THE LITTLE LEADEN SOLDIER

That particular night the fever induced by influenza prevented me from sleeping, and presently I heard very distinctly three smart taps on the glass door of a cabinet at the side of my bed, a cabinet in which I kept in an inextricable medley little figures in Dresden china or biscuit of Sèvres, terra-cotta statuettes from Tanagra or Myrina, little Renaissance bronzes, Japanese ivory carvings, Venetian glass, Chinese cups, boxes in Vernis Martin, lacquer trays, enamel caskets—in fact, a thousand nothings which a kind of fetish worship causes one to treasure, and which have the power of reviving memories of bygone hours, both gay and melancholy. The taps were faint but perfectly unmistakable, and by the light of the nightlight I perceived that they proceeded from a little leaden soldier installed amid the contents of the cabinet, who was making efforts to regain his liberty. He was successful, for soon beneath the weight of his fist the glazed door swung wide open. To tell the truth, I was not so surprised asmight be expected. To my mind that little soldier had always worn a suspicious appearance. And during the two years since Madame G. M—— had given him to me, I had been prepared for all sorts of impertinences from him. His uniform is blue turned up with red; he is aGarde française, and it is common knowledge that that regiment was not remarkable for discipline.

“Ho, there!” I called out. “What’s your name, La Fleur, Brindamour, La Tulipe! can’t you make less noise and let me sleep in peace? I am anything but well.”

The rascal replied with a growl:

“I haven’t changed much, my good man, since I took the Bastille, a hundred years back. On top of that a good many cans of good liquor were emptied. I doubt if many leaden soldiers of my age are still in existence. Good night to you. I am off to parade.”

“La Tulipe,” I replied with severity, “your regiment was disbanded by order of Louis XVI on the 31st of August, 1789. There is no longer any reason for you to attend parade. Stay where you are in the cabinet!”

La Tulipe twirled his moustache, and then, throwing a sly glance of contempt in my direction, retorted:

“What! do you mean to say you don’t knowthat every year on the night of the 31st of December, when the children are asleep, our great review takes place, and the leaden soldiers march in procession over the roofs and between the chimneys still joyfully pouring forth the smoke arising from the dying embers of the Yule log? It’s a desperate charge, and many a rider takes part in it with never a head on his shoulders. The shades of all the leaden soldiers who have fallen in battle pass by in the rage of combat. Nothing but bent bayonets and broken swords is to be seen. And the spirits of dead dolls, all ashen-faced in the moonbeams, watch them as they go by.”

This harangue put me in a quandary.

“Come now, La Tulipe, you mean to say it is a custom, a solemn custom? I have the profoundest respect for all ancient customs and usages, traditions, legends, and popular beliefs. That is what we call folk-lore—a subject we find a great deal of amusement in studying. La Tulipe, it is a great satisfaction to me to learn that you are an observer of tradition. On the other hand, I am not at all sure that I ought to let you leave that cabinet.”

“Indeed you ought,” said a clear musical voice which I had not heard before, but which I instantly recognized for that of the young woman from Tanagra, who, wrapped in the folds of her himation,occupied a place next to theGarde française, on whom she looked down from the graceful dignity of her superior stature. “Indeed you ought. All customs handed down to us by our ancestors are equally worthy of respect. Our fathers knew better than we what is permissible and what forbidden, for they were nearer to the gods. It is only proper, then, to allow this Galatian to perform the warlike rites of his ancestors. In my time they did not wear a ridiculous blue dress turned up with red like our friend here. Their only covering was their buckler. And we held them in great awe. They were barbarians. You yourself are just as much of a Galatian and barbarian. It is all in vain that you have read the poets and historians: you have no true conception of the beauty of life. You were not in the market-place when I used to be spinning wool from Miletus in the courtyard of the house, under the old mulberry tree.”

I compelled myself to answer with moderation—

“Lovely Pannychis, your insignificant Greek folk conceived certain forms so beautiful that the eyes and hearts of the judicious will never tire of them. But every day in your market-place such a quantity of drivel was babbled as would give occupation to one of our municipal councils for a whole session. I have no regrets at never having been acitizen of Larissa or Tanagra. At the same time I admit that what you have said is reasonable. It is fitting that customs should be maintained, otherwise they would cease to be customs. Fair Pannychis, who didst spin wool from Miletus under the ancient mulberry tree, not in vain have you assailed my ears with words of good counsel; for on your advice I give La Tulipe permission to go whithersoever folk-lore may call him.”

Then a little dairymaid in biscuit of Sèvres, her hands resting on her churn, turned towards me with glances of entreaty.

“Monsieur, do not let him go. He has promised to marry me. He falls in love with every woman he meets. If he goes, I shall never set eyes on him again.”

And, hiding her plump cheeks in her apron, she began to weep uncontrollably.

La Tulipe had grown as red as the trimmings of his coat: he could not endure scenes, and he found it extremely distasteful to listen to reproaches which he had richly merited. I reassured my little dairymaid as well as I could, and begged myGarde françaiseon no account to loiter about after the review in some Circe’s grot. He promised, and I said good-bye to him. But he made no attempt to start. It was extraordinary, but he remained perfectly still on his shelf, as motionless as the daintytrifles surrounding him. I let him perceive my surprise.

“Patience!” he exclaimed. “I cannot set out under your very eyes in that fashion, without infringing every law of the occult world. When you have gone to sleep I shall make off easily enough on a moonbeam, for I am full of expedients. But there is no great hurry, and I can still wait another hour or two. We have nothing better to amuse us than conversation. How would you like me to tell you some tale of days gone by? I know plenty such.”

“Yes, tell us one,” said Pannychis.

“Tell us one,” said the dairymaid.

