critical
to
the
present
study,
however,
is
that
Sand
introduces
certain
theoretical
concepts
of
music
that
provide
the
reader
with
new
ways
in
which
to
analyze
her
writing.
The
first
chapter
features
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
(1839),
a
work
that
Sand
conceives
as
a
dramatic
dialogue
but
never
seeks
to
stage
after
its
publication
in
La
Revue
des
deux
mondes.
The
work
is
clearly
neither
a
play
nor
a
narrative;
and
while
one
would
hardly
consider
it
to
be
a
poem,
there
are
moments
when
Sand’s
writing
does
create
the
effect
of
a
lyric
in
this
work.
Inspired
by
Goethe’s
Faust,
Sand
sets
out
to
create
her
own
version
of
the
legend.
While
she
admires
the
German
poet,
she
declares
that
his
work
is
ultimately
lacking
because
he
fails
to
insert
his
own
ideal
into
it:
“Voilà
pourquoi
Goethe
ne
m’apparaît
pas
comme
l’idéal
d’un
poète,
car
c’est
un
poète
sans
idéal.
.
.
.
Enchaîné
au
présent,
il
a
peint
les
choses
telles
qu’elles
sont,
et
non
pas
telles
qu’elles
doivent
être”
(Souvenirs,
21).
Determined
not
to
fall
prey
to
a
similar
fate,
Sand
appropriates
certain
musical
concepts
in
order
to
express
her
own
artistic
ideal
to
fuse
literature
and
music
together.
The
eponymous
lyre
is
animated
by
its
own
spirit
and
can
sound
its
seven
strings
individually
(as
in
a
single
line
of
melody)
as
well
as
together
(as
in
a
chord)
without
the
aid
of
any
musician.
Whereas
certain
individuals,
such
as
the
poet
Hélène,
have
the
ability
to
comprehend
the
lyre
and
its
music
in
a
single
instant,
there
are
others,
such
as
the
philosopher
Albertus,
who
must
struggle
to
understand
each
of
the
strings
as
they
sound
individually
across
time.
As
the
chapter
explores
the
relation
between
music
and
16
philosophy
and
even
music
and
language,
it
focuses
on
the
conflict
between
synchronic
and
diachronic
structures,
those
defined
by
their
development
in
time;
in
music
the
simplest
example
of
this
opposition
is
the
distinction
between
harmony
(synchronic)
and
melody
(diachronic).
Although
literature
and
music
both
unfold
across
time,
Sand
presents
harmony
in
particular
as
an
atemporal
or
timeless
ideal
that
paradoxically
propels
the
characters
forward
in
their
pursuit
of
truths
greater
than
the
sum
of
their
parts.
In
the
end,
Sand’s
relation
to
and
treatment
of
music
in
this
work
illuminates
her
idealization
of
society,
in
which
individuals
unite
in
social
harmony
to
achieve
forward
progress.
The
second
chapter
turns
to
one
of
Sand’s
pastoral
novels,
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
(1853).
Here,
Sand
gives
voice
to
a
narrator
from
Berry
in
the
hopes
of
preserving
a
way
of
life
that
runs
the
risk
of
disappearing
as
more
people
move
from
the
countryside
to
Paris.
As
she
picks
up
paper
and
pen
to
record
this
idyllic
existence,
Sand
looks
to
music
and
more
specifically
to
the
theoretical
concept
of
the
musical
mode.
While
critics
have
considered
this
allusion
to
be
a
weak
point
of
the
novel
for
various
reasons,
I
argue
that
it
offers
the
reader
a
fresh
and
productive
way
to
engage
with
the
novel.
Presenting
musical
mode
as
a
geographically
based
cultural
artifact,
Sand
employs
the
theoretical
concept
to
suggest
certain
qualities
of
Berry
and
Bourbonnais
as
well
as
the
inhabitants
of
each
region.
Markers
of
mood,
the
major
and
minor
modes
create
expectations
as
to
the
various
temperaments
and
personalities
of
each
character
but
prove
ambiguous
enough
to
allow
for
the
growth
and
change
required
to
achieve
a
rather
peculiar
romantic
union
at
the
tale’s
resolution.
17
At
the
very
heart
of
this
novel,
Sand
inserts
a
folksong.
While
it
is
not
unusual
for
Sand
to
include
a
musical
line
or
verse
within
her
literary
works,
it
is
exceptional
for
her
to
include
the
lyrics
of
an
entire
song.
Altering
the
lyrics
so
as
to
encapsulate
the
central
love
triangles
within
the
work,
Sand
suggests
the
way
in
which
the
central
intrigue
of
her
novel
might
end—except
for
the
fact
that
the
folksong’s
happy
lyrics
do
not
seem
to
correspond
to
the
minor
mode
in
which
they
are
sung.
The
chapter
will
thus
demonstrate
how
the
dichotomies
that
Sand
establishes
between
Berry
and
Bourbonnais
and
their
respective
musical
modes
are
less
predictive
than
the
simple
song.
Of
particular
note
is
the
protagonist,
Joset.
Although
he
is
incapable
of
expressing
himself
articulately
in
words,
his
musical
ability
allows
him
eventually
to
communicate
his
thoughts
and
feelings
in
both
the
major
and
the
minor
modes.
Traveling
between
Berry
and
Bourbonnais,
Joset
masters
the
music
that
originates
in
each
region
but
in
so
doing,
he
must
sacrifice
his
family,
romantic
love,
and
life
for
the
sake
of
others.
The
third
and
final
main
chapter
analyzes
Consuelo
(1842)
along
with
its
sequel,
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
(1843).
Dedicated
to
the
internationally
acclaimed
mezzo‐
soprano
Pauline
Viardot,
the
serial
novels
first
appeared
as
a
feuilleton
in
La
Revue
indépendante,
a
newspaper
co‐edited
by
Sand,
Louis
Viardot
(Pauline’s
husband),
and
Pierre
Leroux.
In
this
tale,
set
during
the
eighteenth
century,
Sand
concentrates
on
the
life
and
musical
talents
of
Consuelo,
a
gifted
singer
whose
voice
propels
her
across
Europe
in
a
series
of
adventures
that
ultimately
implicate
historical,
social,
and
political
issues
of
the
greatest
import.
In
the
course
of
these
adventures,
her
voice,
referred
to
as
“son
instrument”
(64),
interweaves
with
others
to
create
what
I
see
as
a
polyphonic
18
texture,
one
that
most
likely
takes
its
inspiration
from
Johann
Joseph
Fuchs’s
Gradus
ad
Parnassum,
an
influential
musical
treatise
on
counterpoint.
In
explaining
how
to
write
music
for
more
than
one
voice,
this
document
may
well
have
suggested
to
Sand
a
musical
method
that
influences
her
as
she
composes
these
two
novels.
Whereas
critics
tend
to
approach
the
novels
as
either
individual
works
or
as
one
long
narrative,
I
contend
that
they
may
be
fruitfully
understood
contrapuntally,
as
creating
two
lines
or
voices
moving
sometimes
in
parallel,
sometimes
in
opposition
to
one
another.
Concentrating
on
various
paired
episodes
taken
from
each
novel,
I
demonstrate
how
Sand
creates
narrative
lines
that
interweave
and
create
an
effect
of
counterpoint
illuminating
her
ideals
as
they
pertain
to
her
personal
and
professional
life.
Sand’s
ambition
to
fuse
music
and
literature
will,
of
course,
run
up
against
many
obstacles
and
will
be
limited
in
its
possibilities;
for
Sand,
music
and
its
effects
are
ultimately
as
ineffable
as
a
dream
the
truth
of
which
can
never
be
perfectly
rendered
in
words.
Yet
she
retains
her
belief
that
her
writing
can
question
the
boundaries
between
literature
and
music,
boundaries
that
both
challenge
and
enable
her
art.
Although
literature
is
unable
to
harness
the
full
power
of
music,
Sand’s
aim
to
“write
on
music”
helps
to
overcome
the
gap
that
separates
the
two
modes
of
artistic
expression.
As
Stephen
Benson
states
in
Literary
Music:
Writing
Music
in
Contemporary
Fiction:
“All
writing
about
music
seeks
to
make
music
known
and
so
becomes
part
of
that
music’s
means
and
mode
of
existence
.
.
.
music
has
no
existence
apart
from
those
acts
by
which
it
is
identified,
however
fleeting,
even
unconscious
they
may
be”
(5).
What
I
hope
to
demonstrate
in
this
dissertation,
then,
is
that
Sand’s
“écriture
sur
la
musique”
can
indeed
be
read
as
“acts
by
which
it
is
identified,”
that
her
writing
provides
ample
evidence
of
music’s
existence
in
her
works
and
of
its
abiding
importance
for
an
understanding
of
them.
19
20
Chapter
1
Broken
C(h)ords
in
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
Viennent,
viennent
donc
à
nous
tous
ceux
dont
le
cœur
sait
aimer,
et
le
front
s’enflammer
d’une
noble
espérance!
Associons
nos
efforts
pour
entraîner
l’humanité
vers
cet
avenir;
unis
entre
nous,
comme
les
cordes
harmonieuses
d’une
même
lyre,
commençons
dès
aujourd’hui
ces
hymnes
saintes
qui
seront
répétées
par
la
postérité;
désormais
les
beaux‐arts
sont
le
culte,
et
l’artiste
est
le
prêtre.
(Emile
Barrault,
Aux
artistes,
84)
When
Emile
Barrault
makes
this
rousing
declaration
in
March
1830
in
an
effort
to
redefine
the
role
of
the
artist
within
Saint‐Simonian
doctrine,11
he
seems
to
be
anticipating
one
of
the
central
themes
of
George
Sand’s
dramatic
dialogue,
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
that
of
the
harmony
associated
with
great
art.
The
movement’s
leaders
had
initially
relegated
artists
to
a
lesser
social
status
in
favor
of
those
who
work
in
industry
because
they
insisted
that
industrial
production
played
a
crucial
role
in
the
transformation
of
society.
Leaders
of
the
movement
soon
realized,
however,
that
people
need
inspiration
to
work
toward
their
goals.
The
disciples
of
Saint‐Simon
thus
11
See
Emile
Barrault’s
Aux
artistes:
du
passé
et
de
l’avenir
des
beaux
arts:
(doctrine
de
Saint‐Simon).
Paris:
1830.
The
Making
of
the
Modern
World,
Web,
3
June
2012.
21
assign
artists
the
crucial
task
of
persuading
individuals,
classes,
and
nations
to
abandon
their
traditional
rivalries
and
work
together
in
a
spirit
of
solidarity
(association).12
Barrault
appeals
not
only
to
visual
artists
but
also
to
literary
and
musical
ones,
including
George
Sand
and
Franz
Liszt.
Although
the
writer
and
the
musician
never
become
official
members
of
the
Saint‐Simonian
movement,
they
share
Barrault’s
belief
that
artists—particularly
musicians—have
a
responsibility
to
inspire
and
bring
people
together
for
the
betterment
of
society.
Barrault
declares,
“Un
seul
art
garde
un
vrai
pouvoir,
c’est
la
musique
.
.
.
cette
langue
vague
et
mystérieuse,
qui
répond
à
toutes
les
âmes
et
reçoit
de
leur
situation
personnelle
une
traduction
particulière,
doit
être
la
seule
langue
commune
entre
tous
les
hommes”
(70).
Similar
to
the
other
arts,
music
evokes
an
almost
religious
aesthetic
feeling.
It
achieves
this
feeling,
however,
through
a
non‐referential
code
that
envelops
it
in
mystery.
Sand
approaches
the
impenetrability
of
music
with
a
sense
of
wonder
but
also
regret.
While
she
marvels
at
music’s
immediate
and
totalizing
presence,
she
also
knows
that
it
brings
to
light
the
limitations
of
her
own
literary
medium.
Such
conflicting
emotions
become
readily
apparent
throughout
her
written
correspondence.
In
one
of
her
letters
addressed
to
Liszt
in
1835,
Sand
exclaims,
O
vous,
qui,
dans
le
silence
des
nuits,
surprenez
les
mystères
sacrés;
vous,
mon
cher
Franz,
à
qui
l’esprit
de
Dieu
ouvre
les
oreilles,
afin
que
12
For
a
full
account
of
the
Saint‐Simonians’
view
of
music
as
an
ideological
tool,
see
Ralph
P.
Locke,
Music,
Musicians,
and
the
Saint‐Simonians
(Chicago:
University
of
Chicago
Press,
1986).
22
vous
entendiez
de
loin
les
célestes
concerts,
et
que
vous
nous
les
transmettiez,
à
nous
infirmes
et
abandonnés!
Que
vous
êtes
heureux
de
pouvoir
prier
durant
le
jour
avec
des
cœurs
qui
vous
comprennent!
Votre
labeur
ne
vous
condamne
pas
comme
moi
à
la
solitude;
votre
ferveur
se
rallume
au
foyer
de
sympathies
où
chacun
des
vôtres
apporte
son
tribut.
Allez
donc,
priez
dans
la
langue
des
anges,
et
chantez
les
louanges
de
Dieu
sur
vos
instruments
qu’un
souffle
céleste
fait
vibrer.
Pour
moi,
voyageur
solitaire,
il
n’en
est
point
ainsi.
(Lettres
d’un
voyageur,
201)
Sand
sees
Liszt’s
music
bringing
him
into
direct
contact
with
others.
Even
when
he
does
not
perform
before
a
live
audience,
his
music
acts
as
a
form
of
prayer
that
grants
him
access
to
the
divine
(les
célestes
concerts),
something
that
the
composer
himself
underscores
in
Lettres
d’un
bachelier
ès
musique:
“Il
[l’artiste]
entend
l’harmonie
éternelle
dont
la
cadence
régit
les
mondes,
et
toutes
les
voix
de
la
création
s’unissent
pour
lui
dans
un
merveilleux
concert”
(qtd.
in
Bourgeois,
18).
Sand,
however,
toils
alone
at
her
desk,
struggling
to
communicate
such
mystery
in
writing.
In
a
different
letter,
this
one
dated
1834,
she
mentions
a
recurring
dream
in
which
she
glides
upon
a
barque
mélodieuse.
Rather
than
feeling
inspired
by
her
musical
journey,
Sand
admits,
“Je
serai
désespérée
de
composer
sur
mon
rêve,
et
de
changer
ou
d’ajouter
quelque
chose
au
vague
souvenir
qu’il
me
laisse”
(Lettres
d’un
voyageur,
69).
Sand
senses
that
as
soon
as
she
puts
pen
to
paper,
the
dream’s
music
and
its
memory
might
unalterably
change,
if
not
disappear
altogether.
23
In
voicing
her
hesitation
to
write
on
music,
Sand
echoes
the
sentiment
of
her
most
revered
eighteenth‐century
philosopher,
Jean‐Jacques
Rousseau.
In
Essai
sur
l’origine
de
la
langue
(1781),
Rousseau
asserts
that
music
and
language
stem
from
the
same
origin
but
that
as
soon
as
one
begins
to
write,
the
musicality
of
language
fades:
L’écriture,
qui
semble
devoir
fixer
la
langue,
est
précisément
ce
qui
l’altère;
elle
n’en
change
pas
les
mots,
mais
le
génie;
elle
substitue
l’exactitude
à
l’expression
.
.
.
.
En
écrivant
on
est
forcé
de
prendre
tous
les
mots
dans
l’acception
commune;
mais
celui
qui
parle
varie
les
acceptions
par
les
tons,
il
les
détermine
comme
il
lui
plaît;
moins
gêné
pour
être
clair,
il
donne
plus
à
la
force;
et
il
n’est
pas
possible
qu’une
langue
qu’on
écrit
garde
longtemps
la
vivacité
de
celle
qui
n’est
que
parlée.
(20)
Whereas
the
sound
of
words
possesses
the
power
to
grip
listeners
immediately
and
even
viscerally,
written
language
provides
only
an
echo
of
one’s
lived
experience.
Rousseau
thus
speaks
of
the
written
word
in
terms
of
a
lacuna
that
cannot
hope
to
rival
the
“vivacité”
of
the
spoken
word.
And
yet,
although
aware
of
this
sobering
reality,
Sand
surprisingly
continues
her
letter
with
page
upon
page
of
writing
pertaining
to
her
dream
and
its
music.
She
wonders
about
the
beautiful
strangers
who
accompany
her,
their
destination,
their
song:
24
Quels
sont
ces
amis
inconnus
qui
viennent
m’appeler
dans
mon
sommeil
et
qui
m’emmenèrent
joyeusement
vers
le
pays
des
chimères?
.
.
.
Pourquoi
ne
puis‐je
soulever,
à
la
lumière
du
jour,
le
voile
magique
qui
me
les
cache?
Sont‐ce
les
âmes
des
morts
qui
m’apparaissent?
Sont‐ce
les
spectres
de
ceux
que
je
n’aime
plus?
(69)
Indeed,
Sand’s
letter
underscores
her
belief
that
one
can
write
on
music
in
such
a
way
as
to
appropriate
a
certain
degree
of
its
affective
power
without
becoming
unintelligible.
In
asking
questions
and
evoking
mystery,
Sand
hopes
to
communicate
the
inexpressible
essence
of
music.
Ironically
enough,
the
first
time
that
Sand
reads
Rousseau,
she
declares
that
his
language
takes
holds
of
her
“comme
une
musique
superbe
éclairée
d’un
grand
soleil”
(Histoire
d’un
vie,
VII:
254).
In
this
chapter,
I
will
examine
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
(1839),
a
text
that
illustrates
particularly
well
the
ways
in
which
Sand
attempts
to
lessen
the
gap
that
separates
her
own
writing
from
music.
In
conceiving
the
work
as
a
dramatic
dialogue,
Sand
hopes
to
infuse
the
musicality
of
language
into
her
writing.
Whereas
one
typically
reads
a
nineteenth‐century
novel
in
silence,
actors
perform
a
dramatic
work
before
a
live
audience,13
eliciting
emotion
in
real
time
rather
than
conjuring
it
up
in
the
imagination.
A
theatrical
work
also
creates
a
suspension
of
disbelief
that
allows
Sand
to
13
Although
she
conceived
of
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
as
a
dramatic
dialogue,
Sand
never
sought
to
stage
the
work.
See
René
Bourgeois’s
Introduction
to
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
(Paris:
Flammarion,
1973),
p.
ix.
25
give
voice
to
the
eponymous
instrument
(Esprit
de
la
lyre)
and
the
divine
music
(Esprits
de
l’harmonie)
that
are
inaudible
to
so
many.
As
Richard
Wagner
elucidates
so
well,
Drama,
at
the
moment
of
its
actual
scenic
representation,
arouses
in
the
beholder
such
an
intimate
and
instant
interest
in
an
action
borrowed
faithfully
from
life
itself,
at
least
in
its
possibilities,
that
man’s
sympathetic
feeling
already
passes
into
that
ecstatic
state
where
it
clean
forgets
that
fateful
question
“Why?”
and
willingly
yields
itself,
in
utmost
excitation,
to
the
guidance
of
those
new
laws
whereby
music
makes
herself
so
wondrously
intelligible
.
.
.
.
(Wagner
on
Music,
188)
Although
Sand’s
publisher,
François
Buloz,
still
greeted
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
with
dismay
and
her
closest
friends—even
Liszt—dismissed
the
work
given
its
excessive
mysticism,14
Sand
remained
convinced
of
its
merits:
“Laissez
gémir
Buloz,
qui
pleure
à
chaudes
larmes
quand
je
fais
ce
qu’il
appelle
du
mysticisme
.
.
.
.
Il
faut
bien
que
les
lecteurs
de
la
revue
se
fassent
un
peu
moins
bêtes,
puisque
moi
je
me
fais
moins
bête
de
mon
côté”
(Correspondances,
IV:
607‐608).15
If
Sand’s
writing
tends
towards
the
14
Liszt
wrote
that
the
dramatic
dialogue
left
“une
impression
pénible”
and
spoke
of
its
“lassitude,
épuisement,
[et]
décadence”
(Marix‐Spire,
pp.
561‐562;
qtd.
in
English
in
Kennedy,
p.
9).
15
Buloz
was
indeed
worried
that
Sand’s
excessive
mysticism
would
deter
readers
from
purchasing
La
Revue,
but
he
also
did
not
appreciate
the
negative
critique
Sand
offered
in
regards
to
the
monarchy—“Qu’importe
que
Sa
Majesté
comprenne
les
arts
.
.
.”
(I,
vii,
45)—as
he
aspired
to
become
the
chief
administrator
of
the
Comédie‐
Française.
In
this
regard,
Sand
proves
equally
unperturbed:
“Je
n’ai
continué
à
travailler
à
cet
ignoble
journal
qu’à
condition
d’y
avoir
la
plus
complète
liberté
et
je
ne
me
soucie
26
abstract
and
metaphysical,
this
tendency
only
reflects
her
attempt
to
write
on
the
most
esoteric
yet
inspiring
of
all
the
arts:
music.
Sand’s
lyre
focuses
the
reader’s
attention
on
the
opposition
between
melody
on
the
one
hand
and
harmony
on
the
other;
as
I
shall
demonstrate,
through
this
opposition
Sand
describes
different
ways
of
obtaining
knowledge
and
experiencing
love.
There
are
those
who
have
immediate
and
total
access
to
divine
truth
and
others
who
struggle
to
realize
even
a
brief
glimpse
of
it.
In
Act
I,
Albertus’s
student,
Hanz,
likens
the
quest
for
such
understanding
to
an
ascending
staircase:
“C’est
qu’il
y
a
diverses
manières
de
gravir
cet
escalier
sacré:
les
uns
s’y
cramponnent
lentement
et
péniblement
avec
les
pieds
et
les
mains,
d’autres
ont
des
ailes
et
le
franchissent
légèrement”
(I,
iv,
71).16
Regardless
of
the
different
paths
towards
a
more
enlightened
existence,
Sand
cleverly
implies
the
necessity
of
music.
That
Sand
employs
the
verb
gravir
brings
to
mind
the
notion
of
climbing
or
even
scaling
this
sacred
ladder,
an
action
that
evokes
the
seven
notes
that
form
the
basis
of
a
musical
composition;
even
though
this
word
play
does
not
exist
in
French,
the
word
for
a
musical
scale
being
gamme,
I
would
argue
that
in
a
work
that
thematizes
music
so
prominently
the
image
of
scaling
a
staircase
quite
naturally
suggests
the
steps
of
a
musical
scale.
In
alluding
to
this
construct,
Sand
underscores
the
importance
of
music
and
more
specifically
the
seven
strings
of
the
lyre
as
a
means
by
pas
qu’on
passe
le
rabot
sur
moi”
(Correspondances,
IV:
637).
16
Unless
otherwise
specified,
all
quotations
are
taken
from
George
Sand,
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
(Paris:
Flammarion,
1973).
27
which
one
becomes
more
aware
of
large
philosophical
issues:
truth,
freedom,
and
the
meaning
of
life.
And
indeed,
at
the
center
of
the
dramatic
dialogue
is
the
eponymous
musical
instrument.
The
lyre
hearkens
back
to
antiquity,
a
time
when
poets
would
play
the
instrument’s
strings
as
they
recited
or
sang
their
verses,
blending
the
two
arts,
whose
respective
values
were
less
different
than
they
are
now,
to
such
a
degree
that
they
seemed
inextricable.
These
poets
did
not
feel
confined
to
their
artistic
medium;
their
works
straddled
word
and
music.
Many
of
Sand’s
contemporaries
thus
turn
to
the
lyre
as
a
symbol
of
this
primordial
unity.
Alphonse
de
Lamartine,
for
example,
represents
his
poetic
inspiration
in
the
form
of
the
musical
instrument:
“Si
tu
pouvais
jamais
égaler,
ô
ma
lyre,
/
Le
doux
frémissement
des
ailes
du
zéphyre”
(404).
In
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
however,
the
lyre
is
no
longer
a
symbol
of
artistic
freedom
but
rather
one
of
the
confinement
of
mind
and
spirit
suffered
by
those
whose
lives
have
not
been
touched
and
transformed
by
music,
particularly
the
main
character,
the
philosopher
Albertus.
The
opening
scene
reveals
that
the
instrument
inhabits
the
soul
of
its
maker,
Adelsfreit.
One
hundred
years
before
the
action
of
the
dramatic
dialogue,
in
a
Pygmalion‐like
moment,
Adelsfreit
asked
God
to
inhabit
his
chef
d’œuvre
so
that
it
might
endure
forever.
Rather
than
complying
with
his
audacious
request,
however,
God
bound
the
man’s
spirit
within
the
lyre
with
its
seven
strings.
The
first
two
strings
made
of
gold
represent
the
mysteries
of
the
infinite,
the
second
two
strings
made
of
silver
represent
the
contemplation
of
nature
and
providence,
the
third
pair
28
made
of
steel
represent
man
and
his
inventions,
laws,
and
morals,
and
the
final
brazen
string
represents
pure
love.17
The
only
way
that
the
lye’s
imprisoned
spirit
might
be
freed
is
if
someone
breaks
these
strings
one
by
one:
“Pour
que
tu
[Esprit
de
la
lyre]
sortes
de
la
lyre,
il
faut
qu’une
main
vierge
de
toute
souillure
ait
rompu
les
sept
cordes
une
à
une”
(I,
viii,
104).
If,
as
an
extension
of
its
maker’s
soul,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
is
destined
to
struggle
painfully
before
achieving
absolution
and
eternal
life,
its
plight
mirrors
that
of
Sand
and
many
others.
Just
before
publishing
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
Sand
observes
in
“Essai
sur
le
drame
fantastique”
(1839),
“La
société
ne
nous
offre
pas
un
milieu
où
nos
idées
et
nos
sentiments
puissent
s’asseoir
et
travailler
de
concert.
Une
lutte
acharnée
douloureuse,
funeste,
divise
les
éléments
de
notre
être
et
nous
force
à
n’embrasser
qu’une
à
une
les
faces
de
cette
vie
troublée,
où
notre
idéal
ne
peut
s’épanouir”
(Impressions,
16,
my
emphasis).
Here,
Sand
places
blame
on
the
public
sphere
rather
than
the
private
one,
but
she
holds
to
the
deep‐seated
Romantic
belief
that
individuals
are
capable
of
achieving
a
certain
harmony
within
themselves
and
the
world
around
them.
As
Sand
makes
clear
in
Act
I
of
the
dramatic
dialogue,
“L’âme
est
une
lyre
dont
il
faut
faire
vibrer
toutes
les
cordes
tantôt
ensemble
tantôt
une
à
une,
suivant
les
règles
17
In
the
Introduction
to
his
English
translation
of
the
dramatic
dialogue,
George
Kennedy
asserts
that
the
idea
for
a
lyre
on
which
different
strings
have
different
meanings
comes
to
Sand
from
Michel
de
Bourges,
whom
she
called
“Everard.”
Among
Bourges’s
papers
was
found
a
sketch
of
a
lyre
with
the
inscription
“La
lyre
de
George
Sand
d’après
le
plan
de
son
ami
Everard
(sic).
Nohant,
le
11
août
1835”
(11;
original
French
in
Karénine,
2:379).
David
A.
Powell,
meanwhile,
points
out
that
the
metallic
symbolism
recalls
the
ages
of
humanity
(the
Iron
Age,
the
Bronze
Age).
See
While
the
Music
Lasts:
The
Representation
of
Music
in
the
Works
of
George
Sand
(Lewisburg,
PA
and
London:
Bucknell
University
Press,
2001),
p.
295.
29
de
l’harmonie
et
la
mélodie”
(I,
i,
52).
As
we
shall
see,
this
distinction
between
melodies,
which
are
composed
of
notes
played
une
à
une,
and
harmonies,
formed
by
an
ensemble
of
notes,
will
be
crucial
to
our
understanding
of
this
entire
work.
The
lyre’s
ability
to
perform
melody
and
harmony
brings
to
mind
the
well‐known
Querelle
des
Bouffons
(1752‐1753)
during
which
Rousseau
and
Rameau
engage
in
heated
debate
about
the
expressive
nature
of
music.
Much
more
than
an
argument
of
the
relative
merits
of
Italian
or
French
opera,
their
written
warfare
offers
a
fascinating
portrayal
of
harmony
and
melody
as
polarizing
opposites.
Rousseau
declares,
“Il
n’y
eut
point
d’abord
d’autre
musique
que
la
mélodie”
(Essai,
45),
and
Rameau
fires
back,
“[La
mélodie
est]
inappréciable
à
l’oreille”
(Observations,
26),
his
position
being
that
harmony
alone
can
communicate
“directement
à
l’âme”
(Erreurs,
49).
Rousseau
counters,
“[L’harmonie]
efface
l’accent
passionné
[de
la
musique]”
(Essai,
51),
suggesting
that
this
is
an
artistic
debate
that
is
not
easily
resolved
on
a
purely
musical
level.
In
writing
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
Sand
takes
a
more
conciliatory
approach.
While
she
conceives
of
her
ideal
in
harmonious
terms
–
she
refers
to
the
dramatic
dialogue’s
divine
music
as
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
–
she
does
not
seem
to
believe
that
such
music
can
be
measured,
as
does
Rameau.
Sand
sees
harmony
relating
to
the
non‐
musical
in
mystical
and
more
holistic
ways,
as
one
whole
relating
to
others.
A
melody,
meanwhile,
develops
across
time.
Neither
unified
nor
synthetic,
it
can
only
anticipate
its
eventual
resolution.
In
stipulating
that
the
lyre
must
break
its
strings
one
by
one,
Sand
30
thus
emphasizes
the
uncertainty
of
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
fate
and,
by
extension,
the
fate
of
an
individual’s
soul.
It
is
such
feelings
of
doubt
that
eventually
lead
Albertus,
the
philosophizing
protagonist,
to
turn
to
the
lyre.
For
twenty‐five
years
Albertus
has
sought
an
all‐
encompassing
truth
that
eludes
him.
Alone,
he
asks
himself,
“D’où
vient
qu’au
lieu
d’être
ce
sage,
ce
stoïque
dont
chacun
admire
et
envie
la
sérénité,
je
suis
le
plus
incertain,
le
plus
dévoré,
le
plus
misérable
des
hommes?”
(I,
ii,
54).
Frustrated
by
his
own
lack
of
understanding,
he
eventually
takes
a
strange
comfort
in
the
lyre
whose
deteriorating
exterior
reflects
the
condition
of
his
soul:
“O
lyre,
image
de
mon
âme!
Entre
les
mains
d’un
grand
artiste,
tu
aurais
rendu
des
sons
divins
;
.
.
.
te
voici,
abandonnée,
détendue,
placée
sur
un
socle
pour
plaire
aux
yeux
.
.
.”
(I,
ii,
57).
If
the
philosopher’s
soul
is
the
lyre,
he
has
only
sounded
its
gold
strings,
those
that
represent
the
mysteries
of
the
infinite.
In
fact,
Albertus
has
neglected
the
brazen
string
of
love
to
such
an
extent
that
he
believes
it
is
no
longer
available
to
him.
As
one
of
his
students,
Wilhelm,
observes,
“Vous
avez
trop
joué
sur
les
cordes
d’or
de
la
lyre;
et
pendant
que
vous
vous
enfermiez
dans
votre
thème
favori,
les
cordes
d’airain
se
sont
brisées”
(I,
i,
53).18
Albertus
separates
the
pursuit
of
enlightenment
and
that
of
love,
because
he
does
not
see
how
the
two
might
be
harmoniously
combined:
“J’ai
senti
dans
mon
âme
le
germe
de
passions
si
violentes,
que
je
n’eusse
pu
faire
de
l’hyménée
un
lien
aussi
18
Because
the
lyre
only
possesses
one
brass
string,
this
statement
should
most
likely
read,
“Vous
avez
trop
joué
sur
les
cordes
d’or
de
la
lyre;
et
pendant
que
vous
vous
enfermiez
dans
votre
thème
favori,
la
corde
d’airain
s’est
brisée.”
31
paisible,
aussi
noble,
aussi
durable
que
ma
raison
le
conçoit
et
que
ma
conviction
le
prêche
aux
autres”
(V,
i,
176).
In
fact,
Albertus
wishes
for
passionate
love,
but
his
philosophical
approach
does
not
allow
for
it.
If
we
recall
the
opposition
between
melody
that
develops
across
time
and
harmony
that
melds
different
elements
into
a
single
mysterious
sound,
Albertus
is
far
more
attuned
to
melody
than
to
harmony:
he
thinks
in
logical
steps
and
believes
that
he
can
break
down
any
phenomenon
into
its
constituent
parts.
He
vehemently
refuses
to
accept
that
one
might
achieve
enlightenment
through
an
emotion
as
ineffable
as
love;
an
emotion
that
is,
precisely,
associated
in
this
work
with
harmony.
Indeed,
Sand
describes
an
important
aspect
of
her
musical
ideal
by
way
of
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie.
In
the
instant
a
chord
sounds,
time,
along
with
the
various
uncertainties
and
contingencies
that
it
brings,
seems
to
stop.
Functioning
as
a
sort
of
Greek
chorus,
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
descend
from
heaven
and
comment
upon
the
action
of
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre.
They
introduce
themselves
to
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
as
follows:
Nous
venons
du
blanc
soleil,
que
les
hommes,
tes
compagnons
de
misère,
appellent
Wega,
et
qu’ils
ont
consacré
à
la
lyre.
Ton
soleil,
ô
jeune
frère,
est
aussi
pur,
aussi
brillant,
aussi
serein
que
le
jour
où
un
pouvoir
magique
t’en
fit
descendre
pour
habiter
parmi
les
hommes.
Il
est
toujours
régi
par
le
même
son.
C’est
toujours
le
rayon
blanc
du
prisme
infini
qui
chante
la
vie
de
cet
astre.
(I,
viii,
104)
32
The
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
reveal
that
they
come
from
Wega,
the
brightest
star
in
the
constellation
Lyra.
They
go
on
to
say
that
the
shining
sun
that
governs
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
fate
generates
from
“le
même
son,”
underscoring
Adelsfreit’s
confinement
within
the
lyre
as
well
as
in
time.
That
the
sound
is
singular
(“le”)
and
static
(“même”)
might
seem
to
suggest
the
resonance
of
one
musical
note,
but
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
liken
this
sound
to
white
light
(“le
rayon
blanc”),
which
in
an
indirect
way
is
related
to
the
notion
of
a
prism.
As
has
been
known
since
Isaac
Newton’s
groundbreaking
Optiks
(1704),
a
prism
refracts
light
into
the
seven
colors
of
the
rainbow,
proving
that
white
light
is
not
the
absence
of
color
but
the
combination
of
all
colors.
In
comparing
the
celestial
sound
to
white
light,
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
thus
suggest
that
theirs
is
a
harmony
resulting
from
the
combination
of
the
seven
notes
of
a
musical
scale.
Indeed,
that
the
French
employ
the
same
term—gamme—when
referring
to
both
the
color
spectrum
and
the
musical
scale
only
further
confirms
this
association.
In
this
light
(literally
and
figuratively),
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie’s
description
of
the
celestial
sound
as
“le
même”
takes
on
new
meaning.
The
use
of
the
direct
article
and
adjective
do
not
suggest
the
simple
repetition
of
a
single
note
of
the
sort
that
constrains
Adelsfreit,
but
rather
the
singular
and
eternal
nature
of
divine
harmony.
“Le
son”
is
not
merely
a
sound
(as
the
indefinite
article
“un”
would
have
indicated),
but
rather
the
eternal
harmony
to
which
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
aspires.
The
all‐encompassing
nature
of
this
harmony
becomes
even
more
striking
when
one
considers
that
the
white
light
sings
as
well
as
shines.
Such
a
synesthetic
event
is
evocative
of
Sand’s
ideal
of
revealing
deep
connections
among
the
arts.
33
As
Albertus
will
ultimately
learn,
the
power
of
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie’s
music
resists
analysis:
those
who
attempt
to
scrutinize
its
affective
power
will
only
further
distance
themselves
from
it.
In
Music
and
the
Ineffable,
Vladimir
Jankélévitch
refers
to
music’s
indissoluble
power
as
charm,
defining
the
term
as
follows:
“The
Charm—it
is
always
total;
that
is,
it
exists,
or
it
does
not;
it
is
not
a
total
equal
to
the
sum
of
its
parts
but
an
indivisible
and
impalpable
totality
.
.
.
.
Dissection,
applied
to
the
anatomy
of
the
charm,
will
produce
nothing
more
than
frightful,
miserable
disjecta”
(53).
The
truth
of
Jankélévitch’s
words
becomes
particularly
clear
when
one
examines
a
scene
in
Sand’s
dramatic
dialogue
during
which
a
painter,
a
poet,
a
maestro,
and
a
critic
come
into
contact
with
the
lyre
but
cannot
fully
realize
its
beauty.
The
poet,
for
example,
picks
up
the
instrument
and
is
amazed
by
his
own
ability
to
produce
beautiful
“music.”
To
his
astonishment,
however,
those
around
him
never
hear
a
single
note.
The
painter
sets
out
to
sketch
the
beautiful
mermaids
that
decorate
the
lyre
but
upon
his
proudly
unveiling
his
work,
the
others
insist
that
he
has
depicted
satyrs
that
do
not
equal
the
original’s
beauty.
The
maestro
cannot
sound
a
single
note
for
anyone,
including
himself.
The
critic,
meanwhile,
encounters
the
worst
fate
of
all.
He
proclaims
to
the
rest
of
the
group,
“Je
consens
à
vous
montrer
que
j’ai
mieux
que
vous
les
arts
que
vous
professez.
Je
vais
vous
chanter,
en
vers
alexandrins,
une
dissertation
sur
la
peinture,
et
je
m’accompagnerai
de
la
lyre
sur
le
mode
ionique”
(I,
vii,
98).
He
then
touches
the
lyre
and
lets
out
a
cry
of
pain
as
if
he
has
been
punched
in
the
stomach.
These
men
approach
the
lyre
for
their
personal
gain,
scrutinizing
the
various
aspects
of
the
instrument
that
would
most
benefit
them
and
in
so
doing,
they
cannot
34
communicate
the
lyre’s
totalizing
power,
indeed,
they
seem
unable
to
experience
it
altogether.
Even
when
approached
with
essentially
unselfish
intentions,
the
lyre
remains
a
mystery
to
those
who
try
to
dissect
and
explain
its
communicative
power.
Poring
over
his
books,
Albertus
attempts
to
analyze
music
with
the
greatest
possible
precision:
La
musique
est
une
combinaison
algébrique
des
divers
tons
de
la
gamme,
propre
à
égayer
l’esprit
d’une
manière
indirecte,
en
chatouillant
agréablement
les
muscles
auditifs;
chatouillement
qui
réagit
sur
le
système
nerveux
tout
entier.
D’où
il
résulte
que
le
cerveau
peut
entrer
dans
une
sorte
d’exaltation
fébrile,
ainsi
qu’on
l’observe
chez
les
dilettanti.
(II,
ii,
113)
The
way
Albert
approaches
music
is
analogous
to
the
way
he
approaches
philosophy.
He
hopes
that
in
breaking
music
down
into
all
of
its
constituent
parts,
he
will
be
able
to
understand
the
lyre’s
power.
But
in
referring
to
musical
notes
as
“divers
tons
de
la
gamme,”
Albertus
implies
that
no
transcendent
relationship
might
exist
between
them.
He
is
incapable
of
hearing
anything
but
singly
sounded
notes
because
his
only
way
of
knowing
music
is
through
its
constituent
parts.
What
he
reproaches
music
for
is
precisely
what
distinguishes
it
from
language,
its
non‐referential
quality:
“La
musique
peut
exprimer
des
sentiments
.
.
.
mais
rendre
des
idées
.
.
.
mais
seulement
peindre
des
objets
.
.
.
c’est
impossible!”
(II,
ii,
113).
He
sees
the
key
to
music
as
a
mathematical
formula
“soumis
à
une
logique
invariable”
(II,
ii,
114),
and
this
unyielding
view
prevents
35
him
from
discovering
the
art’s
emotive
power.
The
first
time
that
the
lyre
sounds
in
his
presence,
all
he
hears
is
a
single,
desolate
sound,
“un
son
plaintif
.
.
.
un
son
douloureux”
(I,
ii,
56‐57).
Albertus
can
convince
himself
that
the
lyre’s
music
is
a
chimera,
but
he
cannot
so
readily
ignore
Hélène.
A
descendent
of
the
lyre’s
maker,
Hélène
personifies
the
celestial
harmony
that
remains
inaccessible
to
Albertus.
Even
Albertus,
the
consummate
rationalist,
cannot
help
but
describe
the
young
woman
in
harmonious
terms:
[Hélène
est]
belle
comme
une
harmonie
pure
et
parfaite.
Si
la
couleur
de
ses
yeux
ne
m’a
pas
frappé,
si
je
n’ai
pas
remarqué
sa
stature,
ce
n’est
pas
que
je
sois
incapable
de
voir
et
de
comprendre
la
beauté;
c’est
que
sa
beauté
est
si
harmonieuse,
c’est
qu’il
y
a
tant
d’accord
entre
son
caractère
et
sa
figure,
tant
d’ensemble
dans
tout
son
être,
que
j’éprouve
le
charme
de
sa
présence,
sans
analyser
les
qualités
de
sa
personne.
(I,
i,
49,
my
emphasis)
Although
the
word
“accord”
here
does
not
appear
to
be
used
in
its
musical
sense,
it
is
in
fact
the
French
term
corresponding
to
the
English
“chord.”
