OPINIONS OF 
 
 ANATOLE 
 FRANCE 
 
 RECORDED BY 
 
 PAUL GSELL
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LO5 ~- ANGELES 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 The Opinions of 
 Anatole France
 
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 IRELAND'S LITERARY RENAISSANCE 
 
 Ernest Boyd 
 
 FRONTIERS OF THE AFTER LIFE 
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 PREJUDICES: THIRD SERIES 
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 TERTIUM ORGANUM 
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 Nikolai A. RimskyKorsakef
 
 pn L<nn -m d^orfc 
 
 
 JVom /i 'ptWxvcmvpfy JW &^uar i. c)/fccXooefv
 
 THE OPINIONS 
 OF ANATOLE FRANCE 
 
 Recorded by Paul Gsell 
 
 Translated from the French 
 by Ernest Boyd 
 
 New York 
 ALFRED 'A' KNOPF
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY BERNARD GRASSET 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
 ALFRED A. KNOPF, INO. 
 
 Published May, 19S2 
 Second Printing, October. 1999 
 
 Bet up, electrotvped, and printed by the Vail-Ballou Co., Binghamton, N. Y. 
 Paper supplied by W. F. Etherington & Co., New York. 
 Bound bu H. Wolff Estate, New York. 
 
 MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
 
 Coilega 
 library 
 
 Contents 
 
 I To the Reader 9 
 
 II The Hermitage of the Sage 15 
 
 III Candidates for the Academy 31 
 
 IV On Becoming on Academician 45 
 V Politics in the Academy 59 
 
 VI The Credo of a Sceptic 67 
 
 VII Professor Brown and the Secret of 
 
 Genius 85 
 
 VIII Professor Brown Still Searches 97 
 
 IX Professor Brown Bewildered 117 
 
 X A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 129 
 
 XI M. Bergeret Collaborates with the 
 
 Divine Sarah 153 
 
 XII Anatole France at Rodin's, or 
 
 Lunch at Meudon 175 
 
 XIII On War 199 
 
 XIV The Russian Revolution at the 
 
 Villa Said 219 
 
 XV The Omnipotence of Dream 235
 
 To the Reader
 
 To The Reader 
 
 The familiar discourses of the Abbe Jerome 
 Coignard have been preserved for us by his ingenu- 
 ous disciple Jacques Tournebroche. My excellent 
 Master, Anatole France, has a certain spiritual re- 
 lationship with the Abbe Jerome Coignard. His 
 discourse is no less elegant. It would be a pity, 
 indeed, if his learned and weighty sayings were lost 
 for ever. Like another Tournebroche, it was my 
 good fortune to treasure them at those erstwhile 
 gatherings in the Villa Said, which were the most 
 dazzling feasts of reason, during the years before 
 the war. Thither came men of letters, artists, 
 statesmen, Spanish anarchists and Russian nihilists. 
 With his keen delight in knowing the strangest 
 specimens of humanity, the master of the house re- 
 ceived them all with affectionate courtesy. The 
 attraction of his own personality saved him the 
 necessity of going in search of game. The models 
 which he wanted to draw came to his house and 
 posed for him without any compulsion. He did 
 them the signal favour of trying on them some of 
 the most ingenious apophthegms which he after-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 wards put down in writing. It was this prepara- 
 tory work of a great artist in his studio which it 
 was my privilege to follow for many years. 
 
 When Anatole France is mentioned it is usual 
 to say: "He is a magician, but what a dreadful 
 sceptic!" As one who listened to him assiduously, 
 I can correct this too prevalent misunderstanding. 
 
 If by a sceptic is meant a philosopher who doubts 
 what he does not know to be true, and what he has 
 no reason whatever to believe, who mocks at fatal 
 prejudices, makes fun of swollen reputations, and 
 lashes stupid and cruel ambitions, then, assuredly, 
 Anatole France is the prince of sceptics. But it is 
 just the contrary of the truth to say that he is in- 
 different to all things. I had no difficulty in dis- 
 covering very solid convictions in his slightest re- 
 torts. 
 
 He is perhaps the last craftsman of letters who 
 has retained the fine superstition of a fluid and 
 diaphanous style, the noble prejudice in favour of 
 words full of savour, and of harmonious phrases. 
 He loves gentle France so piously that he has made 
 of that tender word a pseudonym in order to be 
 at one with his country. Like the most generous 
 minds of his native land, he professes the religion 
 of sincerity, the cult of tolerance and devotion to 
 pity. Experience has been far from indulgent to 
 his hopes. Yet, during the worst periods of de- 
 
 Cio]
 
 To the Reader 
 
 pression in his lifetime he has preserved his faith 
 in the slow and certain progress of justice and good- 
 ness. When occasion arose, this nonchalant dreamer 
 did not spare himself, nor hesitate to go into 
 the market-place to defend the Ideal. Heaven 
 knows what an effort it is for him to take off his 
 crimson skull cap and his blanket-wool dressing 
 gown, kick off his slippers and leave his fireside. 
 Many a time, however, he has left his ivory tower 
 with resolute step to bring words of good cheer to 
 his rough comrades in the working-class districts. 
 
 Finally, he adores friendship above everything 
 else. Thus, the man who symbolizes incredulity in 
 the eyes of many of his contemporaries is, after 
 his own fashion, the most devout believer. Such 
 is the evidence of his own words in the pages which 
 follow. 
 
 Here in their first form will be found not only 
 maxims with which he embellished his writings, but 
 also many excellent and hitherto unpublished 
 stories. No doubt, these are but the crumbs and 
 fragments of a royal feast, but the superior quality 
 of great men is not always attested in their most 
 laboured works. Rather may it be recognized in 
 what springs spontaneously and without effort from 
 their brain. The best of their genius often lies in 
 what they never think of writing down, but reveal 
 in instinctive outbursts, in thoughts long matured,
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 which come out involuntarily, without their notic- 
 ing it. 
 
 As is well known, M. France is the most perfect 
 talker. His novels, after all, are little more than 
 philosophical dialogues held together by a tenuous 
 thread. Probably his most attractive book is the 
 delightful Jardin d'Epicure, where he scatters his 
 idle fancies like the petals of a flower. The present 
 work represents an adjacent field of fancy. It will 
 certainly give less pleasure, because the hand of the 
 wizard himself does not guide the pen. I have en- 
 deavoured, however, to preserve even the form of 
 his speech. Already for some time before the war 
 bitter troubles had inclined Anatole France towards 
 isolation. The awful cyclone drove him from 
 Versailles, where he had sought repose amidst the 
 nostalgic splendours of the past. He transferred 
 his household goods to La Bechellerie, a small prop- 
 erty which he acquired near Tours, and where he 
 lived in meditation during the years of horror. 
 
 His spirit has been saddened by so many catas- 
 trophes. The interminable butchery was a cruel 
 trial for a heart overflowing with human compas- 
 sion. There is little likelihood that my excellent 
 Master will ever resume those meetings at which 
 his mocking humour sparkled, and so, I no longer 
 postpone the task of catching something of its elu- 
 sive memory.
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 Prancing in the silvery morning sunlight fashion- 
 able ladies on horseback and skilled horsemen come 
 down from the Arc de Triomphe towards the Porte 
 Dauphine along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne. 
 From one side of that proud thoroughfare there 
 runs a blind alley, quiet and planted with sycamores, 
 which a diligent gardener has pruned and trimmed 
 in the French fashion. This is the Villa Sai'd. 
 The dwelling-houses along the side are of modest 
 height, and have a rural air, although they are within 
 the city boundaries of Paris. They are attrac- 
 tive and well cared for behind their iron railings, 
 and they shelter gentle folk, people of private 
 means, artists, authors and philosophers. Anatole 
 France lives at number five. 
 
 For a long time during the war this house was 
 silent, abandoned by its master. It seemed widowed 
 and melancholy. The door, the windows on the 
 ground floor, were hideously barricaded with bricks 
 and plaster. It was the picture of desolation. 
 Since then this gloomy facade has opened its win- 
 dows again, as though they were eyelids, and smiles 
 
 Cifl
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 once more. Sometimes Anatole France returns to 
 his hermitage, when he is not staying at Saint-Cyr- 
 les-Tours on the banks of the Loire, or with friends 
 beneath the shady trees of Saint-Cloud. But I 
 wish to describe this little house at the Villa Sai'd, 
 the Hermitage of the Sage, as it was in the happy 
 times when crowds of visitors haunted it. 
 
 The green painted door was a museum in itself. 
 The handle of the bell was in bronze, a little 
 Florentine head, whose grace seemed to give a 
 friendly reception to the hand that caressed it. 
 The letter box was studded with old medals. One 
 day the master himself showed me over the 
 house. 
 
 The old servant, Josephine, had admitted me. 
 She was a worthy servitor for M. Bergeret. She 
 always wore a rather mistrustful expression. She 
 would open the door a couple of inches, look at the 
 newcomer suspiciously, keep him prudently outside 
 during this minute inspection, and allow him to 
 enter only when she knew who it was. 
 
 Every day little pieces of pasteboard were handed 
 to her on which she would decipher the names of 
 dukes, marquises, generals, academicians and states- 
 men. Human greatness was only too familiar to 
 Josephine. She had seen through the vanity of it 
 all. 
 
 "Is the Master at home?" people would ask. 
 
 [16]
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 "The Master! The Master!" she would repeat 
 grumbling: "Why do you call him Master? He 
 is master only of his soup, and even of that only 
 so long as he has it in his mouth." 
 
 She would mumble these savoury phrases be- 
 tween her gold-filled teeth. It was not unpleasant 
 to hear the servant of a philosopher uttering opin- 
 ions so full of sap. 
 
 The hall was overflowing with treasures. Per- 
 sian china with blue, green and red carnations; pot- 
 tery from Rhodes with bronzed lights; ancient 
 statuettes standing on small tables and consoles. 
 A fat monk was hastily telling his beads near a 
 German Virgin with protruding forehead and 
 crinkly hair. A mincing Italian Lucretia was 
 eternally piercing her breast. 
 
 Through the gold-spangled stained-glass win- 
 dows an irridescent light fell upon the staircase. 
 From the very threshold one could recognize the 
 taste of a most learned and discriminating col- 
 lector. This hall, so sumptuously decorated, re- 
 called an anecdote I had heard. 
 
 A young girl student from Russia had no other 
 thought, on arriving in Paris, than to see Anatole 
 France. From the writer's fame and his books she 
 worshipped this friend of the humble and suffering, 
 and, furnished with a warm recommendation, she 
 rushed off to the Villa Said.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 She hands her letter to Josephine who goes up 
 one floor to tell her master. He consents to receive 
 the visitor. 
 
 "Come up!" shouts the servant peremptorily 
 across the banisters. 
 
 But there is no reply. 
 
 Josephine comes down again, rather impatient. 
 The hall is empty. She looks in the dining-room, 
 the drawing-room. Nobody there. 
 
 Well! What is wrong, Josephine? asks the 
 master who is waiting. 
 
 "Well, Sir, I don't know where in the world the 
 young lady has disappeared." 
 
 What? 
 
 "She has decamped." 
 
 What on earth do you mean? 
 
 "I can't make it out, Sir. I have looked every* 
 where. I can't find her. She has gone!" 
 
 Well, upon my word! She must be mad! 
 
 Later on the riddle was explained. As soon as 
 she entered, the Russian girl was dumbfounded by 
 a refinement of luxury which exceeded the opulence 
 of the most magnificent Croesus. It was not thus 
 that she had pictured the retreat of an apostle. 
 This simple soul, this candid child of Scythia, could 
 not conceive that a passion for the Beautiful was 
 compatible with a tender heart. She had been 
 seized by a kind of anguish. Suddenly, she had 
 
 Ciffl
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 turned about, and gone out. She had quietly closed 
 the door behind her and had fled, even more quickly 
 than she had come. She was never seen again. 
 
