George Sand and Frederick Chopin in Majorca

George Sand, Sand

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2013
• Print ISBN:
  9780710310408
• eBook ISBN:
  9781136210310
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Ethnic Studies
• Index: Social Sciences

First published in 2008. In this fascinating book, the writer George Sand recounts the story of her 1838 winter in Majorca, a winter she passed in the company of Frederick Chopin. In it she describes the natural beauties of Majorca as well as the rumblings of approaching war. A preface by Luis Ripoll, an expert on the loves of Chopin and Sand, helps the reader to appreciate the significance of this unique work.

PART I

CHAPTER I

ABOUT fifty years ago, two English tourists discovered the valley of Chamonix, according to an inscription carved on a rock standing on the approach to the glacier, Mer de Glace.

The claim is rather a tall one, if we consider the geographical position of this valley, but it is a fair one to a certain extent if these two tourists, whose names I can't remember, were the first to bring to the attention of poets and painters those romantic places, where Byron dreamed of his wonderful and dramatic poem, Manfred.

It can be said in general that Switzerland was not discovered for the outside world and for artists before the end of the last century. Jean Jacques Rousseau is the veritable Christopher Columbus of alpine poetry, and, as Monsieur de Chateaubriand has truly observed, he is also the father of romanticism in our language.

Not being precisely worthy of the same entitlements to immortaly as Jean Jacques, but thinking of those of which I might be justifiably proud, I believe I could perhaps have distinguished myself in the same manner as the two Englishmen of the valley of Chamonix, and claim the honour of having discovered the island of Majorca. But the world has become today so exacting that it would not be enough to have my name carved on some Balearic rock; a true description would have been demanded of me, or at least a sufficiently poetical account of my excursion so that tourists, encouraged by my words, would feel tempted to undertake one too. But as I was not in an ecstatic frame of mind in that land, I renounced then the glory of my discovery, and recorded it neither on rock nor on paper.

If I had written under the influence of the worries and frustrations which I suffered at that time, it would not have been possible for me to boast about this discovery, and more than one of my readers would doubtless have told me that it could not be so bad as made out; and yet there certainly was something to write about, for Majorca is, especially for painters, one of the most beautiful places on earth, and one of the least known. There, where it is only possible to describe the picturesque beauty, literary expression is so poor and inadequate that I never dared attempt it. The brush and pencil of the artist are necessary to reveal the graces and grandeurs of nature to the visitor. And today, if I am shaking off the sloth from my memory, it is because I found on my table, a few days ago, a beautiful book with the title of Souvenirs d'un Voyage d'Art à l'île de Majorque (“Recollections of an artistic visit to the island of Majorca”), written by J. B. Laurens.

For me it was a real joy to rediscover Majorca, with its palms, its aloe trees, its Arab monuments, and its Grecian style of dress. I recognised all the places with their poetical colouring, and I relived all the impressions which I thought I had effaced from my mind. There was not a hut, ruin or bush, that did not awaken in me a world of memories, as one says today; and then I felt, if not the impulse to tell the story of my journey, at least the desire to review and report on that of Laurens, the intelligent and assiduous artist, to whom must be awarded the honour, which I was attributing to myself, of having discovered the island of Majorca.

That journey of Laurens's to the middle of the Mediterranean, to shores where the sea is at times as inhospitable as the inhabitants, is much more meritorious than the excursion of our two Englishmen to the Montavert. Nevertheless, if European civilization could arrive at the point of doing away with customs officers and revenue guards, those manifestations of mistrust and national antipathies, if communication by steamer could be organised direct from our country to those parts, Majorca could very soon compete with Switzerland; for people would be able to get there in very few days, and would assuredly find there equally exquisite scenery and the same sublime grandeur, which would bring fresh themes to the painter's art.

But truly, in all conscience, I can only recommend this excursion to artists, both robust in body and of ardent spirit. The day will come no doubt when those seeking rest, and even beautiful women, will be able to go to Palma with no greater fatigue and trouble than that with which they now go to Geneva.