And
indeed,
like
that
of
a
harmonious
chord,
the
effect
of
Hélène’s
beauty
on
Albertus
is
immediate
and
total—so
much
so
that
even
her
outer
appearance
(figure)
and
inner
self
(caractère)
become
indistinguishable
from
one
another.
An
indivisible
and
impalpable
unity,
Hélène
embodies
the
charm
as
defined
by
Jankélévitch.
Albertus
readily
admits,
“J’éprouve
le
charme
de
sa
présence,
sans
analyser
les
qualités
de
sa
personne.“
The
only
way
that
36
Albertus
can
describe
Hélène’s
beauty
is
by
suggesting
its
indescribability:
“En
vérité,
je
crois
qu’elle
n’est
ni
petite
ni
grande,
ni
blonde
ni
brune”
(I,
i,
48).
Although
the
philosopher
devotes
himself
to
analysis
and
sequential
reasoning,
he
acknowledges
Hélène
as
an
exception
to
this
steadfast
rule.
This
inchoate
recognition
of
Hélène’s
harmoniousness
is
made
explicit
by
Wilhelm,
Albertus’s
student:
Mais
Hélène,
c’est
pour
moi
l’idéal,
c’est
le
ciel
ou
plutôt
c’est
l’harmonie
qui
régit
les
choses
célestes.
Je
n’ai
plus
besoin
d’intelligence;
il
me
suffit
de
voir
Hélène
pour
comprendre
d’emblée
toutes
les
merveilles
que
l’étude
patiente
et
les
efforts
du
raisonnement
ne
m’eussent
révélées
qu’une
à
une.
(I,
i,
51)
Wilhelm’s
devotion
to
Hélène
results
from
a
true
coup
de
foudre.
It
takes
place
in
one
fell
swoop.
He
need
only
gaze
upon
Hélène
to
become
aware
of
all
of
the
wonders
(toutes
les
merveilles)
that
she
embodies,
which
would
have
far
less
impact
if
revealed
in
a
stepwise
manner
(une
à
une).
For
Sand,
such
an
ideal
goes
beyond
language.
Hélène
does
not
have
to
utter
a
single
word
for
him
to
know
that
she
embodies
his
ideal.
Although
he
is
Albertus’s
student
rather
than
his
teacher,
Wilhelm
reveals
that
there
is
an
understanding
that
does
not
require—indeed,
is
pushed
away
by—explanation
of
the
sort
that
characterizes
the
philosopher.
Casting
deductive,
step‐wise
reasoning
aside,
Wilhelm
immediately
accepts
Hélène
without
question.
37
In
contrast
to
Wilhelm’s
acceptance
of
Hélène’s
all‐encompassing
spirituality,
her
beauty
and
ideal
nature
being
all
of
a
piece,
Albertus
is
unable
to
distinguish
between
her
intelligence
and
her
soul.
As
he
watches
her
sleep,
he
declares,
Si
j’admire
ton
front,
et
tes
yeux,
et
ta
longue
chevelure,
c’est
parce
qu’à
travers
ces
signes
extérieurs,
qu’on
appelle
la
beauté
physique,
je
contemple
ta
beauté
intellectuelle,
ton
âme
immaculée.
C’est
ton
esprit
que
j’aime,
ô
vierge
mélancolique;
c’est
lui
seul
que
je
veux
connaître
et
posséder.
(II,
i,
109)
Ironically,
Albertus’s
contemplation
and
description
of
Hélène’s
beauty
reveal
more
about
his
own
esprit
than
they
do
about
hers:
he
believes
that
his
inventory
of
the
various
aspects
that
contribute
to
the
beauty
of
her
countenance
(front,
yeux,
chevelure)
will
give
him
access
to
her
“beauté
intellectuelle”
and
her
“âme
immaculée,”
implying
an
essential
similarity
between
intellect
and
soul,
subsequently
merged
in
the
word
“esprit.”
But
in
fact
his
perception
of
her
in
terms
of
the
distinct
parts
that
constitute
both
her
physical
beauty
and
her
spiritual
beauty
(beauté
intellectuelle,
âme
immaculée,
esprit),
keeps
her
from
seeing
her
as
one.
Albertus
and
Hélène
are
emblematic
of
two
different
kinds
of
lives.
Whereas
Albertus’s
soul
is
incomplete,
Hélène’s
soul
is
whole,
her
sense
of
completeness
stemming
from
the
ability
to
experience
the
world
in
ways
that
escape
analysis.
At
some
level,
Albertus
sees
this
radical
otherness
as
threatening:
“Elle
ignore
tout
ce
qui
fait
la
science
de
l’homme;
son
âme
est
engourdie
dans
une
sorte
d’aliénation
douce
et
38
permanente”
(II,
iv,
129).
Even
so,
Hélène
exudes
a
sense
of
wholeness
that
Albertus
cannot
deny,
for
it
allows
her
access
to
a
world
that
remains
beyond
the
philosopher’s
reach
and
knows
no
boundaries.19
It
is
the
place
of
which
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
sing.
Even
before
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
has
the
opportunity
to
address
her,
Hélène
readily
surrenders
herself
to
it.
She
reaches
out
for
the
instrument
and
exclaims,
La
lyre!
voici
donc
la
lyre!
O
lyre!
que
je
t’aime!
.
.
.
.
Oh!
Qu’il
y
a
longtemps
que
je
désirais
te
tenir
ainsi!
Tu
sais
pourtant
que
je
t’ai
respectée
comme
une
hostie
sainte
placée
entre
le
ciel
et
moi
.
.
.
.
Je
ne
t’ai
point
profanée,
et
mes
mains
sont
pures,
tu
le
sais
bien.
J’ai
tant
désiré
te
connaître
et
m’unir
à
toi!
Ne
veux‐tu
pas
me
parler?
Ne
suis‐
je
pas
ta
fille?
.
.
.
Je
t’appartiens.
Veux‐tu
enfin
de
moi?
(I,
viii,
101‐102)
That
Hélène
offers
herself
to
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
is
a
true
act
of
love:
it
is
a
selfless
act
yet
paradoxically
results
in
self‐awareness.
As
Hegel
elucidates
in
his
reflections
of
the
Romantic
art
form,
“The
true
essence
of
love
consists
in
surrendering
one’s
consciousness
of
self,
in
forgetting
one’s
self
in
another
while
yet,
in
that
very
surrender
and
oblivion,
coming
to
true
possession
of
oneself
for
the
first
time”
(42).
And
indeed,
the
interjections
of
Albertus
and
his
students
can
do
nothing
to
interrupt
or
dissuade
her.
Referring
to
the
instrument
as
an
“hostie
sainte,”
Hélène
believes
that
the
lyre
has
19
As
E.T.A.
Hoffman,
a
writer
and
philosopher
with
whom
Sand
was
familiar,
elucidates
in
his
review
of
Beethoven’s
Fifth
Symphony:
“Music
discloses
man
to
an
unknown
realm,
a
world
that
has
nothing
in
common
with
the
external
sensuous
world
that
surrounds
him,
a
word
in
which
he
leaves
behind
him
all
feelings
that
can
be
expressed
through
concepts,
in
order
to
surrender
himself
to
that
which
cannot
be
expressed”
(qtd.
in
Bonds,
412).
39
become
a
specific
channel
of
the
divine
whose
material
substance
and
heavenly
spirit
are
one.
As
she
offers
herself
to
the
instrument,
she
expresses
her
desire
to
partake
in
this
transformative
mystery:
“Laissez‐moi,
hommes!”
she
declares
to
Albertus
and
his
students,
“Je
n’ai
rien
de
commun
avec
vous.
Je
ne
suis
plus
de
votre
monde”
(I,
viii,
102).
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
music
transports
Hélène
beyond
the
here‐and‐now
and
commands
that
she
also
purge
herself
so
as
to
become
a
vessel
of
the
divine:
Fille
des
hommes,
épure
ton
cœur,
façonne‐le
comme
le
lapidaire
épure
un
cristal
de
roche
en
le
taillant,
afin
d’y
faire
jouer
l’éclat
du
prisme.
Fais
de
toi‐même
une
surface
si
limpide,
que
le
rayon
de
l’infini
te
traverse
et
t’embrasse,
et
réduise
ton
être
en
poussière,
afin
de
t’assimiler
à
lui
et
de
te
répandre
en
fluide
divin
dans
son
sein
brûlant,
toujours
dévorant,
toujours
fécond.
(II,
i,
110)
In
order
that
they
might
unite,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
commands
Hélène
to
open
herself
up
to
“le
rayon
de
l’infini”
so
that
it
might
inhabit
and
consume
her.
Once
again
we
find
the
image
of
the
prism,
the
device
through
which
white
light
and
its
constituent
parts
communicate
just
as
the
notes
of
a
chord
form
a
whole;
equating
itself
to
light,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
wishes
to
radiate
within
Hélène.
And
as
she
readily
accepts,
she
becomes
likened
to
a
“fluide
divin”
the
liquid
medium
figuring
nonseparability
into
discrete
units.
In
this
moment
of
imagined
unity,
she
is
completely
subsumed
in
a
moment
of
poetic
inspiration—she
is
in
the
music,
and
it
is
in
her.
40
As
if
called
forth
by
the
image
of
the
prism,
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
now
intercede
on
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
behalf
to
ensure
Hélène’s
total
participation.
Performing
“les
divins
accords”
(II,
i,
110),
they
urge
Hélène
not
only
to
listen
to
but
also
to
see
the
harmony
that
transcends
earthly
existence:
Ecoute,
écoute
ô
fille
de
la
lyre!
les
divins
accords
de
la
lyre
universelle.
Tout
cet
infini
qui
pèse
sur
ton
être,
et
qui
l’écrase
de
son
immensité,
peut
s’ouvrir
devant
toi,
et
te
laisser
monter
comme
une
flamme
pure,
comme
un
esprit
subtil!
Que
tes
oreilles
entendent
et
que
tes
yeux
voient!
Tout
est
harmonie,
le
son
et
la
couleur.
Sept
tons
et
sept
couleurs
s’enlacent
et
se
meuvent
autour
de
toi
dans
un
éternel
hyménée.
Il
n’est
point
de
couleur
muette.
L’univers
est
une
lyre.
Il
n’est
point
de
son
invisible.
L’univers
est
un
prisme.
L’arc‐en‐ciel
est
le
reflet
d’une
goutte
d’eau.
L’arc‐en‐ciel
est
le
reflet
de
l’infini:
il
élève
dans
les
cieux
sept
voix
éclatantes
qui
chantent
incessamment
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel.
(II,
i,
110‐111)
For
the
first
time,
Hélène
experiences
the
synesthetic
nature
of
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie.
Their
music
produces
a
cascade
of
sights
and
sounds
that
combine
to
form
a
single
unity.
Hélène
hears
the
lyre’s
music
but
simultaneously
sees
the
seven
colors
of
the
rainbow.
There
are
no
silent
colors
or
invisible
sounds.
The
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
call
upon
Hélène
to
be
a
visionary
in
the
true
sense
of
the
word.
They
want
her
to
imagine
41
the
world
as
it
should
be
rather
than
as
it
is
and
to
share
this
ideal
with
those
around
her.20
Répète
l’hymne,
ô
fille
de
la
lyre!
Unis
ta
voix
à
celle
du
soleil.
Chaque
grain
de
poussière
d’or
qui
se
balance
dans
le
rayon
solaire
chante
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel;
chaque
goutte
de
rosée
qui
brille
sur
chaque
brin
d’herbe
chante
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel;
chaque
flot
du
rivage,
chaque
rocher,
chaque
brin
de
mousse,
chaque
insecte
chante
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel!
(II,
i,
111)
In
calling
Hélène
to
repeat
a
hymn
that
weaves
words
and
music
together
in
a
celebratory
song,
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
indicate
that
their
song
is
religious
in
nature,
written
for
the
purpose
of
praising
and
glorifying
God.
So
as
to
underscore
the
harmonious
nature
of
the
hymn
that
Hélène
hears,
Sand
creates
her
own
verbal
music.
Steven
Paul
Scher
introduces
the
idea
of
verbal
music
in
Verbal
Music
in
German
Literature
and
defines
the
concept
as
follows:
By
verbal
music
I
mean
any
literary
presentation
(whether
in
poetry
or
prose)
of
existing
or
fictitious
musical
compositions:
any
poetic
texture
which
has
a
piece
of
music
as
its
“theme.”
In
addition
to
approximating
in
words
an
actual
or
fictitious
score,
such
poems
or
passages
often
20
One
of
Sand’s
main
goals
in
writing
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
was
in
fact
to
convey
such
an
ideal
vision.
Her
main
criticism
of
Goethe’s
Faust,
the
tragic
play
upon
which
this
dramatic
dialogue
is
based,
was
that
Goethe
depicted
things
“telles
qu’elles
sont”
rather
than
“telles
qu’elles
doivent
être”
(Impressions,
31).
42
suggest
characterization
of
a
musical
performance
or
of
a
subjective
response
to
music.
Although
verbal
music
may,
on
occasion,
contain
onomatopoeic
effects,
it
distinctly
differs
from
word
music,
which
is
exclusively
an
attempt
at
literary
imitation
of
sound.
(8)
The
start
of
Sand’s
verbal
music
becomes
clear
as
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
begin,
“Répète
l’hymne.”
As
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
continue
to
sing,
the
reader
soon
understands
that
this
particular
hymn
involves
all
seven
of
the
lyre’s
strings.
Pronounced
seven
times
in
a
single
paragraph,
the
occurrence
of
the
word
chaque
creates
the
impression
of
a
building
acceleration
of
distinct
elements
coming
together,
which
only
intensifies
as
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
continue
to
sing:
Et
le
soleil
de
la
terre,
et
la
lune
pale,
et
les
vastes
planètes,
et
tous
les
soleils
de
l’infini
avec
les
mondes
innombrables
qu’ils
éclairent,
et
les
splendeurs
de
l’éther
étincelant,
et
les
abîmes
incommensurables
de
l’empyrée,
entendent
la
voix
du
grain
de
sable
qui
roule
sur
la
pente
de
la
montagne,
la
voix
que
l’insecte
produit
en
dépliant
son
aile
diaprée,
la
voix
de
la
fleur
qui
sèche
et
éclate
en
laissant
tomber
sa
graine,
la
voix
de
la
mousse
qui
fleurit,
la
voix
de
la
feuille
qui
se
dilate
en
buvant
la
goutte
de
rosée;
et
l’Eternel
entend
toutes
les
voix
de
la
lyre
universelle.
(II,
i,
111,
my
emphasis)
That
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
evoke
a
surge
of
sights
and
sounds
by
repeating
et
seven
times
reinforces
the
sounding
of
the
lyre’s
seven
strings.
Et
is
a
coordinating
43
conjunction
that
brings
different
things
together
in
a
common
action.
In
choosing
to
employ
an
anaphoric
construction,
Sand
emphasizes
the
harmonious
nature
of
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie’s
hymn.
The
“et
.
.
.
et
.
.
.”
construction
renders
the
subject
of
the
sentence
a
compound
noun
of
large
proportions
united
by
the
link
to
the
verb
that
follows
(entendre).
In
Music
and
Poetry,
the
Nineteenth
Century
and
After,
Lawrence
Kramer
observes
that
such
repetition
of
connective
phrases
“produces
a
vibrant
fluidity
that
baffles
the
will
to
distinguish
and
interpret”
(10).
That
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
delay
pronouncing
the
seventh
et
only
foreshadows
the
significance
of
the
lyre’s
last
brazen
string.
Indeed,
harmony
intensifies
throughout
the
hymn
before
climaxing
at
the
hymn’s
end
when
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
repeat,
“Chante
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel
.
.
.
.
Chante
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel
.
.
.
.
Chante
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel
.
.
.
.
Toutes
les
voix
et
tous
les
rayons
de
l’infini
tressaillent
et
vibrent
incessamment
devant
la
gloire
et
la
beauté
de
l’Eternel”
(II,
i,
111).
Eternal
harmony
is
the
ultimate
goal,
and
to
encounter
such
beauty
face‐to‐face
is
to
combine
word
and
music
in
song
(chante).
And
while
chanter
implies
a
musician’s
song
or
a
poet’s
chant,
it
also
suggests
a
celebration.
As
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie
sing,
their
hymne
becomes
an
hymen
in
the
French
sense,
a
perfect
marriage
between
sight
and
sound,
between
word
and
music,
as
they
call
Hélène’s
spirit
to
join
that
of
the
lyre
and
convey
its
message
to
others.
As
Paul
Valéry
so
eloquently
writes
in
“Poésie
et
pensée
abstraite”
(1939):
“La
Poésie
est
un
art
du
Langage:
certaines
combinaisons
de
paroles
peuvent
produire
une
émotion
que
d’autres
ne
produisent
pas,
et
que
nous
appellerons
poétique”
(8).
This
44
pronouncement,
made
almost
exactly
a
century
after
the
publication
of
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
echoes
Sand
who
writes,
“Ce
sont
les
éléments
simples
et
connus
dont
la
combinaison
devient
un
mystère,
une
magie,
si
vous
voulez.
La
langue
de
l’infini!”
(II,
ii,
78).
Poetry—la
langue
de
l’infini—suggests
a
beauty
that
transcends
definition.
Appealing
to
emotions
rather
than
intellect,
Hélène
communicates
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
voice
in
the
form
of
lyric
poetry.
Suggestive
as
well
as
referential,
lyric
poetry
emphasizes
pure
sensation
creating
itself
as
language,
making
it
difficult
to
separate
one
from
the
other.
In
Basic
Concepts
of
Poetics
Emil
Staiger
describes
the
relationship
as
“a
union
between
the
meaning
and
the
music
of
words
.
.
.
.
Not
just
the
music
of
the
words
alone,
and
not
just
their
meanings,
but
both
together
make
up
the
miracle
of
lyric
poetry”
(46‐47).
In
other
words,
Hélène
departs
from
the
customary
usage
of
language
basically
oriented
toward
the
efficient
conveying
of
meaning
and
encourages
others
to
look
for
truths
within
themselves
instead
of
the
outer
world.
Unlike
a
philosopher
such
as
Albertus
who
strings
words
together
so
as
to
convey
step‐by‐step
logic,
a
poet
combines
words
so
as
to
evoke
not
only
meaning
but
also
an
emotional
response.
Reflecting
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie,
Hélène’s
lyrical
improvisations
communicate
a
world
that
exists
beyond
the
everyday,
a
new
reality.
As
another
of
Albertus’s
students,
Hanz,
declares,
“Hélène,
dans
sa
folie,
appartient
à
un
autre
ordre
de
puissance.
Elle
est
absorbée
dans
une
poésie
si
élevée,
si
mystérieuse
qu’elle
semble
être
en
commerce
avec
Dieu
même,
et
n’avoir
aucun
besoin
de
sanction
dans
les
arrêts
de
la
raison
humaine”
(I,
iv,
34).
Hélène
has
access
to
a
poetic
universe
in
which
time
stalls
and
sequential
reasoning
becomes
no
longer
pertinent.
45
Albertus,
however,
cannot
conceive
of
truths
that
exist
beyond
the
temporal
world.
Whereas
the
lyre’s
harmony
frees
Hélène,
it
immobilizes
him.
Having
repressed
his
own
emotions
for
so
long,
he
fails
to
recognize
Hélène’s
outbursts
as
anything
other
than
symptoms
of
a
physical
ailment:
“Toutes
ces
inspirations
de
la
fièvre,
toutes
ces
métaphores
délirantes
constituent
un
état
de
maladie
purement
physique
durant
lequel
le
cerveau
de
l’homme
ne
peut
produire
rien
de
vrai,
rien
d’utile,
par
conséquent
rien
de
beau”
(I,
iv,
64).
Relying
on
deductive
reasoning,
Albertus
speaks
in
categorical
terms;
he
considers
all
(toutes)
of
her
outbursts
and
all
(toutes)
of
her
poetic
language
to
be
the
result
of
a
physical
ailment.
He
leaves
no
room
to
entertain
the
possibility
of
alternative
explanations
or
pathways
towards
greater
understanding.
If
Albertus
complains
that
Hélène,
like
so
many
artists,
speaks
in
meaningless
metaphors,
in
fact
she
has
no
choice.
The
Spirit
of
harmony’s
music
is
too
ideal
to
be
perfectly
translated
and
understood.
She
has
no
other
recourse
but
to
suggest
it
to
the
best
of
her
ability.
The
same
is
true
for
the
instrument’s
maker.
Although
Adelsfreit
conceives
of
the
lyre
as
a
channel
to
the
divine,
he
cannot
perfectly
render
its
affective
power
in
writing.
When
Albertus
comes
into
possession
of
the
instrument
maker’s
manuscript,
he
exclaims,
Voyons
donc,
sont‐ce
des
vers?
.
.
.
Non
.
.
.
Voici
des
essais
de
composition
musicale,
pensées
lyriques
d’une
grande
valeur
sans
doute
pour
les
curieux,
et
d’un
grand
mérite
pour
les
artistes
.
.
.
.
Que
vois‐je
ici?
Des
mots
sans
suite.
.
.
des
phrases
tronquées,
jetées
là
pour
46
memento
et
dont
il
serait
oiseux
ou
impossible
de
reconstruire
le
sens.
(II,
iv,
120)
Uninitiated
into
music’s
affective
power,
Albertus
finds
Adelsfreit’s
manuscript
to
be
nothing
more
than
disjointed
ramblings.
For
the
philosopher,
trying
to
reconstruct
or
make
sense
of
Adelsfreit’s
unfinished
sentences
would
be
a
waste
of
time.
He
does
not
see
a
way
in
which
Adelsfreit’s
fragments
might
combine
to
produce
a
coherent
unity.
Albertus
yearns
for
some
kind
of
epiphany
that
might
allow
him
to
behold
the
mystery
of
the
lyre,
but
his
approach
does
not
lend
itself
to
such
understanding.
Convinced
that
he
has
left
nothing
out
of
the
equation,
Albertus
is
dismayed
when
he
comes
no
closer
to
understanding
the
lyre:
“Je
l’ai
démontée
pièce
à
pièce;
j’en
ai
examiné
attentivement
toutes
les
parties
.
.
.
mais
il
me
serait
impossible
d’en
tirer
d’autre
harmonie
que
les
simples
accords
qu’une
faible
notion
de
la
musique
me
permet
de
former”
(II,
iii,
117).
Yet
again,
Albertus’s
desire
to
break
the
instrument
apart
precludes
his
understanding
it.
Albertus
acknowledges
his
desire
to
adopt
Hélène’s
poetic
state,
but
only
so
that
he
might
classify
it
correctly
by
understanding
at
what
specific
point
poetic
inspiration
becomes
pure
madness:
the
balance
between
the
two
proves
extremely
delicate
because
they
both
challenge
one’s
ability
to
reflect
and
reason.
He
describes
her
condition
as
a
sort
of
physical
ailment
(une
fièvre)
and
even
goes
so
far
as
to
label
her
mad:
“Oui,
elle
est
poëte;
c’est
une
sorte
de
folie,
folie
sublime,
et
que
je
voudrais
avoir
un
instant,
pour
la
connaître,
et
pour
savoir
au
juste
où
finit
l’inspiration
et
où
47
commence
la
maladie”
(III,
i,
99).
Rather
than
exciting
the
young
woman’s
emotions,
Albertus
thus
seeks
to
quiet
them.
Referring
to
himself
as
“le
médecin
de
son
âme,”
he
asserts,
“L’âme
et
le
corps
ont
également
besoin
de
calme
pour
recouvrer
l’équilibre
qui
fait
la
santé
et
la
vie
de
l’un
et
de
l’autre”
(I,
iv,
62).
And
while
Albertus’s
efforts
ensure
that
Hélène’s
reason
remains
intact,
it
also
prevents
her
from
realizing
a
heightened
state
of
consciousness.21
Albertus’s
feeble
attempts
at
accepting
the
forces
of
harmony
at
work
in
the
lyre
are
undermined
by
the
machinations
of
Méphistophélès,
the
devil
incarnate,
who
lurks
in
his
shadow
with
the
intention
of
thwarting
his
ability
to
consider
music
as
anything
other
than
an
“art
d’agrément.”
Méphistophélès
hopes
that
Albertus
will
study
the
mysterious
instrument
but
with
the
intent
of
breaking
not
only
the
lyre
but
also
the
philosopher’s
ability
to
feel
emotion,
most
notably
love:
“C’est
donc
avec
ton
cœur
que
j’ai
affaire,
mon
cher
philosophe;
quand
je
l’aurai
tué,
ton
cerveau
fonctionnera
à
mon
gré”
(I,
iii,
59).
Each
time
that
Albertus
begins
to
question
his
philosophical
method,
Méphistophélès
reminds
him
of
the
merits
of
analysis:
“Il
vous
faut
combiner
ensemble
ces
divers
éléments
dans
l’alambic
de
votre
cerveau
pour
en
tirer
la
quintessence”
(I,
iv,
122‐123,
my
emphasis).
The
diabolic
figure
uses
Albert’s
attraction
to
Hélène
for
his
own
purposes.
Reiterating
to
the
philosopher
that
Hélène
is
“folle,”
he
offers
Albertus
a
manuscript
written
by
Adelsfreit
that
will
reveal
the
mystery
of
the
lyre’s
harmonic
power
and
therefore
aid
Albertus
as
he
seeks
to
“cure”
Hélène
and
understand
the
lyre.
21
For
a
discussion
of
music
and
madness
as
it
relates
to
Sand’s
œuvre,
including
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
see
Powell,
pp.
169‐182.
48
Disguised
as
a
Jewish
businessman,
Jonathas
Taer,
Méphistophélès
hands
over
the
document,
declaring,
“Nous
ferons
ensemble
un
ouvrage
pour
expliquer
le
phénomène
harmonico‐magnétique
qui
fait
jouer
cette
lyre
toute
seule
entre
les
bras
d’Hélène”
(I,
iv,
90).
Just
as
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
is
destined
to
break
its
strings,
one
after
the
other,
Albertus
is
thus
fated
to
unlock
the
mystery
of
the
lyre.
Encouraged
by
Adelsfreit’s
manuscript,
which
explains
the
meaning
of
the
lyre’s
first
six
strings
but
remains
eerily
silent
with
regards
to
the
last,
Albertus
eventually
resolves
to
break
its
first
pair
of
strings,
the
gold
ones:
“Qu’importe
à
Hélène
que
la
lyre
ait
sept
cordes
ou
qu’elle
n’en
ait
que
cinq?”
(II,
iv,
129).
As
a
philosopher,
Albertus
still
believes
that
he
can
take
the
lyre
apart
and
then
put
it
together
again.
The
philosopher
does
not
realize,
however,
that
in
breaking
each
of
the
strings,
he
irreversibly
transforms
not
only
the
lyre
but
also
the
state
of
his
own
soul.
Having
sought
the
infinite
for
twenty‐five
years,
he
is
anguished
as
each
of
the
gold
strings
that
represent
it
breaks,
his
quest
to
understand
the
meaning
of
the
lyre
forcing
him
to
look
inward:
“Les
même
cordes
que
j’ai
brisées
à
cette
lyre
se
sont
brisées
au
fond
de
mon
âme”
(III,
iv,
150).
As
he
pulls
apart
the
first
one,
Albertus
cries,
Quoi!
La
parole
humaine,
cet
attribut
divin
qui
distingue
l’homme
de
la
brute,
et
qui
sert
à
déterminer,
à
préciser,
à
classer
les
idées
les
plus
abstraites,
à
rendre
les
propositions
les
plus
ardues
aussi
claires
que
la
49
lumière
du
jour,
serait
une
langue
vulgaire,
et
la
cadence
du
rossignol
serait
la
langue
de
l’infini?
(II,
iv,
129)
Although
Albertus
here
begins
to
recognize
that
music
has
a
power
that
language
lacks,
he
is
still
thinking
of
music
in
discursive
terms
and
cannot
fathom
that
truth
might
spring
forth
from
the
nightingale’s
harmonious
song.
Albertus
still
sees
music
as
something
that
is
broken
down
into
component
parts.
Harmony
incarnate,
Hélène
continues
to
challenge
Albertus
as
she
creates
moments
of
stasis
represented
by
the
halt
of
a
river’s
flow.
As
Hélène
takes
a
walk
with
the
philosopher
and
his
students,
she
becomes
distracted
by
the
sound
of
the
nearby
river.
Not
realizing
that
the
lyre
has
already
lost
its
two
gold
strings,
she
believes
that
it
is
the
sound
of
the
flowing
water
that
prevents
her
from
hearing
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie.
She
demands
that
Albertus
suspend
the
water’s
flow:
“Parlez
à
ce
ruisseau
.
.
.
Dites‐lui
de
se
taire,
afin
que
j’entende
la
musique
de
là‐haut
.
.
.
”
(III,
i,
133).
Albertus
is
incapable
of
achieving
such
a
task.
He
argues
that
such
a
feat
is
beyond
the
capabilities
of
mankind.
According
to
the
philosopher,
no
one
can
stop
the
river
but
God.
In
response,
Hélène
picks
up
the
lyre
and
as
she
plays
the
“premier
accord”
(III,
i,
134),
the
rushing
water
immediately
stops;
a
chord,
as
we
have
seen,
may
signal
a
halt
in
the
temporal
progression
of
a
piece
of
music.
After
this
moment
of
stillness,
Hélène
demands
that
the
river
resume
its
course
but
“à
demi‐voix”
(III,
i,
134)
so
as
not
to
distract
from
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
song.
As
expected,
Albertus
immediately
tries
to
explain
away
this
mysterious
event.
He
entertains
the
possibility
that
the
boy
working
at
50
the
nearby
mill
closed
the
gate
of
the
sluice
at
the
very
moment
that
Hélène
commanded
the
water
to
halt
its
flow.
To
his
mind,
his
explanation
dissolves
the
mystery
and
magic
of
Hélène’s
music.
Without
its
gold
strings,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
can
no
longer
sing
confidently
of
God’s
existence.
As
Hélène
frantically
feels
for
the
missing
strings,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
proclaims,
“Je
ne
sais
même
pas
s’il
existe
un
esprit
céleste;
je
ne
sais
même
plus
s’il
existe
un
autre
ciel
que
celui
qu’on
aperçoit
de
cette
rive,
à
travers
la
cime
des
arbres
.
.
.
Aime,
aime
ce
qui
t’appartient.
Dieu
ne
t’aime
peut‐être
pas;
Dieu
ne
t’appartiendra
peut‐être
jamais”
(III,
i,
138‐139).
This
refrain
peut‐être
jamais
greatly
alarms
both
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
and
Hélène.
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre
cries,
“Rendez‐moi
le
prisme
qui
me
servait
à
.
.
.
contempler
[Dieu]”
(III,
i,
137),
and
Hélène
beseeches
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
to
perform
the
seven‐stringed
music
even
if
only
by
memory.
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre
cannot
resurrect
a
music
that
is
no
longer
played
in
the
here‐and‐now:
“Ma
mémoire
s’éteint,
ô
fille
des
hommes!
Depuis
que
je
t’aime,
je
perds
le
souvenir
de
tout
ce
qui
est
au‐delà
des
confins
de
la
terre”
(III,
i,
136).
It
is
possible
to
replicate
a
melody
unfolding
through
time
by
replicating
it
by
memory
but
for
a
single
individual
to
replicate
a
harmony
is
quite
another
matter.
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre
cannot
resurrect
a
harmony
that
it
can
no
longer
reproduce.
Indeed,
the
nature
of
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
harmony
changes
significantly
after
Albertus
breaks
the
two
gold
strings.
It
no
longer
commands
Hélène
to
listen
to
the
“divins
accords
de
la
lyre
universelle”
but
to
the
“voix
de
la
lune”
(III,
i,
101):
51
Du
fond
de
l’horizon,
à
travers
les
buissons
noirs,
voici
venir
une
voix
faible,
mais
d’une
incroyable
pureté,
qui
monte
doucement
dans
l’air
sonore.
Elle
monte,
elle
grandit;
les
notes
sont
distinctes,
le
disque
d’argent
sort
du
linceul
de
la
terre,
la
terre
vibre,
l’espace
se
remplit
d’harmonie,
les
feuilles
frémissent
à
la
cime
des
arbres.
La
lueur
blanche
pénètre
dans
toutes
les
fentes
du
taillis,
dans
les
mille
et
mille
clairières
du
feuillage:
voici
des
gammes
de
soupirs
harmonieux
qui
fuient
sur
la
mousse
argentée;
voici
des
flots
de
larmes
mélodieuses
qui
tombent
dans
le
calice
des
fleurs
entr’ouvertes.
(III,
i,
135)
The
first
time
that
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
sang
for
Hélène,
she
heard
harmonies
that
radiated
from
“le
rayon
céleste.”
The
music
proved
so
powerful
that
it
consumed
her
as
in
a
brilliant
fire.
Now,
Hélène
hears
a
single
voice,
“une
voix
faible,”
that
emanates
from
“la
lueur
blanche”
that
seems
to
come
from
far
away,
“du
fond
de
l’horizon.”
Rather
than
illuminating
the
entire
world
with
a
single
ray
of
light,
the
moon’s
white
beams
are
scattered
“dans
les
mille
et
mille
clairières
du
feuillage.”
Although
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
declares
that
“l’espace
se
remplit
d’harmonie,”
this
harmony
is
not
a
celestial
one
but
an
earthly
one;
“Entends
toutes
ces
pures
harmonies
de
la
terre,”
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
declares
(III,
i,
140).
One
might
in
fact
argue
that
we
are
not
dealing
with
harmonies
at
all:
the
notes
sung
by
the
voices
are
“distinct”
from
one
another
rather
than
fused
together
in
a
single
harmonious
chord;
the
harmony
that
rises
through
the
air
is
figured
as
“scales
of
harmonious
sighs,”
scales
normally
being
sounded
across
52
time;
and
the
“waves
of
melodious
tears”
suggest
forward
temporality
because
of
the
metaphor
of
waves,
the
ebb
and
flow,
and
the
comparison
of
the
tears
to
a
melody.
Although
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
identifies
elements
of
harmony
in
this
scene—“Vois
comme
cette
nuit
est
sereine,
comme
les
voix
de
ce
monde
sont
harmonieuses;
comme
elles
se
marient
au
concert
des
astres”—their
harmony
seems
somehow
diminished
by
the
voice’s
ignorance
of
the
mysterious
sense
of
what
they
are
singing:
“et
[vois]
comme,
sans
savoir
le
sens
mystérieux
de
l’hymne
qu’elle
chantent,
elles
s’unissent
dans
un
accord
sublime
à
la
voix
de
l’infini”
(III,
i,
137).
The
harmony
of
this
new
music
proves
tenuous
in
several
ways,
as
is
reflected
by
the
moon’s
changeable
nature.
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre
sings,
Miroir
limpide,
création
incompréhensible
de
la
pensée
infinie,
paisible
flambeau
enchaîné
au
flanc
de
la
terre
ta
souveraine,
pourquoi
répands‐tu
dans
les
abîmes
du
ciel
cette
plainte
éternelle?
Pourquoi
verses‐tu
sur
les
habitants
de
la
terre
une
influence
si
douce
et
si
triste
à
la
fois?
Es‐tu
un
monde
fini
ou
une
création
inachevée?
Pleures‐tu
sur
une
race
éteinte
ou
es‐tu
en
proie
aux
douleurs
de
l’enfantement?
Es‐tu
la
veuve
répudiée
ou
la
fiancée
pudique
du
soleil?
Ta
langueur
est‐elle
l’épuisement
d’une
production
consommée?
Est‐elle
le
pressentiment
d’une
conception
fatale?
Redemandes‐tu
tes
enfants
couchés
sur
ton
sein
dans
la
poussière
du
sépulcre?
Prophétises‐tu
les
malheurs
de
ceux
que
tu
portes
dans
tes
entrailles?
O
lune!
Lune
si
triste
et
si
belle!
53
Es‐tu
vierge,
es‐tu
mère?
Es‐tu
le
séjour
de
la
mort,
es‐tu
le
berceau
de
la
vie?
Ton
chant
si
pur
évoque‐t‐il
les
spectres
de
ceux
qui
ne
sont
plus
ou
de
ceux
qui
ne
sont
pas
encore?
Quelles
ombres
livides
voltigent
sur
tes
cimes
éthérées?
Sont‐elles
dans
le
repos
ou
dans
l’attente?
Sont‐ce
des
esprits
terrestres
qui
fermentent
dans
ton
flanc
et
qui
s’exhalent
de
tes
volcans
refroidis?
(III,
i,
136)
As
the
moon
waxes
and
wanes,
it
evokes
the
passing
of
time.
Always
changing,
its
beauty
is
incomplete
and
elusive.
As
soon
as
those
who
look
upon
it
believe
they
have
beheld
it
in
its
entirety,
its
form
shifts.
The
moon
is
thus
incapable
of
conveying
the
same
certainty
as
the
Esprits
de
l’harmonie.
At
the
same
time,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
refers
to
the
moon
as
“un
miroir”
thus
suggesting
that
it
reflects
its
divine
maker.
Although
the
moon’s
music
fails
to
directly
herald
the
divine,
it
can
perhaps
join
its
voice
with
it.
Similarly,
it
is
at
this
point
that
Hélène
begins
to
accept
a
relegation
of
her
strict
association
with
harmony
to
loosen
up
her
refusal
of
human
life
and
human
temporality.
The
earthly
harmonies
do
not
fully
comprehend
the
mysteries
that
they
sing,
but
their
voices
join
with
that
of
the
heavens
to
produce
a
harmony
that
Hélène
eventually
acknowledges.
Prostrating
herself
before
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
and
the
music
of
Mother
Earth,
she
declares,
“[Je]
te
salue,
je
t’admire
et
je
t’aime
ô
terre,
œuvres
magnifique
de
la
Providence!
Aime‐moi
aussi,
ô
mère
féconde”
(III,
i,
141).
Hélène
channels
her
desire
for
direct
contact
with
the
infinite
and
allows
nature’s
music
to
wash
over
her
in
a
way
that
admits
the
variety
of
the
diachronic:
“Allons,
ruisseau,
54
élance‐toi
parmi
les
rochers,
et
que
tes
marges
fleuries
répètent
ta
fanfare
sur
tous
les
tons
de
la
joie,
du
désir,
de
l’amour
et
de
l’inquiétude”
(III,
I,
138).
Rather
than
asking
the
river
to
suspend
its
course
as
she
did
earlier,
Hélène
now
demands
that
a
babbling
brook
sing
for
all
to
hear,
the
fanfare
she
evokes
implying
a
music
that
is
not
harmonious
but
melodious.
The
fanfare
is
asked
to
blare
its
distinct
tones,
“tous
les
tons”
bearing
a
double
meaning:
both
a
variety
of
notes
and
any
and
all
of
the
numerous
moods
or
atmospheres
that
a
melody
can
conjure
up.
Just
as
Hélène
begins
to
doubt
the
lyre
and
its
affective
power,
Albertus
becomes
more
certain
of
it.
Upon
observing
the
way
in
which
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
commands
the
elements,
he
declares,
Il
n’y
a
plus
à
en
douter,
cette
lyre
est
enchantée.
Elle
commande
aux
éléments
;
elle
commande
aussi
à
la
pensée
humaine
;
car
mon
âme
est
brisée
de
tristesse,
et,
sans
comprendre
le
sens
mystérieux
de
son
chant,
je
viens
d’en
subir
l’émotion
douloureuse
et
profonde
.
.
.
Enchantée!
.
.
.
Est‐ce
donc
moi
dont
la
bouche
prononce
ce
mot
?
il
me
semble
que
mon
être
s’anéantit.
Oui,
ma
force
intellectuelle
est
sur
son
déclin
;
et,
au
lieu
de
lutter
par
la
raison
contre
une
évidence
peut‐être
menteuse,
je
l’accepte
sans
examen,
comme
un
fait
accompli
.
.
.
.
(III,
ii,
143)
Such
a
realization
leads
Albertus
to
reconsider
his
methods
but
not
abandon
them.
Although
he
hears
the
music,
he
has
yet
to
understand
it.
For
Albertus,
in
order
to
55
understand
something,
he
must
be
able
to
explain
it.
He
thus
takes
hold
of
the
lyre
so
as
to
examine
its
silver
strings.
Immediately,
the
moon
hides
behind
a
cloud,
and
the
world
becomes
dark.
Wind
violently
blows
as
a
storm
approaches:
O
ciel!
[La
corde
s’est]
déjà
brisée!
Il
semble
que
mon
intention
suffise
sans
le
secours
de
ma
main!
.
.
.
Comme
tout
à
coup
le
ciel
est
devenu
sombre!
.
.
.
La
lune
est
cachée
sous
les
nuages
et
l’orage
s’amoncelle
sur
nos
têtes
.
.
.
.
Quel
cri
lamentable
est
parti
du
sein
des
ondes
.
.
.
.
Quel
coup
de
vent!
Les
peupliers
se
plient
comme
des
joncs!
(III,
iii,
148‐149)
Albertus
is
not
immune
to
this
destruction.
As
he
witnesses
the
sights
and
sounds
around
him,
he
once
again
doubts
his
actions.
Recalling
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
new
refrain—peut‐être
jamais—he
cries,
Peut‐être
y
avait‐il
autant
de
logique
dans
sa
poésie
[la
poésie
d’Hélène]
qu’il
y
en
avait
dans
ma
science
.
.
.
.
Qui
donc
m’a
persuadé
que
j’étais
dans
la
seule
voie
agréable
au
Seigneur?
