her；　they　left　no　trace　in　her　memory。　　She　had　not　intended　to　write　them；　and；　when　once　written；　she　forgot　them。
  〃_Consuelo　and　La　Comtesse　de　Rudolstadt_；　what　are　these　books？〃　she　asks。　　〃Did　I　write　them？　　I　do　not　remember　a　single　word　of　them。〃
  Her　novels　were　like　fruit；　which；　when　ripe；　fell　away　from　her。　　George　Sand　always　returned　to　the　celebration　of　certain　great　themes　which　are　the　eternal　subjects　of　all　poetry；　subjects　such　as　love　and　nature；　and　sentiments　like　enthusiasm　and　pity。　　The　very　language　completes　the　illusion。　　The　choice　of　words　was　often　far　from　perfect；　as　George　Sand's　vocabulary　was　often　uncertain；　and　her　expression　lacked　precision　and　relief。　　But　she　had　the　gift　of　imagery；　and　her　images　were　always　delightfully　fresh。　　She　never　lost　that　rare　faculty　which　she　possessed　of　being　surprised　at　things；　so　that　she　looked　at　everything　with　youthful　eyes。　　There　is　a　certain　movement　which　carries　the　reader　on；　and　a　rhythm　that　is　soothing。　　She　develops　the　French　phrase　slowly　perhaps；　but　without　any　confusion。　　Her　language　is　like　those　rivers　which　flow　along　full　and　limpid；　between　flowery　banks　and　oases　of　verdure；　rivers　by　the　side　of　which　the　traveller　loves　to　linger　and　to　lose　himself　in　dreams。
  The　share　which　belongs　to　George　Sand　in　the　history　of　the　French　novel　is　that　of　having　impregnated　the　novel　with　the　poetry　in　her　own　soul。　　She　gave　to　the　novel　a　breadth　and　a　range　which　it　had　never　hitherto　had。　　She　celebrated　the　hymn　of　Nature；　of　love　and　of　goodness　in　it。　　She　revealed　to　us　the　country　and　the　peasants　of　France。　　She　gave　satisfaction　to　the　romantic　tendency　which　is　in　every　one　of　us；　to　a　more　or　less　degree。
  All　this　is　more　even　than　is　needed　to　ensure　her　fame。　　She　denied　ever　having　written　for　posterity；　and　she　predicted　that　in　fifty　years　she　would　be　forgotten。　　It　may　be　that　there　has　been　for　her；　as　there　is　for　every　illustrious　author　who　dies；　a　time　of　test　and　a　period　of　neglect。　　The　triumph　of　naturalism；　by　influencing　taste　for　a　time；　may　have　stopped　our　reading　George　Sand。　　At　present　we　are　just　as　tired　of　documentary　literature　as　we　are　disgusted　with　brutal　literature。　　We　are　gradually　coming　back　to　a　better　comprehension　of　what　there　is　of　〃truth〃　in　George　Sand's　conception　of　the　novel。　　This　may　be　summed　up　in　a　few　words　to　charm；　to　touch　and　to　console。　　Those　of　us　who　know　something　of　life　may　perhaps　wonder　whether　to　console　may　not　be　the　final　aim　of　literature。　　George　Sand's　literary　ideal　may　be　read　in　the　following　words；　which　she　wrote　to　Flaubert：
  〃You　make　the　people　who　read　your　books　still　sadder　than　they　were　before。　　I　want　to　make　them　less　unhappy。〃　　She　tried　to　do　this；　and　she　often　succeeded　in　her　attempt。　　What　greater　praise　can　we　give　to　her　than　that？　　And　how　can　we　help　adding　a　little　gratitude　and　affection　to　our　admiration　for　the　woman　who　was　the　good　fairy　of　the　contemporary　novel？
  THE　END