 I took good care not to imitate that Russian 
 student, and as soon as ever Josephine shouted to 
 me, I hastened upstairs to the philosopher's study. 
 
 Anatole France was about to submit his head to 
 the attentions of the barber, and with a courtesy 
 which I deeply appreciated, he apologized for con- 
 tinuing his toilet in my presence. 
 
 Figaro, who came forward with his razor opened 
 and the shaving-soap, spilt some of the lather on 
 the table and scattered a few pages of manuscript. 
 France stared at him with an expression of comic 
 irritation. 
 
 You always come in here like a scythed chariot. 
 You are a terrible man. 
 
 Doubtless accustomed to these lyrical outbursts, 
 the terrible man did not utter a sound, but prepared 
 to begin operations. It was not an easy task, for 
 M. Bergeret kept moving and talking all the time 
 while his beard was being trimmed. In one of his 
 tales Grimm tells of a barber who was so skilful that 
 he could shave a hare in full flight. That was 
 child's play beside the miracle of which I was a 
 witness. 
 
 The bedroom was charming. Above the Renais- 
 sance bed an Italian canopy was supported by
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 twisted brown columns, and its green silk was 
 brightened with flowers of tender hue. Amongst 
 the things which he liked best, France pointed to a 
 piece of antique sculpture on the mantelpiece. It 
 was a woman's head, thrown back a little, with 
 half-closed eyes filled with amorous languor. 
 
 / discovered it, he said, on the seashore near 
 Naples, in a fishermen's hut which was almost en- 
 tirely built of broken fragments of masterpieces. 
 It was some distance from my hotel, so I added an- 
 other lira to the price agreed upon, to have this 
 piece of marble, which is very heavy, carried for 
 me. At first I did not notice who was going to do 
 it, but suddenly I remarked that it was a poor 
 woman, in an advanced stage of pregnancy. I hast- 
 ened to relieve her of this burden and to give it to 
 a young lad whom I presented in advance with an- 
 other small silver coin. Now, observe how one's 
 best intentions are misunderstood. The good fish- 
 erwoman was so annoyed at being paid for a serv- 
 ice of which I relieved her that she interpreted 
 my compassion as an insult. She did not return 
 the lira, which I certainly would not have taken 
 back, but she followed me all along the road hurling 
 vulgar insults at me. Thus, I learnt that honesty 
 is deeply rooted in the heart of man . . . and even 
 of woman. 
 
 C20]
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 That is not the only memory which that 'voluptu- 
 ous head recalls. 
 
 I left Naples by sea. As you know, the Italians 
 make sure that travellers do not carry of works of 
 art in their trunks. A wise ordinance, the Pacca 
 law, prohibits the spoliation of the artistic marvels 
 of which the peninsula is so proud. I wanted that 
 head and I had made up my mind not to declare 
 it. I had carefully packed it in a little white 
 wooden box. When the customs inspector asked 
 what was in that package: 
 
 "Niente! Niente!" said I, very innocently. 
 
 He accepted this evasive reply, and was going to 
 put the little box amongst the things which had al- 
 ready been examined. But alas! the bottom fell 
 out, and when the box was lifted, the head sud- 
 denly appeared, with its expression of ecstatic love, 
 and seemed to defy the world. I was covered with 
 shame. The inspector examined the piece of 
 marble like an expert, struck an attitude to conr 
 template it, and then turned to me with an inef- 
 fable smile: 
 
 "Niente! Niente!" he said mockingly. 
 
 The cruel monster was torturing me. But with 
 superior condescension he said: 
 
 "Take it. We have too many beautiful things 
 in Italy."
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 You mould have thought that this excise man had 
 carved with his own hands all the Venuses of antiq- 
 uity, and that he could create others by the dozen. 
 
 When his beard was finished France stood up 
 and put on his scarlet cap exactly like those of the 
 Quattrocento Florentines, in the frescoes with 
 which Ghirlandajo has embellished the church of 
 Santa-Maria Novella. 
 
 We entered his study. 
 
 On the table an adorable winged spirit of 
 Tanagra rose upon its toes to take flight. 
 
 / think it is genuine, said my host, and, what is 
 still better, it is delightful. 
 
 With a reverent hand he took the little Cupid 
 and, raising it to his eyes, almost to his lips, he 
 caressed it tenderly. A dialogue without words 
 between a very modern thinker and the naive model- 
 ler who, in the distant past, had impregnated this 
 clay with all the melancholy grace of his time. 
 
 M. Bergeret has eclectic tastes and his purchases 
 prove their variety. 
 
 The fact is, his preferences varied from year to 
 year, and his domestic surroundings were modified 
 according to the books he was writing. Each 
 period of his life has left rich alluvial deposits. 
 Thais is represented by the relics of Hellas, the 
 heads, and torsos, the statuettes and the slender 
 
 D223
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 pedestals of amber-coloured marble; the Lys Rouge 
 by Italian faience; Jeanne d' Arc by the fifteenth 
 century tapestries; the novel, Les Dieux ont soif, 
 by furniture and engravings dating from Louis XVI 
 and the Revolution. The style which finally domin- 
 ated was that of the end of the Eighteenth Century, 
 because it harmonized with the last avatar of that 
 infinitely capricious sensitiveness. This house re- 
 flects a soul in its decorations. It is a setting like 
 the elegant case in which a wonderful jewel is en- 
 chased. 
 
 / am not wealthy, France explains, and yet my 
 collection is very creditable. Collectors are like 
 lovers, passion makes up for want of money. 
 Beautiful women are often more deeply touched 
 by the fervent and insistent prayers of poor swains 
 than by the dazzling liberality of financiers roll- 
 ing in wealth. 
 
 In the boxes of the second-hand book dealers, in 
 the half-closed portfolios at the back of dark shops, 
 the unique items, which the millionaires miss, 
 sometimes cast inviting glances at those who browse 
 with ill-furnished purses, but who seek, pursue, run 
 down and implore them with frantic covetousness. 
 
 However, for the conquest of women and master- 
 pieces it is better, to be both rich and passionate.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 M. Bergeret showed us his old books. 
 
 / love them tenderly, because they bring forget- 
 fulness of the present and a little inoffensive madness 
 to those who consult them. This little grain of 
 madness affects even those who handle them with- 
 out reading them. For instance, I don't know a 
 gayer spirit than the excellent Sims, the bookseller 
 in the Rue de Seine, who sold me most of these* 
 folios. He has two equally praiseworthy loves: 
 the best ancient authors and the generous wines of 
 France. When he confides in me that he has just 
 made an extraordinary discovery, I never know if 
 he means a dusty bottle or exceedingly rare in- 
 cunabula. He often goes about strangely dressed, 
 but that comes from reasoned principles. He holds 
 that the order in which we put on our clothes is a 
 pure convention. For his part, on getting up in 
 the morning he picks up his things haphazardly 
 from the chair. He may happen to put on his 
 coat first, then his shirt, then his waistcoat, and 
 finally his flannel undervest on top of everything. 
 
 "What does it matter," he says, "provided the 
 amount of clothes is the same? Am I not just as 
 warm?" 
 
 Although this a specious theory, I do not at- 
 tempt to refute it, for it would be too much trouble 
 to convince him. The other day I found him all 
 
 243
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 stuffed up with a cold, sneezing, coughing, wiping 
 his nose, puffing and snorting; his nose and eyes 
 running like fountains. 
 
 "Well, my good Sims, where did you catch that 
 dreadful cold?" 
 
 "I do not know. I have not been careless in any 
 way, not in the least." 
 
 Thereupon he told me that he had bought a big 
 lot of books the previous evening. But there was 
 no room in his shop, so he had to take them up to 
 his bedroom, which was already very full. He had 
 even been obliged to pile up a great many on the 
 very foot of his bed. The drawback of this 
 stratagem he discovered when he was going to 
 sleep. Fortunately, the head of his bed was against 
 the window, and the window looked out upon the 
 roof. He could think of nothing better than to 
 open the window and pull up his mattress a little 
 onto the slates. After that, with his body in the 
 room and his head outside, the good man fell into 
 a childlike slumber. 
 
 Alas, what should happen but, in the middle of 
 the night, a furious storm broke out, and all the 
 cataracts of heaven descended upon his head. 
 
 "Oh, I see," said I. "So that is how you caught 
 cold." 
 
 "Do you really think so?" . . . he inquired.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 What I like about Sims is that he accepts the 
 most convincing arguments only with extreme 
 caution. 
 
 France reverently took from a shelf a very 
 beautiful book, covered with parchment, golden- 
 brown, like old ivory, and decorated with the 
 figures of fabulous animals. 
 
 This Vasan is my pride, he said. 
 
 He turned the pages and came to the portrait of 
 Paolo Uccello. 
 
 This is the painter whose wife gently reproached 
 him with working too slowly. 
 
 "I must have time" the artist said, "to establish 
 the perspective of my pictures." 
 
 "Yes, Paolo," the poor woman protested, "but 
 you are drawing for us the perspective of destitu- 
 tion and the grave" 
 
 She was right, and he was not wrong. The 
 eternal conflict between the scruples of the artist 
 and harsh reality. 
 
 Thus M. Bergeret plunged into the peaceful 
 fairyland of past centuries far from contemporary 
 cares, daily disappointments, and the threats which 
 were rising on the horizon. By means of pictures, 
 sculptures and books he was in communication with 
 the dead. With these written signs, these painted 
 and carved forms, he endeavoured to penetrate to 
 the souls of other times. Eager for knowledge,
 
 The Hermitage of the Sage 
 
 he annexed innumerable days that were gone to the 
 hours he was living. According to his custom, it 
 was in his dressing gown and slippers that he 
 accomplished an immense circuit through time, 
 bringing back fruitful teaching for us. 
 
 Josephine came in to announce two delegates 
 from a Socialist committee. 
 
 One was a big red-faced man, conventionally 
 dressed, but wearing a soft shirt and no tie, for 
 his powerful neck could stand no other restraint. 
 He was a blacksmith. He apologized for not offer- 
 ing his right hand, which was bandaged, because 
 it had been injured in some workshop job. His 
 companion, small and sickly, with burning eyes and 
 tousled hair, was a school teacher. The one in 
 his brutal strength, and the other in his feverish 
 weakness, personified the people, condemned to 
 laborious drudgery of mind and body. They con- 
 gratulated France on having spoken at a recent 
 meeting. 
 
 His speech had raised storms of applause, but it 
 had been continually punctuated by shouts of "Long 
 live anarchy!" This compromising cry had been 
 shouted in chorus by a group of police spies ob- 
 viously recognizable by their huge moustaches, their 
 degraded faces and their hobnailed boots. The 
 two delegates warmly condemned the tactics of the 
 agents provocateurs.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 They asked the author to take the chair at 
 another meeting. 
 
 He looked at his slippers, patted his Vasari, gave 
 a furtive and benevolent glance at the little Tanagra 
 Cupid. Then his dark eyes rested for a moment 
 on the bandaged wrist of the blacksmith and the 
 hollow cheeks of the schoolmaster. 
 
 / will go, he said.
 
 Candidates for the Academy
 
 Candidates for the Academy 
 
 As every election to the Academy approaches the 
 candidates pay their prescribed visit to M. Bergeret. 
 They know that he has not gone to that corner of 
 the quays this many a year, and that he never votes. 
 Nevertheless out of deference to h'is fame they 
 solicit his vote. It is a touching custom which 
 none seeks to evade, not even the reverend clergy. 
 Yet, they would have valid reasons for not com- 
 mitting themselves with this pontiff of incredulity. 
 But perhaps his conversation offers them the attrac- 
 tion of forbidden fruit? Perhaps they hope in a 
 few eloquent words to cast into his soul the seeds 
 of a startling conversion? It was thus that the 
 severe Paphnuce once upon a time undertook to 
 bring the frolicsome Thais to God. 
 