“Go ahead, then, La Tulipe,” said I in my turn.

He sat down, filled his pipe, asked for a glass of beer, coughed, and began his tale with these words:—

THE LEADEN SOLDIER’S STORY

Ninety-nine years ago to the very day, I was standing on a round table with a dozen of my comrades, all of them as like me as if they had been my brothers. Some were standing, some lying down, several had sustained injuries to the head or legs: we were the heroic remnant of a box of leaden soldiers bought the previous year at the fair of Saint Germain. The room was hung with paleblue silk. It contained a spinet with the Prayer from Orpheus open upon it, a few chairs with lyre-shaped backs, a lady’s escritoire of mahogany, a white bed decked with roses; and all along the cornice were perched pairs of doves. Everything combined to convey an impression of affecting charm. The lamp diffused its soft light, and the flame on the hearth quivered like wings beating in the dusk. Clad in a dressing-gown, and seated in front of her escritoire, her delicate neck bending beneath the circling masses of her magnificent fair hair, Julie was turning over the letters tied up with ribbons, which had lain hidden in the drawers of the bureau.

Midnight strikes; the outward sign of the imaginary leap from one year to another. The dainty timepiece, on which is poised a laughing, golden Cupid, proclaims that the year 1793 has come to an end.

Just as the hands of the clock meet, a small phantom figure makes its appearance. Through a door which stands half open, a pretty child has crept out of the dressing-room, where he has his bed, and run in his nightshirt to fling himself into his mother’s arms and wish her a happy new year.

“A happy new year, Pierre?... Ah! thank you, thank you! But do you know what a happy year is?”

He thought he did; but, all the same, she wished to make quite sure that he knew.

“A year is happy, my darling, when it passes on its way bringing us neither hatreds nor fears.”

She embraces him; then she carries him back to the bed he has escaped from, and then returns to her seat in front of the escritoire. She glances first at the flames leaping on the hearth, and then at the letters from which dried flowers are falling. It is heartrending to have to burn them. Yet it must be done. For these letters, if they were discovered, would consign to the guillotine both him who wrote them and her who received them. If it was only herself that was in danger, she would not burn them, so weary is she of her contest for life with the executioners. But she thinks of him, proscribed, denounced, pursued, hidden away in some garret at the other end of Paris. A single one of these letters would be enough to put his pursuers on his track and deliver him over to death.

Pierre is sleeping snugly in the neighbouring dressing-room; the cook and Nanon have gone to their rooms in the upper regions. The intense silence of a snow-clad town reigns all around. The keen, clear air brightens the flame on the hearth. Julie has made up her mind to burn these letters, and it is a task she cannot carry out—howwell she knows it!—without recalling events of the profoundest sadness. She will burn the letters, but not until she has read them through once again.

The letters are all arranged in succession, for Julie imparts to everything around her a measure of the orderliness which is natural to her.

These, already growing yellow, date from three years ago, and in the silence of the night Julie lives over again the magic hours. Not a single page is surrendered to the flames until she has conned it over at least ten times, syllable by treasured syllable.

The stillness all around her is unbroken. From time to time she goes to the window, raises the curtain, glances through the oppressive gloom at the tower of Saint Germain des Prés silvered by the moon, and then resumes her slow labours of pious destruction. Why should she not for the last time rejoice over these delicious pages? Why deliver to the flames these cherished lines ere she has for ever imprinted them on her heart. Stillness prevails everywhere, and her spirit leaps with youth and love.

She reads—

“Though absent, I behold you, Julie. I go on my way, surrounded by images which my mind conjures up. I behold you, not cold and unnerved,but alive, animated, ever changing, yet ever perfect. Around you in my dreams I gather the most gorgeous spectacles the world can yield. How happy is Julie’s lover! He finds charms in all things, since in all things he finds her. In loving her it is life he loves; he marvels at this world which she irradiates; he treasures this earth which she adorns. Love unveils to him the hidden mystery of things. He apprehends the infinite forms of creation; they all display to him symbols of Julie; he hears the unnumbered voices of nature; they all murmur in his ear the name of Julie. He plunges his gaze rapturously into the inmost heart of the daylight, with the thought that that fortunate light bathes also the countenance of Julie, and casts as it were a divine caress on the loveliest of human forms. This evening the earliest stars will thrill his being; he will say: ‘Perhaps at this very moment she too is gazing on them.’ He inhales her in all the odours borne on the air. He desires to kiss the very ground she treads on....

“My Julie, if I am fated to fall beneath the axe of the persecutor, and like Algernon Sidney to die for liberty, death itself will be unable to restrain my indignant ghost in the land of shades which holds not you. I shall fly to you, my beloved. Often will my spirit return to hover around you.”

She reads and dreams. Night is coming to a close. Already a pallid light pierces the curtains: it is morning. The servants have begun their work. She must finish her own. Has she caught the sound of voices? No; all around her is silence, still....

Yes, all around is silence, for the snow deadens the tramp of feet. They are coming; they halt outside. Blows fall heavily on the door.

She has not time to hide the letters, to close the escritoire. All she can do she does; she takes the papers in armfuls and throws them underneath the sofa, the valance of which touches the floor; a few letters are scattered on the carpet; she pushes them under with her foot, seizes a book, and flings herself into a chair.

The president of the district enters, followed by a dozen of his pikemen. He is an elderly chair-caner named Brochet, who shivers with ague, and whose bloodshot eyes roam in an unspeakably loathsome fashion.