N’avais‐je
pas,
moi
aussi,
des
facultés
pour
la
poésie?
Pourquoi
les
ai‐je
refoulées
dans
mon
sein
comme
des
aspirations
dangereuses?...
Et
moi
aussi,
j’eusse
pu
être
homme!
.
.
.
Et
moi
aussi,
j’eusse
pu
aimer!
(III,
iv,
151)
Greatly
affected
by
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
and
its
music,
Albertus
acknowledges
his
own
defeat
by
the
passing
of
time.
He
also
acknowledges
for
the
first
time
that
his
path
toward
truth
is
not
the
only
one.
Discouraged
by
his
failures
as
a
philosopher,
Albertus
56
begins
to
consider
Hélène’s
poetry
in
a
more
positive
light
and
sets
out
to
understand
its
“logique.”
With
the
breaking
of
each
string,
however,
the
possibilities
of
harmony
become
more
and
more
reduced.
As
Hélène
tunes
the
instrument’s
remaining
three
strings,
the
lyre
does
not
produces
music
but
only
cacophonous
noise.
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre
declares,
“O
fille
des
hommes!
.
.
.
Ce
que
tu
vois,
c’est
l’empire
de
l’homme;
ce
que
tu
entends,
c’est
le
bruissement
de
la
race
humaine”
(IV,
I,
155‐156).
The
synesthetic
element
of
the
lyre’s
music
has
completely
disappeared;
what
one
sees
becomes
distinct
from
what
one
hears.
Rather
than
enhancing
the
experiences
of
sight
and
sound
by
separating
the
two,
however,
this
transformation
creates
an
effect
of
incoherence
and
disjointedness.
Even
with
the
help
of
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre,
Hélène
cannot
make
sense
of
such
jarring
dissonance:
Je
ne
vois
rien
qu’une
mer
de
poussière
embrasée
que
percent
çà
et
là
des
masses
de
toits
couleur
de
plomb
et
des
dômes
de
cuivre
rouge
où
le
soleil
darde
ses
rayons
brûlants!
Je
n’entends
rien
qu’une
clameur
confuse,
comme
le
bourdonnement
d’une
ruche
immense,
entrecoupé
par
instants
de
cris
aigus
et
de
plaintes
lugubres!
(IV,
i,
156)
The
fragmented
images
that
“percent
ça
et
là”
and
the
accompanying
rumbling
“entrecoupé
par
instants
de
cris
aigus
et
de
plaintes
lugubres”
suggest
that
Hélène
is
losing
her
vital
connection
to
the
Esprit
de
l’harmonie,
that
she
is
beginning
to
see
the
world
as
fragmented
and
incomplete.
The
Esprit
de
la
lyre
describes
a
sun
whose
rays
57
are
no
longer
viewed
as
the
white
light
of
a
reintegrated
rainbow
but
are
refracted
irregularly
by
metal
roofs
of
various
kinds,
square
leaden
roofs
and
red
copper
domes,
and
clouded
with
dust.
They
blind
Hélène
except
for
isolated
moments
when
images
jolt
her
being
like
bolts
of
lightning.
As
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
addresses
Hélène,
it
is
as
if
she
were
under
attack:
“Vois
quelle
est
la
grandeur
et
la
puissance
de
l’homme!
.
.
.
Vois
ces
temples
majestueux!
.
.
.
Vois
ces
coupoles
resplendissantes!
.
.
.
Vois
ces
arcs
de
triomphe!
.
.
.
Vois
ces
fontaines
jaillissantes!
.
.
.
Vois!
.
.
.
Vois!
.
.
.
Vois!
.
.
.”
(IV,
i,
156‐
157,
my
emphasis).
Punctuated
by
exclamation
points,
each
image
shocks
Hélène
and
forces
her
into
submission.
She
cannot
escape
the
thundering
roar
as
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
continues,
Et
maintenant,
écoute!
Ces
myriades
d’harmonies
terribles
ou
sublimes
qui
se
confondent
en
un
seul
rugissement
plus
puissant
mille
fois
que
celui
de
la
tempête,
c’est
la
voix
de
l’industrie,
le
bruit
des
machines,
le
sifflement
de
la
vapeur,
le
choc
des
marteaux,
le
roulement
des
tambours,
les
fanfares
de
phalanges
guerrières,
la
déclamation
des
orateurs,
les
mélodies
de
mille
instruments
divers.
(IV,
i,
157)
This
moment
of
transition,
in
which
terrible,
sublime
harmonies
dissolve
into
the
cacophonous
melodies
of
the
pounding,
hammering,
and
hissing
machines
of
industry,
figured
as
a
thousand
different
musical
instruments,
marks
the
continuation
of
the
process
by
which
Hélène
loses
the
spirit
of
harmony
and
experiences
a
fall
into
human
temporality.
Hélène
expresses
her
bewilderment
in
terms
of
a
broken
unity;
she
sees
58
what
was
once
a
city
joining
many
people
into
a
single
social
entity
as
ten
cities,
a
hundred,
a
thousand;
as
countless
provinces,
countries,
continents
and
worlds:
“Ce
n’est
pas
une
ville
que
je
vois;
j’en
vois
dix,
j’en
vois
cent,
j’en
vois
mille,
je
vois
toutes
les
cités
de
la
terre.
Ce
n’est
pas
une
seule
province,
c’est
une
contrée,
c’est
un
continent,
c’est
un
monde,
c’est
la
terre
tout
entière”
(IV,
i,
158).
While
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
sings
of
the
supposed
merits
of
mankind
and
its
inventions,
what
Hélène
witnesses
is
not
the
steady
unrolling
of
a
narrative
conforming
to
sequential
temporality
but
rather
a
series
of
incoherent
flashing
images,
explicitly
visual
but
also
in
many
cases
implying
snippets
of
sounds:
Je
vois
des
vierges
qu’on
profane
.
.
.
des
enfants
qu’on
égorge
.
.
.
des
vieillards
que
l’on
suspend
.
.
.
une
femme
que
des
courtisans
traînent
dans
le
lit
d’un
prince
.
.
.
l’époux
de
cette
femme
qui
reçoit
de
l’or
.
.
.
pour
garder
le
silence
.
.
.
une
jeune
fille
que
des
soldats
frappent
.
.
.
des
enfants
qu’on
sépare
de
leurs
familles
.
.
.
.
(IV,
i,
160)
This
series
of
images
is
unconnected
except
in
the
distressing
tone
that
imbues
the
entire
passage
with
a
kind
of
horror.
Melody
and
harmony
are
no
longer
present.
The
lyre
has
been
destroyed
to
such
an
extent
that
it
no
longer
can
suggest
the
infinite
or
the
nature
that
reflects
it.
The
instrument
has
compromised
its
form
in
order
to
be
understood,
but
its
promises
are
empty.
The
promises
of
mankind
are
nothing
more
than
an
illusion.
They
delude
people
into
thinking
that
they
are
capable
of
dominating
the
world
and
those
in
it,
rendering
the
divine
silent:
“La
Providence
est
muette
.
.
.”
(IV,
59
i,
161),
Hélène
cries
as
she
throws
the
lyre
from
a
church
spire.
Recognizing
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
music
for
what
it
has
become—“un
clameur
confus”—she
prefers
to
destroy
the
instrument
than
succumb
to
it.
It
is
thus
left
to
Albertus
to
carry
out
the
breaking
of
the
final
pair
of
strings,
the
steel
strings
representing
mankind’s
works
and,
more
importantly,
the
final
single
brass
string
of
love,
the
last
of
the
lyre’s
seven
strings.
The
insignificance
of
the
steel
strings
becomes
clear
as
soon
as
they
break.
Whereas
Albertus’s
breaking
of
the
gold
strings
made
him
feel
as
if
his
own
soul
had
shattered
and
his
destruction
of
the
silver
strings
stirred
up
disturbing
tremors
in
his
natural
surroundings,
when
he
pulls
at
the
steel
strings,
he
does
not
hear
the
slightest
sound.
In
fact,
the
reader
learns
that
the
steel
strings
break
only
in
retrospect.
Albertus
recalls,
Oh!
Comme
ma
main
tremblait,
comme
ma
poitrine
était
en
feu
.
.
.
.
Je
m’attendais
encore
à
voir
le
ciel
s’obscurcir,
la
terre
trembler
et
ma
maison
s’écrouler
sur
moi.
Rien
de
tout
cela
n’est
arrivé,
et
même
je
n’ai
point
entendu
les
cordes
d’acier
rendre
un
son
plaintif
comme
celles
que
j’avais
déjà
brisées.
Cette
fois,
la
lyre
a
été
muette.
(V,
i,
174)
That
Albertus
feels
and
encounters
nothing
in
breaking
the
steel
strings
suggests
that
mankind’s
inventions
do
not
constitute
a
significant
loss.
After
all,
only
the
lyre’s
gold
and
silver
strings
“chantent
la
gloire
ou
la
bonté
de
son
maître”
(III,
iii,
149).
The
mystery
of
the
lyre’s
silence,
however,
and,
Hélène,
silenced
herself,
do
not
offer
Albertus
any
clue
as
to
what
has
happened
when
he
questions
her.
Determined
to
revive
Hélène
and
60
unlock
the
mystery
of
the
lyre,
Albertus
decides
to
break
its
last
brazen
string.
As
he
examines
Adelsfreit’s
manuscript,
he
finds
nothing,
however,
that
suggests
the
seventh
string’s
meaning:
“En
vain
je
cherche
dans
ces
papiers
quel
chant
est
consacré
par
la
septième
corde”
(V,
i
173).
Without
any
other
recourse,
Albertus
reaches
for
the
instrument,
encouraged
by
the
absence
of
unsettling
effects
when
he
broke
the
steel
strings.
He
believes
that
in
breaking
its
last
string,
he
will
finally
be
given
the
gift
of
poetry
and
win
Hélène’s
affections.
And
while
his
belief
is
not
completely
grounded,
the
fact
that
he
is
acting
without
certainty
or
comprehension
signals
a
change
in
the
philosopher’s
approach:
“Pour
la
première
fois,
je
vais
avoir
recours
à
autre
chose
que
la
certitude”
(V,
ii,
181).
A
particularly
thorny
question
in
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
is
in
fact
why
the
lyre’s
final
brass
string
representing
love
is
a
single
rather
than
a
double
string.
In
light
of
the
importance
of
the
unitary
and
the
fragmentary
that
I
have
been
tracing,
I
would
speculate
that
the
single
brazen
string
of
love
suggests
a
unity
of
a
higher
order,
the
kind
of
primal
unity
that
as
we
have
seen,
Sand
readily
associated
with
music.
It
is
not
surprising,
then,
that
the
final
string
represents
such
a
challenge.
While
the
first
six
strings
yield
to
Albert’s
touch,
the
seventh
string
resists
his
repeated
attempts:
“Tous
mes
efforts
sont
vains!
Elle
est
muette
pour
moi,
muette
comme
Hélène,
muette
comme
moi‐même!”
(V,
iii,
181).
Even
Hélène
cannot
force
the
lyre’s
remaining
string
to
sound.
Indeed,
the
lyre’s
last
and
most
climactic
performance
occurs
of
its
own
accord,
as
indicated
by
Sand
in
a
stage
direction:
“La
lyre
tombe
et
rend
un
son
puissant”
(V,
iii,181).
Reduced
to
a
single
string,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
has
cut
off
all
of
its
ties
with
the
61
Spirit
of
harmony
and
as
Hélène
reaches
out
for
the
instrument,
it
declares,
“L’heure
est
venue,
ô
fille
des
homme!
C’est
maintenant
que
tous
mes
liens
avec
le
ciel
sont
brisés;
c’est
maintenant
que
j’appartiens
à
la
terre;
c’est
maintenant
que
je
suis
à
toi.
Aime‐
moi,
ô
fille
de
la
lyre;
ouvre‐moi
ton
cœur
afin
que
je
l’habite
et
je
cesse
d’habiter
la
lyre!”
(V,
I,
182).
If
both
Albertus
and
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
ultimately
profess
their
love
for
Hélène,
their
conceptions
of
love
remain
distinct.
Albertus
begins,
crying,
“Ecoute‐moi,
Hélène!
Je
veux
te
dire
que
je
t’aime,
que
je
te
comprends,
et
que
mon
amour
est
enfin
digne
de
toi”
(V,
iii,
183).
The
lyre
soon
interrupts,
singing,
“Hélène,
Hélène,
ne
l’écoute
pas,
crains
le
langage
de
la
sagesse.
Tu
n’as
pas
besoin
de
sagesse,
ô
fille
de
la
lyre!
Tu
n’as
besoin
que
d’amour.
Ecoute
la
voix
qui
chante
l’amour,
et
non
pas
la
voix
qui
l’explique”
(V,
iii,
183‐184).
Before
Hélène
has
a
chance
to
respond,
Albertus
repeats
his
invocation
to
Hélène:
“Ecoute,
écoute,
ô
Hélène!
Quoique
fille
de
la
poésie,
tu
dois
entendre
ma
voix”
(V,
iii,
184).
For
the
first
time
in
Albertus’s
life,
he
allows
his
intuition
rather
than
his
intellect
to
guide
him:
“Je
sens
que
tu
célèbres
les
feux
d’un
amour
divin,
et
cet
amour
pénètre
mon
sein
d’une
espérance
délicieuse.
Ecoute‐moi,
Hélène!
Je
veux
te
dire
que
je
t’aime,
que
je
te
comprends,
et
que
mon
amour
est
enfin
digne
de
toi!”
(V,
iii,
183,
my
emphasis).
For
Albert,
however,
the
temporal
world
is
too
important
to
be
given
up.
Forever
the
philosopher
and
teacher,
Albert’s
wish
to
experience
love
is
overshadowed
62
by
his
ultimate
desire
to
instruct
others
and
help
them
to
live
by
his
example.
As
he
addresses
Hélène,
he
exclaims,
Sois
ma
compagne,
ma
sœur
et
mon
épouse
.
.
.
.
Appuyés
l’un
sur
l’autre,
nous
serons
assez
forts
pour
terrasser
toutes
les
erreurs
et
tous
les
mensonges
des
faux
prophètes.
Nous
serons
les
apôtres
de
la
vérité;
nous
enseignerons
à
nos
frères
corrompus
et
désespérées
les
joies
de
l’amour
fidèle
et
les
devoirs
de
la
famille.
(V,
iii,
184)
Albert’s
love
for
Hélène
is
noble,
but
it
is
finite
and
does
not
extend
beyond
this
world.
As
Hélène
hears
Albert
call
out
to
her,
she
likens
his
cry
to
“une
belle
et
noble
harmonie”
but
one
that
she
can
understand
“à
peine”
(V,
iii,
184).
Whereas
Albertus
hopes
to
eventually
explain
his
love
for
Hélène,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
declares,
“Je
ne
puis
plus
rien
t’expliquer,
ô
fille
de
la
lyre!
Je
ne
puis
que
te
chanter
l’amour”
(V,
iii,
185).
Reduced
to
a
single
string,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
likens
itself
to
a
“mélodie
vivante”
(V,
iii,
185)
that
sounds
its
remaining
string
again
and
again:
“O
Hélène,
aime‐moi
comme
je
t’aime!
L’amour
est
puissant,
l’amour
est
immense,
l’amour
est
tout:
c’est
l’amour
qui
est
dieu;
car
l’amour
est
la
seule
chose
qui
puisse
être
infinie
dans
le
cœur
de
l’homme”
(V,
iii,
182,
my
emphasis).
The
repetition
of
the
word
“amour”
is
crucial
here,
for
it
can
be
read
as
an
attempt
at
a
literary
rendering
of
the
musical
tone
of
the
single
string
of
love:
the
word
“amour”
becomes
a
monotone
in
a
hypnotic
chant
that
suggests
an
attempt
to
make
love
extend
into
the
infinite,
into
eternity.
If
this
is
the
final
transformation
in
the
work
of
the
multiple
and
diverse
into
63
the
single,
it
is
not
a
transformation
of
melody
into
harmony;
rather,
it
is
a
final
act
of
attrition
whereby
all
other
values
besides
love
are
eliminated;
only
one
string
is
left,
and
at
least
for
a
fleeting
moment
only
it
seems
to
matter.
While
there
are
sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
it
is
cette
corde
de
la
lyre
that
promises
Hélène
an
“instant
où
l’idéal
[lui]
soit
présent”
(V,
iii,
186).
A
deictic,
cette
can
refer
only
to
that
which
is
fully
present.
Like
the
value
of
a
musical
performance,
its
meaning
is
contingent
upon
when
and
where
the
utterance
takes
place
and
who
is
involved
as
speaker
and
addressee;
it
is
unable
to
exist
indefinitely,
having
no
referent
beyond
a
present
here‐and‐now.
If
Sand
realizes
her
musical
ideal,
it
is
only
for
an
instant.
Despite
its
finitude,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre’s
“mélodie”
nonetheless
suggests
the
love
and
unity
embodied
by
the
eternal
Esprits
de
l’harmonie.
Listening
to
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre,
Hélène
declares,
“C’en
est
fait,
il
faut
que
j’aime
.
.
.
.
Je
voudrais
t’aimer,
ô
Esprit
de
la
lyre,
mélodie
enivrante,
flamme
subtile,
rêve
d’harmonie
et
de
beauté!”
(V,
iii,
186,
my
emphasis).
If
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
evokes
the
notion
of
harmony,
it
is
only
a
dream.
And
indeed,
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
offers
Hélène
a
love
that
requires
her
to
join
with
it
forever:
Chantons
et
brûlons
ensemble;
soyons
un
autel
où
la
flamme
alimente
la
flamme;
et,
sans
nous
mêler
aux
feux
impurs
que
les
hommes
allument
sur
l’autel
des
faux
dieux,
nourrissons‐nous
l’un
de
l’autre,
et
consumons‐nous
lentement
jusqu’à
ce
que,
épuisés
de
bonheur,
nous
64
mêlions
nos
cendres
embrasées
dans
le
rayon
de
soleil
qui
fait
fleurir
les
roses
et
chanter
les
colombes.
(V,
iii,
185)
Hélène’s
final
harmony
is
not
of
this
earth;
yearning
for
more
than
one
mere
moment
of
unity
with
the
lyre,
she
breaks
the
last
of
the
lyre’s
strings
in
order
to
enter
into
a
more
lasting
union
with
God,
calling
forth
angels
(esprits
célestes)
who
welcome
Hélène
and
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
into
the
heavens
in
song.
Their
refrain,
“Gloire
à
Dieu
au
plus
haut
des
cieux
et
paix
sur
la
terre
aux
hommes
dont
le
cœur
est
pur!”
(V,
iii,
187),
brings
to
mind
Le
Gloria,
otherwise
known
as
La
Grande
Doxologie,
which
celebrates
the
mystery
of
Christian
faith.
It
defines
God
as
three
distinct
persons
that
form
a
kind
of
harmony:
the
Father,
the
Son,
and
the
Holy
Spirit.22
In
breaking
the
seventh
string,
Hélène
and
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
enter
into
this
sacred
mystery
that,
if
it
is
accessible
at
22
La
Grande
Doxologie
is
as
follows:
Gloire
à
Dieu,
au
plus
haut
des
cieux,
Et
paix
sur
la
terre
aux
hommes
qu’il
aime.
Nous
te
louons,
nous
te
bénissons,
nous
t’adorons,
Nous
te
glorifions,
nous
te
rendons
grâce,
pour
ton
immense
gloire,
Seigneur
Dieu,
Roi
du
ciel,
Dieu
le
Père
tout‐puissant.
Seigneur,
Fils
unique,
Jésus
Christ,
Seigneur
Dieu,
Agneau
de
Dieu,
le
Fils
du
Père
Toi
qui
enlèves
le
péché
du
monde,
prends
pitié
de
nous
Toi
qui
enlèves
le
péché
du
monde,
reçois
notre
prière
Toi
qui
es
assis
à
la
droite
du
Père,
prends
pitié
de
nous
Car
toi
seul
es
saint,
Toi
seul
es
Seigneur
Toi
seul
es
le
Très
Haut,
Jésus
Christ,
avec
le
Saint‐Esprit
Dans
la
gloire
de
Dieu
le
Père.
Amen
(qtd.
In
Auzias,
83).
65
all
to
the
realm
of
human
mortality
and
contingency,
it
is
accessible
only
for
the
briefest
of
moments,
as
a
kind
of
transcendent
spirit.
So
great
is
the
love
Hélène
has
chosen
that
it
transcends
distinctions
between
this
world
and
the
next.
At
the
end
of
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
Hélène’s
life
is
not
over
but
merely
transformed
from
one
state
to
another.
Shortly
after
her
death,
she
reappears
before
Albert
as
an
angel,
saying,
“Homme
vertueux,
ne
crains
rien
.
.
.
[L’Esprit
de
la
lyre
et
moi]
nous
veillons
sur
toi;
la
mort
ne
détruit
rien,
elle
resserre
les
liens
de
la
vie
immatérielle.
Nous
serons
toujours
avec
toi,
ta
pensée
pourra
nous
évoquer
à
toute
heure;
nous
t’aiderons
à
chasser
les
terreurs
du
doute
et
à
supporter
les
épreuves
de
la
vie”
(V,
iii,
188).
Thus,
Albertus
understands
that
Hélène
continues
to
“live”
even
if
he
cannot
explain
it.
He
simply
tells
his
students,
“Hélène
est
partie
.
.
.
Hélène
est
guérie!”
(V,
iv
188‐189).
In
the
end,
Hélène’s
sacrifice
frees
not
only
the
Esprit
de
la
lyre
but
also
Albert.
“La
lyre
est
brisée,”
the
philosopher
states,
“mais
l’harmonie
a
passé
dans
mon
âme”
(V,
iii,
189).
To
feel
in
harmony
with
oneself
is
the
first
step
towards
feeling
in
harmony
with
others
and
the
world.
The
brazen
string
of
love
performs
only
one
note
(a
uni‐son),
but
it
inextricably
binds
those
who
“hear”
it
together
as
one.
The
dramatic
dialogue
ends
with
the
philosopher,
surrounded
by
his
students,
declaring,
“Allons
travailler!”
(V,
iii,
189).
Although
Albertus
returns
to
his
study,
his
work
has
drastically
changed.
Hélène’s
love
and
promised
protection
incite
a
new
philosophy:
“Le
devoir
du
logicien
serait
de
chercher
partout
le
beau,
de
le
découvrir,
de
le
proclamer
et
de
le
couronner”
(I,
iv,
72).
66
While
Hélène
feels
herself
to
be
in
utter
harmony
with
the
universe,
it
is
Albertus
who
now
seeks
to
gain
understanding
of
this
perfect
union.
As
Nietzsche
asks
with
great
eloquence,
“Has
it
been
noticed
that
music
liberates
the
spirit?
Gives
wings
to
thought?
That
one
becomes
more
of
a
philosopher
the
more
one
becomes
a
musician?”
(614).
Albertus’s
philosophy,
like
music,
should
thus
provide
access
to
what
is
otherwise
unreachable
and
as
Nietzsche
suggests,
it
is
through
the
conciliation
of
these
two
disciplines
that
one
attains
greater
understanding.
The
quest
for
truth
is
thus
a
collective
one.
Whereas
Albertus
had
believed
that
the
lyre
mirrored
the
brokenness
of
his
own
soul,
he
now
understands
that
it
reflects
all
of
humanity
as
individuals,
including
himself,
set
aside
their
differences
in
pursuit
of
a
more
harmonious
existence:
L’humanité
est
un
vaste
instrument
dont
toutes
les
cordes
vibrent
sous
un
souffle
providentiel,
et,
malgré
la
différence
des
tons,
elles
produisent
la
sublime
harmonie.
Beaucoup
de
cordes
sont
brisées,
beaucoup
sont
faussées;
mais
la
loi
de
l’harmonie
est
telle
que
l’homme
éternel
de
la
civilisation
s’élève
incessamment
de
toutes
parts,
et
que
tout
tend
à
rétablir
l’accord
souvent
détruit
par
l’orage
qui
passe.
.
.
.
(I,
iv,
25)
Albertus
does
not
need
to
give
up
philosophy
in
order
to
enter
into
this
more
perfect
union,
but
he
does
need
to
acknowledge
the
importance
of
other
disciplines,
most
notably
the
arts.
It
is
Hélène
and
the
lyre
that
breathe
the
“souffle
providentiel”
into
67
humanity,
thus
rendering
it
more
meaningful
and
true.
Artists
transcend
the
barriers
that
divide
individuals
from
one
another.
They
give
life
meaning
and
make
sense
of
what
seems
to
defy
logic.
Their
work
suggests
a
unity
that
extends
beyond
this
world
and
into
the
next.
Although
advancement
in
realms
such
as
industry
and
philosophy
are
important,
they
would
not
be
possible
or
nearly
as
beneficial
without
the
inspiration
of
art,
most
notably
music.
As
Sand
writes,
Dieu
.
.
.
a
divisé
la
race
humaine
en
diverses
familles
.
.
.
.
Toutes
sont
nécessaires,
et
doivent
également
concourir
au
progrès
de
l’homme
en
bien‐être,
en
sagesse,
en
vertu,
en
harmonie.
Mais
il
en
est
encore
une
qui
résume
la
grandeur
et
le
mérite
de
toutes
les
autres;
car
elle
s’en
inspire,
elle
s’en
nourrit,
elle
se
les
assimile;
elle
les
transforme
pour
les
agrandir,
les
embellir,
les
diviniser
en
quelque
sorte;
en
un
mot,
elle
les
propage
et
les
répand
sur
le
monde
entier,
parce
qu’elle
parle
la
langue
universelle
.
.
.
.
Cette
famille
est
celle
des
artistes
.
.
.
.
(I,
iv,
66‐67)
That
artists
inspire
and
bring
people
together
is
the
very
reason
that
Barrault
wishes
for
them
to
join
the
Saint‐Simonian
movement
as
its
members
work
toward
an
ideal
society.
In
writing
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
Sand
makes
the
importance
of
artists
and
their
art
clear.
In
particular,
she
gives
voice
to
music
and
describes
the
different
ways
that
one
might
seek
it
out.
Whether
it
is
experienced
in
an
instant,
in
a
single
moment
of
harmony,
or
across
time
in
an
enchanting
melody,
Sand
asserts
the
necessity
and
the
value
of
seeking
out
its
wisdom,
beauty,
and
spirit.
68
Chapter
2
Musical
Mo(n)des:
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
In
1852,
a
year
before
George
Sand
published
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs,
Louis
Napoléon
Bonaparte
decreed
an
official
inquiry
into
French
folk
music
so
that
it
might
be
authenticated
and
recorded.
Under
the
direction
of
the
Minister
of
Education,
Hippolyte
Fortoul,
a
committee
of
prominent
intellectuals
and
administrators
set
out
to
compile
and
publish
an
anthology
of
French
poetry
and
songs.
This
Recueil
général
des
poésies
populaires
de
la
France
would
create,
according
to
Fortoul,
“[un]
monument
élevé
au
génie
anonyme
et
poétique
du
peuple”
(Bulletin,
20).23
Such
an
ambitious
endeavor
not
only
strengthened
Louis‐Napoléon’s
ties
to
the
French
peasants
–
a
group
that
had
contributed
to
his
recent
election
in
the
face
of
widespread
opposition
–
but
also
reflected
a
passionate
nationalism
that
manifested
itself
in
the
arts
throughout
the
nineteenth
century
in
France
(Fulcher,
27).
Already
in
the
1830s
and
1840s,
utopian
socialist
groups
such
as
the
Saint‐Simonians
had
heralded
the
popular
chanson
as
a
paradigm
of
genuine
art,
providing
evidence
of
a
history
of
communal
musical
23
This
committee
consisted
of
three
sections.
The
Philology
Section
focused
on
the
history
of
French
language,
literature,
philosophy,
and
science,
publishing
documents
that
enriched
the
development
of
“l’esprit
français”;
the
History
section
collected
and
published
documents
relating
to
French
history;
and
the
Archaeology
Section
brought
to
light
documents
pertaining
to
the
history
of
the
arts
and
made
drawings
or
engraving
of
important
buildings,
paintings,
and
sculptures.
The
task
of
assembling
the
Recueil
was
assigned
mainly
to
the
Philological
Section.
See
Jane
Alden,
“Excavating
Chansonniers:
Musical
Archaeology
and
the
Search
for
Popular
Song,”
The
Journal
of
Musicology,
vol.
25,
no.
1
(Winter
2008):
46‐87.
69
collaboration
(Alden,
8).
In
making
the
decree,
Louis‐Napoléon
hoped
to
further
this
sense
of
national
pride
and
optimism
after
much
political
turmoil.
This
unassuming
genre
–
the
music
of
the
peasant
–
was
regarded
as
“the
art
of
the
people,
born
of
a
pure,
uncorrupted
heritage,
the
product
of
a
continuous
collective
endeavor”
(Fulcher,
27).
And
indeed,
as
many
as
two
hundred
individuals
joined
in
the
effort
to
submit
material
to
the
committee,
resurrecting
unfamiliar—if
not
altogether
forgotten—modes
of
expression.
Invigorated
by
these
findings,
both
musicians
and
writers
start
to
incorporate
these
rediscovered
modes
into
their
works.
Even
before
Louis‐Napoléon’s
decree,
for
Sand,
who
often
turns
to
her
childhood
home
of
Nohant
in
Berry
for
inspiration,
travelling
to
rural
France
acts
as
a
journey
back
to
the
very
origins
of
France’s
national
identity.
Its
songs,
stories,
and
folklore
provide
her
with
precious
source
material
she
cannot
find
in
Paris:
“C’est
une
autre
forme,
mais
elle
parle
plus
à
mon
âme
que
toutes
celles
de
notre
civilisation.
Les
chansons,
les
récits,
les
contes
rustiques
peignent
en
peu
de
mots
ce
que
notre
littérature
ne
sait
qu’amplifier
et
déguiser”
(François,
211).24
Indeed,
Sand
regrets
the
state
of
the
arts,
particularly
the
loss
of
their
simplicity
in
a
complex
world.
She
believes
the
peasant
to
possess
what
the
most
cultivated
Parisians
lack,
“cet
admirable
bon
sens
qui
caractérise
le
cœur
de
la
France”
(Correspondances.
24
Eager
to
assert
their
national
identities,
Sand’s
closest
musical
contemporaries
also
turned
to
their
homelands
for
inspiration
when
writing
their
music.
Frédéric
Chopin
deliberately
incorporated
rhythmic
and
melodic
elements
of
Polish
dance
into
his
volumes
of
mazurkas
and
polonaises.
Franz
Liszt
became
fascinated
by
the
Gypsy
music
of
his
native
Hungary,
incorporating
the
“Hungarian”
or
“Gypsy”
scale
into
some
of
his
works.
See
Harold
S.
Powers,
et
al.
“Mode.”
Grove
Music
Online,
Oxford
Music
Online,
17
June
2012.
70
VI:
308).
As
more
and
more
people
move
to
industrial
centers,
the
traditions
distinct
to
the
rural
regions
are
often
forgotten.
In
the
avant‐propos
of
one
of
her
earlier
rustic
novels,
François
le
champi
(1850),
Sand
takes
little
time
in
distinguishing
the
life
of
a
peasant
(la
vie
primitive)
from
that
of
a
Parisian
(la
vie
factice).
Composing
a
fictional
dialogue
between
one
of
her
close
friends,
François
Rollinat,
and
herself,
she
makes
the
following
observation:
Cette
nuit
d’octobre,
ce
ciel
incolore,
cette
musique
sans
mélodie
marquée
ou
suivie,
ce
calme
de
la
nature,
ce
paysan
qui
se
trouve
plus
près
de
nous,
par
sa
simplicité,
pour
en
jouir
et
la
comprendre
sans
la
décrire,
mettons
tout
cela
ensemble,
et
appelons‐le
la
vie
primitive,
relativement
à
notre
vie
développée
et
compliquée,
que
j’appellerai
la
vie
factice.
(42)
Sand
suggests
that
because
peasants
live
more
closely
to
nature,
they
have
a
greater
appreciation
and
understanding
of
its
beauty.
While
many
move
to
the
cities—those
centers
of
industry,
art,
and
science—with
the
belief
that
they
are
advancing
toward
a
greater
cultivation
of
the
mind,
Sand
deems
them
“les
plus
grands
crétins
du
monde”
(Id.,
43).
For
Sand,
by
becoming
more
cultivated,
one
distances
oneself
from
what
is
natural
and
therefore
beautiful
and
true.
As
she
sets
out
to
write
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs,
she
thus
looks
to
find
a
way
in
which
to
let
the
voice—and
the
life—of
the
peasant
resonate.
As
I
hope
to
demonstrate
by
my
analysis
of
the
text,
one
way
she
attempts
to
71
appropriate
the
disappearing
essence
of
her
native
province
is
through
her
use
of
certain
key
musical
concepts.
Sand’s
first
technique
for
capturing
the
vanishing
world
of
Berry
is
to
borrow
her
Berrichon
narrator’s
voice.
In
the
dedication,
she
immediately
leads
the
reader
to
believe
that
the
work
stems
from
this
individual,
Etienne
Depardieu,
rather
than
herself.
Piecing
together
the
old
man’s
fictive
account,
Sand
takes
great
care
to
employ
a
language
and
vocabulary
that
convey
the
specific
nuances
of
Etienne’s
time
and
place.
He
begins
his
tale,
explaining,
“Je
ne
suis
point
né
d’hier
.
.
.
Je
suis
venu
en
ce
monde
.
.
.
l’année
54
ou
55
du
siècle
passé”
(5).25
Over
the
course
of
thirty‐two
veillées,26
the
old
man
recounts
the
story
of
his
early
years
in
Nohant,
growing
up
side‐by‐side
with
his
beloved
cousin,
Brulette,
and
the
village’s
social
outcast,
Joset.
As
part
of
her
writing
process,
Sand
even
goes
so
far
as
to
read
the
novel
aloud
to
herself
as
well
as
to
her
companion,
Alexandre
Manceau.27
Indeed,
Sand
wants
her
writing
to
convey
Etienne’s
25
Unless
otherwise
specified,
all
quotes
are
taken
from
Sand’s
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
(Paris:
Editions
d’aujourd’hui,
1977).
26
Sand
describes
veillées
as
“soirées
de
breyage,
les
heures
assez
avancées
de
la
nuit
où
l’on
broie
la
chanvre,
où
chacun
alors
apportait
sa
chronique”
(i).
It
should
be
noted
that
there
were
thirty‐one
veillées
in
Sand’s
original
version,
published
in
Le
Constitutionnel
between
June
1
and
July
16,
1853,
but
that
the
seventh
veillée
was
divided
into
two
by
publisher
Michel
Lévy
in
the
1865
edition.
This
change,
however,
had
little
consequence
for,
as
Marius‐François
Guyard
notes
in
“La
Genèse
des
Maîtres
Sonneurs,”
D’un
romanticisme
à
l’autre,
“La
comparaison
de
la
publication
en
périodique
et
des
éditions
successives
n’apprend
rien
sur
le
travail
et
les
procédés
de
George
Sand.
Du
jour
où
elle
livre
son
roman
à
l’éditeur,
elle
l’abandonne”
(150).
27
Manceau
observes
in
the
agenda
that
he
shares
with
Sand,
“12
janvier.
–
Après
la
promenade
et
pour
se
mettre
en
train,
elle
lit
tout
haut
son
roman
commencé,
puis
[elle]
travaille
.
.
.”
(qtd.
in
Guyard,
151).
72
voice
to
such
a
degree
that
her
readers
forget
that
they
are
reading
a
novel
rather
than
listening
to
him
narrate
the
story
aloud:
“Je
le
ferai
parler
lui‐même,
en
imitant
sa
manière
autant
qu’il
me
sera
possible”
(i).
Seeing
her
role
as
that
of
a
translator,
Sand
strives
to
communicate
the
essential
meaning
of
the
pastoral
tale
to
a
Parisian
public
while
still
remaining
faithful
to
the
spirit
of
its
conception.
As
her
friend
Rollinat
continues
in
the
fictional
dialogue
that
prefaces
François
le
champi,
Mais
raconte‐la‐moi
[l’histoire]
comme
si
tu
avais
à
ta
droite
un
Parisien
parlant
la
langue
moderne,
et
à
ta
gauche
un
paysan
devant
lequel
tu
ne
voudrais
pas
dire
une
phrase,
un
mot
où
il
ne
pourrait
pas
pénétrer.
Ainsi
tu
dois
parler
clairement
pour
le
Parisien,
naïvement
pour
le
paysan.
L’un
te
reprochera
de
manquer
de
couleur,
l’autre
d’élégance.
(15)
For
Sand,
the
task
of
the
translator
is
to
impart
the
beauty
of
Nohant
to
a
public
who
has
never
experienced
it
or
is
in
danger
of
forgetting
it
entirely
and
thus
may
well
not
easily
understand
what
she
is
saying.
Although
the
novel
thematizes
music
rather
than
the
visual
arts,
she
dedicates
it
to
Eugène
Lambert,
a
friend
of
her
son
Maurice’s
who
has
just
chosen
to
leave
Berry
and
pursue
a
career
as
an
artist
in
Paris.
When
Sand,
while
encouraging
Lambert
in
his
artistic
pursuits
in
her
dedication,
warns
him
of
the
risks
that
his
relocation
entails,
she
speaks
in
terms
of
music:
“Je
t’envoie
ce
roman
comme
un
son
lointain
de
nos
cornemuses,
pour
te
rappeler
que
les
feuilles
poussent,
que
les
rossignols
sont
arrivés,
et
que
la
grande
fête
printanière
de
la
nature
va
73
commencer
aux
champs”
(iii).
Amidst
the
stimulation
of
living
in
a
metropolis
such
as
Paris,
Sand
does
not
want
Lambert
and
others
like
him
to
forget
the
simplicity
and
beauty
of
the
music
of
his
pays.
In
borrowing
Etienne’s
voice,
Sand
hopes
to
communicate
a
tale
that
will
revitalize
a
mode
of
existence
on
the
brink
of
extinction.
“La
Seule
langue
commune”
In
trying
to
convey
the
particular
nuances
of
Nohant
to
Lambert
and
her
contemporary
Parisian
public,
Sand
turns
to
music
and
its
ability
to
unite
various
individuals
together
in
a
shared
experience:
unlike
literature,
music
does
not
require
the
mediation
of
language
and
can
communicate
when
words
are
inadequate.
Although
she
initially
entitled
the
novel
Mère
et
enfant
with
the
intent
of
focusing
on
the
universalizing
themes
of
family
and
love,
Sand
eventually
changed
her
mind
after
entering
into
a
lively
discussion
about
the
arts
during
the
course
of
composing
it,
as
reported
by
her
companion
Alexandre
Manceau,
who
shared
her
agenda:
“Madame
trouve
qu’aucun
bonheur
sur
la
terre,
ne
peut
approcher
de
celui
que
l’on
éprouve
à
entendre
de
la
bonne
musique.”
A
few
days
later,
he
added,
“Madame
travaille
à
la
Mère
qui
s’appellera
probablement
les
Maîtres
sonneurs”
(Guyard,
152).28
Examining
this
same
journal,
one
learns
that
the
spirited
conversation
alluded
to
above
included
a
certain
“Emile”
who
“a
bien
parlé”
(Guyard,
152);
although
Manceau
does
not
specify
his
last
name,
could
it
be
anyone
but
the
Saint‐Simonian
disciple
Emile
Barrault
who
28
For
a
more
detailed
documentation
of
this
evolution,
see
Guyard,
pp.
149‐159.
74
asserts
that
music
is
“la
seule
langue
commune
entre
tous
les
hommes”
(70)?29
In
appropriating
the
music
of
her
childhood
home,
Sand
believes
that
she
will
come
closer
to
conveying
the
essence
of
the
place
and
its
inhabitants
to
her
Parisian
readers.
In
fact,
she
asserts
that
the
regional
music
encompasses
the
very
spirit
of
its
locale.
As
Sand
notes
in
Consuelo
(1842),
the
text
that
will
be
examined
at
length
in
the
next
chapter:
Un
chant
juif
bien
rendu
nous
fait
pénétrer
dans
la
synagogue;
toute
l’Ecosse
est
dans
un
véritable
air
écossais,
comme
toute
l’Espagne
est
dans
un
véritable
air
espagnol.
J’ai
été
souvent
ainsi
en
Pologne,
en
Allemagne,
à
Naples,
en
Irlande,
dans
l’Inde,
et
je
connais
mieux
ces
hommes
et
ces
contrées
que
si
je
les
avais
examinés
durant
des
années.
Il
ne
fallait
qu’un
instant
pour
m’y
transporter
et
m’y
faire
vivre
de
toute
la
vie
qui
les
anime.
C’était
l’essence
de
cette
vie
que
j’assimilais
sous
le
prestige
de
la
musique.
(284)
Rather
than
focusing
on
the
relationship
between
mother
and
child,
Sand
thus
shifts
her
attention
to
her
“native”
music
which,
like
the
image
of
a
mother
and
child,
evokes
a
return
to
origins
but
also
has
the
ability
to
transport
its
listeners
to
a
different
time
and
place.
Sand
generally
uses
a
rustic
vocabulary
that
befits
her
Berrichon
narrator,
but
she
distinguishes
music
from
the
region
of
Berry
and
music
from
Bourbonnais
by
borrowing
the
somewhat
effete
theoretical
concept
of
the
musical
mode.
As
Joset’s
29
See
the
previous
chapter
for
a
discussion
of
Barrault
and
the
full
quotation
in
Aux
Artistes:
Du
passé
à
l’avenir
des
beaux
arts.
