Italy now moved her. This was a fresh acquisition for her palette. More
than once from henceforth Venice was to serve her for the wonderful
scenery of her stories. This is by no means a fresh note, though, in
George Sand's work. There is no essential difference, then, in her
inspiration. She had always been impressionable, but her taste was
now getting purer. Musset, the most romantic of French poets, had an
eminently classical taste. In the _Lettres de Dupuis et Cotonet_, he
defined romanticism as an abuse of adjectives. He was of Madame de
Lafayette's opinion, that a word taken out was worth twenty pennies, and
a phrase taken out twenty shillings. In a copy of _Indiana_ he crossed
out all the useless epithets. This must have made a considerable
difference to the length of the book. George Sand was too broad-minded
to be hurt by such criticism, and she was intelligent enough to learn a
lesson from it.

Musset's transformation was singularly deeper. When he started for
Venice, he was the youngest and most charming of poets, fanciful and
full of fun. "Monsieur mon gamin d'Alfred," George Sand called him at
that time. When he returned from there, he was the saddest of poets. For
some time he was, as it were, stunned. His very soul seemed to be bowed
down with his grief. He was astonished at the change he felt in himself,
and he did not by any means court any fresh inspiration.

_J'ai vu, le temps ou ma jeunesse_
_Sur mes levres etait sans cesse_
_Prete a chanter comme un oiseau;_
_Mais j'ai souffert un dur martyre_
_Et le moins que j'en pourrais dire_,
_Si je lessayais sur a lyre_,
_La briserait comme un roseau_,