 When Cardinal Cabrieres, who was still only a 
 Monsignor, but was soon to become His Eminence, 
 craved a chair in the Academy, he called like the 
 others at the hermitage of the Villa Said. 
 
 Old Josephine, with her teeth of gold, ushered 
 him in with every mark of respect. 
 
 "Sir," said the bishop brusquely, "I will admit
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 to you frankly that I have not read your novels." 
 
 "Monsignor" replied France, with sacerdotal 
 unction, "I must confess to you in all frankness that 
 I have not read your decrees." 
 
 The ice having been broken in this way, the 
 conversation became cordial. The prelate pater- 
 nally reminded France that some great writers 
 had sung the praise of the Almighty. He cited 
 Chateaubriand. 
 
 France retorted that, in effect, the harmonious 
 viscount had beautifully celebrated the decorative 
 side of Catholicism, but above all he had dusted 
 the furniture and polished the ecclesiastical plate, 
 like a beadle or a chair attendant, and that, on the 
 other hand, he had rather neglected dogma. 
 
 He loved the majesty of the cathedrals and the 
 splendor of the ritual pomps. But 1, too, love 
 them, Monsignor. 
 
 With a devout gesture he pointed to the golden 
 stoles, the coruscating chasubles, the bright silver 
 incense boxes, which were glittering in their glass 
 cases. 
 
 Chateaubriand venerated the sacred authors. I 
 also feast upon them, Monsignor. 
 
 On the shelves of the library, in the place of 
 honour, he showed him the Eagle of Meaux and the 
 Swan of Cambrai dwelling happily together. 
 
 He looked as if butter would not melt in his
 
 Candidates for the Academy 
 
 mouth. Monsignor de Cabrieres withdrew, con- 
 vinced that, in some respects, the most fervent of 
 believers would gain by taking lessons from Anatole 
 France. 
 
 The following Wednesday for it was on Wed- 
 nesday that M. Bergeret received his intimate 
 friends they spoke of Monsignor Duchesne who 
 was the rival candidate of Monsignor de Cabrieres 
 for the Academy. The rivalry of the two prelates 
 amused the onlookers. Bets were taken. Two to 
 one was laid on Monsignor Duchesne. The sym- 
 pathies of the academic Left wing for the one and 
 of the Right for the other were weighed in the bal- 
 ance. Some one told the story of the scurvy trick 
 played by the author of Les Origines de la France 
 chretienne on Monsignor de Cabrieres, who was a 
 splendid orator, but had written practically nothing. 
 
 Monsignor Duchesne had gone into several book- 
 shops near the Mazarin Palace, and had said in the 
 most innocent tones: 
 
 "Give me the complete works of Monsignor de 
 Cabrieres." 
 
 The shop assistants were amazed. 
 
 "The complete works of Monsignor de Cabrieres? 
 We haven't them in stock." 
 
 "Oh, yes, you must have. Have a lookl" 
 
 They searched and then: 
 
 "We cannot find them, Monsignor."
 
 The Opinions of Anatolc France 
 
 "Come now, Monsignor de Cabrieres is a candi- 
 date for the Academy. He must have surely writ- 
 ten something, and I want particularly to read his 
 books. Look again, please." 
 
 Great commotion. The owners and their assist- 
 ants searched everywhere, moving piles of books 
 and climbing ladders. But still there was nothing. 
 
 "We are very sorry, Monsignor!" 
 
 "So am I! So am 1 1" 
 
 As he went out he raised his hands to heaven. 
 
 "Where, oh, where shall I find the complete 
 works of Monsignor de Cabrieres?" 
 
 This prank, duly reported by the booksellers, de- 
 lighted the honourable members of the Academy. 
 That morning some one had related the story, while 
 it was still new, to M. Bergeret, who smacked his 
 lips over it, and said: 
 
 Monsignor Duchesne has always had a fine sense 
 of humour. Before he received the amethyst ring, 
 he used to live on the third floor, on the Quai 
 Voltaire. One of his archaeological colleagues 
 called on him, and in a transport of joy announced 
 that he had discovered a new saint while decipher- 
 ing some old cartularies. 
 
 "Pshaw!" cried the Abbe bluntly, "your saint is 
 legendary; like so many others, my dear Sir, he has 
 never existed" And he learnedly set forth the
 
 Candidates for the Academy 
 
 reasons for this opinion. They simply exasperated 
 his visitor. 
 
 "Sir" he said furiously, <( your rudeness betrays 
 your Breton origins. You remind me of your an- 
 cestors, savage Armorican pirates, who ransacked 
 the shores of the sea. No more of this! All I 
 ask of you is to tell me where is the nearest landing 
 place of the river steamboats." 
 
 "Sir" the Abbe answered haughtily, "I should be 
 insulting the dignity of my ancestors were I to 
 trouble about fresh water craft" 
 
 You will agree that there was a great deal of 
 subtlety in this retort of an of ended archaeologist. 
 
 One of us recalled the witticisms attributed to 
 Monsignor Duchesne, the joke, for instance, about 
 the naive politics of Pope Pius X. 
 
 "He is a Venetian gondolier in the barque of 
 Saint Peter. He guides it a la gaffe." 1 And the 
 other one. 
 
 "Have you read the latest Bull: Digitus in 
 oculo?" 
 
 It is not at all certain, Anatole France resumed, 
 that those jokes are his. But, to him that hath 
 shall be given. No doubt Monsignor Duchesne is 
 too witty for a priest, and such flights may perhaps 
 
 1 An untranslatable pun on the word "Gaffe," which means 
 "blunder" as well as the pole with which a gondolier steers his 
 craft.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 do him wrong. But he has more serious matters 
 to worry about. 
 
 One day, when he was walking in Rome with the 
 famous archaeologist Rossi they came to a halt 
 in front of a beautiful marble tablet, recently 
 affixed, and on which was engraved in Latin: "On 
 this spot the apostles Saint Peter and Saint Paul 
 met" The historical incredibility of the event 
 made them shake their heads. Above this sentence 
 they read in Italian: "It is strictly forbidden to de- 
 posit rubbish against this wall." 
 
 "A wise order" said Rossi. 
 
 ". . . but not very strictly obeyed!" added the 
 Abbe, pointing with his walking stick to the hagio- 
 graphical inscription." And the two interlocutors 
 resumed their walk. 
 
 Anatole France continued. 
 
 The physical resemblance between Monsignor 
 Duchesne and Voltaire is striking. I conclude . . . 
 that Voltaire was a holy man. 
 
 But, some one asked, how does Monsignor 
 Duchesne reconcile his faith and his erudition? 
 
 FRA.NCE. He does not reconcile them. Why 
 should he reconcile them? He is at the same time 
 very learned and very pious. His Catholicism and 
 his archaeology dwell together in his soul as mutual 
 strangers. They, are separated by a water-tight 
 compartment. And do not imagine that his case is 
 
 C363
 
 Candidates for the Academy 
 
 exceptional. Beneath the skull of every one of us a 
 crowd of contradictory ideas are sheltered. We 
 are attached to them all equally and they get on 
 very well because we never allow them to meet. 
 
 At this moment M. Edmond Haraucourt entered, 
 the truculent poet of La Legende des sexes, and 
 keeper of the Cluny Museum. 
 
 He began with a few compliments. 
 
 "My dear Master," he said, "I am delighted to 
 see you looking so young." 
 
 FRANCE. Ha ha! I am growing old, all the 
 same. 
 
 "Oh Master," protested a very nice young man 
 who had not previously opened his mouth, "if you 
 are growing old there is not the slightest sign of 
 it in your recent books." 
 
 FRANCE, (maliciously) Good heavens! In my 
 books! That would be the last straw! . . . There 
 are, alas! other signs by which I recognize my 
 enemy, Old Age. You will know them later, very 
 much later, young man, you who rise triumphantly 
 every morning. (Turning to M. Haraucourt.) 
 
 Well, my dear keeper, how is your Museum? 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "I keep weeding it out, remov- 
 ing the parasites. . . ." 
 
 FRANCE. What? 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "It is full of fakes." 
 
 C373
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 FjRANCB. Yes, indeed. I suspected as much. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "Thanks to strict supervision, 
 I am separating the wheat from the chaff. Every- 
 thing that looks dubious I remove from the Museum 
 to the keeper's house." 
 
 FRANCE. An excellent idea. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "The furniture which I have 
 got together in this way for my personal use is plen- 
 tiful and hideous. My apartment has become the 
 sanctuary of fakes, the Pantheon of cheap imita- 
 tions. But I shall have to modify my critical 
 rigour, for my drawing-room, dining-room, bed- 
 room and even my W. C. are packed with Boulle 
 cabinets, Louis XIII clocks, and Henry II buffets 
 all genuine XlXth century." 2 
 
 We were all laughing. 
 
 M. Haraucourt continued: 
 
 "Lately I had the most tremendous and un- 
 welcome surprise. You know our famous fourteenth 
 century coffer, so greatly praised in the handbooks 
 on art?" 
 
 FRANCE. I certainly do. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "It is a fake!" 
 
 FRANCE. Well, I never! 
 
 a This heterogeneous furniture has since been distributed once 
 more through thf Museum for M. Haraucourt does not live there 
 any longer.
 
 Candidates for the Academy 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "This is the way I discovered 
 it. I wanted to celebrate this coffer in verse, for it 
 inspired me. On the wooden panels some designs 
 are carved which I thought I recognized as the 
 Joyes du Manage. A married couple are squab- 
 bling and abusing one another. The good wives are 
 decorating their husbands' foreheads with luxurious 
 branches. I had tuned my lute and was strumming 
 a prelude, when I noticed on two sides heroic scenes 
 which had nothing in common with the others. 
 There were knights, with lances in their hands, 
 setting out for war. I know, of course, that mili- 
 tary men can gallantly intervene in civilian house- 
 holds, but there were really too many of these 
 paladins. I began to smell a rat. I discovered 
 that my coffer is an artificial tinkering together of 
 scraps and odds and ends. Only a third of the cover 
 goes back to the fourteenth century. You can im- 
 agine how I dropped my lute. But for heaven's 
 sake gentlemen, be discreet! This coffer is our 
 glory. It is so famous that I could not bring my- 
 self to deprive the public of it." 
 
 France laughed until the tears rolled down his 
 cheeks. 
 
 "You would never guess," Haraucourt resumed, 
 "that I am paying you my visit as a candidate for 
 the Academy." 
 
 C393
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 FRANCE. Do you not know that I never put 
 my foot inside the Mazarin Palace? 3 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "Come, my dear Master, could 
 you not. . . . 
 
 FRANCE. Listen, my friend. Even the ushers 
 would not recognize me. By the way, here is a 
 good idea. . . . Let me introduce my Russian 
 friend Semenoff. . . . 
 
 SEMENOFF. (A giant with a great black beard, 
 bows to M. Haraucourt.) 
 
 "Monsieur. . . ." 
 
 HARAUCOURT (bowing) ."Monsieur. . . ." 
 
 FRANCE. My friend Semenoff could go in my 
 place to the Academy, and say that he is Anatole 
 France. . . . No; seriously, it would not look well 
 if I were to go there only for the purpose of voting. 
 
 HARACOURT. "At all events, thanks for your 
 platonic vote !" 
 