Having been associated for a long time with the artistic-works of Taylor on France's ancient monuments, Laurens decided last year on his own account to visit the Balearics, about which he had so little information that he confesses to experiencing a deep emotion on stepping ashore there, where possibly many disappointments were awaiting him in answer to his golden dreams. But what he had gone there to look for he was to find, and all his hopes were realised. Therefore, I repeat, Majorca is the Eldorado of painting. Everything is picturesque in the island, from the peasant's cottage, which has preserved traditional Arab architecture in its minor features, to the urchin in his rags, glorying in his “magnificent uncleanliness” as Henry Heine said apropos of the vegetable market in Verona. The character of the landscape, richer en vegetation than that of Africa, is more spacious, more tranquil and natural; it is like a green Helvetia under a Calabrian sky, with the solemnity and silence of the Orient.

In Switzerland the torrents which pour down everywhere, and the incessantly passing clouds, give a constantly changing colour to the panorama, and, so to speak, such a continuity of movement that the scene cannot be fitly portrayed on canvas. Nature seems to be mocking at the artist. By contrast, in Majorca, it appears to be waiting for him and inviting him. There, the vegetation takes on strange, arrogant forms, but never displays that irregular extravagance under which very often the outlines of the Swiss landscape disappear. The mountain top delineates its well profiled contours against a brilliant sky, the palm tree tilts over some chasm without its stately foliage being disarranged by a capricious breeze, and even the minor, stunted cactus bv the roadside seems to sit there and catch the eye with a sort of presumptuousness.

First of all we will give, in more or less ordinary encyclopaedic form, a brief geographical description of the major Balearic isle. This is not so easy as one might be led to think, especially when the data has to be obtained in the place itself. The prudence of the Spaniard and the distrust of the islander are carried to such an extreme that a foreigner must not ask any question of the least imaginable importance of anybody, unless he wants to run the risk of being taken for a spy. The good Laurens, for daring to make some notes in a ruined castle whose aspect drew his attention, was arrested by the suspicious governor, who accused him of drawing a plan of the fortifications.¹ And so our traveller, determined to complete his scrap-book in any place other than a State prison, took very good care not to ask anything except about the mountain foot-paths, and to consult other documents than those dealing with the stones of ruins.

After having spent four months in Majorca, neither would I have found out more than he, if I had not consulted the little information available about it. But here my doubts began again, for the various works on the subject, already out of date, contradict each other, and travellers disprove and slander one another in such an extraordinary manner, that it is necessary to rectify some inaccuracies in order to save committing many more.

Here then, despite everything, is my geographical description of the island. And so as not to depart from my rôle of traveller, I begin by declaring that it is incontestably superior to all those that have preceded it.

1. “The only thing that drew my attention on this river-bank was a structure the colour of dark ochre, surrounded by a hedge of cactus. It was Soller castillo. I had hardly sketched a few lines when I saw advancing on me four individuals with such a terrible look on them that I was inspired with amusement rather than with fear. Apparently I was guilty of drawing a plan of a fortress, contrary to the laws of the country, and would be thrown into prison.

I didn't know enough Spanish to explain to these gentry the absurdity of their action, and I had to appeal for help to the French consul in Soller. Despite his intervention I was a prisoner for three mortal hours, guarded by Señor “Six-fingers”, the governor of the fort, a veritable dragon of the Hesperides. At times I felt like hurling this comical dragon and his ridiculous uniform into the sea from the top of his tower, but his appearance disarmed my anger. If only I had had Charlet's talent, I would have passed the time studying my governor, for he was an excellent type to caricature. Besides, I forgave him his excess of zealon behalf of State security. It was very natural that this poor fellow, not having any other distraction than smoking his cigar and gazing out to sea, should seize the opportunity I gave him of varying his occupation. I returned therefore to Soller, laughing good-humouredly at the idea of having been taken for an enemy of the Fatherland and of the Constitution.” (Souvenirs d'un Voyage d'art a l'île de Majorque, by J. B. Laurens.) (Author's note.)

CHAPTER II

MAJORCA, which Laurens calls Balearis Major, as the Romans did, and which the king of Majorcan historians, doctor Juan Dameto, says was formerly known as Clumba or Columbia, in reality receives its name from a corruption of the Latin word for it. The capital has never been called Majorca, as many of our geographers are in the habit of saying, but Palma.