He makes a sign to his men to keep guard over the approaches, and then turning to Julie, announces—

“We have just received information, citizeness, that you are in correspondence with the agents of Pitt, and with émigrés and conspirators in the prisons. In the name of the law, I am here to takepossession of your papers. It is now some time since you were pointed out to me as an aristocrat of the most dangerous type. Citizen Rapoix, whom you see before you” (here he indicated one of his followers), “has confessed that in the severe winter of 1789, you gave him both money and clothes with a view to corrupting him. Magistrates of a timid tendency and wanting in patriotism have shown you leniency over long. But I am master now, in my turn, and you shall not escape the guillotine. Deliver up your papers, citizeness!”

“Take them yourself,” said Julie; “my escritoire is unlocked.”

There still remained in the drawers certain certificates of births, marriages, and deaths, tradesmen’s bills, and title-deeds, which one by one Brochet examined. He fumbled with them, and laid them aside with the suspicious air of a man who reads but poorly, and from time to time exclaimed: “Scandalous! The name of the so-called king is not effaced. Scandalous, scandalous, I call it!”

From his manner Julie concludes that his visit will be lengthy and scrupulous. She cannot resist taking a furtive glance at the side of the sofa, and she sees at once the corner of a letter peeping out from under the valance like the white ear of a cat. At this sight her agony vanishes suddenly. Thecertainty that she is lost brings back to her a quiet assurance, and her face takes on a calm indistinguishable from an expression of complete security. She has no doubt that the men will observe this scrap of paper so patent to her own eyes. Its whiteness on the red carpet positively screams at her. But she cannot guess whether they will discover it at once or whether some time must first elapse. This doubt occupies and distracts her mind. At this tragic moment she indulges in a sort of joke with herself as she watches the patriots moving further away from or nearer to the sofa.

Brochet, who has finished with the papers in the escritoire, becomes impatient, and declares that he will certainly find what he has come in search of.

He overthrows the furniture, turns the pictures round, and raps the panelling with the pommel of his sword to detect hiding-places. He can discover nothing. He smashes a panel of looking-glass to see if anything is concealed behind it. There is nothing.

Whilst this is going on his men raise some of the squares of parquet. They declare with oaths that a beggarly aristocrat is not going to have the laugh of honestsans-culottes. But never one of them espies the little white wisp which peeps from under the valance of the sofa.

They march Julie into the other rooms of the suite and demand all her keys. They burst open the cupboards, shiver the windows to splinters, smash up the chairs, drag the stuffing from the upholstery. And they find nothing.

Still Brochet is not yet despondent; he returns to the bedroom.

“In God’s name! the papers are here; I’m certain of it!”

He examines the sofa, declares that it has a suspicious appearance, probes it five or six times with his sword from end to end. Still he finds no traces of what he seeks, utters a horrible oath, and gives his men orders to depart.

He is already at the door, when, returning a step or two towards Julie, he raises his fist and shouts—

“Live in dread of my return! I am the sovereign people!”

And he goes out, last of all.

At length all are gone. She hears the clatter of their tread grow fainter on the staircase. She is saved! Her imprudence has not betrayed him—him whom she loves! She runs, with a jubilant little laugh, to embrace the tiny Pierre, who is sleeping with his fists clenched, just as though everything round his cradle had not been turned upside down.

When he had finished his tale, La Tulipe relighted his pipe, which had gone out, and emptied his glass.

“My friend,” I said, “justice is a virtue. For aGarde françaiseit must be admitted that you are a finished story-teller. But I have a strong impression that I have already heard that story somewhere.”

“It may be that Julie herself related it. She was a creature of infinite wit.”

“And what became of her?”

“She knew some happy times in the days of the Consulate. Nevertheless, of an evening she would whisper sorrowful secrets to the trees in her park. You see, Monsieur, she was better armed against death than against love.”

“And he who wrote such elegant letters?”

“He became a baron and prefect under the Empire.”

“And little Pierre?”

“He died a colonel ofgendarmerieat Versailles, in 1859.”

“The deuce he did!”

THE WORKS OFANATOLE FRANCE

THE WORKS OF

ANATOLE FRANCE

It has long been a reproach to England that only one volume byAnatole Francehas been adequately rendered into English; yet outside this country he shares the distinction withTolstoiof being the greatest and most daring student of humanity now living.

¶ There have been many difficulties to encounter in completing arrangements for a uniform edition, though perhaps the chief barrier to publication here has been the fact that his writings are not for babes—but for men and the mothers of men. Indeed, some of his Eastern romances are written with biblical candour. “I have sought truth strenuously,” he tells us, “I have met her boldly. I have never turned from her even when she wore an unexpected aspect.” Still, it is believed that the day has come for giving English versions of all his imaginative works, and of his monumental studyJoan of Arc, which is undoubtedly the most discussed book in the world of letters to-day.

¶Mr. John Lanehas pleasure in announcing that he will commence publication of works by M. Anatole France in English, which will be under the general editorship of Mr.Frederic Chapman, with the following volumes:

¶ During the autumn and next year will appear the remaining volumes, includingJoan of Arc. All the books will be published at SIX SHILLINGS each, with the exception ofJoan of Arc.

¶ The format of the volumes leaves little to be desired. The size is Demy 8vo (9 × 5¾ in.), and they will be printed from Caslon type upon a paper light of weight but strong in texture, with a cover design, a gilt top, end-papers from designs by Aubrey Beardsley, initials by Henry Ospovat. In short, these are volumes for the bibliophile as well as the lover of fiction, and form perhaps the cheapest library edition of copyright novels ever published, for the price is only that of an ordinary novel.

¶ The translation of these books has been entrusted to such competent French scholars asMr. Alfred Allinson,Hon. Maurice Baring,Mr. Frederic Chapman,Mr. Robert B. Douglas,Mr. A. W. Evans,Mrs. Farley,Lafcadio Hearn,Mrs. John Lane,Mrs. Newmarch,Mr. C. E. Roche,Miss Winifred Stephens, andMiss M. P. Willcocks.