 FRANCE. My poor friend! You must cer- 
 tainly have more effective supporters. Come, who 
 are they? Let us run over the names of the 
 Academicians. The worst of it is one hardly knows 
 them. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "I give you my word! Every 
 
 3 During the viar, as a mark of respect to the sacred union, M. 
 Anatole France appeared at the Academy. But he soon forgot 
 to find his way back. 
 
 1401
 
 Candidates for the Academy 
 
 time there is a vacancy half-a-dozen poor devils can 
 be counted in Paris, who learn off the complete list 
 of the Immortals, and who go from apartment to 
 apartment, ringing the bell." 
 
 FRANCE. In order to console you, shall I re- 
 call the delightful pages in the "Journal d'un 
 Poete," in which Vigny has recorded his visit to 
 Royer-Collard? 
 
 HARAUCOURT. "I know them by heart. What 
 delicious fooling! Old Royer-Collard wrapped 
 up in his dressing gown like Geronte, with a 
 black wig on his head, half opens the door to 
 Vigny and says : 'I cannot be seen, Sir, I have just 
 taken a dose of medicine.' And he adds: 'Be- 
 tween ourselves, you have not the slightest chance 
 Besides, I know nothing of your works, for I 
 have read nothing now for thirty years. ... At 
 my age, Sir, one no longer reads. One re-reads.' ' 
 
 FRANCE. Well, my dear friend, you see to 
 what humiliation the candidature of the noble 
 Figny exposed his pride . . . May his example help 
 you patiently to bear your own tribulations.
 
 On Becoming An Academician
 
 On Becoming An Academician 
 
 "It is certain," Haraucourt resumed, "that 
 nothing has changed since Vigny's time. He com- 
 plained that Royer-Collard had not read his works, 
 and in the course of my visits I perceive that very 
 few of the Immortals are acquainted with my lit- 
 erary impedimenta. It is most depressing!" 
 
 FRANCE. What did you expect? Never, never 
 in the world, have the Academicians opened the 
 works of the candidates. Look at Leconte de 
 Lisle, the blasphemer who wrote "Poemes Bar- 
 bares" ; he was elected as a Christian poet, I assure 
 you. I know what I am talking about. I followed 
 his election minute by minute. I was secretary of 
 the Senate Library when he was Chief Librarian. 
 
 It was thanks to the Due de Broglie that he waj 
 elected. The Due de Broglie knew that Leconte 
 de Lisle was a poet. How did he find that out? 
 That is what I am still wondering. 
 
 "I have been told about a poet," he confided, 
 to his colleagues. 
 
 C45H
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Here France's voice became piping and tremu- 
 lous in imitation of the Due de Broglie. 
 
 "This poet is certainly a spiritualist, for all poets 
 are. Spiritualism and Christianity, are one and 
 the same. This chap Leconte de Lisle is, there- 
 fore, a Christian, a good Christian, an excellent 
 Christian. I am voting for him. You do like- 
 wise" 
 
 You must understand that the Due de Broglie 
 carried Christianity to the point of crime. He had 
 an amorous temperament. One day his doctor ad- 
 vised him to take a mistress in order to spare his 
 wife, whose health was very precarious. 
 
 The Due reflected for a while and then said 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Well, after all, my dear doctor, I had much 
 rather imperil my wife than my immortal soul." 
 
 Furthermore, the election of Leconte de Lisle 
 was facilitated by a fortunate error. The majority 
 of the immortals who voted in his favour, I am 
 told, attributed to him Sully Prudhomme's "Le Vase 
 brise". 
 
 M. Haraucourt's face expressed the utmost be- 
 wilderment. 
 
 FRANCE. But most of the time, as you know, 
 my dear friend, as well as I do, the elections are 
 purely political. 
 
 C463
 
 On Becoming An Academician 
 
 HARAUCOURT. Yet, my dear Master, your own 
 was not ! 
 
 FRANCE. On the contrary, it was so more than 
 any other. But the story is worth telling in detail. 
 
 Ludovic Halevy, who loved me like a brother, 
 kept constantly saying: "Why sulk at the Academy? 
 It is the thing to join. It looks well on the covers 
 of one's books. Present yourself. Do it for my 
 sake. I am ashamed to be an Immortal when 
 you are not." Well, the end of it was that I drew 
 up my letter of application, and went to read it to 
 him. 
 
 "Tut, tut!" said he, "your letter is not in due 
 form. Give it to me and I will arrange it prop- 
 erly." And he deliberately inserted three or four 
 fearful mistakes in French, which stood out like 
 poppies in a corn field. 
 
 "There," he said, "is the style required. But 
 that is not everything. We must find out who will 
 vote for you." 
 
 He drew up a list and proceeded to tick of a 
 great number of names. 
 
 "Hm! Hm!" he muttered, "it will not be easy. 
 These damned aristocrats will make wry faces when 
 they have to swallow you" 
 
 I began making my calls. Halevy directed op- 
 erations. Every morning I received a note: "Go 
 
 C473
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 'to So and So! Call again on So and So!" All 
 the time he was consumed with anxiety. Finally, 
 one day when I saw him he was radiant. 
 
 "That's all right!" said he, rubbing his hands, 
 "we've got them!" 
 
 "Got whom?" 
 
 "The aristocrats! Listen. There are two seats 
 vacant. The extreme Left of the Academy is 
 putting you forward for one. The aristocrats have 
 a candidate for the other, a war thy nobleman of 
 ancient lineage, but an absolute illiterate. They 
 will not find it easy to push him through. 
 
 "We said to them: Do you want the extreme 
 Left to vote for your nobleman? Then, vote 
 for the anarchist, Anatole France. One good turn 
 deserves another. It's a bargain! They agreed. 
 I am delighted. Now, call on the nobility. They 
 have been warned. But for heaven's sake, don't 
 talk politics or religion! Say: What bright sun- 
 shine! or: It is windy! It is raining! It is driz- 
 gling! Ask the lady of the house how her little dog 
 is and her pet monkeys. The noblemen have been 
 similarly instructed." 
 
 Everything turned out as he had foreseen. The 
 anarchist and the nobleman were elected on the 
 same day and by the same votes. It was quite shame- 
 less. 
 
 [483
 
 On Becoming An Academician 
 
 HARAUCOURT. It does not matter. The Acad- 
 emy honoured itself by electing you. 
 
 FRANCE (shaking hands with him) Thanks 
 my dear friend. But that is not all. There is a 
 sequel. 
 
 Amongst the votes promised to me, only one was 
 missing, Henri de Bornier's. As this little act of 
 treason was divulged, he tried to apologize to me. 
 
 "Dear Monsieur France," he began, "I did not 
 vote for you." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Monsieur de Bornier, you 
 did vote for me." 
 
 "No, I did not" he replied, somewhat taken 
 aback. 
 
 "But, you did. You are a gentleman, are you 
 not, Monsieur de Bournier?" 
 
 "Certainly, but. . . ." 
 
 "Have you not sung the praise of honour?" 
 
 "No doubt, but. . . ." 
 
 "It is, therefore, impossible for you to have 
 broken your word. You did vote for me, Monsieur 
 de Bornier, you did." 
 
 "He went of like a dog with its tail between its 
 legs. But my vengeance was not complete.. .1 was 
 only waiting for an opportunity to satisfy my thirst 
 for revenge. The opportunity came when we were 
 in session on the dictionary. . . . 
 
 My dear Haraucourt, you will certainly take 
 
 1:49:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 part in the dictionary sessions. For you will be 
 elected. One always gets what one ardently de- 
 sires. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. You never can tell! 
 
 FRANCE. You need have no doubts on that 
 score! And I hope you will be pleasantly diverted 
 by these famous sessions. 
 
 We never got any further than the letter A, for 
 they do a very short day's work at the Academy. 
 The entry after Anneau (Ring) was being made, 
 and the Due de Broglie was presiding. By a major- 
 ity of votes the following definition was adopted: 
 
 Ring: a piece of metal circular in shape. 
 
 "Smoke ring," I whispered insidiously. 
 
 These words caused some disturbance, but a 
 grammarian replied with great assurance: 
 
 "All right. We will put: by catachresis: smoke 
 ring." 
 
 Catachresis seemed to be a sublime idea. 
 
 As an example, the Ring of Saturn was quoted. 
 
 "The astronomers have discovered several of 
 them," I observed. "So you will have to say the- 
 Rings of Saturn." 
 
 "No," they said, "it is customary to say the Ring 
 of Saturn. We are here only to ratify usage. So 
 much the worse for your astronomers!" 
 
 This annoyed me, and it was then that I con- 
 ceived an infernal idea.
 
 On Becoming An Academician 
 
 The chair next to mine just happened to be dear 
 old Bornier's. He was snoring loudly. I nudged 
 him with my elbow: 
 
 "They are forgetting Hans Carvel's ring" 
 
 "What!" he cried, rubbing his eyes. 
 
 At this point France opened a parenthesis. 
 
 / suppose you all know that ribald story. You 
 have read it in the third book of Pantagruel. The 
 good man, Hans Carvel, married late in life to a 
 frisky wench, was tortured by jealousy. One night 
 when he was sleeping beside his wife, the devil came 
 in a dream and offered him a lovely ring: "Put this 
 ring on your finger. As long as it is there, your 
 spouse will be faithful." 
 
 In his joy the good man wakes up, and hears his 
 wife saying: "Stop! Stop! That will do!" 
 
 Accustomed to unsheath Durandal, to sound the 
 horn of battle, to bestride Pegasus, and to prance 
 in the clouds, Henri de Bornier had never read 
 Rabelais. 
 
 I repeated to him: 
 
 "They are forgetting Hans Carvel's ring. You 
 had better tell them." 
 
 Immediately the worthy old gentleman cried out 
 in his innocence: 
 
 "Gentlemen, you are forgetting Hans Carvel's 
 ring." 
 
 There were a few laughs.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 The Due de Broglie, who knew his Rabelais per- 
 fectly, but who was of a serious disposition, checked 
 this unseemly laughter at once. 
 
 "Let us continue, gentlemen," he said sharply. 
 
 A moment later I leaned over to Bornier: 
 
 "They did not hear you," said I. 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he cried, very much 
 agitated, "you are forgetting Hans Carvel's 
 ring" 
 
 This time there was a storm of laughter. 
 
 "What on earth is the matter with them?" Bor- 
 nier asked me. 
 
 "I don't know," I replied hypocritically. 
 
 The Due de Broglie was furious and declared the 
 session at an end. 
 
 As we went out, he came beside me: 
 
 "An extraordinary man, Bornier is," he said to 
 me. "A fine name of good ancestry, an old Peri- 
 gord family, but he is too fond of the bottle. And, 
 by Jove, when he has had a glass too many, he tells 
 dirty stories that would bring a blush to the face of 
 a brass monkey" 
 
 That, my dear Haraucourt, is the veracious story 
 of my election to the French Academy, and of the 
 curious episode connected therewith. 
 
 France continued: 
 
 The Immortals read nothing. They crown their 
 new colleagues without having ever opened their 
 
 C523
 
 On Becoming An Academician 
 
 works. They distribute literary -prizes on the same 
 principle, for they find it works. Sometimes, how- 
 ever, it leads them into some strange blunders. 
 
 Do you know, my dear Haraucourt, the story of 
 a poetry prize awarded to Louise Coletf 
 
 "No," he replied. 
 
 He would have said no, even if he had known it, 
 for he is a man of courtesy. 
 
 FRANCE. Under the Second Empire Louise 
 Colet was a majestic female, very beautiful, rather 
 a virago, with a man's voice, and eyes which she 
 knew how to use. She was married to a very ugly 
 little dwarf, who played the violin at the Conserv- 
 atory. The great philosopher, Victor Cousin, 
 when he saw her, discovered in her the Good, the 
 True and the Beautiful. He reduced the little 
 violinist to the same plight as Sganarelle. It was 
 the correct thing to do. 
 
