Every one knows the story of the name:  how she and Jules Sandeau wrote a novel together, and sought a nom de plume which should represent their literary union,—­how soon she found that she could do much better alone, and the weak work of Carl Sand was forgotten in the strong personality of George Sand.  Of Jules Sandeau she speaks only as of the associate of a literary enterprise;—­the world accords him a much nearer relation to her; but upon this point she cannot, naturally, be either explicit or implicit.  One thing is certain:  she was a hard worker, and did with her might what her hand found to do.  She wrote “Indiana,” “Lelia,” “Valentine,” and had fame and money at will.  Neither, however, gave her unmixed pleasure.  The eclat of her reputation soon destroyed her incognito, while the sums of money she was supposed to receive for her works attracted to her innumerable beggars and adventurers of all sorts.  To ascertain the real wants and character of those who in every imaginable way claimed her assistance became one of the added labors of her life.  She visited wretched garrets or cellars, and saw miserable families,—­discovering often, too late, that both garret and family had been hired for the occasion.  It was now that she first saw the real plagues and ulcers of society.  Her convent had not shown her these, nor her life amid the peasantry of Berry.  Only great cities produce those unhealthy and unnatural human growths whose monstrosities are their stock in trade, whose power of life lies in their depravation.  She tells us that these horrors weighed upon her, and caused her to try various solutions of the ills that are, and are permitted to be.  She was never tempted to become an atheist, never lost sight of the Divine in life, yet the necessity of a terrible fatalism seemed to envelop her.  With her numerous friends, she sought escape from the dilemma through various theories of social development; and they often sat or walked half through the night, discussing the fortunes of the race, and the intentions of God.  With her most intimate set, this sometimes led to a jest, and “It is time to settle the social question” became the formula of announcing dinner.  These considerations led the way to her adoption of socialistic theories in later years, of which she herself informs us, but hints at the same time at many important reservations in her acceptance of them.

In process of time she visited Italy with Alfred de Musset.  The fever seized on her at Genoa, and she saw the wonders of the fair land through half-shut eyes, alternately shivering and burning.  In the languor of disease, she allowed the tossing of a coin to decide whether she should visit Rome or Venice.  Venice came uppermost ten times, and she chose to consider it an affair of destiny.  Her long stay in this city suggested the themes of several of her romances, and the “Lettres d’un Voyageur” might almost be pages from her own journal.  Her