¶ As Anatole Thibault,ditAnatole France, is to most English readers merely a name, it will be well to state that he was born in 1844 in the picturesque and inspiring surroundings of an old bookshop on the Quai Voltaire, Paris, kept by his father, Monsieur Thibault, an authority on 18th-century history, from whom the boy caught the passion for the principles of the Revolution, while from his mother he was learning to love the ascetic ideals chronicled in the Lives of the Saints. He was schooled with the lovers of old books, missals, and manuscripts; he matriculated on the Quais with the old Jewish dealers of curios andobjets d’art; he graduated in the great university of life and experience. It will be recognised that all his work is permeated by his youthful impressions; he is, in fact, a virtuoso at large.

¶ He has written about thirty volumes of fiction. Hisfirst novel wasJocastaandThe Famished Cat(1879).The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnardappeared in 1881, and had the distinction of being crowned by the French Academy, into which he was received in 1896.

¶ His work is illuminated with style, scholarship, and psychology; but its outstanding features are the lambent wit, the gay mockery, the genial irony with which he touches every subject he treats. But the wit is never malicious, the mockery never derisive, the irony never barbed. To quote from his ownGarden of Epicurus, “Irony and Pity are both of good counsel; the first with her smiles makes life agreeable; the other sanctifies it to us with her tears. The Irony I invoke is no cruel deity. She mocks neither love nor beauty. She is gentle and kindly disposed. Her mirth disarms anger, and it is she teaches us to laugh at rogues and fools whom but for her we might be so weak as to hate.”

¶ Often he shows how divine humanity triumphs over mere asceticism, and with entire reverence; indeed, he might be described as an ascetic overflowing with humanity, just as he has been termed a “pagan, but a pagan constantly haunted by the preoccupation of Christ.” He is in turn—like his own Choulette inThe Red Lily—saintly and Rabelaisian, yet without incongruity. At all times he is the unrelenting foe of superstition and hypocrisy. Of himself he once modestly said: “You will find in my writings perfect sincerity (lying demands a talent I do not possess), much indulgence, and some natural affection for the beautiful and good.”

¶ The mere extent of an author’s popularity is perhaps a poor argument, yet it is significant that two books by this author are in theirHundred and Tenth Thousand, and numbers of them well into theirSeventieth Thousand, whilst the one which a Frenchman recently described as “Monsieur France’s most arid book” is in itsFifty-Eighth Thousand.

¶ Inasmuch as M. France’s only contribution to an English periodical appeared in “The Yellow Book,” Vol. V, April 1895, together with the first important English appreciation of his work from the pen of the Hon. Maurice Baring, it is peculiarly appropriate that the English edition of his works should be issued from the Bodley Head.

FRENCH NOVELISTS: : OF TODAY : :BY WINIFRED STEPHENSWITH A PORTRAIT FRONTISPIECECr. 8vo, PRICE FIVE SHILLINGS, NET.

FRENCH NOVELISTS

: : OF TODAY : :

BY WINIFRED STEPHENS

WITH A PORTRAIT FRONTISPIECE

Cr. 8vo, PRICE FIVE SHILLINGS, NET.

“No book of the spring season will receive a heartier welcome than Miss Winifred Stephens' ‘French Novelists of To-day.’ It provides what thousands of educated readers have long been asking for in vain—a guide to the writings of the great living masters of French fiction. It is evident that Miss Stephens has gathered much of her material in France, and that she has been in contact with the personal as well as the artistic life of the authors described. The biographical passages in each chapter add much to our knowledge, and are obviously compiled from first-hand information. Miss Stephens shows critical powers of a high order. Her accounts of the chief novels are pleasant reading for those already acquainted with the books, while for the beginner they afford a clear, judicious, comprehensive guide.... We cannot praise too highly this sparkling and graceful book, which should have a place in the library of every student of French literature. Its practical value is enhanced by the full and careful bibliographies.”—British Weekly.“These light chapters will be serviceable in helping the English reader to realise the personality and work of the writers they deal with.”—Times.“The book may be welcomed as a further sign of the progress of France and England towards mutual comprehension. Thanks to its useful bibliographies, it will serve as an excellent guide to all those who are anxious to make themselves acquainted with what is best in modern French fiction.... The criticism of this book is good, and gains much by its connection with a concise biography of the author discussed.... The book may be recommended to all English readers of French fiction.”—Daily News.“A felicitous and graceful little volume, presenting very adequately the eight French novelists of to-day who are read, criticised, and sold ... should be read along with recent essays on French writers by Mr. Edmund Gosse.”Daily Chronicle.“... These essays form a useful introduction to modern French fiction. They are, for the most part, well judged and tersely written.”Evening Standard.“As a guide to modern French fiction and its authors, this book is useful, especially in its bibliographies.”—Daily Mail.“... Miss Winifred Stephens puts her hand to a most welcome and timely undertaking in this book, which will supply English readers with an intelligent introduction to the study of leading French novelists. What she says about the writers she selects is excellent.”—Daily Graphic.“Miss Stephens' primary object was to indicate what contemporary French novels are likely to interest English readers, and on the whole she has succeeded: her book will serve a very useful purpose.”Manchester Guardian.

“These light chapters will be serviceable in helping the English reader to realise the personality and work of the writers they deal with.”—Times.

“The book may be welcomed as a further sign of the progress of France and England towards mutual comprehension. Thanks to its useful bibliographies, it will serve as an excellent guide to all those who are anxious to make themselves acquainted with what is best in modern French fiction.... The criticism of this book is good, and gains much by its connection with a concise biography of the author discussed.... The book may be recommended to all English readers of French fiction.”—Daily News.