 Louise Colet used to twang the lyre. She asked 
 her metaphysician to have some poetry prizes 
 awarded her by the French Academy. How could 
 Cousin refuse such a modest recompense for divine 
 hours'? So, every year that God granted, Louise 
 Colet used to get her prize. It was as regular as 
 clockwork. 
 
 On one occasion the good lady began rather late 
 to manufacture her piece for the competition. The 
 night before the last day for receiving entries she
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 had not hatched a single line. She was greatly em- 
 barrassed. 
 
 That night there were some artists and writers at 
 her dinner table. It chanced that Flaubert and 
 Bouilhet had come. They were fond of her, be- 
 cause she was an amiable creature and made every- 
 body feel comfortable. After dinner she shoved 
 them into a corner of the drawing-room. 
 
 "My dears," said she, "you must save my life." 
 And she revealed her predicament. 
 
 "Now you must be very nice. Follow me into 
 my study. . . . This way. . . . Plant yourselves in 
 those two excellent armchairs, and before midnight 
 run me of two hundred lines on Immortality. That 
 is the prescribed subject. Here are some paper 
 and ink. . . . Oh, I was nearly forgetting! You 
 will find tobacco and brandy in this cupboard." As 
 a matter of fact, it was her custom to smoke and 
 drink like a trooper. 
 
 Then she rejoined her other guests. 
 
 The two friends smoked and drank and chatted. 
 
 "By the way," cried Bouilhet towards tltvtn 
 o'clock, "what about Immortality?" 
 
 "Oh, damn!" replied Flaubert. 
 
 And they returned to the brandy. 
 
 At a quarter to twelve Bouilhet begged Flaubert 
 to begin to think about Immortality. Flaubert was 
 still reluctant, but suddenly, seizing a copy of La- 
 
 C543
 
 On Becoming An Academician 
 
 marline on a shelf, he opened it at random. "Write 
 this!" he ordered imperiously. And without stop- 
 ping he dictated two hundred lines from "Les Har- 
 
 monies/' 
 
 When it was finished: 
 
 "Add the title: Immortality! . . . Excellent! 
 
 He was putting "Les Harmonies" back when 
 Louise Colet appeared. 
 
 "Is it finished, my treasures?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. Certainly" said they, very lively. 
 
 She ran over the sheets of manuscript without 
 recognizing Lamartine. 
 
 "You did not over-exert yourselves," said she, 
 "but it will do, all the same. You are angels." 
 
 She gave them each a kiss. She presented her 
 poem and got the prize, as usual, with many con- 
 gratulations. The lines from Lamartine were 
 printed over the name of Louise Colet. Nobody 
 was any the wiser, for nobody read them. 
 
 Flaubert did not reveal the trick until very long 
 afterwards.
 
 Politics in the Academy
 
 Politics in the Academy 
 
 "That is all very well, so far as the prizes of 
 the Academy are concerned," M. Haraucourt re- 
 marked. "They are of little consequence, and I 
 have no objection to the Immortals for not reading 
 the elucubrations of the contestants. But when it 
 comes to electing an Academician, it is a very dif- 
 ferent matter." 
 
 He was particularly perturbed by the interven- 
 tion of politics. He returned to this subject and 
 deplored it. 
 
 FRANCE. / am surprised that you should take 
 this to heart. After all, what happens in the Acad- 
 emy is nothing new. Writers have almost always 
 owed their success to politics. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. But you will have to admit 
 that the charm and power of their style has had 
 something to do with their fame. 
 
 FRANCE. It is just possible, my friend, that our 
 ideas on the subject have remained rather those of 
 the class-room. When bespectacled and hide-bound 
 old pedants at school made us translate some Greek 
 
 C593
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 tragedy, ("Oedipus at Colonus," for example) they 
 used to say: 
 
 "Note that charming second aorist. Observe the 
 conciseness of that genitive absolute. The dignity 
 of that optative is marvellous." 
 
 They used to din hundreds of similar remarks 
 into our ears, until in the end we began to believe 
 that it was the grammatical perfection of Sophocles 
 which had aroused the enthusiasm of his contem- 
 poraries. But there was one point which our 
 gerund-grinders overlooked, namely, when Sophocles 
 celebrated the name of Oedipus, the Theban hero 
 whom the Athenians received with open arms when 
 he was hooted by his own countrymen, the Greek 
 dramatist's intention was to glorify Athens at the 
 expense of Thebes, which had been its bitter enemy 
 during the Peloponnesian war. 
 
 Bearing that knowledge in mind we can easily 
 imagine what the first performance of "Oedipus at 
 Colonus" was like, shortly after the death of the 
 aged poet: the whole audience on their feet, inter- 
 rupting every line with cheers, hissing the Thebans 
 and stamping in frantic applause for this eulogy of 
 their city. And thus we discover the real reasons, 
 the political reasons, for this enthusiasm. 
 
 When our venerable pedagogues used to comment 
 upon "The Knights" of Aristophanes, they would 
 carefully analyse the parabasis and point out the 
 
 Ko]
 
 Politics in the Academy 
 
 commutation, the anapests, the macron. And they 
 taught us that this play was a perfect example of the 
 style known as Old Comedy. But you will readily 
 conceive that it had other attractions for the sailors 
 of Piraus. What delighted them was to see Aris- 
 tophanes grabbing Comrade Clean by the seat of 
 the trousers. The performance was punctuated 
 with laughs and shouts and slaps. I suspect things 
 were pretty rough. In a word, it was politics. 
 
 You will have to reconcile yourself to this, my 
 dear Haraucourt. More often than not politics 
 and literature merge into one. In Rome did not 
 gentle Virgil do but propaganda for Augustus? 
 And in our own country did not the author of the 
 Cid become, in spite of himself, the adversary of 
 Richelieu? Is not his censorious Emilie a flatter- 
 ing portrait of the Duchess de Chevreuse? Was 
 Moliere not the champion of the young King and the 
 hard-working middle-class against the disturbed and 
 dissatisfied nobility? People praise the irony of 
 Voltaire, the sensitiveness of Diderot, the penetra- 
 tion of Montesquieu, the ruggedness of Rousseau. 
 Their style is excellent. But, would they have re- 
 ceived so much praise if their works had not been in- 
 exhaustible arsenals of political argument? What 
 about the bewildering word juggling of Fictor 
 Hugo, the precious metal of his tinkling rhymes, his 
 bold antitheses of black and white? Have they
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 done as much for his glory as his invectives against 
 Napoleon the Small? Nonsense, my dear fellow. 
 You must admit that literature has very little to do 
 with literary reputations. 
 
 HARAUCOURT. Well, isn't that absurd? 
 
 FRANCE. No, indeed. It is not so absurd. Do 
 you think that it shows any superiority on the part 
 of scribblers that they should isolate themselves in 
 some little corner and fumble for words, rehash 
 epithets and polish phrases, without a thought for 
 the world about them? I think it is rather an in- 
 firmity. 
 
 As he spoke, we thought of the part he played in 
 the famous Dreyfus Affair, still recent at the time, 
 of his Etudes d'Histoire contemporaine, of the pas- 
 sionate harangues which he was constantly deliver- 
 ing at popular meetings. 
 
 It is right, he continued, for an author to feel 
 the pangs of common humanity, and sometimes to 
 intervene in the quarrels of the market-place. Not 
 that I think he should fawn on any party or have a 
 finger in the electoral pie. I expect him to pre- 
 serve the independence of his spirit, to dare always 
 to tell the truth, and to denounce even the injustices 
 committed by his own friends. I want him to soar 
 unfettered. I wish his opinions to be hard upon 
 selfish interests, but usually regarded as chimerical, 
 and that they shail have no chance whatever of being
 
 Politics in the Academy 
 
 adopted for many a year. So far from spoiling his 
 style courage will render it more proud and virile. 
 
 That, my dear Haraucourt t is why I do not con- 
 sider the French Academy so culpable for taking 
 part in politics. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Master," said one of us, "it 
 is wrong to take the wrong part." 
 
 France pushed his crimson cap onto the corner of 
 his ear: 
 
 Will you tell me what exactly distinguishes the 
 right from the wrong side in politics? Oh, yes! I 
 see. . . . Our friends are on the right side; other 
 people are on the wrong. 
 
 C633
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 Anatole France was just on the point of publish- 
 ing his Jeanne d'Arc. It had cost him twenty years 
 of hard work. . . . Every page had been corrected, 
 revised and rounded off like a piece of sculpture. 
 That is the way the Master works. On looking at 
 his manuscripts one is astounded to see how much 
 labour has gone into that apparent facility and that 
 easy gracefulness. It is a great lesson far novices. 
 
 He used to make incessant corrections, reversing 
 sentences, making his transitions easier, cutting his 
 sheets into pieces like a puzzle; and he would put 
 at the beginning what was at the end, at the top 
 what was at the bottom, then pasting it all together. 
 Certain parts which had already been set by the 
 printer were re-written and then re-set eight or ten 
 times in proof. France would suppress a number 
 of delightful touches. He sought and he achieved 
 the utmost simplicity. 
 
 When the text was read in its first form his 
 friends had said: 
 
 "It is really charming! It is exquisite ! Do not 
 touch it any more ! You will spoil it all."
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 But as proof followed proof they had been forced 
 to admit that there was continual progress in the 
 direction of perfection. Yet, France could not 
 bring himself to let this Jeanne d' Arc of his take 
 flight on the wings of imagination. He had a sus- 
 picion that this work, conceived without any prej- 
 udice and respecting only the truth, would please 
 but few readers. It was then that we found him 
 in a melancholy mood. 
 
 He was chatting with Pierre Champion, the 
 learned biographer of Charles d'Orleans and of 
 Frangois Villon. To this erudite young man he 
 transferred the warm friendship which he used to 
 show to his father, who died recently. The worthy 
 publisher, Honore Champion, of the Quai Mala- 
 quais, had indeed known the father of Anatole 
 France, Thibault the bookseller, who had also kept 
 a bookshop close by, on the Quai Voltaire, at the sign 
 Aux Armes de France. 
 
 Pierre Champion is both good-humoured and dis- 
 illusioned. His voice is musical and far-away. He 
 is for ever dreaming. He does not live among his 
 contemporaries, but with the shades of the past. 
 He almost always wraps himself up in a huge muff- 
 ler, doubtless lest he should catch cold in the dank 
 shadows of History. As the fifteenth century was 
 his special province, and he had travelled every road, 
 every path and every by-way of it, he used to as- 
 
 C68]
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 sist Anatole France in re-reading the proofs of 
 Jeanne d'Arc. 
 
 "Well," he asked, "when is it going to appear?" 
 
 FRANCE. / should like it to be soon. But, as 
 you know, my dear friend, I have latterly been 
 greatly delayed by liver troubles, and I am afraid I 
 shall be interrupted again. 
 
 Then Jean Jacques Brousson, his secretary, in- 
 quired in tones of filial anxiety: 
 
 "Are you still suffering?" 
 
 FRANCE. No, not suffering, but uneasy. You 
 know how this trouble interferes with work, for you 
 have had it yourself. In fact, that is why you are 
 sorry for mje, for one pities- oneself through other 
 people. 
 
 BROUSSON. "Not at all, my dear Master. I 
 do not pity you. It is only just, if Dame Nature 
 tortures your body a little, after having lavished the 
 treasures of the mind upon you." 
 
 FRANCE. Really? 
 
 BRQUSSON. "If I had your genius, I would 
 gladly suffer the most cruel infirmities." 
 
 FRANCE. This child does not know what he is 
 saying. 
 
