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The ellipses, the delays, the questions and the repetitions have to be lavish, if movement is desired, and all that in itself is very ugly. I am perhaps blinding myself, but I think that I am now writing something very quick and easy to play. We shall see. Adieu, dear master, embrace all yours for me. Your old good-for-nothing Cruchard, friend of Chalumeau.
It is a gigantic story, but it requires one to toe the mark to tell it suitably. CCLVIII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT Nohant, 4 July, 1873 I don't know where you are at present, Cruchard of my heart. I am addressing this to Paris whence I suppose it will be forwarded to you.
Here, where it does not rain enough, we are at least hustled out of doors by the beautiful warm sun and that Phoebus invigorates us, while our Phoebus-Apollo murders us. But I am always talking to you as to a Cruchard philosophic and detached from his personality, to a Cruchard fanatical about literature and drunk with production.
Our two little girls cruelly ill with the grippe have taken up all my time, but I am following, in the papers, the course of your play. I would go to applaud it, my cherished Cruchard, if I could leave these dear little invalids. So it is on Wednesday that they are going to judge it. The jury may be good or stupid, one never knows!
The mountains in travail roar and scream, but they sing beautiful airs, also. I embrace you and I love you. Do have your legend published quickly, so that we may read it. Your old troubadour, G. Sand CCCVII. TO GUSTAVE FLAUBERT 30th March, 1876 Dear Cruchard, I am enthusiastic about Jack, and I beg you to send my thanks to M. Daudet. Ah, yes!
Those little curt phrases, this continual scintillation irritates like seltzer water, which is pleasing at first but shortly seems like nasty water. Between now and January I am going to compose dialogues in the best manner possible, after that I am coming back to serious things. I am glad to have diverted you a little with the biography of Cruchard.
However, it is impossible for me to be so modest as to think that that good Pole is better than I am in French prose. And you want me to remain calm! dear master! I have not your temperament! I am not like you, always soaring above the miseries of this world. Your Cruchard is as sensitive as if he were divested of skin. And imbecility, self-sufficiency, injustice exasperate him more and more.
I excuse him; after these crises one is famished, and if it is because of an empty stomach that one has to fill up, he must be terribly famished. What a kind, excellent and worthy man! And what modest talent! Everyone adores him here and I give them the example. We adore you too, Cruchard of my heart.
Whence it results that Father Cruchard is wrathful with you for not having advised him of your presence in the "new Athens." It seems to me that people are sillier and flatter there than usual. The state of politics has become drivel! They have tickled my ears with the return of the Empire. I don't believe in it! However...We should have to expatriate ourselves then. But how and where?
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