75
celebrated
music
teacher
from
Bourbonnais,
Père
Bastien
imparts
what
might
be
Joset’s
last
musical
lesson
before
the
teacher
and
the
student
go
their
separate
ways.
He
states:
La
musique
a
deux
modes
que
les
savants,
comme
j’ai
ouï
dire,
appellent
majeur
et
mineur,
et
que
j’appelle,
moi,
mode
clair
et
mode
trouble;
ou,
si
tu
veux,
mode
de
ciel
bleu
et
mode
de
ciel
gris;
ou
encore,
mode
de
la
force
ou
de
la
joie,
et
mode
de
la
tristesse
ou
de
la
songerie.
Tu
peux
chercher
jusqu’à
demain,
tu
ne
trouveras
pas
la
fin
des
oppositions
qu’il
y
a
entre
ces
deux
modes,
non
plus
que
tu
n’en
trouveras
un
troisième
;
car
tout,
sur
la
terre,
est
ombre
ou
lumière,
repos
ou
action.
Or,
écoute
bien
toujours,
Joset!
La
plaine
chante
en
majeur
et
la
montagne
en
mineur.
Si
tu
étais
resté
en
ton
pays,
tu
aurais
toujours
eu
des
idées
dans
le
mode
clair
et
tranquille,
et,
en
y
retournant,
tu
verras
le
parti
qu’un
esprit
comme
le
tien
peut
tirer
de
ce
mode;
car
l’un
n’est
ni
plus
ni
moins
que
l’autre.
(184)
Père
Bastien
associates
the
plains
of
Berry
with
the
major
mode,
describing
them
as
a
place
with
clear
weather
and
blue
sky,
a
place
that
exudes
strength
and
joy
to
those
who
experience
it.
The
mountains
of
Bourbonnais,
meanwhile,
suggest
foreboding
storms
and
an
ominous
sky.
Likened
to
the
minor
mode,
this
particular
region
exudes
a
sense
of
sadness
and
lost
dreams.
Such
associations
attract
the
attention
of
the
reader
given
their
placement
at
the
very
heart
of
the
novel,
but
the
mention
of
musical
modes
76
becomes
even
more
startling
when
one
realizes
that
it
is
articulated
by
a
Bourbonnais
woodsman.30
Academic
terms
such
as
major
and
minor
mode
imply
a
learned
sophistication
rather
than
a
natural
simplicity.
Sand
might
well
blame
herself
for
such
a
discrepancy
as
she
readily
admits
in
reference
to
La
Mare
au
diable
(1846),
another
of
her
rustic
tales:
“L’auteur
y
montre
encore
de
temps
en
temps
le
bout
de
l’oreille;
il
s’y
trouve
des
mots
d’auteur
.
.
.”
(51).
We
may
reasonably
assume
that
regardless
of
her
painstaking
efforts
at
erasing
herself
from
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs,
Sand
cannot
set
aside
her
own
“cultural
baggage”
even
as
she
returns
to
her
native
home
of
Berry.
There
are
moments
when
she
cannot
help
but
allow
her
voice
to
shine
through:
Père
Bastien’s
reference
to
major
and
minor
mode,
for
example,
helps
her
to
demarcate
one
region
from
the
other,
establishing
a
set
of
expectations
for
the
reader
that
she
will
then
go
on
to
both
satisfy
and
frustrate.
Indeed,
Sand’s
own
reference
to
her
characters’
implausible
erudition
in
the
dedication
to
the
novel
recalls
the
very
terms
Père
Bastien
uses
for
the
major
and
the
minor
modes:
“Si
malgré
l’attention
et
la
conscience
que
j’y
mettrai,
tu
[Eugène
Lambert]
trouves
encore
quelquefois
que
mon
narrateur
voit
trop
clair
ou
trop
trouble
30
In
a
footnote
of
Consuelo,
Sand
recalls
a
conversation
with
a
Berrichon
bagpiper
that
illustrates
particularly
well
a
peasant’s
unfamiliarity
with
music’s
more
theoretical
terms.
Their
exchange
is
as
follows:
“Vous
avez
appris
un
peu
de
musique?
–
Certainement
j’ai
appris
à
jouer
de
la
cornemuse
à
gros
bourdon,
et
de
la
musette
à
clefs.
–
Où
avez‐vous
pris
des
leçons?
–
En
Bourbonnais,
dans
les
bois.
–
Quel
est
votre
maître?
–
Un
homme
des
bois.
–
Vous
connaissez
donc
les
notes?
–
Je
crois
bien!
–
En
quel
ton
jouez‐vous
là?
–
En
quel
ton?
Qu’est‐ce
que
cela
veut
dire?
—N’est‐ce
pas
en
ré
que
vous
jouez?
–
Je
ne
connais
pas
le
ré.
–
Comment
donc
s’appellent
vos
notes?
–
Elles
s’appellent
des
notes;
elles
n’ont
pas
de
noms
particuliers”
(623).
77
dans
les
sujets
qu’il
aborde,
ne
t’en
prends
qu’à
l’impuissance
de
ma
traduction”
(ii,
my
emphasis).
Choosing
the
very
words
that
Père
Bastien
uses
to
describe
the
major
and
minor
mode,
clair
and
trouble,
Sand
seems
to
warn
the
reader
of
the
very
moment
in
the
text
when
she
makes
this
more
theoretical
reference.
From
a
musical
standpoint,
the
presentation
of
“major”
and
“minor”
as
true
opposites
errs
on
the
side
of
simplicity,
but
it
helps
Sand
to
establish
the
spiritual
boundaries
that
separate
the
two
regions.31
The
musical
modes
did
originally
aim
to
establish
distinct
geographical
boundaries
and
peoples.
In
Ancient
Greece,
the
names
of
the
different
modes,
which
the
Greeks
referred
to
as
tonoi,
stemmed
from
the
various
groups
living
throughout
Greece
(Dorians,
Ionians,
Locrians)
as
well
as
the
neighboring
populations
in
Asia
Minor
(Aeolians,
Lydians,
Phrygians).
Thus,
in
making
reference
to
any
one
of
these
modes,
Greek
poets
were
most
likely
making
reference
to
a
particular
place
or
people
rather
than
a
fixed
series
of
notes.32
As
R.
P.
Winnington‐Ingram
explains
in
Mode
in
Ancient
Greek
Music,
Mode
may
be
defined
as
the
epitome
of
stylized
song,
of
song
stylized
in
a
particular
district
or
people
or
occupation;
and
it
draws
its
31
In
their
shared
agenda,
Manceau
notes
Sand’s
attention
to
maps:
“9
janvier
–
“Madame
est
très
fatiguée
–
Le
temps
est
assez
beau
–
Madame
ne
travaille
pas;
elle
consulte
des
cartes
géographiques
pour
son
roman”
(Guyard,
151).
Jean
Gaulmier
discusses
the
accuracy
of
Sand’s
geographical
references
in
“Poésie
et
Vérité
chez
George
Sand,”
in
Revue
des
sciences
humaines
(Paris,
1959),
pp.
345‐368.
32
Anderson
and
Mathiesen
provide
the
example
of
Lasus
of
Hermione
(c530‐20
BCE)
who,
when
referring
to
the
Aeolian
tonoi,
was
likely
thinking
of
a
melodic
style
characteristic
of
Greeks
speaking
the
Aeolic
dialect.
See
“Ethos,”
Grove
Music
Online,
Oxford
Music
Online,
Web,
17
June
2012.
78
character
partly
from
associations
contracted
in
its
native
home,
reinforced
perhaps
by
the
sanctions
of
mythology.
(3)
What
then
distinguishes
one
musical
mode
from
another?
Both
major
and
minor
scales
consist
of
seven
notes
of
the
twelve
notes
available;
the
mode
in
which
a
piece
is
written
is
defined
by
which
scale
is
used
in
the
piece,
that
is,
which
seven
notes
of
twelve
are
automatically
allowable.
The
notes
of
a
major
scale,
for
example,
are
the
notes
normally
available
for
a
piece
written
in
a
given
major
key:
in
addition
to
the
seven
of
twelve
possible
tones,
the
other
five
notes,
or
“accidentals,”
are
generally
used
sparingly
if
at
all
and
are
treated
as
exceptions.
The
starting
note
for
each
scale
or
mode
proves
critical
to
recognizing
whether
a
mode
is
major
or
minor.
If
one
were
to
examine
the
notes
that
make
up
a
C
Major
or
an
a
minor
scale,
for
example,
one
would
realize
that
although
they
create
very
different
effects
upon
listeners,
their
notes
are
the
same;
the
scales
simply
don’t
start
with
the
same
note,
the
C‐Major
scale
consisting
of
C‐D‐E‐F‐
G‐A‐B
(with
no
flats
or
sharps),
and
the
a‐minor
scale
consisting
of
A‐B‐C‐D‐E‐F‐G.
Since
the
space
between
one
note
and
the
next
is
not
uniform
(B
and
C
as
well
as
E
and
F
are
separated
by
half‐tones
rather
than
full
tones),
the
effect
of
the
two
scales
is
quite
different.
In
considering
the
key
and
mode
of
a
piece,
musicians
in
possession
of
a
musical
score
thus
observe,
among
other
factors,
not
only
a
composition’s
key
signature
given
at
the
beginning
of
the
piece
but
also
its
final
resolution,
the
last
note
of
the
piece
often
conventionally
being
the
same
note
as
the
starting
note
of
the
scale
used.
Indeed,
the
resolution
of
any
given
musical
work
proves
most
essential
when
determining
what
79
musicians
refer
to
as
a
piece’s
“home
key”
and
hence
whether
it
is
written
in
the
major
or
minor
mode.
Those
who
do
not
have
the
possibility
of
skipping
to
the
end
of
the
piece,
however,
must
focus
their
attention
on
the
way
in
which
the
piece
begins
and
develops
across
time.
The
distinct
nature
of
each
mode
provides
clues
to
help
differentiate
one
from
the
other.
The
minor
mode,
for
example,
is
less
stable
than
the
major
mode.
Leonard
Meyer
explores
this
aspect
of
the
minor
mode
in
Emotion
and
Meaning
in
Music:
“Melodically
the
minor
mode
differs
from
most
other
modes
in
that
it
is
quasi‐
chromatic
and
changeable,
appearing
in
several
different
versions
[melodic,
natural,
and
harmonic],
while
other
modes
.
.
.
are
essentially
.
.
.
stable”
(224).33
That
minor
modes
are
“quasi‐chromatic”
implies
that
more
often
than
major
modes,
they
tend
to
incorporate
all
of
the
twelve
notes
rather
than
only
the
seven
notes
allowable
in
principle.
For
the
purposes
of
this
study,
the
changeable
nature
of
the
minor
mode
is
important
in
that
it
renders
the
minor
mode
more
ambiguous
and
often
more
affective.34
Because
it
can
easily
shift
from
one
“version”
to
another,
listeners
have
a
difficult
time
knowing
how
the
music
will
develop
and
eventually
resolve.
And
it
is
this
33
The
melodic
minor
is
achieved
by
lowering
the
third
degree
of
an
ascending
major
scale;
the
natural
minor
is
achieved
by
lowering
the
third,
sixth,
and
seventh
of
a
descending
major
scale;
the
harmonic
minor
is
lowered
by
the
third
and
sixth
of
an
ascending
or
descending
major
scale.
See
Meyer,
p.
224.
34
Of
course,
a
composer
might
compose
a
work
in
a
major
mode
and
introduce
musical
elements
so
as
to
defy
the
expectations
of
the
listener
and
arouse
an
emotional
response
that
equals
or
even
surpasses
that
which
might
result
from
a
work
written
in
the
minor
mode.
80
ambiguity
that
often
arouses
a
strong
emotional
response
in
the
listener.
According
to
Meyer,
“Emotion
or
affect
is
aroused
when
a
tendency
to
respond
is
arrested
or
inhibited.
.
.
.
It
is
the
prevention
of
the
expression
of
instinct
either
in
behavior
or
conscious
thought
that
leads
to
intense
affect”
(14).
Faced
by
alternative
means
of
development
in
the
minor
mode,
listeners
thus
find
themselves
in
a
state
of
heightened
suspense.
Although
a
particular
tone,
phrase,
or
progression
might
point
toward
others,
such
tendencies
do
not
guarantee
that
the
ensuing
music
will
follow
in
like
manner
(14).
Of
course,
there
are
times
when
music
develops
in
such
a
way
as
to
fulfill
the
expectations
of
listeners,
resulting
in
a
feeling
of
satisfaction
and
contentment,
but
there
are
other
times
when
music
frustrates
expectations,
resulting
in
a
feeling
of
tension
and
instability.
A
dynamic
process,
music
thus
creates
moments
of
tension
and
release
that
become
more
readily
apparent
in
the
minor
mode.
The
minor
mode’s
tendency
towards
chromaticism
also
proves
useful
in
that
it
allows
musicians
to
better
express
varying
and
even
conflicting
emotions
in
a
single
piece
of
music.
The
term
“chromaticism”
is
derived
from
the
Greek
word
for
color
(khroma):
chromaticism
“colors”
the
impression
one
has
of
a
piece
of
music
by
blurring
its
tonal
center,
making
it
difficult
for
audiences
to
anticipate
the
work’s
direction
and
eventual
resolution.
As
has
been
previously
mentioned,
such
uncertainty
may
create
a
sense
of
urgency
and
even
anxiety
within
those
who
experience
it.
As
Meyer
explains,
Doubt
and
uncertainty
arise
not
because
the
listener
does
not
know
what
the
next
stimulus
is
going
to
be—he
knows,
for
instance,
if
the
81
series
is
a
chromatic
scale
that
the
next
tone
will
probably
be
a
half
step
away
from
the
one
being
heard
at
the
moment—but
because
he
is
unable
to
envisage
where
the
series
will
end,
to
control
its
destiny
mentally.
(163)
In
fact,
chromaticism,
like
the
concept
of
musical
mode
itself,
is
also
linked
to
locale:
composers
use
it
to
paint
vivid
images
in
the
minds
of
their
listeners,
imparting
the
most
distinct
aspects
of
a
particular
time
and
place.
In
other
words,
chromaticism
is
a
musical
device
that
helps
to
create
“local
color.”
For
example,
in
his
composition
for
solo
piano
Estampes
(1903)
Claude
Debussy
takes
his
listeners
around
the
globe
as
they
listen
to
each
of
its
three
parts.35.
A
composer
must,
however,
strike
a
delicate
balance
between
creating
color
and
creating
chaos.
While
devices
such
as
chromaticism
lend
a
particular
beauty
to
a
piece
of
music,
they
can
also
lead
to
excessive
disorientation
if
the
listener
is
left
without
any
stable
point
of
reference.
As
Sand
composes
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs,
she
seeks
to
infuse
the
work
with
the
local
color
of
Nohant
without
losing
the
attention
of
her
Parisian
audience.
It
is,
after
all,
the
couleur
locale
that
renders
Etienne’s
tale
most
life‐like.
As
Sand’s
literary
contemporary
Victor
Hugo
notes
in
his
preface
to
Cromwell
(1827):
Ce
n’est
point
à
la
surface
du
drame
que
doit
être
la
couleur
locale,
mais
au
fond,
dans
le
cœur
même
de
l’œuvre,
d’où
elle
se
répand
au
dehors,
d’elle‐même,
naturellement,
également,
et,
pour
ainsi
parler,
35
The
movements
are
entitled
Pagodes,
La
Soirée
dans
Grenade,
and
Jardins
sous
la
pluie.
82
dans
tous
les
coins
du
drame,
comme
la
sève
qui
monte
de
la
racine
à
la
dernière
feuille
de
l’arbre.
(34)
In
J.
Kamerbeek’s
study
of
Hugo’s
manifesto,
he
concludes
that
Hugo
situates
local
color
“dans
le
cœur
même
de
l’œuvre
.
.
.
dans
la
mesure
où
la
couleur
locale
représentait
.
.
.
non
pas
tant
un
effet
qu’un
principe
générateur
dont
dépendent
tous
les
faits
culturels
d’une
époque
donnée”
(303‐304).
The
couleur
locale
not
only
creates
a
more
vibrant
picture
of
the
drama’s
milieu
but
arguably
generates
the
entire
work.
Reading
Music
Sand’s
reference
to
the
theoretical
concept
of
the
musical
mode
becomes
all
the
more
significant
when
one
considers
that
Père
Bastien’s
explanation
of
it
is
followed
by
an
illustration
of
the
concept,
an
improvised
song.
At
Joset’s
request,
Père
Bastien
picks
up
his
bagpipes
and
initially
plays
only
the
music
so
that
everyone
might
know
“ce
mode
gris
et
triste
.
.
.
le
mineur”
(185)
but
then
goes
on
to
sing
the
accompanying
lyrics
because
his
daughter
asks,
“Et
les
paroles
.
.
.
sont‐elles
tristes
aussi
mon
père?”
(185).
It
is
at
this
point
in
Etienne’s
narrative
that
Sand
yet
again
interrupts
so
as
to
allow
her
own
voice
to
communicate
with
her
readers.
As
musicologist
Julien
Tiersot
notes
in
his
examination
of
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
in
La
Chanson
populaire
et
les
écrivains
romantiques,
“Maintenant,
c’est
l’auteur
[Sand]
qui
parle:
les
personnages
ne
sont
plus
que
ses
interprètes”
(243‐244).
Borrowing
lines
from
two
folksongs
that
83
originate
in
the
Nohant
region,
Trois
Fendeurs
and
Les
Tristes
Noces,36
Sand
alters
the
rest
of
the
lyrics
so
that
they
encapsulate
the
central
love
story—or
rather
love
stories—
within
the
work;
and
although
Père
Bastien
considers
these
lyrics
“comme
l’air,
un
peu
embrouillantes
et
portant
réflexion”
(185),
they
seem
to
suggest
a
happier
resolution
than
might
be
anticipated
by
the
use
of
the
minor
mode:
Trois
fendeux
y
avait,
Au
printemps,
sur
l’herbette;
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Trois
fendeux
y
avait,
Parlant
à
la
fillette.
Le
plus
jeune
disait,
(Celui
qui
tient
la
rose);
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Le
plus
jeune
disait
:
J’aime
bien
mais
je
n’ose.
Le
plus
vieux
s’écriait:
(Celui
qui
tient
la
fende),
36
Tiersot
notes
that
the
“original”
Trois
fendeurs
is
performed
in
a
minor
key
but
that
“les
mélodies
populaires
ont
des
modalités
infiniment
sensibles
et
malléables:
souvent
on
les
entend
chanter
indifféremment
et
tour
à
tour
en
majeur
et
en
mineur,
et
c’est
pourtant
la
même
ligne
mélodique.”
(243).
84
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Le
plus
vieux
s’écriait
:
Quand
j’aime
je
commande.
Le
troisième
chantait,
Portant
la
fleur
d’amande,
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Le
troisième
chantait:
Moi,
j’aime
et
je
demande.
Mon
ami
ne
serez,
Vous
qui
portez
la
rose;
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Mon
ami
ne
serez,
Si
vous
n’osez,
je
n’ose.
Mon
maître
ne
serez,
Vous
qui
tendez
la
fende,
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Mon
maître
ne
serez,
Amour
ne
se
commande.
85
Mon
amant
vous
serez,
Vous
qui
portez
l’amande,
(J’entends
le
rossignolet),
Mon
amant
vous
serez,
On
donne
à
qui
demande.
(186‐187)37
In
Sand’s
version
of
the
traditional
folksong,
Père
Bastien
sings
of
three
woodsmen
who
seek
the
hand
of
the
same
young
woman.
Although
she
never
names
the
woodsmen
explicitly,
Sand’s
improvised
song
acts
as
a
makeshift
map.
Following
in
the
tradition
of
Madeleine
de
Scudéry’s
carte
du
tendre,
the
lyrics
indicate
the
various
paths
and
pitfalls
that
one
might
encounter
in
the
pursuit
of
love.
In
order
to
navigate
the
complicated
terrain
and
reach
one’s
destination,
Sand
encourages
her
readers
to
consider
not
only
the
lyrics
but
also
the
mode
in
which
Père
Bastien’s
folksong
is
performed.
The
musical
modes
act
in
much
the
same
way
as
a
map’s
legend
or
key.
A
polyvalent
term,
a
key
provides
a
means
of
understanding,
but
whereas
a
map
orients
one
in
space,
a
musical
key
does
so
in
time,
for
it
suggests
the
way
in
which
a
piece
of
music
might
be
expected
to
begin
and
end.38
37
In
Autour
du
romantisme:
de
Volney
à
J.
P.
Sartre,
Jean
Gaulmier
compares
the
intersecting
love
triangles
of
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
to
a
bourrée
berrichonne,
a
French
folk
dance
in
which
couples
alternate
partners
before
eventually
pairing
off
when
the
music
ends,
pp.
173‐175.
38
Interestingly,
Sand
turns
to
musical
scales
(gammes),
the
basis
for
modes,
in
a
similar
way
in
François
le
champi.
Just
before
beginning
the
tale,
she
tells
her
86
Indeed,
those
who
witness
the
performance
understand
that
Père
Bastien
sings
of
none
other
than
Brulette,
the
novel’s
heroine,
and
her
three
suitors:
Joset,
Etienne,
and
Huriel.
Joset,
voiced
by
the
first
“woodsman,”
does
not
win
the
girl
because
he
never
expresses
his
feelings
to
her.
Etienne,
the
second
one,
also
faces
rejection,
because
he
believes
that
he
can
command
Brulette’s
love
by
sheer
will.
In
the
end,
it
is
Père
Bastien’s
son,
Huriel,
the
third
“woodsman,”
who
wins
Brulette’s
hand
by
simply
asking
for
her
to
love
him
in
return.
If
the
reader
has
any
lingering
doubt
of
this
outcome,
Joset
later
confirms
his
teacher’s
prediction,
telling
Etienne
after
the
performance,
“Il
paraît
que
c’est
Huriel
qui
a
gagné
le
procès
auprès
de
la
fillette”
(193).
Although
the
novel
has
yet
to
come
to
a
close,
Père
Bastien’s
folksong
already
suggests
its
resolution.
One
might
assume
that
this
revelation
detracts
from
the
novel’s
intrigue,
but
I
would
argue
that
it
propels
the
narrative.
As
in
a
piece
of
music,
the
understanding
and
enjoyment
of
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
depends
on
how
the
events
in
the
story
play
out
against
a
background
of
expectation
established
earlier
in
the
work.
Indeed,
Meyer’s
reflection
on
music
is
just
as
applicable
to
Sand’s
text,
for
her
writing
proves
“a
dynamic
process
[that
depends]
upon
the
perception
of
and
response
to
attributes
such
as
tension
and
repose,
instability
and
stability,
and
ambiguity
and
clarity”
(43).
companion
Rollinet,
“Je
commence;
mais
auparavant
permets
que,
pour
m’éclaircir
la
voix,
je
fasse
quelques
gammes.
.
.
.
Avant
de
commencer
un
travail
d’art,
je
crois
qu’il
faut
se
sentir
votre
esprit
dans
la
disposition
voulue.
.
.
.”
(16).
87
At
the
point
at
which
Sand
includes
the
folksong,
for
example,
the
reader
cannot
fathom
how
Huriel,
a
Bourbonnais,
might
ever
find
a
way
to
marry
Brulette,
a
Berrichonne.
Leading
up
to
Père
Bastien’s
tune,
Sand
goes
to
great
lengths
to
differentiate
the
regions
of
Berry
and
Bourbonnais
and
convey
the
attitudes
and
practices
particular
to
each
place
that
would
render
its
inhabitants
incompatible.39
She
describes
the
Berrichons
as
a
stationary
people,
making
their
living
by
cultivating
their
fields.
In
so
doing,
they
plant
not
only
their
crops
but
also
themselves.
As
Etienne
explains,
“Vous
savez
que,
dans
les
pays
d’ici,
nous
ne
courons
guère
au
loin,
surtout
ceux
de
nous
qui
se
donnent
au
travail
de
la
terre,
et
qui
vivent
autour
des
habitations
comme
des
poussins
alentour
de
la
mue”
(33‐34).
Sand
deliberately
incorporates
a
vocabulary
that
illustrates
this
rooted
existence.
Etienne,
for
example,
embodies
the
qualities
of
a
true
Berrichon.
Upon
meeting
him
for
the
first
time,
Père
Bastien’s
son,
Huriel,
concludes,
“Tu
[Etienne]
es
un
franc
Berrichon,
comme
un
moineau
franc
est
un
moineau
franc,
et
ce
que
tu
es
à
cette
heure,
tu
le
seras
dans
cinquante
ans
d’ici;
ton
crin
aura
blanchi,
mais
ta
cervelle
n’aura
pas
pris
un
jour”
(68).
Etienne
learns
to
till
the
land
and
finds
simple
pleasure
in
digging
(bêcher),
planting
(planter),
and
harvesting
(récolter).
Like
the
generations
that
preceded
him,
he
remains
content
to
stay
rooted
in
one
place,
never
dreaming
of
venturing
beyond
the
hills
to
discover
the
possibilities
that
exist
elsewhere.
He
declares,
“J’aime
mieux
une
ortie
en
mon
pays
qu’un
chêne
en
pays
39
Since
antiquity,
philosophers
have
emphasized
the
influence
of
musical
modes
on
one’s
physical
and
psychological
development.
Accordingly,
philosophers
stress
the
importance
of
music
as
it
pertains
to
the
education
of
individuals.
In
The
Republic,
Plato
asserts
that
soldiers
should
listen
to
music
played
in
Dorian
or
Phrygian
modes
to
make
them
strong
and
avoid
Lydian,
Mixolydian,
and
Ionian
modes,
which
would
only
soften
their
military
resolve.
88
d’étrangers”
(191).
Wary
of
change
and
those
who
are
different,
Etienne
and
his
fellow
Berrichons
prefer
to
lead
a
life
of
reassuring
predictability
rather
than
one
of
unsettling
suspense.
The
Bourbonnais,
on
the
other
hand,
thrive
upon
the
transitory
existence
that
the
Berrichons
avoid,
making
their
living
as
wandering
woodsmen
or
muleteers.
Etienne
describes
Père
Bastien
in
the
following
terms:
“C’est
un
homme
qui
n’aime
pas
à
travailler
deux
ans
de
suite
au
même
pays,
et
plus
il
avance
en
âge
plus
il
est
vif
et
changeant”
(95).
Whereas
the
Berrichons
take
pleasure
in
the
comforts
of
a
well‐
constructed
home,
the
Bourbonnais
move
from
place
to
place,
preferring
to
sleep
outdoors
with
no
other
roof
but
a
canopy
of
stars.
Huriel
insists
that
his
very
well‐being
depends
upon
this
nomadic
existence:
Nous
autres,
gens
des
forêts,
nous
serions
malades
s’il
fallait
nous
ensevelir
vivants
dans
des
draps
et
des
couvertures.
Une
hutte
de
branchage,
un
lit
de
fougère,
voilà
notre
mobilier,
et
même
ceux
de
nous
qui
voyagent
sans
cesse
et
qui
ne
se
soucient
pas
de
payer
dans
les
auberges,
ne
supportent
pas
le
toit
d’une
maison
sur
leurs
têtes;
au
cœur
des
hivers,
ils
dorment
à
la
franche
étoile
sur
la
bâtine
de
leurs
mulets,
et
la
neige
leur
sert
de
linge
blanc.
(68‐69)
Such
a
transitory
life
also
influences
Huriel’s
view
of
love.
While
Etienne
waits
for
the
moment
when
Brulette
might
take
a
romantic
interest
in
him,
Huriel
cannot
fathom
such
unreciprocated
devotion,
exclaiming,
“Je
n’ai
pas
le
temps
d’aller
me
planter
89
auprès
d’elle
[une
fillette
ou
une
femme]
comme
un
nigaud
pour
attendre
son
heure”
(70).
In
life
and
in
love,
the
Bourbonnais
embrace
that
which
is
spontaneous,
improvised,
and
free.
While
Sand’s
reference
to
musical
mode
unquestionably
helps
her
to
establish
the
boundaries
that
separate
the
two
regions
and
their
inhabitants,
her
decision
to
label
Berry
as
“major”
and
Bourbonnais
as
“minor”
proves
much
more
perplexing.
Given
the
sedentary
qualities
of
the
first
and
the
dynamic
qualities
of
the
second,
French
musicologist
Léon
Guichard
concludes
that
Sand
should
have
reversed
the
musical
labels:
“Au
tempérament
lent
et
lourd
des
paysans
Berrichons…répondrait
mieux
le
mineur”
(379).
In
the
opening
to
her
psychological
study,
“Affective
Character
of
the
Major
and
Minor
Modes
in
Music,”
Kate
Hevner
lists
the
emotions
associated
with
each
mode,
an
inventory
that
both
supports
and
questions
Guichard’s
conclusion:
The
major
is
associated
with
the
following
characteristics:
it
is
dynamic,
an
upward
driving
force;
it
is
determining
and
defining,
and
more
natural
and
fundamental
than
the
minor;
it
expresses
varying
degrees
of
joy
and
excitement;
it
sounds
bright,
clear,
sweet,
hopeful,
strong,
and
happy.
For
the
minor,
the
characteristic
qualities
include
the
following:
it
is
passive,
a
downward
drawing
weight;
it
is
determined
and
defined;
it
expresses
gloom,
despair,
sorrow,
grief,
mystery,
longing,
obscurity,
restlessness,
melancholy;
it
is
mournful,
dark,
depressing,
doleful,
dull,
plaintive,
and
soothing.
(103)
90
If
the
major
mode
is
“determining
and
defining”
and
the
minor
mode
is
“determined
and
defined,”
Guichard’s
words
ring
true:
Sand
seems
to
have
reversed
the
modes
assigned
to
the
two
regions.
She
describes
the
Berrichons
as
a
fixed
and
passive
people
and
the
Bourbonnais
as
an
innovative
and
active
one.
At
the
same
time,
Hevner
also
describes
the
major
mode
as
“more
natural
and
fundamental”
because
of
its
familiarity
to
the
ears
of
a
Western
listener,
and
in
Sand’s
mind,
the
region
of
Berry
does
indeed
manifest
such
stability:
“Le
Berry
est
resté
stationnaire,
et
je
crois
qu’après
la
Bretagne
et
quelques
provinces
du
Midi
de
la
France,
c’est
le
pays
le
plus
conservé
qui
se
puisse
trouver
à
l’heure
qu’il
est”
(La
Mare,
140).
In
associating
the
region
of
Berry
with
the
major
mode,
Sand
implies
that
it
is
a
place
that
fulfills
expectation,
never
shocking
or
creating
anxiety
within
those
who
live
there.
It
acts
as
the
narrative
starting
point
from
which
Sand
might
deviate
but
to
which
she
will
always
return.40
As
for
the
Bourbonnais
region,
its
people
manifest
the
tension
and
instability
that
tends
to
permeate
the
music
written
in
the
minor
mode.
Referred
to
as
“la
montagne,”
the
Bourbonnais
region
consists
of
a
series
of
peaks
surrounded
by
dark
forests
in
which
one
might
easily
get
lost.
No
one
knows
for
certain
who
or
what
lurks
in
its
shadowy
recesses.
Etienne
acknowledges
that
he
is
just
as
likely
to
meet
a
menacing
muleteer
as
a
welcoming
woodsman
upon
entering
its
woods:
40
Sand
continually
returns
to
Nohant
throughout
her
own
life.
In
Histoire
de
ma
vie,
she
writes,
“Nohant
[est
l’endroit]
où
j'ai
été
élevée,
où
j'ai
passé
presque
toute
ma
vie
et
où
je
souhaiterais
pouvoir
mourir.”
91
Dans
les
plaines,
le
bien
et
le
mal
se
voient
trop
pour
qu’on
n’apprenne
pas,
de
bonne
heure,
à
se
soumettre
aux
lois
et
à
se
conduire
suivant
la
prudence.
Dans
les
forêts,
on
sent
qu’on
peut
échapper
aux
regards
des
hommes,
et
on
ne
s’en
rapporte
qu’au
jugement
de
Dieu
ou
du
diable,
selon
qu’on
est
bien
ou
mal
intentionné.
(178)
The
character
of
the
Bourbonnais
is
varied
to
the
point
of
being
unsettling.
On
the
one
hand,
the
woodsmen
are
a
peaceful
people;
Père
Bastien
avoids
violence
to
such
an
extent
that
he
has
difficulty
carrying
out
his
profession
as
a
lumberjack,
as
he
confesses:
“Sais‐tu,
Tiennet,
que
je
les
aime,
ces
beaux
vieux
compagnons
de
ma
vie…
Ne
ris
pas
de
moi,
je
n’ai
jamais
vu
tomber
un
vieux
chêne,
ou
seulement
un
jeune
saule,
sans
trembler
de
pitié
ou
de
crainte,
comme
un
assassin
des
œuvres
du
bon
Dieu”
(261).
On
the
other
hand,
the
muleteers
have
a
reputation
for
violence.
Led
by
the
volatile
Archignant,
they
instill
fear
in
anyone
who
encounters
them:
Ce
sont
des
gens
sauvages,
méchants
et
mal
appris,
qui
vous
tuent
un
homme
dans
un
bois,
avec
aussi
peu
de
conscience
qu’un
lapin;
qui
se
prétendent
le
droit
de
ne
nourrir
leurs
bêtes
qu’aux
dépens
du
paysan,
et
qui,
si
on
le
trouve
malséant,
et
qu’ils
ne
soient
pas
les
plus
forts
pour
résister,
reviennent
plus
tard
ou
envoient
leurs
compagnons
faire
périr
vos
bœufs
par
maléfice,
brûler
vos
bâtiments,
ou
pis
encore;
car
ils
se
soutiennent
comme
larrons
en
foire.
(61)
92
Although
Père
Bastien
and
his
fellow
woodsmen
readily
welcome
foreigners
to
their
region,
the
reputation
of
the
muleteers
dissuades
others
from
entering
their
forests.
Whereas
Etienne
is
convinced
that
Bourbonnais
is
a
place
that
is
“bien
triste…où
il
ne
pousse,
à
la
lisière
des
taillis
de
chêne,
que
de
la
fougère
et
des
ajoncs”
(30),
Huriel
asserts
that
his
homeland
cultivates
a
more
dynamic
and
fundamental
music
but
one
that
proves
inaccessible
to
those
who
never
dare
to
venture
beyond
Berry.
He
tells
Etienne,
La
musique
est
une
herbe
sauvage
qui
ne
pousse
pas
dans
vos
terres.
Elle
se
plaît
mieux
dans
nos
bruyères,
je
ne
saurais
vous
dire
pourquoi;
mais
c’est
dans
nos
bois
et
dans
nos
ravines
qu’elle
s’entretient
et
se
renouvelle
comme
les
fleurs
de
chaque
printemps;
c’est
là
qu’elle
s’invente
et
fait
foisonner
des
idées
pour
les
pays
qui
en
manquent;
c’est
de
là
que
vous
viennent
les
meilleures
choses
que
vous
entendez
dire
à
vos
sonneux;
mais
comme
ils
sont
paresseux
ou
avares,
et
que
vous
vous
contentez
toujours
du
même
régal,
ils
viennent
chez
nous
une
fois
en
leur
vie,
et
se
nourrissent
là‐dessus
tout
le
restant.
(95)
Huriel
recognizes
that
music
is
a
dynamic
art.
Unlike
a
painting
or
a
piece
of
sculpture
of
which
one
might
form
at
least
a
first
impression
in
a
single
instant,
its
beauty
unfolds
over
the
course
of
time
and
cannot
be
contained
in
a
frame
or
rendered
in
a
book.
Its
nature
defies
any
concrete
definition
or
explanation.
Despite
such
understanding,
even
93
he
cannot
precisely
articulate
the
reason
for
which
music
thrives
in
his
region
as
he
addresses
the
Berrichon
narrator.
The
muleteer
does,
however,
suggest
that
in
experiencing
Bourbonnais
melodies,
one
encounters
music’s
infinite
possibility.
Huriel
destabilizes
the
notion
that
the
world
begins
and
ends
in
Berry.
He
repeatedly
makes
reference
to
the
Bourbonnais
region
as
là:
“C’est
là
qu’elle
[la
musique]
s’invente
et
fait
foisonner
des
idées
pour
les
pays
qui
en
manquent;
c’est
de
là
que
vous
viennent
les
meilleures
choses
.
.
.”
(95).41
According
to
Huriel,
in
its
own
way
the
Bourbonnais
region
also
acts
as
a
point
de
repère,
one
that
suggests
music’s
possibilities
rather
than
its
limits.
The
reader
realizes
the
extent
to
which
Bourbonnais
music
differs
from
that
of
the
Berrichons
when
Etienne
hears
it
for
the
first
time.
Following
Joset
at
the
request
of
Joset’s
mother,
Etienne
finds
himself
in
the
territory
that
borders
Bourbonnais,
a
situation
he
finds
disquieting:
“Perdu
sous
la
futaie,
déchiré
et
embourbé
dans
les
éclaircies,
je
commençais
à
maugréer
contre
la
mauvaise
heure
et
le
mauvais
endroit”
(34).
The
narrator’s
irritation
soon
turns
to
panic
as
he
hears
Huriel’s
bagpipes
resound
like
a
roll
of
approaching
thunder.
While
the
hardy
Berrichon
asserts
that
he
would
not
41
Là
designates
a
geographical
destination,
but
its
homonym
la
also
refers
to
the
sixth
tone
in
a
musical
scale,
which
is
the
note
to
which
all
orchestral
instruments
tune.
Traveling
to
one’s
home
is
similar
to
tuning
to
the
note
la
before
an
orchestral
performance.
Indeed,
if
one
were
to
continue
to
think
of
an
orchestra
tuning
to
la,
one
might
also
imagine
that
ineffable
moment
when
the
conductor
raises
the
baton
in
Mallarmé’s
Plaisir
Sacré
(1891)
and
of
Mallarmé’s
faun’s
expectations
about
any
creature
“qui
cherche
le
la.”
94
cower
before
a
wild
animal
or
group
of
bandits,
he
cannot
help
but
run
from
this
strange
music:
Moquez‐vous
de
moi
si
vous
voulez.
Cette
musique,
dans
un
lieu
si
peu
fréquenté,
me
parut
endiablée.
Elle
chantait
un
air
trop
fort
pour
être
naturelle,
et
surtout
elle
chantait
un
air
si
triste
et
si
singulier,
que
ça
ne
ressemblait
à
aucun
air
connu
sur
la
terre
chrétienne.
(35)
Etienne
does
not
make
explicit
reference
to
musical
mode
at
this
point
in
the
novel,
but
his
description
of
the
music
might
lead
one
to
conclude
that
Huriel
performs
a
melody
in
a
minor
mode.
Etienne
considers
the
music
to
be
unnatural
and
sad;
as
Huriel
performs
on
the
bagpipes,
Etienne
believes
that
he
has
been
transported
to
an
ominous
world
filled
with
ferocious
beasts
and
clanging
bells.
This
“diabolic”
music
further
suggests
the
minor
mode
given
the
strong
propensity
of
the
latter
for
the
tritone,
an
interval
that
spans
three
whole
tones42;
because
this
interval
produces
what
was
at
one
time
considered
the
greatest
dissonance
in
Western
harmony,
the
Catholic
Church
feared
that
it
summoned
the
Devil,
dubbing
it
diabolus
in
musica.
Although
Etienne
does
not
have
the
musical
education
that
would
allow
him
to
recognize
the
interval
as
such,
Sand
was
most
certainly
familiar
with
the
interval.
In
Histoire
de
ma
vie,
she
recounts
the
exploits
of
her
father
during
his
military
career
and
questions
his
claim
to
have
mastered
the
fundamentals
of
musical
composition
in
twenty
lessons,
saying,
42
A
tritone
is
any
augmented
fourth
or
diminished
fifth
(i.e.
C
and
F#).
95
Oui,
certainement,
je
travaille
toujours,
mais
.
.
.
je
crois
qu’il
[mon
père]
se
moquait
de
nous
[Sand
et
ses
lecteurs].
Rien
n’est
plus
abstrait
et
plus
difficile.
Dans
ce
moment
je
sauve
les
dissonances
pour
passer
aux
modulations.
Si
tu
savais
comme
je
travaille
.
.
.
Je
n’ai
en
tête
que
fausses
quintes,
petites
sixtes,
tritons,
et
septièmes
diminuées.
J’en
rêve
la
nuit.
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
III:
164)
As
for
the
interval’s
sinister
nickname,
if
Sand
did
not
come
across
it
during
her
own
musical
studies,
she
most
certainly
became
aware
of
it
during
her
frequent
contact
with
Liszt,
a
composer
who
relied
on
the
tritone
to
suggest
the
devil
in
many
of
his
musical
works,
such
as
Après
une
lecture
de
Dante:
Fantasia
quasi
sonata
(1856).43
Associated
with
evil,
this
haunting
interval
creates
a
sense
of
uneasiness
that
closely
parallels
Etienne’s
reaction
upon
hearing
Huriel’s
music.
Huriel’s
foreboding
appearance
reinforces
the
diabolic
association
with
the
muleteer’s
music
and
further
dissuades
the
reader
from
anticipating
his
eventual
union
with
Brulette.
Although
the
son
of
the
greatly
respected
Père
Bastien
and
a
maître
sonneur
in
his
own
right,
Huriel
dresses
as
is
dictated
by
his
profession.