 CHAMPION. "All the same, there is some sense 
 in his remarks. But, to return to your Jeanne 
 d'Arc, I am longing to applaud its success." 
 
 FRANCE. Your friendship is deceiving you. 
 
 [69:
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 People will not like my book. No, I assure you, 
 they will not like it. They will not find in it what 
 they are looking for. Oh, I can easily guess what 
 is expected of me: a narrative packed with unctuous 
 indecencies. People will be disappointed. I ought, 
 for instance, to have insisted upon the virginity of 
 my heroine, on the te'sts to which she was submitted, 
 on the examination made by the matrons appointed 
 by the judges for that purpose. But, I did not, 
 although the temptation to do so was strong. 
 Amongst the documents in the case for her re- 
 habilitation there are some delicious statements con- 
 cerning the chastity of the Maid. 
 
 The captains who were her comrades inarms, and 
 who slept beside her on the straw in the camp, called 
 heaven to witness that no carnal desire ever touched 
 them. They are naively astonished to admit it. 
 They, who made it a point of honor always to dis- 
 play their gallantry to the fair sex, are flabbergasted 
 by their reserve towards the saintly maiden. In her 
 presence, as they put it, their senses were stilled. 
 For them that is the most surprising of miracles and 
 the manifest sign of divine intervention. 
 
 HYACINTHE LovsoN. 1 "So it seems to you cer- 
 tain, Master, that she preserved her virtue?" 
 
 FRANCE. There is really not the slightest 
 
 1 Hyacinthe Loyson who died recently, wa the son of the 
 celebrated Modernist. 
 
 C70]
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 doubt about it. The matrons of Poitiers brought 
 positive testimony in her favour, though, in this con- 
 nection, Solomon prudently advises the wise man to 
 reserve judgment. Moreover, you must remember 
 that this virtue, preserved in the midst of the worst 
 blackguards, was a great subject of amazement to 
 her contemporaries. The slightest weakness would 
 immediately have been trumpeted abroad. 
 
 Finally, when Jeanne was in the hands of the 
 English she happened to fall ill, and the doctors 
 who attended to her certainly did not fail to verify 
 a matter in which all the judges were interested. If 
 the examination had turned to her discredit, her 
 accusers, according to the ideas of the time, could 
 legitimately have declared her a witch, and pos- 
 sessed by the devil. The strategy of Beelzebub 
 was, in effect, simple and infallible. If he wished 
 to dominate a woman, he began by depriving her 
 of the essential. After that first sacrifice, it seems, 
 she could no longer refuse him anything. She be- 
 came his most devoted slave. And there was an 
 element of truth in that superstition, for women 
 blindly obey the man who arouses their senses. 
 
 LOYSON. "But what, in the last analysis, what 
 do you think of Jeanne, dear Master?" 
 
 FRANCE. That she was a valiant girl, very 
 devoted to her king. I am filled with enthusiasm 
 for her bravery, and with horror of the awful bar-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 barity of the theologians who sent her to the stake. 
 
 DREYFOUS 2 "Then you entirely share the feelings 
 of Michelet?" 
 
 FRANCE. Why not? 
 
 DREYFOUS. "You are not in love with Jeanne, I 
 suppose ? Michelet used to dream about her. He 
 used to see and hear her. Those visions did not 
 surprise him in the least. He himself used to see 
 her in visions. For instance, here is a fact of which 
 I was a witness : 
 
 "One day, when I happened to be in Rouen, I 
 saw old Michelet sitting on a milestone at the foot 
 of the great tower in which Jeanne had been captive. 
 I went up to greet him, when suddenly I noticed that 
 his eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 " 'What in the world is wrong?' I asked deeply 
 moved. 
 
 " 'She is in there,' he replied, pointing to the 
 tower. 
 
 "Then, as if he had suddenly awakened: 
 1 'Oh, I beg your pardon, my friend, I do not 
 know what I am thinking of.' " 
 
 FRANCE. / like that story, for it is absolutely 
 like dear old Michelet. In order to write history 
 he preferred to proceed by means of hallucinations. 
 
 CHAMPION. "A lovely epigram!" 
 
 2 Dreyfous, since dead, was a celebrated member of the 
 Ecole des Chartes.
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 Loyson led our host back to the subject. 
 
 "Frankly," he asked, "do the Voices not interfere 
 with your admiration for Jeanne?" 
 
 FRANCE. Not at all. 
 
 LOYSON. "What! Do her visions not seem 
 mad to you?" 
 
 FRANCE. Come, my friend! We all have them. 
 
 LOYSON (astonished) "How do you mean?" 
 
 FRANCE. Do you want contemporary instances? 
 Remember the Dreyfus Affair. Our friend Francis 
 de Pressense at that time used continually to invoke 
 Justice and Truth. He talked of them as of living 
 beings. I am sure he used to see them. And did 
 not Zola proclaim that "Truth was on the March"? 
 He also beheld it as a real person. It appeared to 
 him, I fancy, in the form of a beautiful, dark woman, 
 with a serious face. Probably she looked like 
 Madame Segond-Weber. She was clothed in a 
 white peplum, like the actresses of the Comedie 
 Franqaise when they represent the goddesses of an- 
 tiquity, and she held well aloft a glittering mirror. 
 
 No. I am wrong. Zola's Truth must have been 
 more naturalistic. Perhaps she reminded him of 
 Mouquette showing . . . you know what! At all 
 events, he used to see her as I see you. Yet, I ask 
 you, my friend. Do Justice and Truth exist? 
 
 LOYSON. "No, obviously. Not in flesh and 
 blood. But they exist."
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 FRANCE. Hello! Now you are becoming a 
 visionary. Justice and Truth, my dear Loyion, 
 exist only in so far as men desire them. And the 
 desire for them is lukewarm. But if Pressense and 
 Zola allow themselves to be guided by imaginary 
 divinities, are we to laugh at Jeanne because of her 
 Saints, male and female, and her whole heavenly 
 militia? 
 
 Loyson was opening his mouth to protest, but 
 France added immediately: 
 
 You will say that she saw ten million angels 
 around her, and that is a lot. It is certainly more 
 than Pressense and Zola ever saw. But, after all, 
 why quarrel about figures? 
 
 We began to laugh. 
 
 France continued: 
 
 All minds in the fifteenth century were haunted 
 by chimeras. If little Jeanne "saw her Voices," as 
 she naively expressed it, her judges, who tried to 
 convict her of sorcery, believed with all their might 
 in demons. But, whereas little Jeanne's dreams 
 were radiant, and impelled her to the most noble 
 enterprises, those of her tormenters were filthy, in- 
 famous and monstrous. 
 
 However, do not be alarmed, my dear Loyson. 
 If I defend and admire the visions of the poor little 
 herdsmaid, it does not follow that, in writing her 
 history, I have myself given credence to the miracles.
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 Quite the contrary. I constantly remembered that 
 it is the duty of the scientist to find a rational ex- 
 planation for all facts. And I tried to bring out 
 clearly what made Jeanne's mission logically pos- 
 sible. 
 
 First and foremost, it was the general credulity 
 of the period. Her position with the Armagnacs 
 was strengthened by the prophecies of Merlin and 
 the Venerable Bede concerning a Maid who would 
 deliver the kingdom. To the troops of the Dauphin 
 and the soldiery of the militia Jeanne was a mascot, 
 whose mere presence aroused their fanaticism, made 
 them oblivious of danger, and gave them victory. 
 On the other hand, her reputation as a sorceress 
 inspired terrible fear in the English, who had 
 hitherto been so greatly dreaded by the people of 
 France, and who were commonly called "Les 
 Coues," that is, the tailed devils. In fact, it was 
 believed that they had little tails behind. 
 
 All Jeanne's power, which was undoubtedly con- 
 siderable, came from the ascendant which she un- 
 wittingly established over the feeble mentality of 
 her contemporaries. To this must be added the 
 heroism which the excellent girl displayed on every 
 occasion. When her marvellous adventure is min- 
 utely analysed, it arouses the same surprise as a 
 very brilliant star seen through the most powerful 
 astronomical glasses. However greatly it be mag-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 nified, the heavenly body always remains a point 
 without diameter. 
 
 Jeanne was but little in herself, but the legend 
 which formed about her immediately was splendid, 
 and it has not lost any of its splendour. It must be 
 added that her mission was perhaps easier than one 
 would think, for the English were exhausted and 
 few in numbers. Nor must we forget the skill of 
 Charles FII and his counsellors, for I am quite per- 
 suaded that, if he was far from warlike, Charles 
 Vll was at least a very shrewd negotiator, who got 
 more by gentle methods from the burghers of the 
 towns than by force, and relied more upon diplo- 
 macy than upon arms, one of those good kings, in 
 brief, whose prudence, skill, and tenacity in council, 
 made ancient France great. 
 
 CHAMPION (in very gentle tones) "Never 
 fear, dear Master, you will be blamed for having 
 given a human explanation of this pious story, and 
 for having freed it from charisms, to use the theo- 
 logical term. I can already hear your usual oppo- 
 nents. They will say that your sceptical hands 
 should not have touched this sacred image." 
 
 FRANCE (with sudden vivacity) Sceptic! Scep- 
 tic! It is true, they will still call me a sceptic. And 
 for them that is the worst insult. But for me it is 
 the finest praise. A Sceptic! Why, that is what all 
 the masters of French thought have been. Rabelais,
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 Montaigne, Moliere, Voltaire, Renan Sceptics. 
 All the loftiest minds of our race were sceptics, all 
 those whom I tremblingly venerate, and whose most 
 humble pupil I am. 
 
 At this moment France's voice had lost its cus* 
 tomary indolence. It had suddenly become vibrant, 
 and his usually malicious expression was now tense 
 and excited. 
 
 He continued: 
 
 Scepticism! This word is made synonomous 
 with negation and impotence. Yet, our great 
 sceptics were sometimes the most affirmative, and 
 often the most courageous, of men. They denied 
 only negations. They attacked everything that 
 fetters the mind and the will. They struggled 
 against ignorance that stupefies, against error that 
 oppresses, against intolerance that tyrannizes, 
 against cruelty that tortures, and against hatred 
 that kills. They are accused of having been unbe- 
 lievers. But first we must know whether belief is 
 a virtue, and whether genuine strength does not lie 
 in doubting what there is no reason to believe. It 
 would not be difficult to prove that those Frenchmen 
 of genius who are called sceptics professed the most 
 magnificent credo. Each one of them formulated 
 some article of it. 
 
 Rabelais, a bufoon full of seriousness, proclaims 
 the majesty of tolerance. Like him the Pyrrhonic 
 
 C773
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Montaigne prostrates himself devoutly before the 
 wisdom of the ancients. Forgetting the oscilla- 
 tions of his doubting mind he invokes pity against 
 the ferocity of religious wars and the barbarity of 
 judicial torture. Above all, he pays homage to the 
 sanctity of friendship. Moliere inveighs against 
 the passions and weaknesses which make men hate- 
 ful, and he preaches the beautiful gospel of sociabil- 
 ity. In his wildest capers the unbelieving Voltaire 
 never loses sight of his ideal of reason, knowledge 
 and kindness yes, kindness, for this great satirist 
 was unkind only to the wicked and the foolish. Fin- 
 ally, Renan always remained a priest; all he did was 
 to purify religion. He believed in the divine, in 
 learning; he believed in the future of mankind. 
 Thus all our sceptics were full of ardour, all strove 
 to deliver their fellow-men from the chains that drag 
 them down. In their own way they were saints. 
 
 Some one said: "Saint Renan, is the title of one 
 of the chapters of Souvenirs dfenfance et de jeu- 
 nesse." But none had ever spoken before of Saint 
 Voltaire and Saint Rabelais. 
 