“A felicitous and graceful little volume, presenting very adequately the eight French novelists of to-day who are read, criticised, and sold ... should be read along with recent essays on French writers by Mr. Edmund Gosse.”

Daily Chronicle.

“... These essays form a useful introduction to modern French fiction. They are, for the most part, well judged and tersely written.”

Evening Standard.

“As a guide to modern French fiction and its authors, this book is useful, especially in its bibliographies.”—Daily Mail.

“... Miss Winifred Stephens puts her hand to a most welcome and timely undertaking in this book, which will supply English readers with an intelligent introduction to the study of leading French novelists. What she says about the writers she selects is excellent.”—Daily Graphic.

“Miss Stephens' primary object was to indicate what contemporary French novels are likely to interest English readers, and on the whole she has succeeded: her book will serve a very useful purpose.”

Manchester Guardian.

JOHN LANE:The Bodley Head, London and New York.

AN APPRECIATION OFANATOLE FRANCEBy WILLIAM J. LOCKEThe personal note in Anatole France’s novels is never more surely felt than when he himself, in some disguise, is either the protagonist or theraisonneurof the drama. It is the personality of Monsieur Bergeret that sheds its sunset kindness over the sordid phases of French political and social life presented in the famous series. It is the charm of Sylvestre Bonnard that makes an idyll of the story of his crime. It is Doctor Trublet inHistoire Comiquewho gives humanity to the fantastic adventure. It is Maître Jérôme Coignard whom we love unreservedly inLa Rôtisserie de la Reine Pédauque. No writer is more personal. No writer views human affairs from a more impersonal standpoint. He hovers over the world like a disembodied spirit, wise with the learning of all times and with the knowledge of all hearts that have beaten, yet not so serene and unfleshly as not to have preserved a certain tricksiness, a capacity for puckish laughter which echoes through his pages and haunts the ear when the covers of the book are closed. At the same time he appears unmistakably before you, in human guise, speaking to you face to face in human tones. He will present tragic happenings consequent on the little follies, meannesses and passions of mankind with an emotionlessness which would be called delicate cruelty were the view point that of one of the sons of earth, but ceases to be so when the presenting hands are calm and immortal; and yet shining through all is the man himself, loving and merciful, tender and warm.... In most men similarly endowed there has been a conflict between the twin souls which has generally ended in the strangling of the artist; but in the case of Anatole France they have worked together in bewildering harmony. The philosopher has been mild, the artist unresentful. In amity therefore they have proclaimed their faith and their unfaith, their aspirations and their negations, their earnestness and their mockery. And since they must proclaim them in one single voice, the natural consequence, the resultant as it were of the two forces, has been a style in which beauty and irony are so subtly interfused as to make it perhaps the most alluring mode of expression in contemporary fiction.

AN APPRECIATION OFANATOLE FRANCEBy WILLIAM J. LOCKE

AN APPRECIATION OF

ANATOLE FRANCE

By WILLIAM J. LOCKE

The personal note in Anatole France’s novels is never more surely felt than when he himself, in some disguise, is either the protagonist or theraisonneurof the drama. It is the personality of Monsieur Bergeret that sheds its sunset kindness over the sordid phases of French political and social life presented in the famous series. It is the charm of Sylvestre Bonnard that makes an idyll of the story of his crime. It is Doctor Trublet inHistoire Comiquewho gives humanity to the fantastic adventure. It is Maître Jérôme Coignard whom we love unreservedly inLa Rôtisserie de la Reine Pédauque. No writer is more personal. No writer views human affairs from a more impersonal standpoint. He hovers over the world like a disembodied spirit, wise with the learning of all times and with the knowledge of all hearts that have beaten, yet not so serene and unfleshly as not to have preserved a certain tricksiness, a capacity for puckish laughter which echoes through his pages and haunts the ear when the covers of the book are closed. At the same time he appears unmistakably before you, in human guise, speaking to you face to face in human tones. He will present tragic happenings consequent on the little follies, meannesses and passions of mankind with an emotionlessness which would be called delicate cruelty were the view point that of one of the sons of earth, but ceases to be so when the presenting hands are calm and immortal; and yet shining through all is the man himself, loving and merciful, tender and warm.... In most men similarly endowed there has been a conflict between the twin souls which has generally ended in the strangling of the artist; but in the case of Anatole France they have worked together in bewildering harmony. The philosopher has been mild, the artist unresentful. In amity therefore they have proclaimed their faith and their unfaith, their aspirations and their negations, their earnestness and their mockery. And since they must proclaim them in one single voice, the natural consequence, the resultant as it were of the two forces, has been a style in which beauty and irony are so subtly interfused as to make it perhaps the most alluring mode of expression in contemporary fiction.

The following Volumes appear in the Uniform English Edition of Anatole France’s works:—THE RED LILYA Translation by Winifred StephensMOTHER OF PEARLA Translation by the EditorTHE GARDEN OF EPICURUSA Translation by Alfred AllinsonTHE CRIME OF SILVESTRE BONNARDA Translation by Lafcadio HearnTHE WELL OF ST. CLAREA Translation by Alfred AllinsonTHAÏSA Translation by Robert Bruce DouglasTHE WICKER-WORK WOMANA Translation by M. P. WillcocksTHE WHITE STONEA Translation by C. E. RochePENGUIN ISLANDA Translation by A. W. EvansBALTHASARA Translation by Mrs. John LaneTHE ELM TREE ON THE MALLA Translation by M. P. WillcocksON LIFE AND LETTERS.First SeriesA Translation by A. W. EvansTHE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNE-BROCHE.A Translation by Alfred Allinson[OVERJOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W.