Upon
seeing
the
muleteer
for
the
first
time,
Etienne
describes
him
in
these
terms:
“Un
homme
bien
vilain
à
voir,
car
il
était
noir
de
la
tête
aux
pieds,
mêmement
sa
figure
et
ses
mains,
et
il
avait
43
Coincidentally,
this
composition
was
completed
the
same
year
as
the
publication
of
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs.
Although
Liszt
published
the
“Dante
Sonata”
in
1856,
he
worked
on
the
piece
between
1837
and
1853,
a
time
period
in
which
he
was
in
frequent
contact
with
Sand.
See
Sharon
Winklhofer,
“Liszt,
Marie
d’Agoult,
and
the
‘Dante’
sonata,’”
in
19th‐Century
Music
Vol.
1,
No.
1
(July
1997),
pp.
15‐32.
96
derrière
lui,
deux
grands
chiens
noirs
comme
lui
…”
(53).
Brulette
also
cannot
help
but
voice
certain
misgivings
upon
meeting
the
man:
“Cet
homme‐là
est
aimable,
Tiennet;
mais
il
est
bien
hardi”
(87).
Reinforcing
an
ominous
presence,
Huriel
names
one
of
his
dogs
“Satan,”
but
it
is
his
presence
alone
that
stirs
the
Berrichon
children
to
run
and
cry,
“Le
diable!
Le
diable!”
(91).
When
Etienne
asks
Joset
about
him,
he
evasively
responds,
“C’est
un
homme
qui
ne
se
comporte
pas
toujours
comme
les
autres.
Il
a
ses
coutumes,
ses
idées,
et
ses
raisons.
Ne
m’en
demande
pas
plus
que
je
ne
peux
t’en
dire”
(55).
This
lackluster
response
does
nothing
to
relieve
Etienne’s
fears
that
Huriel
is
no
different
from
the
other
threatening
muleteers.
Joset,
on
the
other
hand,
looks
to
Bourbonnais
as
a
place
of
promise.
Throughout
his
childhood
in
Berry,
he
laments
his
inability
to
express
his
artistic
ideal—
son
idée—to
those
around
him,
particularly
Brulette.
He
tells
Etienne,
“Il
y
a
quelque
part
une
vérité,
c’est
le
tout
de
la
rencontrer
.
.
.”
(41).
Unable
to
find
what
he
is
looking
for
in
Berry,
he
begins
to
venture
into
the
neighboring
woods
late
at
night.
As
if
by
preordination,
he
meets
Huriel
who
introduces
him
to
Bourbonnais
music.
Completely
enamored
of
it,
Joset
begins
to
sneak
out
in
the
middle
of
the
night
to
meet
the
muleteer.
In
fact,
his
fellow
Berrichons
begin
to
tease
him
about
having
a
mistress—“On
l’en
plaisantait,
s’imaginant
qu’il
avait
une
amourette”
(38)—and
are
not
as
wrong
as
one
might
think.
As
these
midnight
meetings
continue,
Joset
becomes
increasingly
charmed
by
Bourbonnais
music
and
much
less
enthusiastic
about
the
music
that
originates
in
his
native
Berry.
Listening
to
one
of
the
local
Berrichon
bagpipers
perform,
he
laments,
“Oh,
le
pauvre
homme!
Il
n’est
pas
digne
d’avoir
le
moyen
d’une
musette!
97
Et
celui
qui
s’en
essaye,
à
cette
heure,
mériterait
que
le
bon
Dieu
lui
retire
son
vent
de
la
poitrine”
(41).
Such
a
reaction
provides
a
stark
contrast
to
Etienne’s
own
willingness
to
acknowledge
this
same
music
as
perfectly
acceptable:
“Il
me
semble,
à
moi,
que
musette
pour
musette,
ça
braille
toujours
de
la
même
mode.
J’entends
bien
que
celle
qui
sonne
là‐bas
n’est
pas
soufflée
comme
il
faut,
et
que
l’air
est
estropié
un
si
peu;
mais
ça
ne
me
gêne
point
.
.
.”
(Id.).
The
Berrichon
narrator
does
not
realize
that
his
own
response
reveals
the
reason
for
Joset’s
negative
outburst:
the
musician
plays
”toujours
de
la
même
mode”
without
exhibiting
any
inventiveness
or
virtuosity.
Here,
Etienne
makes
reference
to
la
mode
rather
than
le
mode,
implying
that
Joset
does
not
take
issue
with
the
music
that
the
bagpiper
performs
but
the
way
in
which
the
musician
performs
it:
“ll
ne
voulait
en
rien
se
ranger
à
la
mode
du
pays
[Berrichon]”
(51).
A
marker
of
fashion,
la
mode
proves
more
fleeting
than
le
mode.
In
Le
Petit
Robert
de
la
langue
française,
la
mode
is
defined
as
a
“manière
passagère
de
sentir,
de
penser,
de
vivre,
érigée
en
norme
sociale
dans
un
milieu,
une
société
donnée”
(my
emphasis).
Something
that
is
à
la
mode
is
considered
to
be
“conforme
au
goût,
au
besoin
du
moment”
(my
emphasis).
Le
mode,
meanwhile,
is
a
marker
of
something
much
less
contingent.
It
is
defined
as
a
“forme
particulière
sous
laquelle
se
présente
un
fait
ou
s’accomplit
une
action.”44
That
is
not
to
say
that
le
mode
is
irrevocably
fixed
or
that
la
mode
does
not
have
any
staying
power,
but
a
musical
mode
(le
mode)
does
suggest
something
more
essential
than
the
manner
in
which
a
song
is
played
(la
mode).
One
might
speculate
that
44
“Le
mode”
and
“La
mode.”
Le
Petit
Robert
de
la
langue
française.
2011.
Print.
98
Joset
is
interested
in
the
minor
mode
insofar
as
it
might
help
him
to
discover
a
new
way
in
which
to
make
music
and
further
express
his
thoughts
and
feelings
to
those
around
him,
particularly
Brulette.
Great
Expectations
From
the
outset
of
the
novel,
the
reader
has
reason
to
anticipate
that
Joset,
rather
than
Huriel,
will
win
Brulette’s
hand
in
marriage.
As
a
boy,
Joset
often
relies
on
Brulette
in
order
to
communicate
with
others:
“Elle
a
une
voix
en
ma
place
et
une
voix
si
douce,
si
claire,
et
qui
dit
si
justement
les
choses
entendues,
que
je
prenais
déjà,
étant
petit
enfant,
mon
plus
grand
plaisir
à
l’écouter”
(43).
Whereas
many
dismiss
Joset
as
utterly
inarticulate,
Brulette
senses
that
his
inability
to
convey
his
thoughts
and
feelings
stems
from
a
paralyzing
passion
rather
than
any
lack
of
intelligence.
She
observes,
“Celui
qui
aime
trop
est
craintif;
il
ne
se
peut
arracher
une
parole
du
ventre,
et
on
le
juge
sot
parce
qu’il
est
transi
de
désir
et
de
honte”
(193).
Surprisingly,
Joset
does
not
need
to
utter
a
word
or
play
a
single
musical
note
to
convince
Brulette
of
his
innate
musical
talent.
She
need
only
look
him
in
the
eye
to
know
that
he
possesses
an
extraordinary
gift:
“Je
sais
que
tu
as
dans
les
oreilles,
ou
dans
la
cervelle,
ou
dans
le
cœur,
une
vraie
musique
du
bon
Dieu,
parce
que
j’ai
vu
ça
dans
tes
yeux
quand
j’étais
petite”
(45).
Joset,
however,
remains
dissatisfied
and
hopes
that
in
learning
to
perform
Bourbonnais
music,
he
will
be
able
to
communicate
with
those
around
him.
Announcing
99
his
intention
to
perform
the
same
music
that
Etienne
had
heard
Huriel
play
in
the
woods,
Joset
begins
what
Etienne
terms
“un
sabbat
de
fous”
(48).
And
although
Joset’s
music
makes
Etienne
feel
uncomfortable
at
times,
the
narrator
is
forced
to
admit
that
he
does
take
some
pleasure
in
the
strange
melody.
At
the
end
of
Joset’s
debut,
Brulette
cannot
hold
back
her
emotions.
Surprisingly,
Brulette
recounts
what
she
has
seen
rather
than
what
she
has
heard
during
Joset’s
moving
performance.
With
tears
streaming
down
her
face,
she
exclaims,
Je
me
sentais
portée
comme
avec
toi
par
un
grand
vent
qui
nous
promenait
tantôt
sur
les
blés
mûrs,
tantôt
sur
des
herbes
folles,
tantôt
sur
des
eaux
courantes;
et
je
voyais
des
prés,
des
bois,
des
fontaines,
des
pleins
champs
de
fleurs
et
des
pleins
ciels
d’oiseaux
qui
passaient
dans
les
nuées.
J’ai
vu
aussi,
dans
ma
songerie,
ta
mère
et
mon
grand‐
père
assis
devant
le
feu,
et
causant
de
choses
que
je
n’entendais
point,
tandis
que
je
te
voyais
à
genoux
dans
un
coin,
disant
ta
prière,
et
que
je
me
sentais
comme
endormie
dans
mon
petit
lit.
J’ai
vu
encore
la
terre
couverte
de
neige,
et
des
saulnées
remplies
d’alouettes,
et
puis
des
nuits
remplies
d’étoiles
filantes,
et
nous
les
regardions,
assis
tous
deux
sur
un
tertre
.
.
.
(49,
my
emphasis)
Even
the
fountains
and
birds,
which
one
might
easily
associate
with
sound,
are
presented
as
images
that
form
in
Brulette’s
imagination.
She
goes
so
far
as
to
describe
a
scene
in
which
she
observes
her
grandfather
and
Joset’s
mother
speak
to
one
another
100
but
cannot
make
out
what
they
are
saying.
The
same
is
true
as
she
sees
Joset
offer
up
a
prayer.
That
Sand
would
underscore
the
visual
rather
than
the
auditory
effects
of
Joset’s
music
suggests
the
concreteness
of
what
Brulette
experiences
when
listening
to
Joset’s
music,
and
as
soon
as
Joset
realizes
that
Brulette
has
seen
what
he
intended,
he
exclaims,
“C’est
bien!
Ce
que
j’ai
songé,
ce
que
j’ai
vu
en
flûtant,
tu
l’as
vu
aussi!
Merci
Brulette!
Par
toi,
je
sais
que
je
ne
suis
point
fou
et
qu’il
y
a
une
vérité
dans
ce
qu’on
entend
comme
dans
ce
qu’on
voit.
.
.
.
Ça
parle,
ce
méchant
bout
de
roseau;
ça
dit
ce
qu’on
pense;
ça
montre
comme
avec
les
yeux;
ça
raconte
comme
avec
les
mots;
ça
aime
comme
avec
le
cœur;
ça
vit,
ça
existe!”
(50).45
Joset
knows
that
he
can
prove
himself
equal,
if
not
superior,
to
other
musicians
and
Brulette’s
many
suitors.
He
joyfully
declares,
“A
présent,
Joset
le
fou,
Joset
l’innocent,
Joset
l’ébervigé,
tu
peux
bien
retomber
dans
ton
imbécilité;
tu
es
aussi
fort,
aussi
savant,
aussi
heureux
qu’un
autre”
(118).
Bolstered
by
his
discovery,
Joset
sets
out
for
the
neighboring
region
of
Bourbonnais
to
further
cultivate
his
innate
talent
under
the
tutelage
of
Père
Bastien,
expecting
to
win
the
heart
of
Brulette
and
become
a
member
of
the
elite
musical
brotherhood,
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs.
45
James
Dauphiné
makes
a
strong
argument
that
in
repeating
ça
seven
times,
Sand
makes
reference
to
the
seven
notes
of
a
musical
scale
(do,
re,
mi,
fa,
sol,
la,
ti).
See
“Ecriture
et
musique
dans
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
de
George
Sand”
in
Nineteenth‐Century
French
Studies
9(3‐4)
Spring‐Summer
1981,
pp
185‐191.
101
And
yet,
as
we
have
seen,
expectations
set
up
by
musical
modes
are
not
always
respected.
Even
though
Sand
leads
the
reader
to
believe
that
a
marriage
between
a
Berrichon
and
a
Bourbonnais
is
impossible,
the
narrative
eventually
supersedes
that
opposition.
For
example,
Etienne,
the
narrator,
growing
up
in
Berry,
cannot
conceive
of
a
woman
from
another
land
being
lovelier
than
Brulette,
but
his
opinion
quickly
changes
upon
meeting
Huriel’s
sister,
Thérence.
The
first
encounter
between
the
Berrichon
and
the
Bourbonnaise
occurs
when
they
are
children
travelling
with
their
fathers.
Although
Thérence
suffers
from
a
fever,
Etienne
instantly
notes
her
beauty:
“Elle
était
blanche
et
menue
comme
un
flambeau
de
cire
vierge,
et
ses
cheveux
noirs,
débordant
d’un
petit
bonnet
en
mode
étrangère.
.
.
.
Je
n’avais
jamais
rien
vu
de
si
bien
achevé
.
.
.”
(16‐17).
Etienne’s
attraction
is
a
physical
one.
He
is
drawn
to
this
“fille
des
bois”
whose
appearance
and
clothing
are
so
different
from
that
of
the
girls
in
Berry.
Although
they
hardly
spend
an
hour
together,
the
memory
of
the
girl
stays
with
Etienne.
The
relationship
between
Etienne
and
Thérence
closely
mirrors
the
happy
couple
of
Père
Bastien’s
song.
Whereas
Brulette
teases
Etienne
and
even
allows
him
to
think
that
she
might
fall
in
love
with
him
before
entertaining
the
attention
of
someone
else,
Thérence
offers
her
forthright
affection
without
any
embarrassment.
As
Etienne
reflects
upon
the
two
young
women,
he
realizes
that
he
is
most
attracted
to
Thérence
because
of
her
candid
demeanor
which
mirrors
his
own.
As
he
confesses
to
Brulette,
Par
réflexion,
il
est
possible
que
j’eusse
senti
quelque
regret,
non
parce
qu’elle
était
plus
parfaite
que
toi
en
beauté,
ne
crois
point
la
102
chose
possible;
mais
parce
qu’elle
me
donna
un
baiser
gros
et
bon
sur
chaque
joue,
lequel
je
n’avais
et
n’ai
encore
jamais
reçu
de
toi.
D’où
j’aurais
pu
conclure
qu’elle
était
fille
à
donner
un
jour
son
cœur
bien
franchement,
tandis
que
la
discrétion
du
tien
me
tenait
dès
lors,
et
m’a
toujours
tenu
depuis,
en
peine
et
en
crainte.
(75)
Etienne’s
recollection
of
Thérence
and
his
encounter
with
her
sounds
a
bit
like
Père
Bastien’s
folksong;
he
makes
mention
of
“un
baiser
gros
et
bon”
and
describes
the
Bourbonnais
girl
as
someone
who
will
someday
offer
her
heart
to
another
“bien
franchement.”
Thérence
displays
her
affection
as
plainly
as
the
third
woodsman
who
wins
the
heart
of
the
girl
in
Père
Bastien’s
song,
thereby
causing
Etienne
to
consider
new
possibilities
for
himself
and
his
pursuit
of
love.
As
he
admits,
“Je
ne
pouvais
pas
penser
à
Thérence
sans
une
sorte
de
tremblement
dans
la
moelle
de
mes
os,
comme
si
l’on
m’eût
invité
à
voyager
en
pleine
mer,
moi
qui
n’avais
jamais
mis
le
pied
sur
un
bateau
de
rivage”
(254).
If
Etienne
never
expected
his
desires
to
take
him
beyond
his
own
pays,
Thérence
causes
him
to
change
the
direction
of
his
life.
That
Etienne
redirects
his
desire
from
Brulette
to
Thérence
makes
one
reconsider
the
possibility
of
Huriel
and
Brulette’s
union,
and
in
fact
no
one
defies
the
reader’s
expectation
more
than
the
mysterious
muleteer.
As
someone
who
can
easily
cross
from
one
region
to
the
next,
Huriel
and
his
music
become
particularly
difficult
to
define.
Referring
to
himself
as
“le
corbeau
noir
du
Bourbonnais,”
(71),
he
endlessly
103
circles
between
the
Berry
plains
and
the
Bourbonnais
woods.
Indeed,
Huriel
chooses
to
drift
rather
than
“nest”
in
one
place:
Croyez‐vous
que
l’homme
soit
fait
pour
nicher
toute
l’année?
M’est
avis,
au
contraire,
que
son
destin
est
de
courir,
et
qu’il
serait
cent
fois
plus
fort,
plus
gai,
plus
sain
d’esprit
et
de
corps,
s’il
n’avait
pas
tant
cherché
ses
aises,
qui
l’ont
rendu
mal,
craintif
et
sujet
aux
maladies.
(108)
Although
he
is
typically
clad
in
black,
there
are
occasions
when
Huriel
appears
to
be
“beau
comme
le
soleil”
(239).
During
one
particular
visit
to
Berry,
Etienne
does
not
even
recognize
him:
Au
lieu
de
son
sarrau
encharbonné,
de
ses
vieilles
guêtres
de
cuir,
de
son
chapeau
cabossé
et
de
sa
figure
noire,
il
avait
un
habillement
neuf,
tout
en
fin
drogue
blanc
jaspé
de
bleu,
du
beau
linge,
un
chapeau
de
paille
enrubanné
de
trente‐six
couleurs,
la
barbe
faite,
la
face
bien
lavée
et
rose
comme
une
pêche:
enfin,
c’était
le
plus
bel
homme
que
j’aie
vu
de
ma
vie.
(78)
As
Huriel
takes
up
the
bagpipes
so
that
the
Berrichons
might
dance
at
their
festive
gathering,
his
music
also
proves
to
be
more
beautiful
than
any
other.
This
time,
rather
than
fleeing
from
the
unfamiliar
melodies,
Etienne
finds
himself
gravitating
towards
the
music:
“Jugez
donc
une
musique,
la
plus
belle
qu’on
eût
ouïe
au
pays,
et
qui
ne
coûtait
rien!”
(84‐85).
While
Huriel’s
music
is
admittedly
different
from
that
of
Berry,
104
Etienne
now
acknowledges
its
beauty.
As
the
Berrichons
come
together
to
celebrate
the
feast
day
of
Saint
John
the
Baptist,
the
focus
of
the
festivities
turns
to
Huriel
whose
first
name,
coincidentally,
is
also
Jean.
This
biblical
association
is
only
enhanced
by
the
resemblance
of
the
muleteer’s
last
name
to
Uriel,
the
archangel
believed
to
bring
light
to
God’s
people.46
As
they
hear
the
muleteer
play,
the
Berrichons
quickly
gather
around
him:
Les
vieux,
les
jeunes,
les
petits
enfants
qui
ne
savaient
pas
encore
mener
leurs
jambes,
comme
les
grands‐pères
qui
ne
tenaient
quasi
plus
sur
les
leurs,
les
vieilles
qui
se
trémoussaient
à
l’ancienne
mode,
les
gars
maladroits
qui
n’avaient
jamais
pu
mordre
à
la
mesure,
tout
se
mit
en
branle,
et,
pour
un
peu,
la
cloche
de
la
paroisse
s’y
serait
mise
aussi
d’elle‐même.
(84)
Etienne
indicates
that
Huriel
plays
music
“à
l’ancienne
mode.”
Travelling
from
town
to
town,
bagpipers
such
as
Huriel
act
as
the
guardians
of
tradition,
those
who
help
to
mark
the
most
joyous
and
solemn
occasions
of
a
community
with
their
music.
The
making
of
music
now
becomes
a
mysterious
and
almost
mystical
experience
that
brings
together
young
and
old,
past
and
present.
It
is
not
by
accident
that
Huriel’s
music
is
said
to
sound
enchanting
even
to
the
town’s
church
bells,
which
eventually
signal
the
new
day
when
the
muleteer
falls
to
his
knees
and
leads
the
villagers
in
prayer,
a
spontaneous
moment
that
is
short‐lived
but
emotionally
stirring.
46
See
Dauphiné,
pp.
185‐191.
105
That
Huriel
could
create
such
different
impressions
with
his
bagpipes
leads
one
to
conclude
that
he
has
achieved
the
highest
level
of
music‐making,
but
Père
Bastien
indicates
otherwise.
Comparing
his
son
to
Joset,
Père
Bastien
explains,
Mon
fils
Huriel
a
de
l’esprit
et
du
talent.
.
.
.
.
Mais
il
y
a
une
grande
différence
.
.
.
entre
ceux
qui
retiennent
et
ceux
qui
inventent
:
il
y
a
ceux
qui,
avec
des
doigts
légers
et
une
mémoire
juste,
disent
agréablement
ce
qu’on
leur
a
enseigné;
mais
il
y
a
ceux
qui
ne
se
contentent
d’aucune
leçon
et
vont
devant
deux,
cherchant
des
idées
et
faisant,
à
tous
les
musiciens
à
venir,
le
cadeau
de
leurs
trouvailles.
Or
je
te
dis
que
Joseph
est
de
ceux‐là,
et
qu’il
y
a
même
en
lui
deux
natures
bien
remarquables:
la
nature
de
la
plaine
.
.
.
et
la
nature
de
nos
bois
et
de
nos
collines
.
.
.
(259)
Whereas
the
musical
modes
shape
Joset’s
fundamental
being,
they
do
not
seem
to
influence
Huriel’s
essential
nature.
Whether
in
Berry
or
Bourbonnais,
Huriel’s
moral
character
proves
unwavering
throughout.
His
first
meeting
with
Etienne
comes
about
after
he
enters
the
Berrichon’s
house
uninvited.
Such
a
trespass
results
in
Etienne’s
challenging
him
to
a
duel,
but
after
Huriel
quickly
proves
the
victor,
the
muleteer
chooses
not
to
harm
Etienne
but
to
befriend
him:
“En
voilà
assez
.
.
.
soyons
amis.
Je
te
fais
excuse
d’être
entré
en
ta
maison.
.
.
.”
(66).
And
indeed,
after
the
two
men
share
a
drink,
Etienne
must
admit
that
Huriel
has
proven
“bon
compagnon,
beau
causeur
et
aimable.
.
.
.”
(66).
It
is
Huriel
who
arranges
for
Joset
to
acquire
his
own
bagpipes,
106
traveling
to
Berry
in
order
to
deliver
the
instrument.
Later,
after
Joset
falls
gravely
ill,
Huriel
travels
again
to
Berry
so
that
he
might
lead
Etienne
and
Brulette
to
their
ailing
companion.
The
moment
at
which
one
most
clearly
witnesses
Huriel’s
moral
resoluteness,
however,
is
after
a
fellow
muleteer
named
Malzac47
insults
Brulette’s
honor
during
her
visit
in
Bourbonnais.
Declaring
that
Malzac
had
previously
threatened
him,
Huriel
challenges
him
to
a
duel
to
the
death
and
in
so
doing
prevents
Etienne
and
Joset
from
risking
their
lives
to
defend
Brulette’s
honor.
Even
more
nobly,
Huriel
sacrifices
his
chance
to
seek
the
hand
of
Brulette,
whom
he
loves.
He
tells
Etienne,
“Tu
comprends
donc,
de
reste,
qu’un
homme
menacé,
comme
je
suis,
d’une
mauvaise
affaire,
ne
peut
pas,
de
longtemps,
songer
à
courtiser
une
fille
aussi
recherchée
et
aussi
précieuse
que
Brulette”
(176).
In
renouncing
his
pursuit
of
Brulette,
Huriel
paradoxically
proves
himself
the
most
deserving
of
suitors
but
also
demonstrates
his
unwavering
disposition,
which
Brulette
cannot
help
but
admire
and
eventually
love
so
much
that
Huriel
is
compelled
to
ask
the
young
woman,
“Etes‐vous
donc
Bourbonnaise,
Brulette
.
.
.?”
(117)
47
The
names
of
Sand’s
characters
are
rarely
without
consequence,
leading
one
to
wonder
whether
Sand
might
be
inserting
a
bit
of
a
jab
at
fellow
writer,
Honoré
de
Balzac.
To
introduce
him
to
her
readers,
Sand
writes,
“Malzac,
c’était
le
nom
de
notre
ennemi
(et
il
avait
une
langue
aussi
mauvaise
que
celle
d’un
aspic)
.
.
.”
(155).
She
thus
seems
to
be
glossing
her
own
modification
of
the
name,
commenting
on
what
makes
“Mal‐zac”
“mauvais.”
107
Reaching
(for)
Resolution
With
Brulette
all
but
paired
off
with
Huriel,
just
as
readers
begin
to
anticipate
a
harmonious
resolution
to
Etienne’s
tale
suggestive
of
the
major
mode,
the
fate
of
the
novel’s
most
musical
character,
Joset,
upsets
their
expectations
yet
again.
The
musician
has
yet
to
acquire
what
he
has
sought
from
the
very
beginning:
Brulette’s
love
and
the
title
of
maître
sonneur.
Even
when
it
becomes
evident
that
Brulette
loves
Huriel
in
return,
Joset
is
unable
to
separate
the
young
woman
from
his
artistic
aim
and
proves
willing
to
fight
Huriel
for
her.
As
Père
Bastien
states,
“Brulette
est
dans
son
idée
depuis
qu’il
est
au
monde”
(85).
But
whereas
Huriel
is
willing
to
change
his
career
and
nomadic
way
of
life
in
order
to
become
a
worthy
suitor,
Joset
refuses
to
sacrifice
any
aspect
of
his
artistic
pursuit,
echoing
the
sentiment
he
expresses
early
in
the
novel:
“Je
n’ai
encore
que
mon
idée,
mon
roseau
et
elle”
(44).
In
the
novel’s
final
section
the
question
then
becomes:
Can
Joset’s
love
story
and
his
musical
story
both
be
resolved
in
the
same
way—or,
to
return
to
musical
terminology,
in
the
same
mode?
To
be
sure,
Joset
tries
to
keep
the
two
things
he
loves
most
together:
in
an
attempt
at
luring
Brulette
away
from
Huriel,
he
turns
to
music.
Music
has
become
his
exclusive
medium;
there
is
no
longer
any
question
of
his
winning
the
young
woman’s
affection
with
words.
Recalling
the
lyrics
of
Père
Bastien’s
tune,
Joset
challenges
Huriel
to
a
duel,
saying,
Je
me
rappelle
une
chanson
de
mon
maître
dont
la
musique
est
belle
et
les
paroles
variées:
108
On
donne
à
qui
demande.
—Eh
bien,
marchez,
Huriel!
Demandez
en
paroles,
moi
je
demanderai
en
musique,
et
nous
verrons
si
on
est
trop
engagé
avec
vous
pour
ne
pas
se
retourner
de
mon
côté.
(271)
Armed
with
his
bagpipes,
Joset
is
no
longer
the
timid
woodsman
who
never
voices
his
love
for
la
fillette.
He
undermines
the
expectation
created
by
Père
Bastien’s
Les
Trois
Fendeux,
in
his
own
wordless
version
of
the
song
(he
refuses
to
sing
the
accompanying
verses)
making
it
clear
musically
rather
than
linguistically
that
he
rather
than
Huriel
should
be
the
victor.
Even
the
less
musically
sensitive
Etienne
intuits
the
emotion
that
propels
Joset’s
melody
and
describes
the
performance
as
follows:
Il
le
joua
d’abord
tel
que
nous
le
connaissions,
et
ensuite
un
peu
différemment,
d’une
façon
plus
douce
et
plus
triste,
et
enfin
le
changea
du
tout
au
tout,
variant
les
modes,
et
y
mêlant
du
sien,
qui
n’était
pas
pire,
et
qui
même
semblait
soupirer
et
prier
d’une
manière
si
tendre
qu’on
ne
se
pouvait
tenir
d’en
être
touché
de
compassion.
Ensuite,
il
le
prit
sur
un
ton
plus
fort
et
plus
vif,
comme
si
c’était
une
chanson
de
reproche
et
de
commandement.
.
.
.
(279)
To
confound
all
expectations,
Joset
plays
in
both
the
major
and
minor
mode,
showcasing
both
the
music
of
his
own
pays
and
all
that
he
has
learned
during
his
travels
to
Bourbonnais.
His
improvised
tune
initially
brings
forth
feelings
of
tenderness
and
compassion—Etienne
compares
it
to
a
prayer—but
eventually
becomes
forceful
and
109
even
threatening
as
Joset’s
bruised
ego
flares.
Perhaps
in
the
end
the
musician
loses
sight
of
his
dream
of
keeping
love
and
music
on
equal
footing
and
becomes
more
concerned
about
demonstrating
his
musical
prowess
than
his
love;
perhaps,
in
the
end,
his
true
love
is
music:
“Ce
qui
l’a
rendu
épris
de
Brulette,
c’est
que,
de
bonne
heure,
elle
l’a
écouté
et
excité
à
la
musique”
(261).
As
Brulette’s
name
suggests,
she
does
arouse
an
ardent
desire
within
men—“Brulette”
obviously
stems
from
the
verb
“to
burn”
(brûler)—but
the
diminutive
form
may
suggest
Brulette’s
inability
to
rival
music’s
place
in
Joset’s
heart.
The
musician
loves
the
young
woman
to
the
extent
that
she
validates
and
inspires
his
musical
genius.
At
the
end
of
Joset’s
performance,
it
is
thus
Père
Bastien
who
approaches
the
musician,
exclaiming,
“Brave
musique
et
grand
sonneur!”
(279).
Joset’s
music
brings
him
widespread
recognition
but
never
Brulette’s
love.
She
tells
him,
“Je
t’ai
donné
là
une
belle
maîtrise,
celle
de
la
musique!
Il
t’en
faut
contenter
et
ne
point
demander
la
maîtrise
d’amour
qui
ne
se
gagne
point
par
force
ni
par
science,
mais
par
la
volonté
du
bon
Dieu”
(281).
After
recognizing
that
he
will
never
win
Brulette’s
affections,
Joset
becomes
all
the
more
determined
to
become
a
maître
sonneur:
“Je
n’ai
qu’une
force,
c’est
ma
volonté
d’être
grand
musicien
.
.
.”
(141).
To
become
such
a
musician,
however,
poses
a
threat
to
his
fellow
bagpipers
and
the
larger
community.
Joset
has
mastered
the
musical
modes
of
Berry
and
Bourbonnais
to
such
an
extent
that
he
demands
something
more
110
than
what
either
region
and
its
inhabitants
might
ever
offer
him.
As
Père
Bastien
predicts,
Il
sera
donc,
pour
ceux
qui
auront
des
oreilles
pour
entendre,
autre
chose
qu’un
sonneur
ménétrier
de
campagne.
Il
sera
un
vrai
maître
sonneur
des
anciens
temps,
un
de
ceux
que
les
plus
forts
écoutent
avec
attention
et
qui
commandent
des
changements
à
la
coutume.
(259)
Although
Joset
demands
an
audition
to
become
a
maître
sonneur,
he
cannot
ignore
the
inferiority
of
the
group’s
music:
“A
présent,
je
me
moque
bien
de
vos
beugleurs
de
musette
criarde!
Je
crois,
Dieu
me
pardonne,
que
je
serais
plus
fier
de
leur
refus
que
de
leur
agrément”
(306).
From
this
point
on,
Joset
is
so
self‐absorbed
that
he
separates
himself
from
not
only
Brulette
but
also
the
community
of
maîtres
sonneurs
of
which
he
once
so
strongly
desired
to
be
a
part.
Whereas
Joset
was
initially
ignored
because
he
could
not
find
a
way
to
express
himself,
he
is
now
rejected
because
his
musical
genius
surpasses
that
of
others,
indeed,
seems
almost
to
surpass
the
power
of
language,
which
necessarily
depends
on
a
more
conventional
sharing
of
inherited
meanings.
As
he
acknowledges,
“[Je]
ne
crois
plus
à
l’aide
des
autres,
et
ne
veux
plus
compter
que
sur
moi‐même”
(320).
Whereas
Joset’s
teacher,
Père
Bastien,
is
able,
for
better
or
for
worse,
to
explain
the
differences
between
the
music
of
Berry
and
Bourbonnais—the
major
and
the
minor
modes—Joset
masters
both
to
such
an
extent
that
he
inserts
a
new
mode
that
stems
111
from
his
genius
alone:
“Il
le
joua
[l’air]
.
.
.
variant
les
modes,
et
y
mêlant
du
sien”
(279,
my
emphasis).48
It
would
be
easy
then
to
dismiss
Joset’s
fate
as
a
result
of
the
egoism
that
propels
his
artistic
pursuits,
and
there
is
no
denying
that
in
terms
of
the
potential
couplings
presented
earlier
in
the
narrative,
Joset
turns
out
to
be
a
fifth
wheel.
And
although
Père
Bastien
suggests
that
Joset
eventually
dies
because
of
harsh
words
(and
presumably
harsh
blows)
exchanged
between
himself
and
the
bagpipers
of
the
mountainous
region
of
Morvan,
his
body
shows
no
signs
of
harm.
If
he
had
been
attacked,
there
was
no
obvious
struggle,
thus
implying
that
his
was
a
life
sacrificed
for
the
happiness
of
the
others.
In
fact,
one
could
argue
that
it
is
thanks
to
Joset
and
his
music
that
the
other
characters
were
able
to
meet
and
ultimately
fall
in
love
in
the
first
place.
And
yet
one
could
also
argue
that
it
is
thanks
to
Joset’s
extreme
musicality
that
he
is
unable
to
be
fully
integrated
into
the
novel’s
conclusion.
The
burning
question
of
which
of
Brulette’s
three
suitors
will
be
chosen
is
resolved
linguistically
rather
than
musically,
as
the
words
of
Père
Bastien’s
song
end
up
being
correct
in
the
expectation
they
set
forth,
whereas
the
minor
mode
in
which
his
song
is
performed
does
not
really
account
for
a
dénouement
that
is
just
as
sad
as
it
is
joyous.
In
spite
of
the
extraordinary
level
of
artistry
Joset
attains,
it
is
difficult
to
say
that
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs
accords
him
a
48
One
cannot
help
but
recall
Sand’s
exchange
with
Chopin
in
which
he
insists
that
his
Prélude
is
not
inspired
by
“des
sons
extérieurs”
but
from
the
music
that
exists
within
himself,
“son
génie.”
For
a
brief
discussion
of
that
exchange,
see
the
introduction
to
the
present
study.
112
happy
fate.
Etienne
expresses
this
very
idea
in
the
last
line
of
the
novel,
saying,
“Tout
ce
que
disait
là
mon
beau‐père
[Père
Bastien]
arriva
comme
il
le
conseillait
et
l’augurait
.
.
.
et,
comme
la
vie
est
un
ragout
mélangé
de
tristesse
et
de
contentement,
la
pauvre
Mariton
[la
mère
de
Joset]
vint
souvent
pleurer
chez
nous,
et
le
bon
carme
y
vint
souvent
rire”
(345).
Here,
Etienne
makes
reference
to
Père
Bastien’s
prediction
that
they
will
spend
the
rest
of
their
lives
travelling
from
Berry
to
Bourbonnais,
but
his
words
are
just
as
applicable
to
Père
Bastien’s
song.
Whereas
its
lyrics
predict
the
happy
union
of
the
two
couples,
its
underlying
melody,
sounded
in
a
minor
key,
suggests
Joset’s
poignant
end.
In
fact,
we
might
assume
that
the
oracle
of
the
song
encompasses
Sand’s
own
relationship
to
Berry
and
the
life
it
represents.
As
she
goes
to
great
lengths
to
encapsulate
the
essence
of
her
native
Berry,
she
must
also
acknowledge
that
she
is
no
longer
naïve
to
the
world
that
exists
beyond
it.
Whereas
she
might
wish
to
return
to
a
simpler
and
more
natural
way
of
life,
she
cannot
erase
the
impact
of
her
time
spent
elsewhere
in
order
to
pursue
an
education
in
the
city
and
all
it
represents.
Similar
to
Joset,
the
manipulator
of
modes,
Sand
must
accept
that
she
is
somehow
caught
between
two
different
worlds.
Such
a
vantage
point
allows
one
to
see
and
interpret
the
world
differently,
but
it
is
also
unsettling
because
it
implies
an
untraversable
distance
that
may
ultimately
leave
one
without
a
true
sense
of
home.
113
Chapter
3
Punctus
contre
Punctum:
Consuelo
contre
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
Perhaps
no
work
of
George
Sand’s
proves
as
seemingly
boundless
as
Consuelo
(1842)
and
its
sequel
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
(1843).
Sweeping
through
time
and
space,
the
novel
follows
the
story
of
the
eponymous
heroine
before
and
after
she
marries
Count
Albert
de
Rudolstadt.
Set
in
the
eighteenth
century,
although
recalling
events
from
as
far
back
as
the
1400s,
the
novel
spills
over
with
philosophy,
religion,
politics,
and
art.
As
the
protagonist
journeys
from
Venice
to
Germany
via
Boehmer‐Wald
and
Austria,
she
meets
individuals
of
both
genders
(and
for
quite
a
while
passes
herself
off
as
a
man)
and
of
different
classes,
nationalities,
political
convictions,
religious
persuasions,
and
aesthetic
sensibilities.49
Sand
herself
describes
the
novel
as
“interminable”
(Correspondances,
VI:
211)
as
she
continues
to
fill
the
text
with
theatrical
dialogues,
epistles,
journal
entries,
and
musical
lyrics.
So
numerous
are
the
ways
in
which
to
approach
these
texts
that
quite
recently,
the
Université
Lyon
2
hosted
an
49
The
extent
of
Sand’s
research
is
impressive.
She
even
goes
so
far
as
to
request
a
research
assistant:
“J’ai
besoin,
pour
Consuelo
.
.
.
d’un
garçon
intelligent
qui
lise
pour
moi
une
foule
de
livres
et
qui
me
fasse
des
notes,
qui
m’indique
les
passages
relatifs
à
mon
sujet
.
.
.
enfin
qui
m’épargne
des
heures
d’un
travail
auquel
mon
temps
et
mes
yeux
ne
suffisent
plus”
(Correspondances,
VI:
124‐125).
114
international
colloquium
devoted
exclusively
to
the
discussion
of
the
two
novels.50
And
while
each
of
the
twenty‐nine
scholars
presented
distinct
interpretations
of
Sand’s
most
celebrated
oeuvre,
they
all
seem
to
offer
one
of
two
alternatives
in
terms
of
the
relations
between
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt:
they
should
be
read
either
as
individual
works
or
as
one
extended
narrative.
I
would
like
to
suggest
that
the
two
texts
should
be
read
“simultaneously”
as
in
a
piece
of
polyphonic
music.
This
chapter
will
examine
how,
in
establishing
the
overarching
structure
of
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
Sand
borrows
from
the
compositional
method
of
counterpoint
to
challenge
established
hierarchies
and
encourage
unions
inspired
purely
by
love
and
equality.
Working
both
with
and
against
one
another—point
against
point—these
paired
episodes
impart
a
more
complete
understanding
of
the
very
ideals
to
which
Sand
aspires.
Sand’s
awareness
of
counterpoint
is
made
explicit
when
she
describes
an
encounter
between
the
heroine
and
Joseph
Haydn,
the
as‐yet‐unknown
musician
and
composer.
The
two
meet
on
the
road
to
Vienna,
and
Consuelo
immediately
notices
the
musical
treatise
that
Haydn
holds
in
his
hand.
“Je
parie
que
c’est
le
Gradus
ad
Parnassum
de
Fuchs?”
(Consuelo,
339),
she
asks
before
going
on
to
describe
her
“longues
et
sévères
études
de
contre‐point”
(Consuelo,
365).
The
treatise
in
question
50
The
colloquium
took
place
in
November,
2001.
The
proceedings
are
published
in
a
collection
entitled
Lectures
de
Consuelo
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
de
George
Sand
(Lyon:
Presses
Universitaires
de
Lyon,
2004).
For
further
analysis
of
these
two
novels,
see
La
Porporina:
entretiens
sur
Consuelo.
Léon
Cellier,
ed.
(Grenoble:
Presses
universitaires
de
Grenoble,
1976).
115
was
published
in
1725
and
translated
into
French
in
1833.51
We
can
assume
that
Sand
is
fairly
familiar
with
the
treatise
as
its
list
of
subscribers
to
the
French
edition
included
members
of
her
closest
circles
such
as
Liszt
and
Chopin
(Mann,
xiv).
In
While
the
Music
Lasts:
Representations
of
Music
in
the
Works
of
George
Sand,
David
A.
Powell
also
affirms
that
she
borrows
from
the
musical
technique
as
she
details
the
individual
yet
interweaving
journeys
of
the
two
musicians:
The
juxtaposition
or
the
superimposition
of
two
different
but
similar
journeys,
both
moving
in
the
same
direction
at
different
rates
and
having
started
at
different
places
and
points
in
time,
destined
to
arrive
harmoniously
at
the
same
destination
at
the
same
time
and
in
similar
circumstances,
underscores
the
similarity
of
goal
and
technique
that
links
the
two
musicians.
Yet
at
the
same
time
the
contrary
motion
of
their
careers—one
[Consuelo]
starts
with
practically
no
training
and
becoming
a
performing
artist
while
the
other
[Haydn]
comes
from
a
musical
background
and
turns
to
composition—allows
for
a
depth
and
richness
common
to
counterpoint.
And
throughout
all
this
journey,
Consuelo
and
Haydn
discuss
the
exercises
in
Fux’s
book
of
counterpoint.