 Ignoring the sarcasm, France continued: 
 People reproach these giants with having pre- 
 sumed too much upon human reason. For my part, 
 I have no excessive confidence in reason. I know 
 how weak and tottering it is. But I remember 
 Diderot's clever apologue: "I have" he said,
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 "only a small flickering light to guide me in the 
 darkness of a thick forest. Up comes a theologian 
 and blows it out." Let us first of all follow reason, 
 it is the surest guide. It warns us itself of its 
 feebleness and informs us of its own limitations. 
 Moreover, so far from being incompatible with sen- 
 timent, it leads to feeling. When we have brooded 
 deeply, the most sceptical thinkers are seized with 
 a profound commiseration for their fellow-men, in 
 the face of the useless and eternal flux of the Uni- 
 verse, of the insignificance of wretched mankind, 
 and of the absurd suffering which men inflict upon 
 one another during the brief dream of existence. 
 It is but a step from that compassion to fraternal 
 love, and it is easily taken. Pity becomes active, 
 and he who believed himself to be for ever aloof 
 from all things jumps desperately into the struggle 
 to save his unhappy fellow-men. That, my friends, 
 is how sceptics feel. 
 
 We had listened in silence to this passionate con- 
 fession of faith. Then France resumed, almost 
 apologetically : 
 
 No doubt, you will think I have let my feelings 
 get the better of me. . . . But, the poor sceptics 
 are really too greatly misunderstood. As a matter 
 of fact, they are the most idealistic of mortals, but 
 they are disappointed idealists. Because they 
 dream of a very beautiful world, they are depressed
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 at seeing mankind so different from what it ought 
 to be. The irony which they affect is merely an 
 expression of their discouragement. They laugh, 
 but their gaiety always conceals a terrible bitter- 
 ness. They laugh in order not to weep. 
 
 Here Pierre Champion interjected rather mock- 
 ingly : 
 
 "If Jeanne d' Arc had been a sceptic of the right 
 school, who knows? Perhaps she would have ac- 
 complished out of love for humanity the magnan- 
 imous actions which faith inspired in her." 
 
 Certainly she would not, replied France smiling, 
 for it is only the visionaries who do very great 
 things. But observe, oh malicious Pierre Cham- 
 pion, that Voltaire, the most irreligious of men, 
 also knew how to be brave, when, in defiance of all 
 the ecclesiastical and judicial powers, he pursued 
 the rehabilitation of Colas, of Sirven, of the Che- 
 valier de la Barre, and of Lally-Tollendal. Do not 
 forget that, if he sinned in writing "La Pucelle," 
 this scoundrel was the first to demand that altars 
 be raised to Jeanne d'Arc. 3 Rmember also that, if 
 
 3 Anatole France is alluding to this sentence in 'I'Histoire 
 Universelle" : 
 
 "Finally, accused of having dressed again in men's clothes, 
 which were left purposely to tempt her, these judges, who had 
 certainly no right to try her since she was a prisoner of war, 
 declared her an impenitent heretic and burned by slow fire her who, 
 having saved her King, would have had altars raised to her in the 
 heroic age, when men paid such honour to their liberators" 
 
 [So]
 
 The Credo of a Sceptic 
 
 the judges of Jeanne d' Arc had been sceptical phil- 
 osophers, instead of pious fanatics, they would cer- 
 tainly never have burned her. The conclusion is, 
 my dear friend, that scepticism prompts the most 
 humane sentiments, and that, in any case, it pre- 
 vents crimes. 
 
 I have recited my Credo. Amen!
 
 Professor Brown and the Secret 
 of Genius
 
 Professor Brown and the Secret 
 of Genius 
 
 Wrapped in his beige dressing-gown with brown 
 stripes, and with his eternal little crimson skull-cap 
 on his head, France was seated at his writing-table 
 turning over the pages of a very old book bound in 
 pigskin. A soft and variegated light fell upon 
 the writer from the window ornamented with those 
 knobs of glass, set in lead, which the master gla- 
 ziers call sives. It looked like a Rembrandt pic- 
 ture of some philosopher meditating in an attic, or 
 rather, some Doctor Faustus consulting the Cabala. 
 
 Our host stood up to receive us. 
 
 You are wondering what is this venerable tome. 
 It is "La Chronologic colle." I was looking in it 
 for a portrait of Rabelais. 
 
 He turned a few pages. 
 
 Look. Here it is. It was engraved by Leonard 
 Gaultier some fifty years after the death of the 
 great satirist. We do not possess one engraved 
 during his lifetime, and this little picture is the old- 
 est in which his features are recorded. Moreover, 
 it is possibly like him. 1 What do you think of it. 
 
 1 In point of fact, L'Estolle, iaho bought "La Chronologie 
 colle" when it appeared in 1601, ivrote this criticism at the head
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Remy de Gourmont, 2 who was present, looked 
 at the vignette and said: 
 
 "What a harsh expression! A real Bogey Man! 
 His forehead is marked with deep wrinkles, and 
 the veins stand out as thick as ropes. His sunken 
 eyes gleam with a sombre ardour. One would 
 
 of the Rabelais portrait: "which in no wise resembleth him." In 
 this fashion he bore witness against the resemblance of this por- 
 trait. See Clouzot, Les Portraits de Rabelais, Gazette des Beaux 
 Arts, IQII. But perhaps the legend which had already formed 
 about Master Alcofribas had substituted in the mind of L'Estoile 
 the conventional type of a genial buffoon for the recollection of 
 the grave personage whom he had known a long time before. 
 
 2 Remy de Gourmont liked to call on Anatole France. When 
 these two rare and charming minds came into contact they gave 
 out sparks like flint and iron, and it was a heavenly delight to 
 hear them. Remy de Gourmont was paradox personified, but 
 often more sensible paradox than vulgar good sense. He was 
 all feeling, but a hideous cancer which disfigured his face isolated 
 him in the torture of a tenderness he could never express. Out 
 of spite he was often ironical, and sometimes even at the expense 
 of love. 
 
 That morning I had met him in the Avenue du Bois de Bou- 
 logne, before he had reached France's house. For a moment we 
 watched together some doves of variegated hue, as they billed 
 and cooed on the grass. Suddenly he began: 
 
 "The Ancients gave doves in homage to Venus, because they 
 are very voluptuous. But they were mistaken. There are more 
 amorous creatures." 
 ..'Wihat are they? "I asked attentively. 
 
 "Snails!" 
 
 I gave a shiver of disgust and incredulity. 
 
 "Yes," he continued, "snails. The zoologists tell us, in effect, 
 that Dame Nature, full of generosity towards these little beasts, 
 has overwhelmed them with joy, by giving them each the attri- 
 butes of both the male and the female. And when snails come 
 together each little horned creature experiences a double pleasure. 
 
 C863
 
 Professor Brown 
 
 surely expect more joviality in the Priest of Meu- 
 don. As Ronsard says : 
 
 Jamais le soleil ne 1'a veu, 
 Tant fust-il matin, qu'il n'eust beu. 
 Et jamais, au soir, la nuit noire, 
 Tant fust tard, ne 1'a veu sans boire. 
 
 II se couchait tout plat a has 
 Sur la jonchee, entre les taces; 
 
 Et parmi les escuelles grasses 
 
 Sans nulle honte se souillant 
 
 Comme une grenouille en la fange. . . . 
 
 "But that Bacchic epitaph must lie, for 'Gargantua* 
 and 'Pantagruel' are not at all comic. Leonard 
 Gualtier is right." 
 
 FRANCE. / picture him as you do. Rabelais is 
 not the boon companion one imagines. His ex- 
 pressions and locutions are coarse and strong, but 
 his ideas are thoughtful. He delivers austere hom- 
 ilies. In short, his gaiety is merely on the surface, 
 and his laugh ill conceals his profound seriousness. 
 
 His gloomy look is not surprising, said one of us, 
 since he was a scholar. 
 
 FRANCE. / beg your pardon. Rabelais was not 
 
 Each is simultaneously lover and mistress. 
 
 "It is a pity these animals move so slowly for they deserve more 
 than doves to drag the chariot of Cyoris." 
 
 It was laith such merry discourse that he beguiled our <vaay to 
 the door of M. Bergeret. 
 
 1:87:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 what we call a scholar, for he is never a bore. He 
 is not joyful, but he never tires. He happened to 
 bring out an edition of the Aphorisms of Hippoc- 
 rates, but he omitted to preserve the manuscript 
 commentaries. W]ny? Probably because he did 
 not find them interesting. 
 
 Now, what is a scholar? A deadly creature who 
 studies and publishes on principle everything that is 
 fundamentally uninteresting. So, Rabelais is not a 
 scholar. Yet, he had pretty solid erudition, it can- 
 not be denied. And for a man whose learning was 
 the least of his virtues, his was rather pleasing. 
 Do not certain of his fanatical admirers credit him 
 with omniscience? For example, in connection with 
 the military operations of Gargantua against Pichro- 
 chole, they declare that Rabelais is a great strat- 
 egist. But, that is a joke. On that principle, any 
 writer would be a consummate tactician. Any time 
 you like I bet I could write a booklet of one hundred 
 and fifty pages on "I aul de Kock: Tactician" I 
 would go to "Le Cocu" for my material. In that 
 novel there is an old soldier who trains a parrot 
 to cry: "Port arms! Present arms! Shoulder 
 arms . . . eppf etc." I would write a gloss on 
 that. 
 
 "Notice," I would say, "what a wonderful soldier 
 this Paul de Kock was. He is thoroughly familiar 
 with the arts of war. 'Port arms!' is, in fact, the 
 
 C88]
 
 Professor Brown 
 
 command given to a soldier when he is to raise his 
 rifle." 
 
 I would continue: 
 
 'We have collated this passage with a military 
 manual of 1830, and on page 25, paragraph 5, we 
 found the command: 'Port arms!' This move- 
 ment is composed as follows: 'Raise the rifle with 
 the right hand to the level of the shoulder, grasp it 
 in the left hand, etc. . . .' ' 
 
 In this fashion I would exploit the psittacism of 
 the learned bird. Conclusion: In tactics Paul de 
 Kock could have given lessons to Napoleon the 
 First. And so the trick is done. 
 
 The truth is, Master Alcofribas was not more 
 deeply versed than Paul de Kock in the arts of war. 
 Has not somebody discovered in Gargantua refer- 
 ences to the wars of Francois I and Charles V? 
 Pure nonsense! The workings of the imagination 
 of Rabelais have been reconstructed. He was not 
 at all inspired by the great events of his time, but, 
 on the contrary, by very insignificant facts whose 
 memory had remained with him from youth. Some 
 of the proper names which he uses are those of 
 people he had known. I do not guarantee, how- 
 ever, that he got those of Humevesne and Baisecul 
 from real life. But the episode itself of these two 
 advocates was suggested to him by a lawsuit in 
 which he was involved. 
 
 C89]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 In the same way, the differences of Grandgousier 
 and Pichrochole represent quarrels which had set 
 the peasants of Touraine-at loggerheads, and whose 
 grotesque echoes had amused him. No doubt he 
 wished to imply that the wars of the proudest sover- 
 eigns were astonishingly like the brawls of yokels 
 a truth with a fine flavour of irony! 
 
 No, my friends, Rabelais was not a great strate- 
 gist. He was quite satisfied to be a great writer. 
 
 Josephine showed in Mr. Brown, Professor of 
 Philology at the University of Sydney. 
 
 He is a stout, robust man, with a brick-red com- 
 plexion, and clean-shaven upper lip and chin. His 
 powerful muscles are a proof of his assiduous cult 
 of golf and polo. He wears gold spectacles. His 
 red hair, brushed down in front, is as stiff as the 
 bristles of a boar. 
 