The following Volumes appear in the Uniform English Edition of Anatole France’s works:—

THE RED LILY

A Translation by Winifred Stephens

MOTHER OF PEARL

A Translation by the Editor

THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS

A Translation by Alfred Allinson

THE CRIME OF SILVESTRE BONNARD

A Translation by Lafcadio Hearn

THE WELL OF ST. CLARE

A Translation by Alfred Allinson

THAÏS

A Translation by Robert Bruce Douglas

THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN

A Translation by M. P. Willcocks

THE WHITE STONE

A Translation by C. E. Roche

PENGUIN ISLAND

A Translation by A. W. Evans

BALTHASAR

A Translation by Mrs. John Lane

THE ELM TREE ON THE MALL

A Translation by M. P. Willcocks

ON LIFE AND LETTERS.First Series

A Translation by A. W. Evans

THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNE-BROCHE.

A Translation by Alfred Allinson

[OVER

JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W.

AT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PÉDAUQUEA Translation by Mrs. Wilfrid JacksonJOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CATA Translation by Mrs. FarleyTHE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIENA Translation by Alfred AllinsonTHE OPINIONS OF JÉRÔME COIGNARDA Translation by Mrs. Wilfrid JacksonMY FRIEND’S BOOKA Translation by J. Lewis MayON LIFE AND LETTERS.Second, Third, and Fourth SeriesA Translation by A. W. EvansTHE GODS ARE ATHIRSTA Translation by Alfred AllinsonIn addition to the above, the following Translations of Anatole France’s works have been published:—JOAN OF ARCA Translation by Winifred StephensWith 8 Illustrations. Two Vols. 25s. net. $8.00.HONEY BEEA Translation by Mrs. John LaneWith 16 Illustrations in Colour, End Papers, Title-page, and Cover by Florence Lundborg. 5s. $1.50.JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W.

AT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PÉDAUQUE

A Translation by Mrs. Wilfrid Jackson

JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT

A Translation by Mrs. Farley

THE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN

A Translation by Alfred Allinson

THE OPINIONS OF JÉRÔME COIGNARD

A Translation by Mrs. Wilfrid Jackson

MY FRIEND’S BOOK

A Translation by J. Lewis May

ON LIFE AND LETTERS.Second, Third, and Fourth Series

A Translation by A. W. Evans

THE GODS ARE ATHIRST

A Translation by Alfred Allinson

In addition to the above, the following Translations of Anatole France’s works have been published:—

JOAN OF ARC

A Translation by Winifred StephensWith 8 Illustrations. Two Vols. 25s. net. $8.00.

HONEY BEE

A Translation by Mrs. John Lane

With 16 Illustrations in Colour, End Papers, Title-page, and Cover by Florence Lundborg. 5s. $1.50.

JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD, VIGO ST., W.

NOTICE

Those who possess old letters, documents, correspondence, MSS., scraps of autobiography, and also miniatures and portraits, relating to persons and matters historical, literary, political and social, should communicate with Mr. John Lane, The Bodley Head, Vigo Street, London, W,. who will at all times be pleased to give his advice and assistance, either as to their preservation or publication.

Mr. Lane also undertakes the planning and printing of family papers, histories and pedigrees.

LIVING MASTERS OF MUSIC.An Illustrated Series of Monographs dealing withContemporary Musical Life, and includingRepresentatives of all Branches of the Art.Edited by ROSA NEWMARCH.Crown 8vo. Cloth. Price 2/6 net.HENRY J. WOOD. ByRosa Newmarch.SIR EDWARD ELGAR. ByR. J. Buckley.JOSEPH JOACHIM. ByJ. A. Fuller Maitland.THEODOR LESCHETIZKY. ByAnnette Hullah.ALFRED BRUNEAU ByArthur Hervey.GIACOMO PUCCINI. ByWakeling Dry.IGNAZ PADEREWSKI. ByE. A. Baughan.CLAUDE DEBUSSY. ByMrs. Franz Liebich.RICHARD STRAUSS. ByErnest Newman.GRANVILLE BANTOCK. ByH. O. Anderton.STARS OF THE STAGE.A Series of Illustrated Biographies of the Leading Actors, Actresses, and Dramatists.Edited by J. T. GREIN.Crown 8vo. Price 2/6 each net.ELLEN TERRY. ByChristopher St. John.SIR HERBERT BEERBOHM TREE. ByMrs. George Cran.SIR W. S. GILBERT. ByEdith A. Browne.SIR CHARLES WYNDHAM. ByFlorence Teignmouth Shore.

LIVING MASTERS OF MUSIC.

An Illustrated Series of Monographs dealing with

Contemporary Musical Life, and including

Representatives of all Branches of the Art.

Edited by ROSA NEWMARCH.

Crown 8vo. Cloth. Price 2/6 net.

STARS OF THE STAGE.

A Series of Illustrated Biographies of the Leading Actors, Actresses, and Dramatists.

Edited by J. T. GREIN.Crown 8vo. Price 2/6 each net.

Edited by J. T. GREIN.

Crown 8vo. Price 2/6 each net.

A CATALOGUE OFMEMOIRS, BIOGRAPHIES, ETC.

A CATALOGUE OF

MEMOIRS, BIOGRAPHIES, ETC.

THE WORKS OF JOHN HOPPNER, R.A.,ByWilliam MackayandW. Roberts. Imperial 4to. With 50 Photogravure Plates, the majority of which are taken from pictures never before reproduced, and a frontispiece printed in colours from the Photogravure plate. 500 copies only printed. With supplement, 5 guineas net.