This island is the biggest and most fertile of the archipelago, which is the remains of a continent whose low-lying regions must have been invaded by the Mediterranean; and which, having once without doubt united Spain with Africa, shares the climate and produce of both. It is located 25 leagues (approx. 100 miles) to the south-east of Barcelona, 45 leagues (approx. 180 miles) from the nearest point on the African coast, and I think 95 to 100 (380–400 miles) from the port of Toulon. Its area is 1,234 square miles.¹ its perimeter 143, its greatest dimension 54 and its smallest 28. The population, which in the year 1787 was around 136,000, is now approaching 160,000; the city of Palma has 36,000 in habitants, as opposed to 32,000 at that time.

The temperature varies considerably in the different sea sons. The summer is extremely hot on the plain, but the climatic conditions in winter are greatly influenced by the ranges of mountains which run from the north-east to the south-west; which bearing demonstrates Majorca's identity with the territories of Africa and Spain, whose nearest points take on the same relative direction, and have corresponding salient angles. Thus, Miguel de Vargas relates that in the Bay of Palma, during the terrible winter of 1784, the Réaumur thermometer registered 6 degrees below zero (− 18.5 F) one day in January, that on other days it went up to 16 (68 F), and generally remained at 11 (57 F). This temperature was approximately what we had in an ordinary winter in the mountains of Valldemosa, which enjoys the reputation of being one of the coldest places in the island. On the severest nights, when the ground outside was covered with two inches of snow, the thermometer fell to 6 or 7 degrees (45–48 F). At 8 o'clock in the morning, it rose to 9 or 10 (52–54 F), and towards midday reached 12 or 14 (59–63 F). Normally, towards three in the afternoon, the hour when the sun disappeared from view behind the mountain peaks that surrounded us, the thermometer again fell rapidly to 9 and even 8 degrees (50 F).

The north winds frequently blow there with great violence, and in some years the winter rains fall with an abundance and continuity of which we haven't the least idea in France. In general, the climate is healthy and mild in the whole of the southern region which faces towards Africa, being protected from the furious storms of the north by the mountain range and by the considerable cliffs lining the northern shore. In fact, the island is like a plane inclined from north-east to south-west; and navigation, which is almost impractible in the north on account of the jagged projections and precipices along the “rugged, horrible, shelterless, dangerous” (Miguel de Vargas) coast, is easy and safe in the south.

In spite of its hurricanes and rough spells, Majorca, which was with much justification called the Golden Isle by the ancients, is highly fertile, and its produce is of a very fine quality. They grow such a pure and beautiful wheat that the inhabitants export it, and it is used exclusively in Barcelona to make a type of white, light pastry known as pan de Mallorca.² The Majorcans themselves import a cheaper wheat of inferior quality from Galicia and Biscay, on which they live; and so it is brought about that, in a country where excellent grain is grown, the bread is horrible. I don't know if this transaction does them any good.

In our central provinces, where agriculture is very backward, the farmer's methods only proclaim his obstinacy and ignorance. The same thing with greater truth applies to Majorca, where agriculture, although very thorough and widespread, is in its infancy. Machines, even the simplest, are unknown; the men's arms, thin and weak as they are in comparison with ours, suffice for everything; but with an unheard-of slowness. Half a day's work is necessary to dig less earth than is dug in two hours in our country; five or six of the strongest men are required to move a load which the smallest of our porters would carry happily on his shoulders.

In spite of this indolence, everywhere is cultivated in Majorca and, as far as one can tell, well cultivated. Poverty, as we know it, is unknown among these islanders; yet, in the midst of nature's treasures and under the most beautiful sky, their life is harder and more dismally dull than that of our countryfolk.

Travellers are accustomed to make epigrams about the gaiety of these southern people, who appear on Sundays in their picturesque costumes smiling in the sunshine, and whose lack of ideas and foresight they take for the ideal serenity of the country life. It is a mistake that I myself have sometimes made, but I am cured of it since I've seen Majorca.

There is nothing so poor and sad in the world as this country person who only knows how to p...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• THE KEGAN PAUL TRAVELLERS SERIES
• Full Title
• Copyright
• PREFACE
• LETTER FROM A FORMER TRAVELLER TO A STAY-AT-HOME FRIEND
• PART I
• PART II
• PART III