She does not consider that her confreres in novel-writing and in Socialism set about their work in the best way.  They paint poverty that is ugly and vile, and sometimes even vicious and criminal.  How is it to be expected that the bad, rich man will take pity on the sorrows of the poor man, if this poor man is always presented to him as an escaped convict or a night loafer?  It is very evident that the people, as presented to us in the Mysteres de Paris, are not particularly congenial to us, and we should have no wish to make the acquaintance of the “Chourineur.”  In order to bring about conversions, George Sand has more faith in gentle, agreeable people, and, in conclusion, she tells us:  “We believe that the mission of art is a mission of sentiment and of love, and that the novel of to-day ought to take the place of the parable and the apologue of more primitive times.”  The object of the artist, she tells us, “is to make people appreciate what he presents to them.”  With that end in view, he has a right to embellish his subjects a little.  “Art,” we are told, “is not a study of positive reality; it is the seeking for ideal truth.”  Such is the point of view of the author of La Mare au Diable, which we are invited to consider as a parable and an apologue.

The parable is clear enough, and the apologue is eloquent.  The novel commences with that fine picture of the ploughing of the fields, so rich in description and so broadly treated that there seems to be nothing in French literature to compare with it except the episode of the Labourers in Jocelyn.  When Jocelyn was published, George Sand was severe in her criticism of it, treating it as poor work, false in sentiment and careless in style.  “In the midst of all this, though,” she adds, “there are certain pages and chapters such as do not exist in any language, pages that I read seven times over, crying all the time like a donkey.”  I fancy that she must have cried over the episode of the Labourers.  Whether she remembered it or not when writing her own book little matters.  My only reason for mentioning it is to point out the affinity of genius between Lamartine and George Sand, both of them so admirable in imagining idylls and in throwing the colours of their idyllic imagination on to reality.

I have ventured, to analyze the Comtesse de Rudolstadt and even Consuelo, but I shall not be guilty of the bad taste of telling the story of La Mare au Diable, as all the people of that neighbourhood are well known to us, and have been our friends for a long time.  We are all acquainted with Germain, the clever farm-labourer, with Marie, the shepherdess, and with little Pierre.  We remember how they climbed the Grise, lost their way in the mist, and were obliged to spend the night under the great oak-trees.  When we were only about fifteen years of age, with what delight we read this book, and how we loved that sweet Marie for her simple grace and her affection, which all seemed so maternal.  How much better we liked her than the Widow Guerin, who was so snobbish with her three lovers.  And how glad we were to be present at that wedding, celebrated according to the custom in Berry from time immemorial.