⁂Mr. John Lane has pleasure in announcing that he has taken over the 150 copies of this book originally published by Messrs. Colnaghi which still remain of the 500 copies originally printed. Mr. Roberts is writing an introduction to bring the work thoroughly up-to-date and this will include all the latest information on the subject and will further contain extra illustrations. Those who possess copies of the original and wish to obtain copies of the supplement alone, will be able to do so at the price of One Guinea net.

THE KEATS LETTERS, PAPERS AND OTHER RELICS.Reproduced in facsimile from the late Sir Charles Dilke’s Bequest to the Corporation of Hampstead. With full transcriptions and notes edited byGeorge C. Williamson, Litt. D. Forewords byTheodore Watts-Dunton, an Introduction byH. Buxton Forman, C.B., and an Essay upon the Keats Portraiture by the Editor. With 8 Portraits of Keats and 57 Plates in Collotype upon a special hand-made paper designed to match old letter paper. Limited to 320 copies. Imperial 4to. 3 guineas net.

⁂The fine collection of Keats' relics formed by the late Sir Charles W. Dilke, Bart., was bequeathed by his generosity to the Public Library at Hampstead, as a joint memorial of the poet, and of his friend Charles Wentworth Dilke, grandfather of the testator. The collection comprises a number of most important and interesting letters written by and to the poet from the time of the publication of his first volume of poems in 1817, to October, 1820, and includes a letter from Naples to Mrs. Brawne shortly before his death. The bequest also contains a number of books, which were among the most cherished possessions of the poet, and their interest is considerably enhanced by the numerous marks and marginal notes by Keats.

ALASTAIR. Forty-three Drawings in Colour and Black and White.With a Note of Exclamation byRobert Ross. Demy 4to. Limited to 500 copies for England and America. 42s. net.

⁂This beautiful gift book contains thirty-five facsimiles in collotype and eight in colour, and has a cover and end papers specially designed by Alastair.

This remarkable young artist prefers to be known without the usual prefix denoting rank or nationality. His astonishing powers as a draughtsman and decorator have been proved by the unqualified success of his exhibition at the Dowdeswell Galleries.

TAPESTRIES: THEIR ORIGIN, HISTORY, AND RENAISSANCE.ByGeorge Leland Hunter. With four full-page Plates in Colour, and 147 Half-tone Engravings. Square 8vo. Cloth. 16s. net.

⁂This is a fascinating book on a fascinating subject. It is written by a scholar whose passion for accuracy and original research did not prevent him from making a story easy to read. It answers the questions people are always asking as to how tapestries differ from paintings, and good tapestries from bad tapestries. It will interest lovers of paintings and rugs and history and fiction, for it shows how tapestries compare with paintings in picture interest, with rugs in texture interest, and with historic and other novels in romantic interest; presenting on a magnificent scale the stories of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the Æneid and the Metamorphoses, the Bible and the Saints, Ancient and Medieval History and Romance. In a word, the book is indispensable to lovers of art and literature in general, as well as to tapestry amateurs, owners, and dealers.

THE VAN EYCKS AND THEIR ART.ByW. H. James Weale, with the co-operation ofMaurice Brockwell. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12s.6d.net.

FROM STUDIO TO STAGE.ByWeedon Grossmith. With 32 full-page Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 16s. net.

⁂Justly famous as a comedian of unique gifts, Mr. Weedon Grossmith is nevertheless an extremely versatile personality, whose interests are by no means confined to the theatre. These qualities have enabled him to write a most entertaining book. He gives an interesting account of his early ambitions and exploits as an artist, which career he abandoned for that of an actor. He goes on to describe some of his most notablerôles, and lets us in to little intimate glimpses “behind the scenes,” chats pleasantly about all manner of celebrities in the land of Bohemia and out of it, tells many amusing anecdotes, and like a true comedian is not bashful when the laugh is against himself. The book is well supplied with interesting illustrations, some of them reproductions of the author’s own work.

FANNY BURNEY AT THE COURT OF QUEEN CHARLOTTE.ByConstance Hill. Author of “The House in St. Martin Street,” “Juniper Hall,” etc. With numerous Illustrations byEllen G. Hilland reproductions of contemporary Portraits, etc. Demy 8vo. 16s. net.

AND THAT REMINDS ME.ByStanley Coxon. With a Frontispiece and 40 Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net.

⁂The author, who began life on board a merchantman and ended his working career in the Indian Civil Service, has put together his reminiscences in a very readable form. In Burma, India, and Australia, he lived a life of adventure, and combined his duties with an experience of sport. His stories include a good deal of big game shooting, and his description of the social side of life, and the characteristics of native races is highly amusing.

The hardships of a life at sea thirty-five years ago are told in true sailor fashion, and the author’s varied experiences have been turned to good account for the production of a narrative which includes the life of a middy in the Merchant Service, active service in the Royal Indian Marine and the suppression of dacoity. The author then spent some years in Burma. The visit of Prince Albert Victor to Rangoon is a pleasant incident in a series of events, all of which are highly interesting.

THE STORY OF DON JOHN OF AUSTRIA.ByPadre Luis Coloma, S.J., of the Real Academia Española. Translated byLady Moreton. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 16s.net. ⁂“This book has all the fascination of a vigorousroman à clef... the translation is vigorous and idiomatic.”—Mr. Osman Edwards in Morning Post.

A PLAYMATE OF PHILIP II.ByLady Moreton. Author of “Don John of Austria,” etc. With Seventeen Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

⁂Don Martin IV. was one of the most distinguished members of one of the first families in Spain and lived at a time when Spain was at the height of her glory. He was the playmate and afterwards the personal friend of Philip II. (the husband of Queen Mary of England) and accompanied him on his visit to this country. It was indeed this monarch who gave him his nickname of “The Philosopher of Aragon.”

