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Updated: May 12, 2025
What a road the creatures have still to travel who do not keep themselves clean! I embrace you. Tell me how you are getting on with Aisse, the Odeon and all that stuff you are busy about. I love you; that is the end of all my discourses. G. Sand Dear master, In your last letter, among the nice things that you say to me, you praise me for not being "haughty"; one is not haughty with what is high.
My incapacity, in that direction, has developed to frightful proportions. Why should the sight of a bill put me in a rage? It verges on madness. Aisse has not made money. Dernieres Chansons has almost gotten me into a lawsuit. The story of la Fontaine is not ended. I am tired, profoundly tired, of everything. If only I do not make a failure also of Saint-Antoine.
I find there the prophecies that the conscience of each of us has inspired in him, and these little returns to the past ought to give us courage; but it is not at all so. The lessons of experience are of no use until too late. I think that without subvention, the Odeon will be in no condition to put on well a literary play such as Aisse, and that you should not let them murder it.
I should very much like to read Aisse to you so as to talk a little about it; some of the actors whom they propose are, to my way of thinking, impossible. It is hard to have to do with uneducated people. CXXX. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Wednesday evening, 13 October, 1869
You have been present at the salon of Madame de Tencin. You know her Grace the Duchesse de Falari, recently Madame d'Artague? Mademoiselle de Caylus you know very well, and of course also Mademoiselle Aïssé, la belle Circassienne But what? Diable! Have you too gone mad? Come, is the sight of my guest too much for you also, Monsieur L'as?"
Occasionally there is the tone of passion, as in the letters of Mlle. Aisse and Mlle. de Lespinasse, but this is rare. Even passion has grown sophisticated and deals with phrases. There is more or less artificiality in the exchange of written thoughts. Mme. du Deffand thinks while she writes, and what she sees takes always the color of her own intelligence.
At twenty-four, more lovely than ever, combining the beauty of the Circassian with the graces of France, Aissé had now every right to look forward at least to such happiness as was possible to a stranger in a strange land. But no sooner was one danger to her peace removed than another sprang up to take its place.
But wad he, think ye? Na, no him! He grew reid, an' syne as white's the aisse, an' luikit to be i' the awfu'est inside rage 'at mortal wessel cud weel hand.
Aisse, the beautiful Circassian, with the lustrous, dark, Oriental eyes, who was brought from Constantinople in infancy by the French envoy, and left as a precious heritage to Mme. de Ferriol, the intriguing sister of Mme. de Tencin, and her worthy counterpart, if not in talent, in the faults that darkened their common womanhood.
"Was she were they ?" He chafed at his own ignorance of the sentimental by-paths of literature. "If you want love-letters, perhaps some of the French eighteenth century correspondences might suit you better Mlle. Aisse or Madame de Sabran " But Glennard insisted. "I want something modern English or American. I want to look something up," he lamely concluded.
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