(44‐45)
51
As
Sand
composes
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
we
know
that
she
consults
the
Biographie
universelle
des
musiciens
written
by
François‐Joseph
Fétis
(“L’Absence
de
la
polyphonie,”
Dayan,
96‐97).
Fétis
also
happens
to
be
the
same
musicologist
who
translates
Fuchs’s
Gradus
ad
Parnassum
into
French,
a
fact
that
further
suggests
Sand’s
familiarity
with
the
musical
treatise.
116
Powell’s
analysis
underscores
that
Sand
is
not
only
aware
of
Fuchs’s
treatise
but
also
hopes
to
borrow
from
its
lessons
as
she
composes
her
novels.
In
fact,
I
hope
to
demonstrate
by
my
analysis
that
the
application
of
the
musical
concept
may
be
fruitfully
extended
beyond
this
single
episode
alluded
to
by
Powell
and
that
it
provides
Sand
with
a
“method”
to
construct
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt.
In
Gradus
ad
Parnassum,
Fuchs
proposes
a
step‐by‐step
process
that
enables
a
novice
musician
to
acquire
mastery
of
musical
composition.
A
true
pedagogue,52
he
engages
his
readers
by
presenting
his
lessons
in
the
form
of
a
dialogue
between
a
teacher,
Aloysius,
and
a
student,
Josephus,53
who
begin
their
conversation
by
discussing
the
most
basic
fundamentals
of
musical
composition
such
as
a
harmonic
interval
but
eventually
delve
into
more
complicated
questions
such
as
how
to
write
music
for
as
52
Fuchs
states
at
the
outset,
“Mon
projet
est
d’apporter
un
secours
aux
jeunes
aspirants
à
cette
faculté;
j’en
connais
un
très
grand
nombre,
doués
d’une
nature
excellente,
brûlant
au
plus
haut
point
d’intérêt
pour
leur
discipline,
mais
qui,
dépourvus
d’argent
et
de
maître,
ne
peuvent
[réaliser]
leur
souhait,
et
étancher
leur
soif
désespérée
et
inextinguible
d’apprendre”
(25).
In
this
regard,
Haydn
is
Fuchs’s
model
student.
Lacking
the
means
to
pay
for
lessons,
he
did
in
fact
study
religiously
from
Gradus
ad
Parnassum
during
his
formative
years.
As
P.
H.
Lang
observes,
“[Haydn]
took
infinite
pains
to
assimilate
the
theory
of
Fux
.
.
.
writing
out
exercises,
then
laying
them
aside
for
a
few
weeks,
to
look
them
over
again
later
and
polish
them
until
he
was
satisfied
he
had
done
everything
exactly
right”
(qtd.
in
Mann,
xi.).
53
Aloysius
is
based
on
Italian
Renaissance
composer,
Giovanni
Pierluigi
de
Palestrina
(1525‐1594).
As
Fuchs
explains
in
his
forward,
“By
Aloysius,
the
master,
I
refer
to
Palestrina,
the
celebrated
light
of
music,
from
Praeneste
(or,
as
others
say,
Praeeste),
to
whom
I
owe
everything
that
I
know
of
this
art,
and
whose
memory
I
shall
never
cease
to
cherish
with
a
feeling
of
deepest
reverence.
By
Josephus
I
mean
the
pupil
who
wishes
to
learn
the
art
of
composition”
(18).
117
many
as
four
voices.
Fuchs
makes
his
goal
plain
in
the
introduction
that
prefaces
the
first
lesson:
Certains
se
demanderont
peut‐être
pourquoi,
alors
qu’il
existe
tant
d’ouvrages
d’hommes
très
remarquables
ayant
écrit
sur
la
musique
très
doctement
et
abondamment,
je
me
suis
consacré
à
ce
genre
d’écrit
.
.
.
A
ceux‐ci,
je
voudrais
faire
connaître
ma
pensée:
certes,
il
y
a
eu
parmi
beaucoup
des
écrivains
clairs
par
la
doctrine
et
l’autorité,
qui
ont
laissé
des
écrits
très
copieux
sur
la
musique
spéculative,
mais
hélas
fort
maigres
sur
la
musique
pratique
et
pas
clairs
du
tout.
.
.
.
C’est
pourquoi
j’ai
commencé,
depuis
plusieurs
années
déjà,
à
chercher
avec
ardeur,
n’épargnant
ni
travail
ni
application,
afin
d’inventer
une
méthode
.
.
.
très
comparable,
à
celle
par
laquelle
les
enfants
apprennent
tout
d’abord
les
lettres.
(25)
Evoking
the
very
words
that
Sand
uses
to
describe
her
artistic
aim—“J’écris
sur
la
musique”—Fuchs
does
not
emphasize
the
theory
of
music
as
much
as
the
practice
of
writing
about
it.
He
aims
to
instruct
students
in
the
art
of
musical
composition
so
that
they
know
how
to
combine
voices
in
such
a
way
as
to
create
a
coherent
polyphonic
texture.
He
also
suggests
that
this
practice
closely
resembles
the
act
of
learning
to
read
and
write
a
literary
work.
That
Sand
would
turn
to
a
musical
treatise
detailing
lessons
on
counterpoint
is
thus
not
as
surprising
as
one
might
think,
especially
given
her
aim
to
render
her
writing
118
synonymous
to
a
kind
of
music.
Perhaps,
she
hopes
to
combine
different
narrative
threads
in
much
the
same
way
that
a
composer
combines
different
voices,
or
melodic
lines,
together
in
a
piece
of
music.
Fuchs’s
treaty
would
prove
particularly
helpful
in
this
regard
because
he
underscores
again
and
again
the
need
to
make
all
musical
lines
“singable”
even
though
they
do
not
necessarily
presume
any
lyrics.
He
declares,
“Everything
should
be
as
singable
as
possible”
(qtd.
in
Mann,
37)
and
later
reiterates
“One
should
.
.
.
consider
ease
of
singing”
(qtd.
in
Mann,
61).
Once
again
as
he
reaches
the
end
of
his
lessons,
he
states,
“There
is
nothing
new
that
needs
to
be
explained,
except
that
one
should
take
the
utmost
care
to
write
a
singable
melodic
line—a
concern
I
beg
you
always
to
keep
in
mind”
(qtd.
in
Mann,
64).
This
systematic
emphasis
laid
upon
making
a
melody
line
singable
even
when
one
is
writing
instrumental
musical
ultimately
determines
the
way
in
which
individual
voices
progress
and
join
together
to
create
a
piece
of
polyphonic
music.54
Undoubtedly,
Fuchs’s
emphasis
on
a
cantabile
style
greatly
appeals
to
Sand,
given
her
deliberate
attempts
to
allow
the
voices
of
her
characters
to
resonate
and
even
“sing”
despite
the
radical
differences
that
separate
literature
from
music.55
The
Oxford
54
Composers,
for
example,
might
make
melodic
motion
mostly
stepwise,
with
small
leaps
(a
leap
being
any
interval
larger
than
a
whole
step).
They
might
also
try
to
keep
the
melody
within
a
limited
range,
generally
within
a
single
octave.
In
regards
to
rhythm,
composers
often
try
to
keep
the
rhythmic
values
large
enough
for
a
singer
to
perform
them
without
any
difficulty.
55
One
need
only
consider
the
novels
discussed
in
the
previous
two
chapters.
In
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre,
Sand
chooses
to
create
a
dramatic
dialogue
in
which
she
gives
voice
to
the
eponymous
instrument
and
the
celestial
choruses
rather
than
simply
describing
their
effects
as
in
a
text
that
one
reads
alone
and
in
silence.
In
Les
Maîtres
119
Dictionary
of
Music
defines
counterpoint
as
“the
ability
.
.
.
to
say
two
things
at
once
comprehensibly.56
Derived
from
the
expression
punctus
contra
punctum
(“point
against
point”
or
“note
against
note”),
the
technique
involves
the
combining
of
“parts”
or
“voices”
together
in
such
a
way
that
each
of
them
is
distinct
but
when
performed
together
they
also
create
a
coherent
texture.
Counterpoint
is,
according
to
musicologist
Arnold
Whittall,
“the
quality
that
best
fulfills
the
aesthetic
principle
of
unity
in
diversity.”57
The
different
voices
or
lines
that
comprise
a
polyphonic
piece
can
move
in
different
ways:
they
may
move
in
parallel,
that
is
both
or
all
in
the
same
direction
(direct
or
similar
motion);
one
voice
may
move
up
or
down
while
the
other
voice
continues
to
sound
the
same
note
(oblique
motion);
or,
the
most
common
contrapuntal
technique,
the
voices
may
mirror
each
other,
one
going
up
while
another
goes
down
(contrary
motion).58
And
although
Sand
might
play
with
words
so
as
to
suggest
multiple
simultaneous
meanings—employing
a
paronomasia,
for
example—in
order
to
create
two
lines
or
levels
of
meaning
moving
together,
she
would
have
to
continue
this
practice
over
a
long
period
of
time,
resulting
in
unintelligibility.
Literary
devices
such
as
sonneurs,
she
introduces
the
tale
as
if
it
came
to
her
directly
from
the
Berrichon
narrator,
allowing
his
voice
to
take
the
place
of
her
own
so
as
to
more
accurately
convey
his
time
and
place.
56
See
Michael
Kennedy
and
Joyce
Bourne’s
“Counterpoint,”
The
Concise
Oxford
Dictionary
of
Music,
Web,
26
July
2012.
57
See
“Counterpoint,”
The
Oxford
Companion
to
Music,
ed.
Alison
Latham,
Oxford
Music
Online,
Web,
26
July
2012.
58
For
Fuchs’s
explanation
of
these
three
types
of
motion,
see
Gradus
ad
Parnassum,
pp.
21‐22.
120
allegory
also
fall
short
of
perfectly
mirroring
the
musical
technique
because
they
ultimately
place
more
value
on
the
symbolized
than
on
the
symbol:
Plato’s
cave
and
the
world
that
exists
beyond
it
are
less
important
than
the
limited
nature
of
human
perception
and
comprehension
that
they
represent.
By
contrast,
in
a
polyphonic
piece
of
music,
each
musical
line
proves
as
important
as
all
of
the
others.
Professor
of
word‐
and‐music
studies
Peter
Dayan
insists
upon
this
point
when
defining
the
concept
in
his
own
analysis
of
Consuelo:
“La
polyphonie,
ce
n’est
pas
la
multiplicité
de
voix:
c’est
une
multiplicité
de
voix
égales”
(96).59
Before
exploring
the
ways
Sand
attempts
to
create
a
contrapuntal
literary
texture
in
two
of
her
most
acclaimed
novels,
we
would
do
well
to
ask
ourselves
whether
counterpart
might
have
been
appealing
to
Sand
for
reasons
other
than
aesthetic.
I
would
argue
that
the
notion
of
equality
between
constitutive
parts—a
concept
that
is
central
to
contrapuntal
music—is
one
that
shapes
Sand’s
ideals
as
they
pertain
to
her
public
and
personal
life.
To
illustrate
this
point,
it
is
helpful
to
consider
Pierre
Leroux’s
De
l’égalité
(1838),
an
article
that
Sand
knew
very
well
and
that
articulates
what
is
necessary
to
create
an
ideal
society.60
The
French
philosopher
begins
by
listing
the
republican
ideals
of
liberté,
égalité,
fraternité,
but
quickly
goes
on
to
say
that
equality
amongst
individuals
is
the
most
important
when
working
towards
the
establishment
of
59
See
Peter
Dayan’s
“L’Absence
de
la
polyphonie
dans
les
romans
de
George
Sand”
in
George
Sand:
intertextualité
et
polyphonie
(Oxford
and
New
York:
Peter
Lang,
2011)
pp.
93‐109.
60
Leroux
is
one
of
Sand’s
co‐editors
at
La
Revue
Indépendante,
the
journal
in
which
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
are
published.
121
an
ideal
society:
“L’origine
et
le
but
de
la
société
sont
cachés
dans
ce
mot
[égalité],
comme
dans
l’énigme
du
Sphinx”
(4).
For
Leroux,
liberty
and
fraternity
would
no
longer
be
possible
if
equality
were
taken
out
of
the
equation:
“En
effet,
si
les
hommes
ne
sont
pas
égaux,
comment
voulez‐vous
les
proclamer
tous
libres;
et,
s’ils
ne
sont
ni
égaux
ni
libres,
comment
voulez‐vous
qu’ils
s’aiment
d’un
fraternel
amour?”
(5).
Regardless
of
a
person’s
class,
nationality,
political
conviction,
religious
persuasion,
or
gender,
everyone’s
voice
should
not
only
be
heard
but
also
given
equal
consideration.
If
we
were
to
extend
this
notion
to
the
realm
of
music,
one
might
speculate
that
a
polyphonic
texture
is
evocative
of
the
leveling
of
hierarchy
because
all
“voices”
have
an
equal
importance,
just
as
a
certain
political
ideal
would
have
it
that
voices
across
the
entire
social
spectrum
have
an
equal
right
to
be
heard.
Thus
Leroux,
well
aware
that
several
decades
after
the
French
Revolution
true
social
equality
is
as
elusive
as
ever,
decries
anyone
who
holds
absolute
power
and
proclaims
what
he
hopes
to
be
the
dawning
of
a
new
world:
“Nous
sommes
entre
deux
mondes:
un
monde
d’inégalité
qui
finit
et
un
monde
d’égalité
qui
commence”
(1).
Sand
admires
Leroux
and
his
writing
for
social
and
political
reasons,
but
she
arguably
most
reveres
him
for
intensely
personal
ones,
for
in
addition
to
the
political
considerations
of
his
treatise,
he
also
discusses
a
certain
conception
of
equality
in
marriage,
precisely
the
sort
of
love
to
which
Sand
aspires.
Leroux
views
men
and
women
as
equal
beings:
“Il
n’y
a
pas
deux
êtres
différents,
l’homme
et
la
femme,
il
n’y
a
qu’un
être
humain
sous
deux
faces
.
.
.”
(39).
He
declares
that
love
is
“l’égalité
à
sa
plus
haute
puissance”
(35)
and
that
in
marriage,
it
is
necessary
that
“la
femme
s’élève
par
l’homme
122
et
avec
lui,
que
l’homme
s’élève
par
la
femme
et
avec
elle“
(39).
Marriage
is
an
act
of
mutual
self‐sacrifice
but
also
an
act
that
must
be
motivated
by
love
alone:
“Ce
n’est
plus
le
rang,
la
fortune,
les
choses
en
un
mot,
la
terre
et
toutes
les
circonstances
du
milieu
matériel
où
nous
vivons,
qui
décident
de
la
volonté
humaine
dans
l’amour;
non,
c’est
l’amour
lui‐même
qui
décide”
(38).
Such
words
cut
to
the
core
of
Sand’s
being
as
she
grapples
with
the
question
of
love
and
marriage
in
her
own
life,
of
how
she
might
join
her
life
with
that
of
another.
When
she
decided
to
marry
Baron
Casimir
Dudevant
in
1821,
love
never
played
a
part
in
their
decision
to
wed
or
their
ensuing
years
together.61
Plagued
by
incompatible
sensibilities
and
expectations,
Sand
and
her
husband
are
able
to
offer
one
another
a
certain
sense
of
camaraderie
but
nothing
more.
In
her
autobiography,
Sand
discusses
her
decision
in
1835
to
seek
a
legal
separation62
from
her
husband:
Mais
quand
une
fille
chaste
se
décide
au
mariage,
elle
ne
sait
pas
du
tout
en
quoi
consiste
le
mariage,
et
peut
prendre
pour
l’amour
tout
ce
qui
n’est
pas
l’amour.
A
trente
ans,
une
femme
ne
peut
plus
se
faire
de
vagues
illusions,
et,
pour
peu
qu’elle
ait
de
cœur
et
d’intelligence,
elle
sait
le
prix,
je
ne
dis
pas
de
sa
personne
.
.
.
mais
de
son
être
complet
61
As
Sand
recalls
Dudevant’s
proposal
to
her,
she
states,
”Il
ne
me
parlait
point
d’amour
et
s’avouait
peu
disposé
à
la
passion
subite,
à
l’enthousiasme,
et,
dans
tous
les
cas,
inhabile
à
l’exprimer
d’une
manière
séduisante”
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
VIII:
123‐126).
62
Divorce
was
not
an
option
for
Sand.
Although
it
was
made
legal
in
France
in
1792,
it
was
abolished
in
1816
and
not
reestablished
until
1884
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
X:
9).
123
et
indivisible.
Voilà
ce
que
je
n’aurais
pu
faire
comprendre
à
mon
mari.
(Histoire
de
ma
vie,
IX:
315)
Sand
believes
that
if
she
had
stayed
in
a
loveless
marriage,
she
would
have
lost
the
very
essence
of
who
she
was
as
a
person,
a
fear
she
later
found
echoed
in
Leroux’s
statement
that
any
marriage
founded
on
something
other
than
love
is
“contraire
à
l’Idéal”
(14).
That
Sand
wishes
to
experience
the
kind
of
union
that
Leroux
describes
leads
her
to
envision
her
ensuing
relationships
quite
differently
from
her
failed
marriage,
most
notably
her
liaison
with
Frédéric
Chopin,
the
musician
with
whom
she
shares
her
life
while
writing
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt.
No
longer
the
“chaste
fille
[qui]
ne
sait
pas
du
tout
en
quoi
consiste
le
mariage,”
Sand
longs
for
a
union
in
which
both
she
and
Chopin
continue
to
live
their
own
lives
but
still
come
together
in
order
to
experience
the
greatest
heights
of
human
experience.
As
she
writes
to
Chopin’s
closest
friend,
Albert
Grzymala,
not
long
after
meeting
the
musician:
Pour
mon
goût,
j’avais
arrangé
notre
poème
dans
ce
sens,
que
je
ne
saurais
rien,
absolument
rien
de
sa
vie
positive,
ni
lui
de
la
mienne,
qu’il
suivrait
toutes
ses
idées
religieuses,
mondaines,
poétiques,
artistiques,
sans
que
j’eusse
jamais
à
lui
en
demander
compte,
et
réciproquement,
mais
que
partout,
en
quelque
lieu
et
à
quelque
moment
de
notre
vie
que
nous
vinssions
à
nous
rencontrer,
notre
âme
serait
à
son
apogée
de
bonheur
et
d’excellence.
Car,
je
n’en
doute
pas,
124
on
est
meilleur
quand
on
aime
d’un
amour
sublime
.
.
.
.
(Correspondances,
IV:
431‐432)
Sand
declares
that
she
will
know
nothing
of
the
mundane
details
of
Chopin’s
existence,
his
“vie
positive,”
and
he
will
know
nothing
of
hers:
they
will
continue
to
pursue
their
personal
desires
and
professional
pursuits,
never
sacrificing
any
aspect
of
themselves.
At
the
same
time,
Sand
speaks
of
those
glorious
moments
when
their
lives
will
intersect
and
result
in
a
fulfillment
that
they
would
never
be
able
to
experience
alone.
In
Leroux,
Sand
discovers
a
truth—a
sort
of
new
religion—founded
on
republican
ideals
and
relationships
inspired
by
love
alone.
She
considers
the
philosopher
to
be
“un
nouveau
Platon
.
.
.
un
nouveau
Christ”
(Correspondances,
IV:
590).
In
one
of
her
letters,
she
exclaims,
“Quel
homme!
Dieu
l’a
mis
au
monde
dans
un
jour
de
tendresse
et
de
mansuétude”
(Correspondances,
IV:
190).
It
is
not
surprising
that
Sand’s
enthusiasm
for
Leroux
and
his
writings
contributes
to
the
formulation
of
the
ideals
expressed
in
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt.63
Moreover,
she
expresses
worry
about
the
philosopher’s
lack
of
readership—“Ce
qui
m’afflige,
c’est
que
cette
Encyclopédie
soit
si
peu
répandue
et
que
tant
de
personnes
distinguées
au
fond
des
provinces
ne
l’aient
pas
entre
les
mains”
(Correspondances,
591)—and
believes
that
she
can
further
propagate
his
ideas,
especially
insofar
as
they
pertain
to
the
essential
ambition
of
giving
every
63
There
is
speculation
that
Leroux
composed
some
of
the
pages
that
comprise
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
even
though
the
majority
of
critics
have
concluded
that
Sand
is
in
fact
the
sole
author.
See
Jean‐Pierre
Lacassagne’s
Histoire
d’une
amitié
(d’après
une
correspondance
inédite
1836‐1866)
(Paris:
Klincksiek,
1973),
pp.
49‐50.
125
citizen
a
voice.
As
for
Leroux,
he
is
so
impressed
and
touched
by
Sand’s
devotion
that
in
another
article
entitled
l’Espérance
(1859),
he
declares,
“Je
vois
dans
l’avenir
une
femme
qui
sera
glorifiée
pour
avoir
rendu
hommage
à
la
Vérité:
C’est
George
Sand”
(qtd
in
Lacassagne,
80).
Let
us
begin
by
presenting
the
overall
shape—the
defining
movements
that
make
melody
lines
recognizable
and
memorable—of
these
expansive
novels.
The
novel
begins
in
Venice
at
the
Eglise
des
Mendicanti
where
the
maestro
Nicola
Porpora64
is
responsible
for
conducting
a
female
chorus
that
includes
our
heroine,
the
young
Consuelo,
who
never
knew
her
father
but
spent
her
formative
years
traveling
throughout
Europe
with
her
mother,
la
Zingara.
Whereas
the
other
singers
are
cruel
to
Consuelo
because
they
envy
her
talent,
Porpora
recognizes
her
innate
abilities
and
unofficially
adopts
her
after
her
mother’s
death.
Consuelo
auditions
for
one
of
Venice’s
leading
opera
houses
to
ensure
the
success
of
her
fiancé
Anzoleto
as
much
as
her
own,
but
after
learning
of
his
infidelity,
she
flees
to
Bohemia,
to
the
Château
des
Géants
in
Boehmer‐Wald
where
Porpora
has
arranged
for
her
to
stay.
It
is
there
that
Consuelo
meets
her
future
husband,
Count
Albert
de
Rudolstadt,
who
falls
deeply
in
love
with
her.
Consuelo,
unsure
of
whether
or
not
she
loves
Albert
enough
to
overcome
the
considerable
differences
in
their
respective
social
standings,
flees
once
again.
Before
she
can
fully
discern
her
feelings,
she
encounters
one
of
Albert’s
family
members
who
64
Nicola
(Antonio)
Porpora
(1686‐1768)
was
an
Italian
musician
who
was
internationally
famous
during
his
lifetime
both
as
a
composer
and
as
a
singing
teacher.
See
Kurt
Markstrom
and
Michael
F.
Robinson.
“Porpora,
Nicola,”
Grove
Music
Online,
Oxford
Music
Online,
Web,
5
July
2012.
126
informs
Consuelo
that
Albert
has
fallen
ill.
In
an
attempt
to
save
his
life,
Consuelo
rushes
back
to
the
Château
and
marries
Albert
just
before
he
appears
to
take
his
last
breath.
In
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
which
begins
one
year
after
the
events
of
the
first
novel,
the
reader
discovers
the
purportedly
widowed
Consuelo
pursuing
her
vocation
as
a
singer
in
Berlin
under
the
authority
of
Frédéric
le
Grand.
Her
feeling
that
Albert’s
presence
is
still
with
her
will
eventually
prove
to
be
prescient:
what
she
does
not
know
is
that
Albert
did
not
die
but
rather
suffered
a
nervous
breakdown
that
led
him
only
to
appear
dead.
He
was
in
fact
whisked
away
by
his
mother,
Wanda
de
Prachalitz,
who
had
endured
hardships
similar
to
her
son—religious
persecution,
social
isolation
and
catalepsy—and
like
him
joined
a
secret
society
known
as
the
Invisibles.
Completely
ignorant
of
her
husband’s
true
fate,
Consuelo
falls
in
with
this
same
mysterious
group
that
in
this
pre‐Revolutionary
period
of
great
social
unrest,
the
1740s,
works
throughout
Europe
to
build
a
society
based
on
republican
ideals.
After
she
joins
their
efforts,
she
falls
madly
in
love
with
the
mysterious
Liverani
but
is
astonished
to
discover
that
Albert
is
still
alive
and
remains
a
highly
respected
member
of
the
group.
Little
does
Consuelo
know
that
Albert
and
Liverani
are
in
fact
the
same
person.
She
is
thus
forced
to
choose
between
upholding
her
marriage
vows
to
Albert
or
pursuing
a
life
with
the
man
she
loves.
The
relationship
between
these
two
novels
as
well
as
their
characters
can
be
traced
in
elongated
lines
that
interweave
with
one
another.
Similar
to
melody
lines,
these
narrative
threads
take
on
distinct
shapes
as
they
develop
across
time.
In
127
“Narrative
Form
and
the
Construction
of
Psychological
Science,”
Kenneth
J.
Gergen
and
Mary
M.
Gergen
suggest
the
imperativeness
of
such
a
progression:
“Perhaps
the
most
essential
ingredient
of
narrative
accounting
(or
storytelling)
is
its
capability
to
structure
events
in
such
a
way
that
they
demonstrate,
first,
a
connectedness
or
coherence,
and
second,
a
sense
of
movement
or
direction
through
time
.
.
.”
(25).
In
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
the
narrative
lines
sometimes
move
together
as
in
parallel
motion.
There
are
other
instances
in
which
one
line
moves
while
the
other
remains
stationary.
More
often,
however,
the
lines
seem
to
move
away
from
one
another
in
contrary
motion
until
joining
together
again
at
the
end.
As
in
polyphonic
music,
it
is
important
that
each
of
the
narrative
lines
has
a
recognizable
contour,
such
as
an
ascending
or
descending
line
that
distinguishes
it
from
others
within
the
polyphonic
fabric
of
the
work.
The
following
pages
are
dedicated
to
the
analysis
of
three
narrative
lines
comprised
by
Consuelo,
Albert,
and
Liverani
whose
intersections
alternately
enhance,
impede,
or
stall
the
realization
of
Sand’s
ideals
as
they
pertain
to
her
professional
and
personal
life.
One
of
the
narrative
lines
is
constituted
by
Consuelo’s
steady
devotion
to
music
and
her
concomitant
idealism
vis‐à‐
vis
the
world
in
general
and
love
in
particular.
Albert,
meanwhile,
embodies
the
ups
and
downs
of
history
and
corrupt
institutions
that
misuse
power
and
cause
even
the
most
virtuous
individuals
to
suffer.
Liverani,
the
same
man
with
a
different
personality
and
name,
is
in
a
sense
steady
and
lacking
in
worldly
definition
in
ways
very
similar
to
Consuelo.
They
both
seem
rootless,
as
if
they
belonged
everywhere
and
nowhere
at
the
same
time,
Consuelo’s
only
“homeland”
being
music
and
Liverani’s
being
the
ideal
of
128
social
equality.
In
addition
to
exploring
the
intersections
of
these
narrative
lines
within
each
respective
work,
I
hope
to
demonstrate
by
my
analysis
that
these
intersections
go
on
to
form
even
greater
junctures
between
the
novels
themselves.
Focusing
on
paired
episodes
taken
from
the
two
novels,
this
chapter
will
illustrate
the
simultaneous
realization
and
collapse
of
Sand’s
ideals.
While
Fuchs’s
lessons
in
counterpoint
stress
the
individuality
of
each
line’s
shape
and
rhythm,
he
does
indicate
that
they
share
the
same
musical
mode
(31).
As
discussed
in
the
previous
chapter,
musical
modes
help
to
establish
the
overall
mood
or
setting
of
a
piece
that
will
go
on
to
influence
the
development
of
the
narrative
as
well
as
its
characters.
Consuelo
opens
in
a
church
located
in
Venice
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
begins
in
a
Berlin
opera
house
approximately
one
year
later.
On
the
one
hand,
the
relation
between
the
two
starting
points
might
seem
to
be
one
of
opposition,
the
hallowed
space
of
the
Eglise
des
Mendicanti
in
stark
contrast
with
the
worldliness
of
the
Salle
d’Opéra
italienne.
On
the
other
hand,
Sand
suggests
from
the
beginning
that
the
narrative
threads
of
the
two
novels
will
work
together,
for
in
these
two
apparently
very
different
places
she
creates
the
same
overall
mood,
one
of
corruption
and
decadence.
Albert
de
Rudolstadt
will
later
declare,
“A
l’aurore
des
religions
.
.
.
le
théâtre
et
le
temple
sont
un
même
sanctuaire”
(Consuelo,
263);
Sand
seems
to
be
suggesting
that
as
these
two
social
institutions
decline
they
once
again
come
to
resemble
each
other.
It
first
seems
that
the
church
is
a
place
of
equality,
since
we
are
told
that
the
government
gives
the
Eglise
des
Mendicanti
money
in
order
to
provide
impoverished
girls
such
as
129
Consuelo
the
chance
to
receive
a
musical
education,
but
Sand
is
quick
to
mention
the
pecking
order
that
divides
the
young
choristers:
Toutes
ces
jeunes
personnes
n’étaient
pas
également
pauvres.
Il
est
bien
certain
que,
malgré
la
grande
intégrité
de
l’administration,
quelques‐unes
se
glissaient
là,
pour
lesquelles
c’était
plutôt
une
spéculation
qu’une
nécessité
de
recevoir,
aux
frais
de
la
République,
une
éducation
d’artiste
et
des
moyens
d’établissement.
C’est
pourquoi
quelques‐unes
se
permettaient
d’oublier
les
saintes
lois
de
l’égalité,
grâce
auxquelles
on
les
avait
laissées
s’asseoir
furtivement
sur
les
mêmes
bancs
que
leurs
pauvres
sœurs.
(Consuelo,
18)
It
is
the
rich
rather
than
the
poor
who
are
abusing
the
music
lessons
that
the
government
offers.
For
them,
education
is
a
question
of
money;
the
moment
that
a
more
appealing
proposition
presents
itself,
they
will
immediately
leave
the
choir
to
pursue
it.
In
fact,
when
Sand
speaks
of
the
“grande
intégrité
de
l’administration,”
one
cannot
help
but
remark
her
ironic
undertone
as
the
government
does
not
intend
to
help
these
young
women
so
much
as
to
dower
them,
“Soit
pour
le
mariage,
soit
pour
le
cloître”
(Consuelo,
18).
That
Venice
is
already
a
republic
only
further
underscores
the
hypocrisy
of
a
government
that
continues
to
create
division
amongst
its
citizens
despite
its
professed
aim
to
extend
some
measure
of
equality
to
them
all.
At
the
Salle
de
l’Opéra
italienne,
meanwhile,
“l’entrée
en
était
gratuite”
(La
Comtesse,
2),
but
audience
members
must
still
obtain
tickets
as
seats
are
pre‐assigned
130
by
Frédéric
le
Grand.
So
heavy
is
the
king’s
hand
that
he
alone
determines
the
moments
when
the
audience
applauds
or
jeers:
Ici
les
princes
et
princesses
de
la
famille;
là
le
corps
diplomatique,
puis
les
voyageurs
illustres,
puis
l’Académie,
ailleurs
les
généraux;
enfin
partout
la
famille
du
roi,
la
maison
du
roi,
les
salariés
du
roi,
les
protégés
du
roi
.
.
.
.
Restait,
pour
les
bons
habitants
de
la
bonne
ville
de
Berlin,
une
petite
partie
du
parterre.
.
.
.
Il
n’y
avait
dans
toute
cette
masse
de
spectateurs
qu’un
spectateur
libre
de
s’abandonner
à
ses
impressions,
et
c’était
le
roi.
Il
était
à
lui
seul
tout
le
public.
.
.
.
(La
Comtesse,
3)
Such
injustices
might
seem
less
surprising
to
the
readers
given
that
the
Salle
d’Opéra
is
ruled
by
a
monarchy
rather
than
a
republic,
but
the
many
similarities
between
the
two
milieus
might
lead
readers
to
anticipate
that
the
two
novels
will
move
forward
in
analogous
ways
despite
their
different
starting
points.
After
all,
the
time
elapsed
between
the
two,
one
year,
is
not
great.
In
insisting
upon
the
social
hierarchies
that
dominate
the
Eglise
and
La
Salle
de
l’Opéra,
Sand
also
emphasizes
Consuelo’s
disinterest
in
whether
or
not
she
climbs
or
descends
such
social
ladders.
Indeed,
Consuelo’s
desire
to
pursue
her
art
might
be
considered
one
of
the
only
constants
throughout
the
two
long
works,
but
it
is
this
unswerving
desire
that
propels
Consuelo
to
lead
a
life
that
zigzags
from
one
end
of
the
world
to
another:
“Consuelo
[est]
née
en
Espagne,
et
arrivée
de
là
en
Italie
en
passant
131
par
Saint‐Pétersbourg,
Constantinople,
Mexico,
ou
Arkangel,
ou
par
toute
autre
route
encore
plus
directe
à
l’usage
des
seuls
Bohémiens”
(Consuelo,
18).
As
one
of
her
fellow
choristers
gossips,
“On
m’a
dit
que
sa
mère
était
une
Bohémienne
.
.
.
et
que
la
petite
a
chanté
dans
les
rues
et
sur
les
chemins
avant
de
venir
ici”
(Consuelo,
17).
Rather
than
considering
herself
unfortunate,
however,
Consuelo
embraces
a
nomadic,
unassuming
way
of
life—“Qu’y
a‐t‐il
de
plus
beau
qu’un
chemin?”
(Consuelo,
267)—because
it
allows
her
the
freedom
to
cultivate
her
abilities
as
a
singer
and
artist.
In
the
course
of
her
peregrinations
across
Europe,
Consuelo
has
the
opportunity
to
interact
with
the
rich
as
well
as
the
poor
of
several
countries,
but
while
she
is
lacking
in
social
ambition,
she
remains
a
somewhat
ambiguous
figure
in
terms
of
her
social
position.
Both
in
the
pre‐Revolutionary
period
in
which
the
action
of
the
novels
is
set
and
in
Sand’s
own
time,
performers
such
as
Consuelo
occupy
an
interesting
place
within
French
society:
they
are
simultaneously
venerated
and
vilified.
In
Venice
and
Berlin,
Consuelo
is
exalted
for
her
extraordinary
talent.
Count
Zustiniani
offers
her
a
place
in
his
theatre
where
she
would
have
the
chance
to
earn
a
sizeable
income
and
interact
with
members
of
the
aristocracy.
Frédéric
le
Grand
presents
her
with
a
private
residence
and
also
promises
Consuelo
professional
success
as
he
wishes
her
to
be
the
star
performer
in
his
opera
house.
Both
men,
however,
believe
that
they
can
take
advantage
of
Consuelo
because
of
the
moral
lassitude
generally
attributed
to
actresses
at
the
time,65
65
In
Lettre
à
Monsieur
d’Alembert
(1758),
Jean‐Jacques
Rousseau
even
goes
so
far
as
to
argue
that
actresses
pose
more
of
a
threat
to
the
moral
climate
than
their
male
counterparts:
“Si
on
ne
voit
en
tout
ceci
qu’une
profession
peu
honnête,
on
doit
voir
132
exemplified
by
Consuelo’s
fellow
performer,
Corilla.
Addicted
to
flattery
and
fame,
the
latter
compromises
herself
and
others
in
order
to
attain
higher
standing
within
society.
Disgusted
by
his
former
student,
upon
seeing
the
woman
Porpora
exclaims:
“Loin
de
moi,
malheureuse
fille!”
(Consuelo,
15).
Consuelo,
by
contrast,
shows
no
interest
in
material
wealth
and
social
mobility
as
long
as
she
is
able
to
sing:
“Que
je
remonte
sur
les
planches,
ou
que
je
donne
des
leçons
et
des
concerts,
je
suis,
je
dois
être
cantatrice.
.
.
.
où
trouverais‐je
de
l’indépendance?
À
quoi
occuperais‐je
mon
esprit
rompu
au
travail,
et
avide
de
ce
genre
d’émotion?”
(Consuelo,
308).
Despite
the
world
of
corruption
and
constantly
shifting
moral
values
throughout
which
she
moves,
Consuelo
is,
as
Porpora
describes
her,
“aussi
juste
qu’une
note
de
clavecin”
(Consuelo,
17).
Porpora
describes
Consuelo
in
unwavering
terms,
comparing
her
to
a
musical
note
in
order
to
encapsulate
her
unswerving
integrity
and
high
artistic
ideals.
That
Porpora
compares
Consuelo
to
a
note
on
a
keyboard
only
further
underscores
her
steadfastness
in
this
regard
because
a
piano
requires
tuning
far
less
frequently
than
most
other
instruments.
And
indeed,
while
a
musical
note
cannot
change,
its
function
and
effect
do
alter
according
to
the
musical
composition
in
which
it
is
played.
Depending
on
the
key
of
a
particular
piece,
a
note
might
create
a
sense
of
resolution
or
just
the
opposite.
Extending
this
same
principle
to
a
polyphonic
piece
of
music,
one
might
consider
the
so‐called
cantus
firmus,
or
steady
song,
in
a
similar
manner.
While
a
note
provides
the
basis
of
a
given
melody
line,
a
cantus
firmus
provides
the
basis
of
a
encore
une
source
de
mauvaises
mœurs
dans
le
désordre
des
Actrices,
qui
force
et
entraîne
celui
des
Acteurs”
(123).
133
polyphonic
work.
It
is
the
“fixed
melody”
against
which
all
other
melody
lines
are
set.
And
while
it
cannot
be
changed,
its
overall
purpose
alters
depending
on
the
other
melody
lines
(“voices”)
that
join
it.
In
Cantus
Firmus
in
Mass
and
Motet
1420‐1520,
Edgar
H.
Sparks
expounds
upon
the
two
primary
ways
of
adding
other
voices
to
the
cantus
firmus:
“The
composer
may
choose
to
use
them
[the
notes
of
the
cantus
firmus]
as
the
material
for
the
formation
of
a
new
structure—as
a
foundational
voice
.
.
.
Or
he
may
choose
to
use
them
as
the
basis
of
a
melody
part,
and
elaborate
and
remodel
them
[the
notes]
to
conform
to
some
melodic
ideal
of
his
own”
(2).
In
writing
new
lines
of
music
and
joining
them
with
the
cantus
firmus,
the
composer
is
thus
constructing
different
moments
of
tension
and
release,
dissonance
and
consonance,
instability
and
stability.
If,
for
example,
a
composer
were
to
add
a
lower
voice
whose
rhythm
proved
steady
and
its
notes
unchanging,
the
cantus
firmus
would
no
longer
seem
to
act
as
the
foundation
of
the
piece
but
rather
its
melodic
embellishment.
If,
however,
a
composer
were
to
add
a
voice
that
seems
to
decorate
the
cantus
firmus
with
rhythmic
or
melodic
ornamentation,
the
impression
would
be
reversed.
Even
though
the
cantus
firmus
is
the
exact
same
melody
line
in
both
compositional
scenarios,
its
purpose
and
effects
are
nonetheless
dissimilar.
Perhaps
it
is
for
this
reason
that
Porpora
resists
naming
his
prized
pupil,
for
fear
of
defining
her
too
clearly
and
thus
perhaps
stifling
her
genius.
Picking
up
his
baton,
he
addresses
the
young
female
chorus,
“Oui,
oui,
Mesdemoiselles,
hochez
la
tête
tant
qu’il
vous
plaira;
la
plus
sage
et
la
meilleure
d’entre
vous
c’est
.
.
.”
(Consuelo,
15),
but
with
Consuelo’s
name
on
the
tip
of
his
tongue
he
suddenly
trails
off.
The
maestro
fears
that
if
134
he
were
to
identity
his
musical
prodigy,
he
would
somehow
take
away
from
her
integrity:
“Mais
je
ne
veux
pas
le
dire,
“
Porpora
admits,
“Car
c’est
la
seule
de
ma
classe
qui
ait
de
la
modestie,
et
je
craindrais,
en
la
nommant,
de
lui
faire
perdre
à
l’instant
même
cette
rare
vertu
que
je
vous
souhaite
.
.
.”
(Consuelo,
15).66
Refusing
to
utter
Consuelo’s
name,
Porpora
has
no
other
recourse
but
to
identify
her
as
what
(or
who)
she
is
not:
“Ce
n’est
pas
vous,
signora
Clorinda;
ni
vous,
signora
Costanza;
ni
vous
non
plus,
signora
Zulietta;
et
la
Rosina
pas
davantage,
et
Michela
encore
moins
.
.
.
”
(Consuelo,
15).
And
while
Porpora
needs
no
prompting
to
describe
his
beloved
student—“cette
sage,
cette
docile,
cette
studieuse,
cette
attentive,
cette
bonne
enfant”—he
repeatedly
refuses
to
pronounce
her
name
aloud
(Consuelo,
15).
“Que
voulez‐vous
faire
de
son
nom,”
he
later
demands
of
Count
Zustiniani
as
he
lurks
outside
the
rehearsal
space
in
search
of
new
talent
(Consuelo,
20).
That
Porpora
compares
Consuelo
to
a
note
and
refuses
to
name
her
suggests
that
her
character—indeed,
her
“vertu”—will
be
defined
musically
as
well
as
linguistically.
As
a
writer,
Sand
must
depict
Consuelo’s
musical
nature
in
words,
but
Consuelo’s
steady
devotion
is
a
kind
of
constant
in
both
novels
which
crisscrosses
enormous
distances
in
both
time
and
space.