THIRTEEN YEARS OF A BUSY WOMAN’S LIFE.By Mrs.Alec Tweedie. With Nineteen Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 16s. net. Third Edition.

⁂“One of the gayest and sanest surveys of English society we have read for years.”—Pall Mall Gazette.

⁂“A pleasant laugh from cover to cover.”—Daily Chronicle.

THE ANGLO-FRENCH ENTENTE IN THEXVIIthCENTURY.ByCharles Bastide. With Illustrations. Demy 8vo. 10s.6d.net.

THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.ByJoseph Turquan. Author of “The Love Affairs of Napoleon,” “The Wife of General Bonaparte.” Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 12s.6d.net.

⁂“The Empress Josephine” continues and completes the graphically drawn life story begun in “The Wife of General Bonaparte” by the same author, takes us through the brilliant period of the Empire, shows us the gradual development and the execution of the Emperor’s plan to divorce his middle-aged wife, paints in vivid colours the picture of Josephine’s existence after her divorce, tells us how she, although now nothing but his friend, still met him occasionally and corresponded frequently with him, and how she passed her time in the midst of herminiatureminiaturecourt.

NAPOLEON IN CARICATURE: 1795-1821.ByA. M. Broadley. With an Introductory Essay on Pictorial Satire as a Factor in Napoleonic History, byJ. Holland Rose, Litt. D. (Cantab.). With 24 full-page Illustrations in Colour and upwards of 200 in Black and White from rare and unique originals. 2 Vols. Demy 8vo. 42s. net.

Also an Edition de Luxe.10 guineas net.

PAULINE BONAPARTE AND HER LOVERS—As revealed by contemporary witnesses, by her own love-letters, and by the anti-Napoleonic pamphleteers. ByHector Fleischmann. Authorised Translation. Illustrated. Demy 8vo. 12s. 6d. net.

⁂“As long as human nature delights in the spectacle of dramatic vicissitudes, the story of the rise and fall of the House of Bonaparte will retain its fascination. The story of Napoleon himself, of course, is the story of genius seeing its opportunity and forcing its way; and its personal interest is somewhat obscured by its historical significance. The story of the various members of his family belongs to a different category. Their rise in life, due to his genius, which none of them shared, and his strong sense of the obligations of blood relationship, was as fortuitous as if they had suddenly “come into money” through the demise of a long-lost uncle in America; and the interest which one feels in them is largely the interest which one always feels in the behaviour of aparvenuin a station to which he has been promoted through no merit of his own. Some of them behaved decorously, others eccentrically and extravagantly; and it is the latter group which is the most diverting to read about. Jerome, for that reason, makes a more powerful appeal to our imagination than Joseph, and Pauline possesses a magnetic attraction denied to Madam Mere; and Pauline’s life is here related admirably by M. Fleischmann. She was more than frivolous, her “affaires” were countless. M. Fleischmann has told them admirably with a sparkling wit and a true feeling for drama.”—Times.

NAPOLEON’S LAST CAMPAIGN IN GERMANY.By F.Loraine Petre. Author of “Napoleon’s Campaign in Poland,” “Napoleon’s Conquest of Prussia,” etc. With 17 Maps and Plans. Demy 8vo. 12s.6d.net.

NAPOLEON AT BAY, 1814.ByF. Loraine Petre. With Maps and Plans, Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net.

THE STORY OF NAPOLEON’S DEATH MASK.By G. L.De St. M. Watson. Demy 8vo. 6s. net.

⁂An historical and critical account of the most faithful and physical presentment of the great Conqueror. By a study of original sources and researches amongst the contemporary Press, the Lowe Papers, etc., the writer proves beyond the doubt hitherto existing the English authorship of the death mask so long a tributed to the Italian surgeon Antommarchi. The value to be attached to the various casts put up for sale during the past year or two is established comparatively in the light of an interesting recent discovery. The book will be an indispensable adjunct to Napoleonic iconography and a sidelight upon the “Last Phase” as well.

FOOTPRINTS OF FAMOUS AMERICANS IN PARIS.ByJohn Joseph Conway, M.A. With 32 Full-page Illustrations. With an Introduction by Mrs. John Lane. Demy 8vo. 12s.6d.net.

⁂Franklin, Jefferson, Munroe, Tom Paine, La Fayette, Paul Jones, etc., etc., the most striking figures of a heroic age, working out in the City of Light the great questions for which they stood, are dealt with here. Longfellow the poet of the domestic affections; matchless Margaret Fuller who wrote so well of women in the nineteenth century; Whistler master of American artists; Saint-Gaudens chief of American sculptors; Rumford, most picturesque of scientific knight-errants and several others get a chapter each for their lives and achievements in Paris.

MEMORIES OF JAMES McNEILL WHISTLER: The Artist.ByThomas R. Way. Author of “The Lithographs of J. M. Whistler,” etc. With numerous Illustrations. Demy 4to. 10s.6d.net.

⁂This volume contains about forty illustrations, including an unpublished etching drawn by Whistler and bitten in by Sir Frank Short, A.R.A., an original lithograph sketch, seven lithographs in colour drawn by the Author upon brown paper, and many in black and white. The remainder are facsimiles by photolithography. In most cases the originals are drawings and sketches by Whistler which have never been published before, and are closely connected with the matter of the book. The text deals with the Author’s memories of nearly twenty year’s close association with Whistler, and he endeavours to treat only with the man as an artist, and perhaps, especially as a lithographer.

[A]Also anEdition de Luxeon hand-made paper, with the etching printed from the original plate. Limited to 50 copies.

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