at least too short. Only her head bears the impress of
ideality; it reminds one of the noblest remains of Greek art,
and in this respect one of our friends could compare the
beautiful woman to the marble statue of the Venus of Milo,
which stands in one of the lower rooms of the Louvre. Yes, she
is as beautiful as the Venus of Milo; she even surpasses the
latter in many respects: she is, for instance, very much
younger. The physiognomists who maintain that the voice of man
reveals his character most unmistakably would be much at a
loss if they were called upon to detect George Sand's
extraordinary depth of feeling [Innigkeit] in her voice. The
latter is dull and faded, without sonority, but soft and
agreeable. The naturalness of her speaking lends it some
charm. Of vocal talent she exhibits not a trace! George Sand
sings at best with the bravura of a beautiful grisette who has
not yet breakfasted or happens not to be in good voice. The
organ of George Sand has as little brilliancy as what she
says. She has nothing whatever of the sparkling esprit of her
countrywomen, but also nothing of their talkativeness. The
cause of this taciturnity, however, is neither modesty nor
sympathetic absorption in the discourse of another. She is
taciturn rather from haughtiness, because she does not think
you worth squandering her cleverness [Geist] upon, or even
from selfishness, because she endeavours to absorb the best of
your discourse in order to work it up afterwards in her works.
That out of avarice George Sand knows how never to give
anything and always to take something in conversation, is a
trait to which Alfred de Musset drew my attention. "This gives
her a great advantage over us," said Musset, who, as he had
for many years occupied the post of cavaliere servente to the