That
there
are
times
when
language
gets
in
the
way
of
communicating
what
one
most
admires
is
perhaps
best
understood
in
the
novel
by
Albert
de
Rudolstadt
who,
upon
hearing
one
of
Consuelo’s
vocal
performances,
declares
with
great
eloquence,
66
One
cannot
help
but
think
of
Sand’s
recurring
dream
in
which
she
glides
upon
a
barque
mélodieuse
and
of
her
hesitation
to
describe
it
or
its
music
for
fear
of
altering
it
in
some
irrevocable
way.
See
Chapter
2
of
the
present
study.
135
Les
paroles
que
tu
prononces
dans
tes
chants
ont
peu
de
sens
pour
moi;
elles
ne
sont
qu’un
thème
abrégé,
une
indication
incomplète,
sur
lesquels
la
pensée
musicale
s’exerce
et
se
développe.
Je
les
écoute
à
peine;
ce
que
j’entends,
ce
qui
pénètre
au
fond
de
mon
cœur,
c’est
ta
voix,
c’est
ton
accent,
c’est
ton
inspiration.
La
musique
dit
tout
ce
que
l’âme
rêve
et
pressent
de
plus
mystérieux
et
de
plus
élevé.
C’est
la
manifestation
d’un
ordre
d’idées
et
de
sentiments
supérieurs
à
ce
que
la
parole
humaine
pourrait
exprimer.
(Consuelo,
260,
my
emphasis)
Rather
than
considering
words
as
an
essential
component
of
Consuelo’s
music,
Albert
suggests
that
they
distract
from
it.
He
does
not
ask
her
to
join
her
life
but
her
voice
with
his
own:
“[Je
désire]
l’union
de
nos
voix
et
de
nos
esprits”
(275).
To
do
so
implies
that
their
union
will
extend
beyond
this
lifetime
and
into
eternity.
The
time
of
narrative,
however
is
not
the
time
of
eternity,
but
the
time
of
human
temporality:
against
the
ineffable,
unchanging
and
eternal
ideal
of
music,
the
love
between
Consuelo
and
Albert,
and
then
between
Consuelo
and
his
subsequent
avatar,
Liverani,
plays
out
with
a
quantity
of
vicissitudes
impressive
even
for
nineteenth‐century
Romantic
narrative.
In
tracing
the
various
movements
of
Consuelo’s
relationship
with
Albert
and
then
with
Liverani
and
how
they
move
with
reference
to
one
another,
we
realize
that
Sand
presents
their
relationships
as
separate
but
related.
In
the
first
novel,
Consuelo
acts
as
a
constant
force,
and
Albert
embodies
constant
change
and
instability.
He
turns
to
her
in
hopes
that
she
will
anchor
him
in
the
present
moment
and
rescue
him
136
from
a
violent
past
that
prevents
him
from
moving
forward.
In
the
second
novel,
however,
Liverani
seems
to
have
taken
over
Consuelo’s
function.
Utterly
unanchored
in
time
and
space,
he
is
directed
toward
and
motivated
by
a
single
great
ideal,
and
Consuelo
now
becomes
a
figure
who
vacillates
and
is
less
sure
of
her
destiny
as
she
embodies
less
of
an
ideal
than
a
reality.
To
illustrate
this
shift,
the
rest
of
my
analysis
will
focus
on
corresponding
episodes
from
each
of
the
two
novels
that
demonstrate
particularly
well
the
ways
in
which
these
relationships
come
together
but
also
draw
apart.
The
first
paired
episode
will
focus
on
Consuelo’s
initial
encounters
with
Albert
and
Liverani
as
well
as
the
climactic
moments
in
which
she
embraces
each
of
them.
The
second
paired
episodes
will
examine
Consuelo’s
preparation
as
she
auditions
for
a
role
in
Zustiniani’s
theatre
and
then
again
as
she
set
out
to
become
a
member
of
the
Invisibles.
Finally,
I
will
analyze
Consuelo’s
respective
performances
themselves.
As
we
have
seen,
the
most
common
form
of
counterpoint
is
based
on
movements
in
mirrored
or
opposite
directions.
And
indeed,
in
implicitly
matching
Consuelo’s
relationship
to
Albert
against
her
relationship
with
Liverani,
Sand
is
clearly
attempting
to
create
two
very
different
love‐objects
who
seem
to
share
little
else
besides
the
same
body.
Albert,
for
example,
is
strongly
identified
with
the
past—and,
or
so
it
seems,
only
partially
by
choice.
Although
he
carries
the
name
of
Rudolstadt,
Albert
is
acutely
aware
of
being
a
descendent
of
the
male
lineage
of
George
Podiebrad,
King
of
Bohemia
and
leader
of
the
Hussites,67
whose
name
was
set
aside
by
Ulrica
de
67
The
Hussites—or
Chalice
People—were
individuals
who
lived
during
the
fifteenth
century
in
Bohemia
and
followed
the
teachings
of
priest
and
philosopher
Jean
Huss
137
Rudolstadt,
Podiebrad’s
wife,
when
she
bestowed
her
own
name
upon
their
son,
Albert’s
great‐great‐grandfather,
to
save
their
family
from
ruin
after
her
husband’s
death
during
the
Thirty
Year
War.
Prostrating
herself
before
Ferdinand
II
of
Austria,
she
not
only
sacrificed
her
husband’s
name
but
also
his
family’s
religion,
Hussite
title,
and
freedom
so
as
to
ensure
their
safety—a
decision
motivated
by
fear
rather
than
any
feelings
of
allegiance.
When
Austria
united
with
a
large
portion
of
Germany
to
conquer
Bohemia,
the
defeated
inhabitants,
including
Ulrica
de
Rudolstadt,
had
the
choice
of
going
into
exile
or
becoming
“Austrian,”
thereby
renouncing
their
origin,
their
name,
and
the
liberty
of
professing
their
religious
opinions.
For
one
hundred
and
twenty
years,
the
Rudolstadts
have
thus
lived
in
fear
that
their
true
ancestry
will
be
discovered
and
that
their
rights
and
titles
will
be
revoked.
Albert’s
aunt,
the
Canoness
Wenceslawa,
is
worried
to
the
point
of
obsession
that
their
fictionalized
past
will
be
questioned.
As
Sand
writes,
La
chanoinesse
était
la
plus
causeuse
de
la
famille
.
.
.
car
il
lui
arrivait
au
moins
deux
fois
par
semaine
de
discuter
un
quart
d’heure
durant
avec
le
chapelain
sur
la
généalogie
des
familles
.
.
.
qu’elle
savait
sur
le
bout
de
son
doigt,
depuis
celle
des
rois
jusqu’à
celle
du
moindre
gentilhomme.
(Consuelo,
116).
(1369‐1415).
In
favor
of
reforming
the
Catholic
Church,
the
Hussites
fought
for
many
reforms
that
would
prove
central
to
the
Protestant
movement
almost
a
century
later.
See
Howard
Kaminsky,
A
History
of
the
Hussite
Revolution
(Berkeley
and
Los
Angeles:
University
of
California
Press,
1967).
138
Albert,
however,
reminds
his
aunt
that
her
efforts
are
futile.
Haunted
by
the
voices
of
his
Bohemian
ancestors—“le[s]
voix
du
sang”
(Consuelo,
145)—that
call
out
to
him
from
the
grave,
he
cannot
erase
his
Bohemian
roots.
As
he
tells
his
aunt,
“Il
me
semble,
ma
bonne
tante
.
.
.
que
vous
faites
quelques
illusions
sur
la
prééminence
de
notre
famille
.
.
.
une
famille
qui
perd
son
nom,
qui
l’abjure
.
.
.
renonce
au
droit
de
se
faire
valoir
comme
antique
en
vertu
et
fidèle
à
la
gloire
de
son
pays”
(Consuelo,
142).
Albert
is
so
consumed
by
his
past
that
at
times
he
believes
that
he
has
become,
in
turn,
any
number
of
his
Bohemian
ancestors.
The
first
words
that
he
pronounces
in
the
novel
prove
telling:
“Quel
temps
affreux”
(Consuelo,
117),
he
declares
to
the
bewilderment
of
those
around
him,
and
while
his
family
assumes
that
he
is
referring
to
the
weather,
he
might
just
as
well
be
describing
the
time
warp
in
which
he
is
living.
As
Albert
recounts
the
events
that
led
to
Ulrica’s
renunciation
of
her
husband’s
name
and
religion,
for
example,
he
becomes
more
and
more
animated
until
he
believes
that
he
has
become
his
great‐great‐grandfather,
the
first
Podiebrad
to
adopt
the
Rudolstadt
name:
“Nous
fûmes
incorporés,
mes
fils
et
moi,
dans
les
rangs
de
la
tyrannie
autrichienne
.
.
.”
(Consuelo,
146).
More
alarming,
however,
are
the
moments
when
Albert
is
deluded
into
believing
he
is
Jean
Ziska
de
Calice,
a
Bohemian
ancestor
from
his
mother’s
side
of
the
family
who
fought
during
the
Hussite
Wars.
When
Consuelo
discovers
Albert
in
an
underground
grotto,
the
site
under
which
Ziska
hanged
fifteen
monks
during
one
of
the
battles,
he
cries,
“Demande‐moi
des
larmes
et
des
prières;
ne
me
demande
plus
de
sang:
j’ai
139
horreur
du
sang
désormais,
et
je
n’en
veux
plus
répandre!
Non,
non!
Pas
une
seule
goutte!
Jean
Ziska
ne
remplira
plus
son
calice
que
de
pleurs
inépuisables
et
de
sanglots
amers!”
(Consuelo,
219).
Whereas
one
might
accuse
Ulrica
de
Rudolstadt
and
her
heirs
of
cowardice,
they
never
committed
such
overt
crimes
of
violence
against
their
oppressors
as
did
Ziska.
Thus,
when
Albert
reveals
his
tormented
relation
to
the
Hussite
leader
in
the
abbot’s
presence,
Canoness
Wenceslawa
cannot
hold
back
from
interrupting
him,
protesting,
“Ne
l’écoutez
pas,
monsieur
l’abbé!
Jamais,
non,
jamais,
notre
famille
n’a
eu
ni
lien,
ni
rapport
avec
le
réprouvé
dont
il
vient
de
prononcer
le
nom
abominable”
(Consuelo,
144).
Albert’s
aunt
vehemently
denies
that
her
brother,
Albert’s
father,
married
a
woman
who
is
a
direct
descendent
of
Jean
de
Ziska.
Albert,
however,
cannot
do
the
same
as
he
is
haunted
by
the
ghost
of
his
mother:
“Il
voyait
sa
mère
morte”
(Consuelo,
131).
Burdened
by
the
weight
of
many
centuries,
he
can
only
pray
for
“la
consolation
qui
[lui]
a
été
promise”
(Consuelo,
168),
a
“consolation”
that
might
well
come
from
Consuelo
herself,
whom
he
needs
to
save
him
from
the
clutches
of
history.
Liverani,
by
contrast,
appears
to
exist
outside
of
time
when
Consuelo
first
encounters
him.
He
seems
to
come
from
nowhere,
wearing
a
mask
and
refusing
to
utter
a
single
word;
his
life
and
his
world
are
a
complete
mystery.
Even
when
Consuelo
learns
his
name,
it
does
not
offer
her
any
clues
that
would
help
her
to
further
identify
him,
for
as
an
elder
Invisible
explains,
“[Ce
nom]
est
commun
à
tous
ceux
de
nos
adeptes
qui
veulent
le
porter
et
s’en
servir:
c’est
un
nom
de
guerre,
comme
tous
ceux
que
la
plupart
de
nous
portent
dans
leurs
voyages”
(La
Comtesse,
218).
The
disciples
to
whom
this
140
elder
refers
are
members
of
a
society
who
work
in
secret
to
build
a
new
world
based
on
the
republican
ideals
quoted
by
Leroux—liberté,
fraternité,
and
égalité.
As
one
of
its
council
members
explains,
Nous
sommes
au‐dessus
de
toute
loi
humaine
.
.
.
.
Nous
sommes
également
en
dehors
de
toute
considération
humaine:
préjugés
de
fortune,
de
rang,
et
de
naissance,
scrupules
et
délicatesse
de
position,
crainte
de
l’opinion,
respect
même
des
engagements
contractés
avec
les
idées
et
les
personnes
du
monde,
rien
de
tout
cela
n’a
de
sens
pour
nous,
ni
de
valeur
à
nos
yeux.
(La
Comtesse,
231)
There
are
no
masters,
servants,
subjects,
or
princes
amongst
the
Invisibles.
Despite,
or
perhaps
because
of
their
power,
the
Invisibles
work
in
total
secret.
Their
presence,
however,
is
felt
in
every
corner
of
the
globe:
“Nous
faisons
pénétrer
partout
.
.
.
nous
détruisons
tous
les
prestiges;
nous
lançons
du
haut
de
notre
forteresse,
tous
les
boulets
rouges
de
l’ardente
vérité
et
de
l’implacable
raison
sur
les
autels
et
sur
les
trônes”
(La
Comtesse,
236).
That
Liverani
and
the
Invisibles
work
towards
the
establishment
of
equality
amongst
all
people
compels
them
to
look
forward
rather
than
backward.
“Je
ne
te
demanderai
rien
de
ton
passé”
(La
Comtesse,
217),
one
of
the
elders
tells
Consuelo.
Whereas
certain
members
of
the
Rudolstadt
family
such
as
Canoness
Wenceslawa
worry
incessantly
about
the
social
and
moral
implications
of
marriage,
the
Invisibles
assert
that
the
only
valid
unions
are
those
that
ignore
the
contingencies
of
history
and
spring
purely
from
reciprocal
love:
“Là
où
cette
réciprocité
n’existe
pas,
il
n’y
141
a
pas
d’égalité;
et
là
où
l’égalité
est
brisée,
il
n’y
a
pas
d’union
réelle.
Sois
donc
certaine
que
Dieu,
loin
de
commander
de
pareils
sacrifices
à
ton
sexe,
les
repousse
et
lui
dénie
le
droit
de
le
faire”
(La
Comtesse,
245).
The
Invisibles
do
not
acknowledge
an
individual’s
origin,
social
rank,
or
religion.
Instead,
they
look
to
a
future
built
upon
unions
motivated
by
love
rather
than
laws.
Wanda
de
Prachatitz,
Albert’s
mother
who
is
in
fact
alive
and
is
one
of
the
leading
members
of
the
Invisibles,
declares,
“Nous
voulons
inaugurer
et
sanctifier
l’amour,
perdu
et
profané
dans
le
monde,
le
libre
choix
du
cœur,
l’union,
sainte
et
volontaire
de
deux
êtres
également
épris”
(La
Comtesse,
299).
The
peaceful
future
toward
which
Liverani
and
his
fellow
disciples
work
thus
differs
from
the
violent,
divisive
past
that
haunts
Albert:
Liverani’s
rootlessness
greatly
contrasts
with
Albert’s
enslavement
to
his
family’s
past.
We
are
now
in
a
position
to
see
how
the
episodes
that
narrate
Consuelo’s
first
meeting
with
Albert
and
with
Liverani
in
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
respectively,
may
be
seen
as
elements
of
a
contrapuntal
movement
by
the
terms
of
which
the
evolving
role
of
Consuelo
seem
to
mirror—to
move
in
the
opposite
direction
to—the
changes
that
separate
Albert
from
his
later
incarnation
as
Liverani.
The
first
time
that
Albert
addresses
Consuelo,
his
words
immediately
reveal
that
he
has
a
past
and
that
he
intends
for
her
to
save
him
from
it.
Rushing
into
the
room
in
which
she
sings,
he
declares,
“O
Consuelo,
Consuelo!
Te
voilà
donc
enfin
trouvée
.
.
.
Tu
es
la
consolation
que
Dieu
accorde
enfin
à
mes
jours
solitaires
et
funestes”
(Consuelo,
168).
Albert’s
exclamation
is
surprising
because
Consuelo
never
revealed
her
real
name
to
the
Rudolstadt
family.
Instead,
she
had
introduced
herself
as
Porporina
to
disguise
her
142
identity
as
a
stage
performer.
That
Albert
calls
out
to
Consuelo
by
name
becomes
even
more
significant
when
one
considers
Porpora’s
refusal
to
do
the
same.
Whereas
Porpora
hopes
to
leave
Consuelo
untouched
by
the
social
corruption
of
the
world,
Albert
invites
her
to
confront
it
directly
and
to
save
him
from
it.
This
implicit
relationship
between
the
stability
brought
by
Consuelo’s
unswerving
devotion
to
her
musical
ideal
and
the
horrible
peripeteias
of
Albert’s
family
history
is
developed
in
the
scene
in
which
he
invites
her
to
his
underground
grotto.
There
he
recounts
the
history
of
Bohemia
as
well
as
his
family’s
role
in
it,
a
past
whose
relation
to
musicality
is
eventually
literalized:
although
at
first
he
narrates
the
sequence
of
events,
he
eventually
picks
up
his
violin
and
begins
to
perform
his
family’s
past
history
as
music:
“Tout
à
coup
elle
[Consuelo]
s’aperçut
qu’Albert
ne
lui
parlait
plus,
qu’il
ne
tenait
plus
sa
main,
qu’il
n’était
plus
assis
à
ses
côtés,
mais
qu’il
était
debout
à
deux
pas
d’elle,
auprès
de
l’ossuaire,
et
qu’il
jouait
sur
son
violon
l’étrange
musique
.
.
.
”
(Consuelo,
282).68
As
a
skilled
musician,
Consuelo
is
accustomed
to
retaining
every
piece
of
music
that
she
hears
but
upon
listening
to
Albert’s
performance,
she
immediately
realizes
that
this
is
quite
a
different
kind
of
music,
making
such
an
exercise
futile:
“Mais
tout
esprit
d’examen
lui
devint
bientôt
impossible,
tant
à
cause
de
la
disposition
rêveuse
où
elle
se
trouvait,
qu’à
cause
du
vague
répandu
dans
cette
musique
étrangère
à
son
oreille”
68
In
Music
Writing
Literature,
from
Sand
via
Debussy
to
Derrida,
Peter
Dayan
observes
that
Sand
writes
the
historical
part
of
Albert’s
disquisition
in
direct
speech
but
as
he
begins
to
communicate
“le
sens
élevé
de
ces
grandes
vérités
hérétiques,”
she
no
longer
offers
his
words
but
a
description
of
Consuelo’s
thoughts
as
she
listens
to
them.
See
pp.
11‐24.
143
(Consuelo,
282).
To
borrow
a
term
coined
by
Richard
Wagner,
one
might
characterize
the
way
Consuelo
listens
to
Albert’s
music
as
sympathetic
hearing:
“The
dreamlike
nature
of
the
state
into
which
we
thus
are
plunged
through
sympathetic
hearing—and
wherein
there
dawns
on
us
that
other
world,
that
world
from
whence
the
musician
speaks
to
us”
(89).
Albert
does
indeed
“speak”
to
Consuelo
with
his
instrument,
the
shape
of
the
music
mysteriously
evoking
the
shape
of
his
family’s
dreadful
past,
which
is
also
that
of
his
lost
homeland:
Albert
disait
cette
musique
avec
une
rare
intelligence
de
l’esprit
national
et
du
sentiment
énergique
et
pieux
qui
l’avait
fait
naître
.
.
.
.
Il
y
joignait,
en
improvisant,
la
profonde
mélancolie
et
le
regret
déchirant
que
l’esclavage
avait
imprimé
à
son
caractère
personnel
et
à
celui
de
son
peuple;
et
ce
mélange
de
tristesse
et
de
bravoure,
d’exaltation
et
d’abattement,
ces
hymnes
de
reconnaissance
unis
à
des
cris
de
détresse,
étaient
l’expression
la
plus
complète
et
la
plus
profonde,
et
de
la
pauvre
Bohême,
et
du
pauvre
Albert.
(Consuelo,
283‐284,
my
emphasis)
As
we
have
seen,
in
the
first
of
the
two
novels
Consuelo
herself
is
compared
to
a
single
musical
note,
implicitly
grounded
by
her
devotion
to
music
and
relative
indifference
to
more
worldly
matters.
But
as
she
continues
to
listen
to
Albert’s
music,
she
is
able
to
imagine
the
world
of
frightful
injustice
into
which
his
violin
bids
her
enter.
She
sees
the
Taborites,
drenched
in
blood,
descend
from
the
hills.
She
witnesses
the
144
terrified
monks
flee
with
their
treasures
and
relics
hidden
in
their
robes.
She
finds
herself
in
intermittent
pitch‐black
night
and
sun‐drenched
day.
Around
her,
there
are
emaciated
old
men,
beggars,
madmen,
executioners,
young
children,
and
female
warriors.
The
most
impressive
component
of
this
musical
tableau,
however,
is
Satan,
who
presides
over
it
all.
The
dolorous
figure,
holding
the
persecuted
and
powerless
close
to
his
chest,
addresses
them
but
seems
to
be
speaking
directly
to
Consuelo:
Non,
le
Christ
mon
frère
ne
vous
a
pas
aimés
plus
que
je
ne
vous
aime.
Il
est
temps
que
vous
me
connaissiez,
et
qu’au
lieu
de
m’appeler
l’ennemi
du
genre
humain,
vous
retrouviez
en
moi
l’ami
qui
vous
a
soutenus
dans
la
lutte.
Je
ne
suis
pas
le
démon,
je
suis
l’archange
de
la
révolte
légitime
et
le
patron
des
grandes
luttes.
Comme
le
Christ,
je
suis
le
Dieu
du
pauvre,
du
faible
et
de
l’opprimé.
Quand
il
vous
promettait
le
règne
de
Dieu
sur
la
terre,
quand
il
vous
annonçait
son
retour
parmi
vous,
il
voulait
dire
qu’après
avoir
subi
la
persécution,
vous
seriez
récompensés,
en
conquérant
avec
lui
et
moi
la
liberté
et
le
Bonheur.
C’est
ensemble
que
nous
devions
revenir,
et
c’est
ensemble
que
nous
revenons,
tellement
unis
l’un
à
l’autre
que
nous
ne
faisons
plus
qu’un.
(Consuelo,
285)
Drawn
to
the
fallen
angel
as
if
by
a
magnetic
force.
Consuelo
throws
herself
at
him,
crying,
“A
toi!
À
toi!
Ange
de
douleur;
à
toi
et
à
Dieu
pour
toujours”
(Consuelo,
286).
145
Momentarily
unaware
of
who
and
where
she
is,
she
embraces
Albert,
only
to
awaken
from
her
dream
and
recoil
in
horror
when
she
realizes
that
although
she
descended
into
the
grotto
with
the
purpose
of
saving
him,
it
is
she
who
ultimately
requires
assistance:
“Venez,
portez‐moi
dehors.
Il
me
semble
qu’à
la
pleine
lumière
du
jour,
je
verrai
enfin
clair
dans
ma
propre
destinée”
(Consuelo,
289).
As
soon
as
Consuelo
unites
with
Albert,
she
thus
wishes
to
separate
from
him,
vowing
to
make
sense
of
“[sa]
propre
destinée”:
while
she
has
been
touched
by
his
music
inspired
by
the
vagaries
and
contingencies
of
history,
she
is
still
functioning
as
a
kind
of
cantus
firmus,
a
single
note
that
functions
to
underscore
its
radical
difference
from
the
cataclysmic
music
that
represents
the
doomed
essence
of
Albert.
As
Sand
constructs
Liverani
and
Consuelo’s
meeting
and
embrace
in
the
second
novel,
she
inserts
several
of
the
same
elements
as
the
first
but
inverts
them
just
as
a
musician
would
when
employing
the
mirroring
technique
known
as
inverted
counterpoint.
This
practice
requires
that
two
melody
lines
that
had
previously
accompanied
one
another
do
so
again
but
with
the
melody
that
had
been
in
the
high
voice
now
in
the
low,
or
the
melody
in
the
low
voice
now
in
the
high.
This
results
in
a
sort
of
mirroring
effect
that
Sand
appears
to
appropriate
as
she
composes
the
paired
episodes.
There
are
a
certain
number
of
paired
elements
in
the
two
sets
of
passages.
Whereas
Albert
immediately
recognized
Consuelo
as
“sa
consolation,”
it
is
now
Consuelo
who
believes
Liverani
to
be
her
“ange
de
consolation”
(La
Comtesse,
218).
In
146
addition,
in
rescuing
her
from
prison
Liverani
leads
Consuelo
from
a
dark
and
dismal
cell
quite
similar
to
Albert’s
grotto.
While
in
prison,
Consuelo
sits
alone
with
no
companion
but
the
sound
of
a
violin
playing
in
another
cell.
As
she
struggles
to
sleep
at
night,
she
is
haunted
by
the
sound
of
the
instrument
performing
Bohemian
melodies
that
reminds
her
of
Albert’s
performance
in
the
grotto:
“Il
me
semble
toujours
entendre
ce
terrible
violon
jouant
ses
vieux
airs
bohémiens,
ses
cantiques
et
ses
chants
de
guerre”
(La
Comtesse,
143).
And
whereas
Albert
carries
Consuelo
over
a
body
of
water
as
they
enter
into
the
grotto,
Liverani
carries
Consuelo
over
a
body
of
water
as
they
exit
the
prison.
In
analyzing
the
episodes
together,
one
also
notices
the
ways
in
which
the
narrative
lines
run
parallel
to
one
another.
The
circumstances
that
lead
to
Consuelo’s
descent
into
the
grotto
and
her
escape
from
the
Spandau
prison
prove
quite
similar.
Just
before
entering
into
the
grotto,
for
example,
Consuelo
beholds
her
ex‐fiancé
Anzoleto
on
horseback
near
the
Château
des
Géants.
Horrified
by
the
sight
of
this
man
who
was
unfaithful
to
her,
Consuelo
cannot
stand
upright:
“Il
lui
sembla
que
la
main
de
la
mort
serrait
sa
gorge
et
déchirait
sa
poitrine:
ses
yeux
se
voilèrent;
un
bruit
sourd
comme
celui
de
la
mer
gronda
dans
ses
oreilles”
(Consuelo,
269).
Preferring
death
to
the
memory
of
the
betrayal,
Consuelo
eagerly
agrees
to
accompany
Albert
underground.
Similarly,
Consuelo
encounters
a
Prussian
officer,
a
man
who
had
previously
tried
to
seduce
her,
just
before
Liverani
is
able
to
rescue
her
from
the
prison:
“Des
pas
lourds
et
précipités
retentissaient
à
se
oreilles,
la
clarté
des
flambeaux
jaillissait
devant
ses
yeux
effarés
et
.
.
.
Elle
se
laissa
glisser
dans
un
coin,
et
perdit
tout
à
fait
connaissance”
(La
Comtesse,
164).
147
Despite
the
parallel
ways
in
which
the
narrative
threads
seem
to
spool
outward,
Liverani’s
silence
complicates
matters.
Whereas
Albert
freely
speaks
and
performs
music
at
Consuelo’s
request,
Liverani
refuses
to
utter
a
single
word:
“Elle
[Consuelo]
crut
devoir
lui
exprimer
sa
reconnaissance
et
sa
joie;
mais
elle
n’en
obtint
aucune
réponse”
(La
Comtesse,
165).
Rather
than
creating
distance
between
Consuelo
and
Liverani,
this
silence
only
brings
them
closer
together.
In
fact,
it
is
Liverani’s
silence
that
allows
him
to
join
his
“voice”
with
hers.
In
counterpoint,
there
are
moments
in
a
musical
composition
when
the
composer
does
not
write
multiple
voices
but
chooses
to
imply
them.69
Here,
whether
consciously
or
not,
it
is
possible
that
Sand’s
writing
is
informed
by
this
technique.
Albert
and
Liverani
are
the
same
person;
didn’t
Albert
once
tell
Consuelo,“Nous
pouvons
prier
ensemble
sans
discuter
.
.
.”
(Consuelo,
275)?
And
indeed,
as
they
speed
away
from
a
prison
in
a
carriage,
Consuelo
finds
herself
falling
into
a
dreamlike
state
whose
form
resembles
the
one
that
she
experienced
earlier
in
the
grotto
but
whose
content
proves
entirely
different:
Ce
mystère
qui
l’enveloppait
comme
un
nuage,
cette
fatalité
qui
l’attirait
dans
un
monde
fantastique,
cette
sorte
d’amour
paternel
qui
l’environnait
de
miracles,
c’en
était
bien
assez
pour
charmer
une
jeune
imagination
riche
de
poésie.
.
.
.
Elle
se
rappelait
ces
paroles
de
l’Ecriture
.
.
.
“J’enverrai
dans
les
ténèbres
un
de
mes
anges
69
J.
S.
Bach
was
particularly
noted
for
this
practice.
See
Stacey
Davis,
“Stream
Segregation
and
Perceived
Syncopation:
Analyzing
Rhythmic
Effects
of
Implied
Polyphony
in
Bach’s
Unaccompanied
String
Works,
A
Journal
of
the
Society
for
Music
Theory,
Vol.
17,
No.
1
(April,
2011),
pp.
1‐15.
148
qui
te
portera
dans
ses
bras,
afin
que
ton
pied
ne
heurte
point
la
pierre”
.
.
.
.
“Je
marche
dans
les
ténèbres,
et
j’y
marche
sans
crainte,
parce
que
le
Seigneur
est
avec
moi.”
(La
Comtesse,
170)
Rather
than
picturing
violent
battle
scenes
or
sorrowful
images
of
Satan,
Consuelo
now
believes
she
is
hearing
passages
from
Scripture
that
create
a
sense
of
calm.
Continuing
to
drift
in
and
out
of
sleep,
Consuelo
eventually
finds
herself
so
close
to
Liverani
that
she
cannot
resist
embracing
him
just
as
she
had
Albert.
Rather
than
jolting
her
awake,
Liverani’s
kiss
only
leads
Consuelo
to
fall
blissfully
back
to
sleep:
La
chasteté
ne
se
sentait
ni
effrayée
ni
souillée
par
ses
caresses
.
.
.
.
Elle
n’éprouva
pas
non
plus
l’effroi
et
la
honte
qu’un
si
notable
oubli
de
sa
pudeur
accoutumée
eût
dû
lui
apporter
après
un
instant
de
réflexion.
Aucune
pensée
ne
vint
troubler
la
sécurité
ineffable
de
cet
instant
d’amour
senti
et
partagé
comme
un
miracle.
C’était
le
premier
de
sa
vie.
Elle
en
avait
l’instinct,
ou
plutôt
la
révélation;
et
le
charme
en
était
si
complet,
si
profond,
si
divin,
que
rien
ne
semblait
pouvoir
jamais
l’altérer.
L’inconnu
lui
paraissait
un
être
à
part,
quelque
chose
d’angélique
dont
l’amour
la
sanctifiait.
Il
passa
légèrement
le
bout
de
ses
doigts,
plus
doux
que
le
tissu
d’une
fleur,
sur
les
paupières
de
Consuelo,
et
à
l’instant
elle
se
rendormit
comme
par
enchantement.
(La
Comtesse,
171)
149
Liverani
and
Albertus
are
the
same
person,
but
now
as
Consuelo
kisses
him,
she
falls
in
love.
Only
now
does
she
experience
the
“révélation”
that
Albert
had
promised
in
the
grotto.
Giving
herself
without
reservation,
Consuelo
experiences
a
moment
that
reaches
the
summit
of
human
experience,
what
Sand
calls
in
her
aforementioned
letter
regarding
Chopin,
“[l]’apogée
de
Bonheur
et
d’excellence”
(Correspondances,
IV:
432).
And
whereas
she
had
wished
to
reassert
her
freedom
after
kissing
Albert,
she
now
dreams
of
being
carried
away
with
Liverani
forever,
“tel
qu’un
archange
emportant
sous
son
aile
un
jeune
séraphin
anéanti
et
consumé
par
le
rayonnement
de
la
Divinité”
(La
Comtesse,
171).
If
Consuelo’s
encounters
with
both
Albert
and
Liverani
destabilize
her
existence,
they
do
so
in
opposite
ways.
A
prisoner
of
history,
Albert
looks
to
Consuelo
to
save
him
from
his
past
and
keep
him
in
the
present
moment:
“Vous
m’ordonnez
de
connaître
et
de
comprendre
le
temps
présent
et
les
choses
humaines”
(Consuelo,
221).
With
her
help,
Albert
is
able
to
forget
the
corruption
and
violence
that
haunt
him
as
she
anchors
him
with
her
song:
Quand
tu
chantes,
je
n’appartiens
plus
à
l’humanité
que
par
ce
que
l’humanité
a
puisé
de
divin
et
d’éternel
dans
le
sein
du
Créateur.
Tout
ce
que
ta
bouche
me
refuse
de
consolation
et
d’encouragement
dans
le
cours
ordinaire
de
la
vie,
tout
ce
que
la
tyrannie
sociale
défend
à
ton
cœur
de
me
révéler,
tes
chants
me
le
rendent
au
centuple.
Tu
me
communiques
alors
tout
ton
être,
et
mon
âme
te
possède
dans
la
joie
150
et
dans
la
douleur,
dans
la
foi
et
dans
la
crainte,
dans
le
transport
de
l’enthousiasme
et
dans
les
langueurs
de
la
rêverie.
(Consuelo,
260)
Perhaps
it
is
for
this
reason
that
Consuelo
feels
compelled
to
sing
for
Albert
even
when
she
is
far
from
the
Château
des
Géants.
As
she
makes
her
way
to
Vienna
with
Haydn,
she
stops
“involontairement”
(Consuelo,
353)
at
the
foot
of
an
old
wooden
cross.
Suddenly
convinced
that
Albert
is
thinking
of
her
at
that
precise
moment,
Consuelo
begins
to
sing
one
of
his
most
beloved
songs,
“O
Consuelo
de
mi
alma”
(Consuelo,
354)
and
when
she
is
finished,
she
feels
reassured:
“Il
m’a
entendue.
.
.
il
a
reconnu
ma
voix
et
le
chant
qu’il
aime.
Il
m’a
comprise,
et
maintenant
il
va
rentrer
au
château,
embrasser
son
père,
et
peut‐être
s’endormir
paisiblement”
(Consuelo,
354).
Although
Consuelo
cannot
readily
accept
Albert’s
proposal
in
marriage
because
of
her
fear
of
giving
up
her
musical
ideal,
she
still
feels
bound
to
him
and
his
plight.
Upon
meeting
Liverani
in
the
second
novel,
it
is
now
Consuelo
who
seeks
to
anchor
herself
in
time
and
place.
Whereas
her
most
natural
expression
is
song,
the
prima
donna
now
turns
to
writing
because
unlike
music,
it
implies
a
defining
permanence
that
cannot
be
erased.70
Communicating
to
Liverani
via
letter,
Consuelo
exclaims,
70
Coincidentally,
Consuelo
starts
to
compose
music
at
the
same
time
that
she
begins
to
write.
Locked
in
the
Spandau
prison,
Consuelo
pricks
holes
in
a
piece
of
scored
paper
that
she
then
holds
up
to
the
light
so
that
she
might
read
what
she
has
written.
That
Consuelo
pokes
small
holes
in
the
paper
may
well
suggest
the
very
beginnings
of
counterpoint
when
composers
would
not
employ
modern
notes
but
only
dots
or
points
to
indicate
the
different
melody
lines.
See
Fuchs,
p.
23.
151
Oui,
je
vous
aime,
je
l’ai
dit,
je
vous
l’ai
avoué,
et,
dussé‐je
m’en
repentir,
et,
dussé‐je
en
rougir
mille
fois,
je
ne
pourrai
jamais
effacer
du
livre
bizarre
et
incompréhensible
de
ma
destinée
cette
page
que
j’y
ai
écrite
moi‐même,
et
qui
est
entre
vos
mains!
C’était
l’expression
d’un
élan
condamnable,
insensé
peut‐être,
mais
profondément
vrai
et
ardemment
senti.
Dussiez‐vous
m’avilir
par
une
conduite
méprisante
et
cruelle,
je
n’en
aurais
pas
moins
éprouvé,
au
contact
de
votre
cœur,
une
ivresse
que
je
n’avais
jamais
goûtée,
et
qui
m’a
paru
aussi
sainte
que
les
anges
sont
purs.
(La
Comtesse,
195)
Falling
in
love
has
caused
Consuelo
to
consider
issues
of
duration
and
legacy.
71
To
affirm
their
love,
Consuelo
and
Liverani
reiterate
their
feelings
for
one
another
again
and
again.
Consuelo
exclaims,
“Vous
le
voyez,
je
vous
répète
ce
que
vous
m’écriviez.
.
.
.
Nous
ne
faisons
que
nous
répéter
l’un
à
l’autre
ce
dont
nous
sommes,
je
le
crois,
vivement
pénétrés
et
loyalement
persuadés
tous
les
deux.
.
.
.
Tenez,
je
m’abandonne
à
votre
parole”
(La
Comtesse,
195).
In
reiterating
their
love
for
one
another,
Consuelo
and
Liverani
hope
that
it
will
last
forever.
Indeed,
Consuelo
declares
that
it
is
forever
inscribed
in
the
incomprehensible
book
of
her
destiny
and
can
never
be
erased.
71
Anne
Marcoline
states
that
Consuelo’s
decision
to
write
marks
“a
new
way
of
developing
her
creativity”
and
goes
on
to
assert
that
more
than
anything,
Consuelo
“writes
to
leave
a
legacy.”
See
“‘Une
Trace
de
moi’:
Narrative
Succession
in
George
Sand’s
Musical
Novel
Consuelo,
in
George
Sand:
Intertextualité
et
Polyphonie
II
(Oxford:
Peter
Lang,
2011),
pp.
111‐125.
152
And
yet
at
some
level
Consuelo
seems
to
recognize
that
the
source
of
her
love
for
Liverani
is
quite
the
opposite
of
considerations
of
permanence
and
heritage:
it
is,
precisely,
her
total
ignorance
of
his
“vie
positive,”
the
kind
of
mundane
details
of
everyday
existence
that
as
we
have
seen
Sand
herself
claimed
to
scorn.
The
writer’s
idealized
vision
of
love
formulated
during
her
time
with
Chopin,
according
to
which
“je
ne
saurais
rien,
absolument
rien
de
sa
vie
positive,
ni
lui
de
la
mienne,
qu’il
suivrait
toutes
ses
idées
religieuses,
mondaines,
poétiques,
artistiques,
sans
que
j’eusse
jamais
à
lui
en
demander
compte,”
is
realized
by
her
fictional
heroine’s
relationship
with
this
mysterious
drifter.
As
Consuelo
writes
in
her
epistolary
journal
addressed
to
Haydn:
Joseph
.
.
.
il
faut
que
je
te
dise
.
.
.
comment
te
le
dirais‐je?
.
.
.
Je
ne
le
sais
pas
moi‐même
.
.
.
Tiens,
je
te
le
dirai
tout
simplement
.
.
.
J’aime!
J’aime
un
inconnu,
un
homme
dont
je
n’ai
pas
vu
la
figure
et
dont
je
n’ai
pas
entendu
la
voix.
.
.
Oh!
C’est
que
je
suis
aimée,
je
le
sens
si
bien!
Sois
certain
que
je
ne
me
trompe
pas,
et
que
j’aime,
cette
fois,
véritablement,
oserai‐je
dire
éperdument?
.
.
.
.
Tous
mes
efforts
pour
aimer
Albert
(celui
dont
je
ne
trace
plus
le
nom
qu’en
tremblant!)
n’avaient
pas
réussi
à
faire
éclore
cette
flamme
ardente
et
sacrée;
depuis
que
je
l’ai
perdu,
j’ai
aimé
son
souvenir
plus
que
je
n’avais
aimé
sa
personne.
Qui
sait
de
quelle
manière
je
pourrais
l’aimer
s’il
m’était
rendu?
.
.
.
(La
Comtesse,
180)
153
Consuelo’s
journal
entry
demonstrates
the
chiasmatic
or
crisscrossed
movement,
reminiscent
of
inverted
counterpoint,
which
characterizes
her
evolution
between
the
first
and
the
second
novel
and
that
of
her
once
and
future
husband:
whereas
in
the
first
novel
her
steadfastness
as
a
figurative
“single
note”
contrasts
with
the
erratic
musical
line
developing
the
tragic
tale
of
Albert
and
his
family’s
history,
in
the
sequel
it
is
her
lover
who
is
a
kind
of
monotone,
while
she
herself
cannot
forget
her
own
past
history,
her
marriage
and
unresolved
relationship
with
Albert.
Consuelo
gives
evidence
of
a
dawning
awareness
that
the
fact
she
has
fallen
in
love
with
a
man
who
is
a
nameless
cipher
is
no
more
of
a
coincidence
than
the
fact
that
she
could
not
truly
love
a
man
haunted
by
his
past:
when
she
gives
voice
to
the
question,
“Qui
sait
de
quelle
manière
je
pourrais
l’aimer
[Albert]
s’il
m’était
rendu?,”
her
words
suggest
a
new
twist
on
the
expression
that
absence
makes
the
heart
grow
fonder.
Perhaps
Consuelo
dimly
realizes
that
Albert
could
be
separated
from
his
poisonous
political
heritage
only
in
death,
that
his
disappearance
potentially
changes
her
feelings
towards
him:
no
longer
haunted
by
the
past
or
occupying
a
particular
place
in
the
social
hierarchy,
Albert
very
well
might
inspire
Consuelo
to
fall
in
love
with
him.
As
if
to
underscore
the
evanescent
nature
of
this
painful
recognition,
Consuelo
immediately
attempts
to
erase
her
question,
albeit
unsuccessfully:
“A
peine
Consuelo
eût‐elle
tracé
ces
derniers
mots,
qu’elle
les
effaça,
pas
assez
peut‐être
pour
qu’on
ne
put
les
lire
encore,
mais
assez
pour
se
soustraire
à
l’effroi
de
les
avoir
eus
dans
la
pensée”
(La
Comtesse,
180).
When
Consuelo
tries
to
erase
what
she’s
written
but
can’t
quite
succeed,
she
is
reliving—and
in
a
sense
inheriting—Albert’s
own
dilemma:
even
after
his
154
ancestors
and
their
immediate
conflicts
are
gone,
he
is
haunted
by
this
palimpsetic
presence
that
he
cannot
ever
really
erase
and
that
he
has
now
paradoxically
passed
down
to
his
“widow”
who,
in
turn,
cannot
erase
her
marriage
to
Albert.
As
Consuelo
picks
up
paper
and
pen,
thus
returning
to
the
medium
in
which
her
musical
tale
has
been
narrated,
she
is
forced
to
confront
the
reality
of
her
“vie
positive.”
When
she
is
informed
that
Albert
is
still
indeed
alive,
she
must
make
a
choice
between
the
man
with
a
past
whom
she
has
married
but
couldn’t
love
and
the
man
whom
she
loves
precisely
because
he
has
no
past.
This
dilemma
leads
to
the
final
pair
of
episodes
that
will
be
analyzed
in
this
chapter.
As
Consuelo
prepares
for
her
initiation
into
the
Invisibles
that
will
decide
her
fate
at
the
end
of
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
Sand
reintroduces
many
of
the
elements
that
played
out
in
her
heroine’s
audition
at
the
very
beginning
of
Consuelo—but
only
insofar
as
they
illustrate
her
shift
from
someone
who
embodies
a
musical
ideal
to
someone
who
has
accepted
her
fall
into
mortality,
history,
and
language.
Before
her
audition,
Consuelo
takes
comfort
in
her
musical
gift,
which
she
believes
has
been
given
to
her
by
God.
While
those
around
her,
particularly
her
then
fiancé
Anzoleto,
worry
that
she
does
not
look
the
part
of
an
adored
actress,
Consuelo
points
out
that
if
she
is
to
be
acknowledged
and
accepted
by
Count
Zustiniani
and
others,
it
will
be
thanks
to
her
voice.
Consuelo
thus
dons
“une
petite
robe
noire”
rather
than
the
“toilette
de
fête”
(Consuelo,
52)
that
Anzoleto
wishes
her
to
wear.
To
this
day,
musicians
often
opt
to
wear
black
so
that
they
do
not
distract
the
audience
from
the
155
music
that
they
perform,
hoping
to
render
themselves
“invisible.”
Looking
at
herself
in
the
mirror,
Consuelo
takes
comfort
in
the
realization
that
her
fate
depends
on
her
voice
alone.
As
she
simply
states,
“Ecoute
ma
voix,
tout
est
là”
(Consuelo,
54).
Such
a
pronouncement
suggests
the
singular
yet
all‐encompassing
nature
of
her
instrument.
One
of
the
more
flexible
of
French
words,
tout
is
an
adjective,
an
adverb,
a
noun,
or
a
pronoun
depending
on
its
context.
Straddling
singular
and
plural,
tout
implies
that
Consuelo’s
voice
alone
has
the
power
to
evoke
the
most
unattainable
worlds
and
everything
that
exists
in
them.
Those
who
hear
it
cannot
help
but
feel
as
if
they
are
directly
in
contact
with
the
divine.
Consuelo’s
instrument
opens
the
door
to
new
worlds,
to
the
universe,
and
even
to
God—le
Grand
Tout.
And
indeed,
when
Consuelo
performs
at
her
audition,
her
voice
transports
those
who
hear
her—including
the
impresario
Count
Zustiniani,
the
composer
Marcello,
her
fiancé
and
herself—to
the
heavens.
As
the
scene
of
her
first
performance
unfolds,
the
reader
first
learns
what
transpires
within
the
prima
donna
herself
as
she
prepares
to
sing:
Aussitôt
que
les
premières
paroles
de
ce
chant
large
et
franc
brillèrent
devant
ses
yeux,
elle
se
sentit
transportée
dans
un
autre
monde.
Oubliant
le
comte
Zustiniani,
les
regards
malveillants
de
ses
rivales,
et
jusqu’à
Anzoleto,
elle
ne
songea
qu’à
Dieu
et
à
Marcello,
qui
se
plaçait
dans
sa
pensée
comme
un
interprète
entre
elle
et
ces
cieux
splendides
156
dont
elle
avait
célébré
la
gloire.
Quel
plus
beau
thème,
en
effet,
et
quelle
plus
grande
idée!
(55)
Interestingly,
Sand
describes
Consuelo
as
seeing
rather
than
hearing
the
music:
“…Ce
chant
large
et
franc
brillèrent
devant
ses
yeux.”
As
the
orchestra
performs,
it
takes
Consuelo
to
a
place
in
which
her
audience
fades
and
only
the
composer
and
God
remain.
Indeed,
Consuelo
becomes
a
vessel,
suggesting
that
nothing
exists
but
the
music
itself:
I
cieli
immensi
narrano
Del
grande
Iddio
la
gloria;
Il
firmamento
lucido
All’universo
annunzia
Quanto
sieno
mirabili
Della
sua
destra
le
opere
(55).
72
As
Consuelo
performs,
Sand
also
renders
the
simultaneous
reactions
of
Marcello,
Zustiniani,
and
Anzoleto:
72
The
highest
heavens
tell
/
The
great
glory
of
God
/
The
bright
firmament
/
Announces
to
the
universe
/
How
wonderful
are
/
The
works
of
His
hand.
Sand’s
choice
of
composition
is
not
surprising
given
that
she
attends
a
concert
during
which
Pauline
Viardot
performs
the
same
piece
at
the
same
time
as
she
is
writing
her
novel.
In
a
correspondance
to
the
singer,
Sand
expresses
her
enthusiasm,
exclaiming,
“Petite
fille,
et
grande
femme
que
vous
êtes,
vous
avez
été
superbe
aujourd’hui”
(Correspondances
:
V:
599).
157
Au
bout
de
quelques
mesures
d’audition,
un
torrent
de
larmes
délicieuses
s’échappa
des
yeux
de
Marcello.
Le
comte,
ne
pouvant
maîtriser
son
émotion,
s’écria:
“Par
tout
le
sang
du
Christ,
cette
femme
est
belle!
C’est
sainte
Cécile,
sainte
Thérèse,
sainte
Consuelo!
C’est
la
poésie,
c’est
la
musique,
c’est
la
foi
personnifiées!”
Quant
à
Anzoleto
qui
s’était
levé
et
qui
ne
se
soutenait
plus
sur
ses
jambes
fléchissantes
que
grâce
à
ses
mains
crispées
sur
la
grille
de
la
tribune,
il
retomba
suffoqué
sur
son
siège,
prêt
à
s’évanouir
et
comme
ivre
de
joie
et
d’orgueil.
(Consuelo,
55)
Count
Zustiniani
describes
Consuelo
as
three‐times
saint
and
the
embodiment
of
poetry,
faith
and
music,
something
that
Albert
reiterates
later
on
in
the
novel
when
he
tells
Consuelo,
“La
musique
et
la
poésie
sont
les
plus
hautes
expressions
de
la
foi,
et
la
femme
douée
de
génie
et
de
beauté
est
prêtresse,
sibylle
et
initiatrice
(Consuelo,
263).
Such
confidence
eludes
Consuelo
as
she
prepares
for
her
initiation
rite
in
the
second
novel.
No
longer
confident
that
her
music
will
save
her,
Consuelo
thus
chooses
to
wear
“une
parure
de
mariée”
rather
than
“un
vêtement
de
deuil
avec
tous
les
signes
distinctifs
du
veuvage”
(La
Comtesse,
279)
that
is
laid
out
for
her
the
night
before.
As
she
gazes
in
the
mirror,
it
is
as
if
she
were
looking
at
a
mere
shadow
of
her
past
self:
“Mais
en
se
regardant
au
miroir
.
.
.
elle
n’eut
plus
envie
de
sourire
comme
la
première
fois.
Une
pâleur
mortelle
était
sur
ses
traits,
et
l’effroi
dans
son
cœur”
(La
Comtesse,
279).
Despite
her
festive
attire,
Consuelo
knows
that
she
is
preparing
for
a
figurative
158
death.
Porpora’s
warning
to
Consuelo
about
the
fatal
consequences
of
giving
herself
to
a
mortal
man
proves
prophetic
as
Consuelo,
preparing
to
dedicate
her
life
to
another,
finds
herself
facing
her
own
mortality.
Standing
before
the
Invisibles,
Consuelo
implicitly
acknowledges
this
shift
from
the
ideal
world
she
inhabited
in
the
first
novel
to
the
world
of
reality
she
recognizes
in
the
second.
Although
she
is
introduced
before
the
Council
as
“Consuelo
Porporina
“
(La
Comtesse,
353),
she
quickly
interrupts
them,
saying,
“Ne
voyez‐vous
pas
que
je
me
présente
ici
en
habit
de
mariée,
en
non
en
costume
de
veuve?
Annoncez
la
Comtesse
de
Albert
de
Rudolstadt”
(La
Comtesse,
298).
When
the
Invisibles
try
to
assure
her
that
her
marriage
has
been
annulled—“Nous
ne
reconnaissons
pas
une
pareille
morale
.
.
.”
(La
Comtesse,
299)—Consuelo
boldly
challenges
them:
De
quel
droit?
En
vertu
de
quelle
autorité?
Vous
m’avez
appris
vous‐
mêmes
à
ne
vous
reconnaître
sur
moi
d’autres
droits
que
ceux
que
je
vous
aurai
librement
donnés,
et
à
ne
me
soumettre
qu’à
une
autorité
paternelle.
La
vôtre
ne
le
serait
pas
si
elle
brisait
mon
mariage
sans
l’assentiment
de
mon
époux
et
sans
le
mien.
(La
Comtesse,
298)
Although
Consuelo
doesn’t
say
directly
that
the
ideal
world
of
freedom
and
equality
the
Invisibles
propose
to
her
does
not
yet
exist,
that
is
precisely
what
her
words
imply.
While
it
is
clear
throughout
the
narrative
that
they
are
certain
of
success,
the
Invisibles
themselves
declare
that
the
war
has
yet
to
be
won:
“Nous
vaincrons,
n’en
doute
pas.
Dans
combien
d’années,
dans
combien
de
jours?
Nous
l’ignorons”
(La
Comtesse,
236).
159
To
Consuelo,
now
anchored
in
history,
the
problem
of
time
is
no
longer
something
that
she
can
ignore.
Thus,
although
Consuelo
is
prepared
to
join
in
the
struggle,
to
work
toward
the
Invisibles’
ineffable
and
future
ideal,
she
refuses
to
lose
sight
of
the
present—or,
of
equal
importance,
of
the
past.
Her
concept
of
virtue
is
no
longer
based
on
a
“one‐note”
devotion
to
music,
but
rather
incorporates
Albert’s
complex
political
values,
precisely
the
world
of
historical
contingency
that
in
the
first
novel
seemed
to
affect
her
so
little.
With
great
resolve—“la
première
de
sa
vie”
(La
Comtesse,
297)—Consuelo
protests,
“Mais
on
m’a
dit
qu’Albert
m’aimait
toujours,
et
qu’il
renonçait
à
moi
par
vertu
et
par
générosité
et
pourquoi
donc
Albert
s’est‐il
persuadé
que
je
resterais
au‐dessous
de
lui
dans
le
dévouement?”
(La
Comtesse,
299).
If
Consuelo
asserts
that
she
is
as
virtuous
as
Albert,
it
is
that
she
now
recognizes
the
moral
worth
of
his
position
as
a
struggling
sacrificial
victim
of
history.
Although
the
Invisibles
provide
Consuelo
with
absolute
freedom
to
gratify
her
desires
and
have
everything
that
she
would
have
ever
dreamed
of,
she
refuses
it
all:
Non,
non!
Plus
d’amour,
plus
d’hyménée,
plus
de
liberté,
plus
de
bonheur,
plus
de
gloire,
plus
d’art,
plus
rien
pour
moi,
si
je
dois
faire
souffrir
le
dernier
d’entre
mes
semblables!
Et
n’est‐il
pas
prouvé
que
toute
joie
s’achète
dans
ce
monde
d’aujourd’hui
au
prix
de
la
joie
de
quelque
autre?
N’y‐a‐t‐il
pas
quelque
chose
de
mieux
à
faire
que
de
se
contenter
soi‐même?
Albert
ne
pense‐t‐il
pas
ainsi,
et
n’ai‐je
pas
le
160
droit
de
penser
comme
lui?
.
.
.
Laissez‐moi
être
aussi
grande
qu’Albert.
(299)
Consuelo
proves
unwilling
to
pursue
her
own
happiness—including
the
art
of
music—at
the
expense
of
another.
If
her
own
love,
marriage,
freedom,
happiness,
glory,
and
art
require
the
sacrifice
of
someone
else,
they
are
no
longer
worth
having.
Overwhelmed
with
emotion,
Consuelo
cannot
find
the
words
but
only
the
music
that
will
express
her
feelings:
L’enthousiasme
de
Consuelo
était
porté
au
comble;
les
paroles
ne
lui
suffisaient
plus
pour
l’exprimer.
.
.
.
Elle
se
mit
à
changer
d’une
voix
éclatante
.
.
.
I
cieli
immensi
narrano
Del
grande
Iddio
la
Gloria!”
(300)73
Witnessing
Consuelo’s
influence
upon
Albert,
a
member
of
the
Rudolstadt
family
once
described
Consuelo’s
voice
as
miraculous,
“faite
pour
accomplir
des
miracles”
(La
Comtesse,
168),
but
now
she
cannot
continue
the
song
as
she
did
when
auditioning
to
become
a
member
of
Zustiniani’s
opera
house.
Whereas
Sand
describes
Consuelo
as
soaring
to
new
heights
of
artistic
expression
during
her
initial
performance,
she
now
describes
her
collapsing
in
grief.
Consuelo
can
still
give
voice
to
the
promise
of
God’s
glory,
but
she
can
no
longer
declare
the
wonders
of
His
works
on
earth.
And
even
73
“The
highest
heavens
tell
/
The
great
glory
of
God”;
Psalm
19:1
(18
in
the
Catholic
version).
161
though
the
words
that
speak
of
heaven’s
promise
are
set
to
music,
the
promise
itself
takes
the
form
not
of
a
song
but
of
a
narration:
I
cieli
immensi
narrano.
Consuelo’s
musical
ideal
now
appears
to
be
out
of
reach.
One
might
conclude
that
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
comprise
a
story
of
an
ideal
being
lost:
Consuelo
is
brought
back
to
earth
and
must
confront
the
world
in
which
she
lives
rather
than
the
world
to
which
she
aspires.
The
novels
also
seem
to
suggest,
however,
that
having
faith
in
the
possibility
of
such
an
ideal
world
might
provide
enough
of
an
affirmation
for
a
believer
to
continue
working
towards
it.
At
the
moment
when
Consuelo
believes
that
all
is
lost,
one
of
the
Invisibles
tears
off
Albert’s
mask,
and
his
mother
orders
Consuelo
to
look
at
him:
“Eh
bien!
Regarde‐le
donc,
et
sache
que
Dieu
t’accorde
de
pouvoir
concilier
l’amour
et
la
vertu,
le
bonheur
et
le
devoir”
(256).
In
that
instant,
Consuelo
experiences
the
fusion
of
her
ideal
and
her
reality,
the
union
of
the
man
to
whom
she
is
married
and
the
man
she
loves.
One
can
only
surmise
that
she
wishes
for
the
instant
to
last
forever
and
asks
herself
a
question
posed
elsewhere
in
the
narrative:
“Pourquoi
ne
peut‐on
arrêter
le
soleil
sous
l’horizon,
dans
de
certaines
veillées
où
l’on
se
sent
dans
toute
la
plénitude
de
l’être,
et
où
tous
les
rêves
de
l’enthousiasme
semblent
réalisés
ou
réalisables!”
(311).
The
sun,
however,
does
eventually
rise,
and
it
rises
on
a
new
world.
From
a
visual
point
of
view
it
is
clearly
a
world
in
which
Albert
is
Liverani.
That
the
novel
concludes
with
the
removal
of
a
mask
whereby
a
single
man
comes
to
embody
both
the
wounds
of
history
and
the
potential
treatment
of
those
wounds,
both
victim
and
162
physician,
creates
a
kind
of
visual
superposition
of
the
two
selves
that
essentially
dispels
the
mystery
of
the
double
identity.
But
if,
as
we
have
seen,
Sand
develops
her
narrative
partly
in
a
musical
way,
from
a
musical
perspective
the
conclusion
is
not
so
clear.
Whether
Albert
has
been
transformed
into
Liverani
or
Liverani
into
Albert
is
a
moot
point,
since
Consuelo’s
own
movement
in
counterpoint
to
the
narrative
lines
embodied
by
their
two
identities
suggests
that
those
identities
essentially
function
as
foils
to
the
novel’s
main
narrative
and
musical
line,
the
story
of
the
titular
heroine.
When
in
the
last
words
of
the
novel,
for
the
first
and
only
time
Consuelo
addresses
her
husband
as
his
idealized
self—“Oh
Liverani!”
(312)—we
are
left
with
an
impression
not
so
much
of
a
resolution
of
the
two
voices
embodied
by
Consuelo
and
the
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
but
rather
of
a
reassertion
of
the
independence
of
those
voices.
Does
Consuelo’s
cry
suggest
a
joyous
discovery,
an
acceptance
of
the
new
ideal
embodied
by
Liverani,
an
ideal
of
freedom
for
which
she
yearned
in
the
first
novel?
Or
a
heartbreaking
lament
at
having
taken
on
Albert’s
heavy
past,
a
desire
to
return
to
that
earlier
world
in
which
her
feelings
for
Albert
were
recognized
as
a
burden,
her
love
far
from
definitive?
If,
as
we
have
seen,
Consuelo
herself
changes
as
a
function
of
her
evolving
relation
to
the
narrative
(and
musical)
lines
represented
by
Albert
in
the
first
novel
and
Liverani
in
the
second,
perhaps
we
may
speculate
in
conclusion
that
her
calling
Liverani
by
name
marks
two
opposite
movements.
On
the
one
hand
it
is
a
fall
into
naming
and
language,
a
relegation
of
a
musical
ideal,
an
acceptance
of
the
fact
that
she
is
no
longer
163
“Consuelo”
but
“La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt.”
On
the
other
hand
it
is
a
final
expression
of
Consuelo’s
(and
perhaps
Sand’s?)
longing
for
the
simple
musical
ideal
that
she
has
given
up.
164
Conclusion
Coda
In
the
three
chapters
of
this
study,
I
have
argued
that
Sand’s
desire
to
write
on
music
reflects
an
ambitious
aim
to
compose
literary
works
that
are
synonymous
to
a
kind
of
music.
Whereas
Sand
is
normally
associated
with
music
because
of
her
personal
acquaintances
and
general
appreciation
of
the
art,
this
dissertation
suggests
that
such
associations
only
distract
from
Sand’s
very
considerable
and
impressive
knowledge
of
the
discipline.
Throughout
her
entire
life,
Sand
makes
diligent
efforts
to
better
understand
music,
including
its
more
theoretical
aspects,
and
to
find
ways
of
rendering
its
emotional
effects
in
writing.
What
I
have
presented
in
this
project,
therefore,
are
works
that
demonstrate
particularly
well
the
way
in
which
Sand
borrows
from
various
musical
concepts
in
order
to
better
convey
emotion
as
well
as
impart
the
emotion
that
accompanies
her
ideals
pertaining
to
politics,
society,
religion,
history,
and
art.
That
these
ideals
of
Sand’s
are,
as
she
herself
knows
all
too
well,
yet
to
be
realized
only
makes
music
the
more
appropriate
vehicle
through
which
to
convey
them.
A
yearning
question
rather
than
a
definitive
response,
music
allows
Sand
to
communicate
endless
possibility
rather
than
prescribed
truth.
In
fact,
if
one
were
to
try
to
synthesize
the
discussion
of
these
works,
it
might
be
best
to
consider
the
tension
that
the
musical
concepts
create
and
the
way
in
which
each
of
the
works
ends,
or
simply
stops,
leaving
the
reader
with
the
impression
that
Sand’s
writing
is
perhaps
as
open‐
ended
as
the
music
that
inspires
it.
165
In
the
first
chapter,
for
example,
Sand
highlights
the
tension
that
arises
between
the
melodic,
a
diachronic
structure,
and
the
harmonic,
a
synchronic
structure.
Whereas
melody
develops
across
time,
note
by
note,
harmony
is
the
simultaneous
sounding
of
several
notes
in
a
single
chord
that
creates
a
kind
of
stasis
or
interruption
of
the
diachronic
progression.
This
opposition
proves
crucial
to
our
understanding
of
Les
Sept
cordes
de
la
lyre
because
each
structure
reflects
a
different
pathway
towards
the
realization
of
truth.
Melody,
being
closer
to
discourse
and
stepwise
logic,
is
more
comprehensible
to
the
philosopher,
Albertus.
For
twenty‐five
years,
he
devotes
his
life
to
the
search
for
knowledge.
He
locks
himself
away
from
the
world
and
pores
over
his
books
in
the
hopes
of
realizing
a
progressive
method
towards
greater
understanding.
Despite
his
noblest
efforts,
Albertus’s
isolation
coupled
with
his
rigidly
systematic
approach
only
leads
him
further
away
from
the
illumination
that
he
seeks.
It
also
prevents
him
from
recognizing
the
dormant
power
that
resides
within
the
eponymous
lyre.
Unable
to
embrace
mystery,
Albertus
cannot
see
past
the
instrument’s
deteriorating
exterior
and
therefore
is
immune
to
the
music
of
which
it
is
capable.
Hélène,
on
the
other
hand,
immediately
recognizes
the
lyre’s
dormant
power.
Upon
hearing
its
music,
she
experiences
single
moments
of
plenitude
that
allow
her
to
feel
in
tune
with
herself,
the
world,
and
even
God.
Indeed,
Sand
seems
to
suggest
that
in
order
to
go
forward
in
one’s
quest
for
truth,
one
must
paradoxically
stop.
Although
Albertus
painfully
struggles
to
attain
even
the
briefest
glimpse
of
enlightenment,
Hélène
immediately
experiences
it
in
its
totality
without
any
noticeable
effort.
That
Sand
chooses
to
highlight
the
messianic
power
of
a
woman
artist
reflects
an
ongoing
goal
to
166
assert
the
equality
between
men
and
women.
More
akin
to
a
poet
than
a
philosopher,
Hélène
intuitively
understands
that
some
truths
are
not
found
in
books
or
even
rendered
in
words,
thus
opening
herself
up
to
the
possibility
of
the
lyre’s
music
and
the
inspiration
that
it
brings.
It
is
thus
how
one
approaches
the
lyre—how
one
might
“lire
la
lyre”—that
determines
whether
one
derives
meaning
from
it.
The
instrument
has
the
capacity
to
produce
melodies
as
well
as
harmonies
until
the
very
end
of
the
dramatic
dialogue
when
only
one
of
its
strings
remains:
the
brazen
string
of
love.
As
opposed
to
the
other
six
strings
that
are
identified
in
pairs,
this
string
exists
alone,
and
its
singularity
is
perhaps
suggestive
of
the
particular
status
accorded
to
love
in
so
many
of
Sand’s
works,
including
all
of
those
studied
in
this
dissertation.
Sand
believes
not
only
in
the
type
of
perfect
conjugal
love
that
might
exist
between
two
individuals,
as
in
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
but
also
in
a
more
fraternal
love
that
brings
various
groups
together
in
social
harmony
despite
the
many
differences
that
exist
between
them.
By
the
end
of
the
work,
Albertus
feels
more
“in
harmony”
in
the
latter
regard.
Recognizing
that
he
is
no
longer
alone
and
reassured
that
Hélène’s
spirit
is
still
present
with
him,
he
returns
to
his
study
alongside
his
students
with
renewed
purpose.
The
conflict
between
melody
and
harmony,
however,
is
not
necessarily
resolved
at
the
end
of
the
dramatic
dialogue.
Whereas
the
musical
compositions
of
Sand’s
day
normally
resolve
with
a
chord,
Hélène,
the
embodiment
of
harmony,
is
not
possessed
by
Albertus,
at
least
in
any
literal
sense,
and
Albertus
does
not
take
the
lyre
with
him
when
167
he
recommences
his
philosophical
pursuits.
Les
Sept
Cordes
de
la
lyre
thus
expresses
an
ideal
of
discovering
and
experiencing
timeless
harmonies
within
the
forward
temporal
movement
of
life,
but
it
is
far
from
certain
at
the
work’s
end
whether
or
not
emphasis
is
being
placed
on
the
ideal
as
an
unrealizable
dream
or
on
a
possible
attainment
of
that
ideal
through
an
integration
or
synthesis
of
melody
and
harmony,
thereby
encouraging
the
readers
to
draw
their
own
conclusions.
If
we
turn
now
to
the
second
chapter
and
Les
Maîtres
sonneurs,
the
focus
here
is
on
the
tension
that
arises
between
the
major
and
minor
modes.
Here
once
again
this
dichotomy
comprises
both
an
opposition
and
a
form
of
complementarity:
just
as
a
musical
composition
typically
includes
both
melody
and
harmony,
a
major
and
a
minor
mode
create
very
different
effects
but
a
musician
is
able
to
“modulate,”
to
move
from
one
mode
to
another,
within
a
single
piece
of
music.
Sand
turns
to
the
musical
modes
as
geographical
markers
that
help
her
to
delineate
the
region
of
Berry
from
the
region
of
Bourbonnais.
Whereas
Berry
cultivates
a
sense
of
stability,
calm,
and
contentment,
impressions
normally
associated
with
the
major
musical
mode,
Bourbonnais
fosters
a
sense
of
restlessness,
unease,
and
foreboding,
impressions
normally
associated
with
the
minor
musical
mode.
Despite
such
differences,
the
inhabitants
of
Berry
and
Bourbonnais
are
able
to
traverse
from
one
region
to
the
other
and
even
create
figurative
bridges
between
the
two
landscapes
through
intermarriage.
In
this
chapter,
the
relationship
between
the
major
and
the
minor
modes
is
complicated
by
the
opposition
between
two
modes
of
communication,
music
and
168
language,
as
distinct
creators
of
reader
expectation.
In
the
words
of
an
oracular
song
highlighted
by
its
placement
in
the
middle
of
the
work,
Père
Bastien
foretells
the
happy
union
of
Huriel,
a
Bourbonnais,
and
Brulette,
a
Berrichonne.
Up
to
this
point
in
the
novel,
the
reader
would
not
expect
that
such
a
marriage
would
be
possible
given
the
couple’s
different
places
of
origin
and
the
implicit
differences
in
their
“mode”
of
existence
and
their
temperaments,
but
the
lyrics
communicate
a
simple
and
straightforward
narrative
that
strongly
suggests
how
Huriel
will
find
a
way
of
winning
the
heart
and
the
hand
of
the
young
woman
desired
by
so
many.
Unlike
Joset,
the
“woodsman”
who
dares
not
voice
his
love,
or
Etienne,
the
“woodsman”
who
believes
he
can
demand
love
into
being,
Huriel
simply
and
forthrightly
asks
for
Brulette’s
heart.
Holding
out
the
“fleur
d’amande,”
a
flower
whose
white
petals
evoke
a
bride’s
wedding
gown,
Huriel
proves
the
most
worthy
of
suitors
in
Père
Bastien’s
song
as
well
as
in
the
narrative’s
actual
dénouement.
Although
there
are
a
number
of
obstacles
that
arise
in
the
ensuing
pages
of
the
novel
and
impede
the
couple’s
union,
the
reader
never
encounters
any
prolonged
reason
to
doubt
that
their
wedding
will
eventually
take
place.
If
one
considers
the
musical
mode
in
which
Père
Bastien
performs
the
folksong,
however,
the
reader
cannot
be
so
certain
of
a
happy
resolution.
The
bagpiper
chooses
to
play
the
tune
in
the
minor
mode,
the
musical
mode
that
suggests
a
sense
of
sadness
or
longing
that
does
not
necessarily
leave
its
listener
with
a
sense
of
resolution,
least
of
all
a
satisfying
one.
Thus,
the
words
of
the
song
do
not
correspond
with
the
melody
that
accompanies
them.
And
whereas
most
of
the
characters—Huriel,
Brulette,
Etienne,
and
Thérence—remain
blissfully
immune
to
the
discrepancy,
the
most
musically
talented,
169
Joset,
cannot
help
but
pay
attention
to
it.
Deeply
troubled
by
the
mode
in
which
Père
Bastien
performs
the
song,
Joset
goes
so
far
as
to
manipulate
it
in
the
hopes
of
altering
not
only
the
music
but
also
Brulette’s
predicted
choice
of
husband.
Performing
the
same
tune
in
both
the
major
and
minor
modes
as
well
as
inserting
a
mode
that
is
unique
to
him
alone,
the
gifted
musician
intends
to
experience
romantic
love
without
compromising
his
devotion
to
his
art.
As
Sand
makes
clear
throughout
her
literary
corpus,
however,
no
one
can
commit
oneself
utterly
both
to
music
and
to
another
person
indefinitely.
No
matter
how
determined
Joset
may
be
to
have
both
his
music
and
Brulette,
he
ultimately
reveals
that
music
is
his
transcendental
value.
One
might
even
argue
that
Joset
loves
Brulette
only
because
she
helped
him
to
discover
music,
that
he
wants
her
in
his
life
because
she
recognized
his
bourgeoning
talent
when
others
took
no
notice
of
it.
In
the
end,
music
is
Joset’s
one
and
only
“mistress,”
compelling
him
to
venture
beyond
Berry
and
Bourbonnais
and
never
come
back.
According
to
the
lyrics
of
Père
Bastien’s
song,
a
joyful
marriage
results
from
a
suitor
asking
rather
than
demanding
love
from
another.
It
is
in
this
way
that
Etienne
is
able
to
accept
Brulette’s
love
for
Huriel
gracefully
and
find
love
with
another:
Thérence
offers
her
love
to
Etienne
without
any
pretense
and
he,
in
turn,
asks
her
to
marry
him
with
nothing
but
hope
in
his
heart.
When
one
considers
Joset’s
relationship
with
music,
however,
the
reader
does
not
have
the
impression
that
he
has
any
alternative.
Etienne
alludes
to
the
musician’s
“mauvais
destin”
(341)
and
Père
Bastien
observes,
“Il
[Joset]
n’a
pu
échapper
à
son
étoile”
(342).
As
Sand
makes
explicit
in
this
novel
and
others
such
as
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
one
does
not
choose
to
become
an
artist.
170
Rather,
the
calling
seizes
upon
the
very
soul
of
an
individual
and
renders
him
or
her
submissive
to
it.
Whereas
music
allows
Joset
a
means
of
expression
and
even
recognition
amongst
his
peers,
it
also
demands
his
unwavering
devotion,
thereby
tainting
the
otherwise
productive
“marriage”
as
well
as
the
novel’s
lingering
impression
at
the
end
of
the
last
veillée.
Although
the
words
of
Père
Bastien’s
song
prove
true,
neither
the
major
nor
the
minor
mode
seems
to
be
quite
sufficient
on
its
own
in
expressing
the
conflicting
emotions
conjured
up
by
the
novel’s
conclusion,
a
mixture
of
sadness
and
contentment,
laughter
and
tears,
celebration
and
mourning.
In
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt,
the
tension
is
internalized
within
the
reigning
structure
of
the
musical
concept
from
which
Sand
borrows.
Counterpoint
insists
upon
the
equality
of
independent
voices
as
well
as
their
combination,
thus
resulting
in
multiple
melodic
lines
that
work
with
and
against
one
another.
Sometime
the
voices
might
move
together
in
the
same
direction
but
more
often
they
go
in
different
directions.
This
technique
provides
Sand
with
a
method
of
constructing
what
many
consider
to
be
her
most
musical
novel.
The
narrative
lines
involving
Consuelo’s
transformation
into
the
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
and
Albert’s
transformation
into
Liverani
seem
to
mirror
each
other,
like
the
contrary
motion
of
two
contrapuntal
melodies.
In
the
first
novel,
Consuelo
acts
as
the
“fixed
melody”
that
helps
to
anchor
Albertus
as
he
fluctuates
between
the
past
and
the
present,
but
in
the
second
novel,
their
roles
are
reversed.
As
Liverani,
Albertus
becomes
the
“fixed
melody”
against
which
Consuelo
vacillates
as
she
approaches
the
question
of
her
marriage
and
how
it
will
171
affect
her
life
as
an
artist,
suggesting
yet
again
that
an
artistic
vocation
precludes
romantic
love.
One
might
argue
that
the
resolution
of
these
two
novels
is
the
most
musical
of
all
the
works
examined
in
this
dissertation
because
of
its
provocative
and
unsettling
final
word,
“Liverani!”
The
exclamation
does
not
seem
to
reconcile
Consuelo’s
ideal
with
her
reality
but
rather
to
emphasize
the
independence
of
both
Albert
and
Liverani
as
well
as
to
underscore
how
difficult
it
is
for
Sand
to
end
the
work,
as
already
indicated
by
the
existence
of
a
sequel.
Even
after
the
climactic
moment
when
Consuelo
names
Liverani,
Sand
is
unable
to
put
down
her
paper
and
pen.
Instead,
she
feels
compelled
to
continue
the
narrative
in
the
form
of
an
epilogue
and
fictional
correspondence
that
function
as
what
I
would
term
a
literary
coda.74
Derived
from
the
Latin
term
cauda,
which
means
tail,
a
coda
designates
an
added
musical
section
that
a
composer
inserts
just
as
the
listeners
believe
that
the
work
has
come
to
a
close.
Although
a
coda
sometimes
introduces
material
that
is
distinct
from
the
preceding
work,75
it
most
often
provides
listeners
the
opportunity
to
reflect
74
Lettre
de
Philon
à
Ignace
Joseph
Martinowicz,
Professeur
de
physique
à
l’université
de
Lemberg.
Philon
is
most
likely
the
Baron
de
Knigge,
known
as
Philon
by
the
Order
of
the
Illuminati
of
which
he
and
Martinowicz
are
a
part.
The
Order
of
the
Illuminati
grows
out
of
the
fictional
Invisibles.
75
Beethoven,
especially,
treated
the
coda
as
an
opportunity
to
expand
his
musical
compositions.
Roger
Bullivant
and
James
Webster
attribute
this
tendency
to
Beethoven’s
“love
of
dramatic
excursions
away
from
the
home
key,
necessitating
weighty
passages
to
restore
it.”
They
go
on
to
provide
the
example
of
the
“Eroica”
Symphony
whose
many
key
changes
produce
a
coda
of
141
bars.
See
“Coda,”
Grove
Music
Online,
Oxford
Music
Online,
Web,
9
August
2012.
172
upon
what
they
have
heard
and
hopefully
make
better
sense
of
it.
Declaring
the
coda
“aesthetically
satisfying,”
musicologist
Charles
Burkhart
defines
its
necessity
as
follows:
The
coda
is
a
kind
of
dramatic
response
to
the
events
of
the
main
body.
.
.
.
The
main
body,
having
expended
all
that
.
.
.
energy,
cannot
just
suddenly
stop
at
the
cadence.
Too
much
momentum
has
been
built
up.
The
listener
needs
more
time
to
take
it
all
in.
The
coda
lets
us
down
easy,
as
it
were,
and
restores
a
sense
of
balance
(12).
After
the
dizzying
and
perhaps
disorienting
music
comes
to
a
close,
a
coda
helps
to
reorient
the
listeners.
Like
a
kind
of
target,
a
coda
is
a
“geographical
marker”
that
leads
listeners
to
the
music’s
final
“destination”
while
also
allowing
them
the
opportunity
to
“look
back”
at
the
musical
ground
that
they
have
just
covered
in
order
to
assess
where
the
music
has
taken
them.
And
indeed,
the
material
that
Sand
includes
at
the
end
of
Consuelo
and
La
Comtesse
de
Rudolstadt
proves
significant
because
this
literary
coda
communicates
what
becomes
of
the
many
characters
in
the
novel,
most
notably
Albert
and
Consuelo,
as
their
lives
continue
to
zigzag
throughout
Europe:
“Des
preuves
contradictoires
.
.
.
nous
[à
Sand
et
à
ses
lecteurs]
les
montrent
tous
deux
sur
plusieurs
points
géographiques
à
la
fois,
ou
suivant
certaines
directions
diverses
dans
le
même
temps”
(La
Comtesse,
312).
Whereas
Albert
steadily
rises
in
the
ranks
of
the
Invisibles,
Consuelo
returns
to
the
stage
and
her
real
life
role
as
“la
prêtresse
de
l’art”
(La
Comtesse,
318).
The
reader
is
thus
able
to
briefly
revisit
many
of
the
places
and
people
that
propelled
173
the
narrative
forward
until
the
fateful
day
when
Consuelo
loses
her
ability
to
sing
forever:
“[Elle]
avait
irrévocablement
perdu
la
voix”
(La
Comtesse,
327).
Even
then,
however,
the
tale
is
not
quite
finished
as
Sand
leaves
the
reader
with
a
final
image
of
Consuelo
and
Albert
yet
again
resuming
their
travels,
but
now
with
their
children.
Just
before
they
disappear
beyond
view,
their
son
performs
a
ballad
co‐authored
by
his
parents.
Whereas
Consuelo
writes
the
music,
Albert
composes
the
words,
thereby
further
encouraging
Sand’s
readers
to
imagine
not
only
what
becomes
of
the
two
characters
but
also
their
different
modes
of
expression.
I
would
thus
contend
that
a
coda
such
as
Sand’s
encourages
us
to
look
ahead
just
as
much
as
backward.
If
we
are
to
consider
the
field
of
word
and
music,
it
is
helpful
to
consider
the
possibilities
of
advancing
further
into
the
interdisciplinary
realm,
what
comparatist
Breon
Mitchell
describes
as
the
“interart
borderland”
(5).
This
project
might
be
expanded
to
include
the
works
of
other
nineteenth‐century
French
novelists.
Although
they
might
not
have
received
the
same
sort
of
musical
education
as
Sand,
their
texts
suggest
that
they
too
are
interested
in
the
evocative
power
of
music
as
well
as
the
theoretical
concepts
that
underlie
it.
There
is
evidence
that
Balzac,
for
example,
took
a
considerable
amount
of
time
researching
music
history
and
theory
when
composing
his
short
story,
“Gambara”
(1837).
Stendhal,
meanwhile,
wrote
Vie
de
Rossini
(1824),
which
includes
a
great
deal
of
musical
criticism
that
promises
new
ways
of
approaching
his
writing.
And
while
it
is
well
established
that
Victor
Hugo’s
works
have
174
inspired
operas
and
works
of
musical
theatre,76
little
research
has
been
conducted
about
the
various
ways
in
which
music
inspires
his
own
novels.
Even
in
regards
to
Sand’s
own
literary
corpus,
one
might
imagine
further
modes
of
inquiry.
Does
one
of
Sand’s
pastoral
tales,
for
example,
borrow
from
the
beat
of
a
Berrichon
bourrée,
a
dance
in
double
time
with
a
dactylic
rhythm?
As
Sand
tries
to
imitate
the
rondo
form
in
“Le
Contrebandier,”
a
short
story
inspired
by
Liszt’s
Rondeau
fantastique
sur
un
thème
espagnol
(1836),
does
she
also
try
to
mirror
its
dynamics
that
range
from
fortissimo
to
pianissimo
or
the
crescendos
and
decrescendos
that
lead
from
one
dynamic
marking
to
the
other?
To
answer
such
questions
suggests
an
active,
synergistic
exchange
between
the
procedures
and
techniques
specific
to
both
music
and
literature,
one
that
equals
more
than
the
sum
of
its
parts.
Each
discipline
must
be
given
equal
consideration
and
one
should
not
be
compromised
for
the
sake
of
the
other.
As
Steven
Paul
Scher
notes,
“They
[music
and
literature]
are
only
analogous,
never
identical”
(Interrelations,
175).
And
yet,
both
arts
seem
to
endlessly
call
out
to
one
another
in
such
a
way
as
to
compel
the
critic
to
try
to
understand
them
together.
Questioning
the
point
at
which
words
stop
and
music
begins
is
a
process
that
propels
Sand
as
she
writes
her
novels,
helping
her
to
reimagine
the
possibility
of
her
own
writing
even
if
it
also
makes
her
confront
its
limitations.
She
cannot,
after
all,
separate
her
love
of
literature
from
her
love
of
music.
76
Hugo,
for
example,
inspired
Giuseppe
Verdi
to
compose
Rigoletto
(1851)
and
Domenico
Donizetti
to
compose
Lucrezia
Borgia
(1833).
Les
Misérables
(1980),
based
upon
Hugo’s
novel
of
the
same
title,
continues
to
be
performed
as
a
work
of
musical
theatre.
175
For
all
her
prolificacy,
she
communicates
this
dual
love,
with
all
of
the
complexities
that
are
inherent
to
it,
in
a
single
line
that
simultaneously
appears
to
say
it
all,
all
the
while
it
actually
leaves
a
great
deal
left
to
be
said:
“Je
n’aimais
et
n’aimais
réellement
que
la
littérature
et
la
musique”
(Histoire
de
va
vie:
126).
176
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