 We were struck by his Anglo-Saxon elegance. 
 
 Seen at close hand his suit was a coarse-grained 
 tweed, showing every colour in the rainbow, but 
 from a distance it assumed the greenish, indefinite 
 colour of split-pea soup. A small red tie, which 
 affected an air of conquest, was attached to his soft 
 collar, from which his bull neck emerged. Tan 
 shoes, as long and as broad as a steamboat, com- 
 pleted the dress of this solid and learned Australian. 
 
 FRANCE. What can I do for you, Professor? 
 
 C903
 
 Professor Brown 
 
 Mr. Brown, expressing himself in French with 
 extreme difficulty, and furthermore embarrassed by 
 an attack of shyness which seized him in the pres- 
 ence of a celebrated man, stammered as best he 
 could : 
 
 "Je . . . vo . . . je voulais voir vo." 
 
 FRANCE. / am deeply honoured, Sir, and the 
 pleasure is mutual. Won't you take a seat, and 
 satisfy your wish. 
 
 When Mr. Brown had sat down he continued, 
 halting after each word: "I was looking for . . . 
 I wanted to know the mystery . . .the secret of 
 literary genius. . . ." 
 
 FRANCE. // / understood you rightly, you are 
 preparing a thesis on literary genius. 
 
 "Yes!" shouted Professor Brown, radiant at hav- 
 ing been understood. "Yes, yes." 
 
 FRANCE. Well, just as you came in our conver- 
 sation, by a happy coincidence, turned upon one of 
 the greatest geniuses of France and of the whole 
 world, Rabelais. 
 
 "Yes. Rabelais. Yes." 
 
 Mr. Brown's eyes beamed with joy. 
 
 FRANCE. What ,is the secret of his genius? You 
 ask me a thorny question. By what qualities did 
 he surpass other writers? 
 
 Has it not been said that he wrote badly? some 
 one objected.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 FRANCE. All great authors write badly. That 
 is well known. At least, the pedants say so. Great 
 writers are impetuous. The vigour of their vocab- 
 ulary, the intensity of their style, the daring of their 
 phrases, disconcert the pedants. To the pundits 
 good writing apparently means writing according to 
 rules. But born writers make their own rules, or 
 rather make none. They change their manner at 
 every moment, as inspiration dictates, sometimes 
 they are harmonious, sometimes rugged, sometimes 
 indolent and sometimes spirited. So, according to 
 the common notion, they cannot write well. And 
 why deny it? Rabelais is not free from faults. His 
 litanies of nouns, his strings of epithets, his lines of 
 verbs, undoubtedly prove his inexhaustible imagina- 
 tion, but they make his style heavy. His phrases 
 often lack suppleness, cadence and balance. 
 
 It would not be difficult to find in the old authors 
 more regularity, clarity and harmony. "Le Menag- 
 ier," for instance, which was written long before 
 Gargantua, contains some lovely passages about 
 bread, wine and bees. No doubt the old language 
 creates an illusion, for distance gives an exquisite 
 shade to the things of the past, and we find charm in 
 what had but little for men of an earlier age. Yet, 
 I do not think I am mistaken. "Le Menagier" is 
 charmingly written. It would be good Rabelais, 
 if it were Rabelais .... That is, if it did not
 
 Professor Brown 
 
 lack genius. Similarly, the "Contes" of the Seigneur 
 des Accords are full of charm. His style flows and 
 is a delight to the ear. It is better than that of 
 Rabelais. Nevertheless, it is Rabelais who is the 
 great writer, and not the Seigneur des Accords. 
 
 One of us suggested: Moliere also writes badly. 
 
 FRANCE. Yes, indeed, Moliere also writes badly, 
 And so do Saint-Simon, and Balzac and all the 
 others, I tell you! In Moliere's time certain 
 writers, Saint-Ememond and Furetiere, for ex- 
 ample, used a much more polished syntax. They 
 were purer. Only, Moliere is Moliere, that is to 
 say, not a good, but a great writer.
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 Professor Brown did not lose a word of the dis- 
 course. He was listening with his ears, of course, 
 but also with his wide open eyes, and above all, with 
 his gaping mouth. Suddenly he plunged bravely 
 into the stream of talk. 
 
 "I ... always thought . . . that the great . . . 
 writers were those . . . who worked hardest." 
 
 We had all followed his stammering words with 
 anxious politeness. 
 
 With the utmost courtesy France asked him: 
 
 Perhaps you are thinking, Professor, of the 
 famous adage of Buffon: "Genius is a long 
 patience." 
 
 "Ah!" said the Australian emphatically, his eyes 
 swimming with infinite gratitude. 
 
 FRANCE. Well, I strongly suspect that this sen- 
 tence is untrue. 
 
 Mr. Brown's features were veiled in sadness, but 
 he opened his mouth more eagerly than ever. 
 
 FRANCE. Yes, that maxim is false. Geniuses 
 are not the most painstaking of men. Or rather, 
 there is no hard-and-fast rule. Some men of genius, 
 I grant, are very diligent. Our Flaubert is one of 
 
 1971
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 them.* He tried a hundred phrases in order to 
 write one. And Dumas fits very justly said of 
 him: "He is a cabinet-maker who cuts down a whole 
 forest to make a wardrobe." But other geniuses 
 are careless to excess, and this kind is perhaps the 
 least rare. In Rabelais, to return to that subject, 
 many careless slips are noticeable. He consecrated 
 to his work, as he has told us himself, "only such 
 time as was devoted to the needs of the body, to wit, 
 while eating and drinking" 
 
 He did not write; he dictated, and he gave rein 
 to his imagination. Consequently, the dimensions 
 of his giants vary continually. Sometimes they are 
 taller than the towers of Notre-Dame, sometimes 
 they scarcely exceed human measurements. At the 
 end of the second book he announces that Panurge 
 is going to marry and that his wife will make a 
 cuckold of him in the first month of their wedded 
 life, that Pantagruel will find the Philosopher's 
 Stone, and that he will wed the daughter of John the 
 priest, King of India. But not one of these things 
 happens in the following books. Rabelais com- 
 pletely forgot his fine programme. In short, he 
 was the most careless of geniuses. 
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT. "Oh, well! The greatest 
 
 1 Anatole France is also. It is therefore all the greater 
 merit in him that he should recognise the beauty of improvisation 
 in others.
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 Spanish writer, Cervantes, was probably even less 
 careful. His thoughtlessness betrays him every- 
 where. The day after Don Quixote leaves his house, 
 his housekeeper tells the priest he has been gone a 
 week. Sancho bewails the loss of his ass which has 
 been stolen from him by the thief, Gines de Pasa- 
 monte, and a few pages further on he remounts his 
 beast which has inexplicably returned. Sancho's 
 wife is first called Joan and then Teresa. And, 
 strangest of all, the corpulent attendant of the 
 Knight of la Mancha is not shown at the outset as 
 he appears in the course of the story. It is only 
 after several chapters, for example, that the author 
 attributes to him the pleasant mania for breaking 
 out into proverbs. Many passages of the master- 
 piece of Saavedra show striking signs of hasty 
 work." 
 
 FRANCE. What did I tell you, Professor! And 
 coming to one of your own geniuses, could not 
 Shakespeare, too, be caught in the 'very act of care- 
 lessness? For instance, he says repeatedly that the 
 witches made three prophecies to Macbeth. In 
 truth, they greet him with three titles. Thane of 
 Glamis, Thane of Cawdor and King. But, as Mac- 
 beth was already Thane of Glamis when they ap- 
 peared to him, there were only two prophecies, not 
 three, with all due respect to the great 
 
 1:99:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 will not dwell on the port of Bohemia, on the clock 
 whjch strikes the hour, in ancient Rome, and on 
 many other charming points which you know. 
 
 Ignorance or carelessness? In any case you can 
 see, what a free-and-easy fashion geniuses botch 
 their sublime works. Whatever may be said, pa- 
 tience is the least of their virtues. They take no 
 pains. They are great as beautiful women are 
 beautiful without effort. That idea, I admit, 
 clashes somewhat with current morality. People 
 would like to think that glory is achieved at the cost 
 of some labour. When geniuses are presented as 
 models to young people, the latter are usually told: 
 "Work hard! Grind away! and you will be like 
 them." And that, indeed would be more just. But 
 then, what does nature care for justice! Mediocri- 
 ties sweat blood only to produce rubbish. Geniuses 
 create wonders without an effort. In short, it is 
 much easier to produce a masterpiece than a rhap- 
 sody, for all things are easy . . . to the predestined 
 mortal. 
 
 Mr. Brown seemed to be overwhelmed. He 
 persisted, however, in his inquiry. 
 
 "Then, Monsieur France, do you not think that 
 the chief quality of the great writers is beauty of 
 imagination?" 
 
 FRANCE. Wealth of imagination? 
 [100]
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 MR. BROW.N. "Oh!" 
 
 FRANCE. Perhaps. 
 
 REMY DE GOURMO.NT. "Indeed, nothing is less 
 certain. Almost all celebrated authors, on the con- 
 trary, have cut their finest garments from pieces of 
 cloth which other hands have woven. As Moliere 
 put it, they took their material where they found it. 
 The more one reads Rabelais, Moliere and La 
 Fontaine, tomention only these, the more the share 
 of their own inventiveness diminishes." 
 
 FRANCE. Very true, my dear friend. The raw 
 material rarely belongs to them. They borrow it, 
 and simply give it a new turn. Nowadays there is 
 a rage for skinning geniuses. It is a fashionable 
 pastime. People look for the sources of their 
 works. Their detractors denounce their plagiar- 
 isms. Their devotees do the same, but they are 
 careful to say that, when the peacock subtracts some 
 blue feathers from the jackdaw to mix with the eyes 
 of its tail, the jackdaw has no reason to complain, 
 because the peacock has done it a great honour. 
 And when the opponents and the devotees of a cult 
 have struggled for some twenty years over an idol, 
 it would seem as if nothing remains but dust. What 
 survives of Rabelais after the researches of the 
 Rabelaisians, and of Cervantes after those of his 
 adorers, and of Moliere after those of the Molier- 
 ists? In truth, I believe they remain what they 
 
 nun]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 always were, that is, very great men. But modern 
 criticism, by showing us where they went to find 
 each little stone of their mosaic, might end by per- 
 suading us that their reputation is undeserved. So 
 far as Rabelais is concerned, for instance, nothing 
 more belongs to him. They say, this page is Tory, 
 that is Lucian, this is from Thomas More, and that 
 from Colonna. 
 
 It is all true. What is more, Rabelais actually 
 seems less intelligent than the authors from whom 
 he derives his inspiration, yes, less intelligent. Com- 
 pare the episode of the Limousin Scholar in Tory 
 and in Pantagruel. I will briefly summarize it. The 
 good giant Pantagruel meets a young coxcomb who 
 boasts that he is studying in Paris, and who speaks 
 a French strangely embellished with Latin. To ex- 
 press the fact that he is in the habit of crossing the 
 Seine morning and evening, he says: 
 
 "Nous transfretons la Sequane au dilicule el au 
 crepuscule." 
 
 And in a mood for gallant confidences he relates 
 that the Parisian students like to "inculquer leurs 
 veretres es pudendes de meretricules amicabilissimes, 
 etc . . . etc. . . ." 
 
 Pantagruel listens to him for some time in as- 
 tonishment. Then, suddenly losing patience, he 
 seizes him by the throat and shakes him like a 
 puppy. Then the student, in his terror, spoils his
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 breeches and begins to beg for mercy in the patois 
 of Limoges. That is the story. 
 
 Now, Tory begins by explaining why his charac- 
 ter speaks Latin first. It is because this provincial 
 does not know French. The only living tongue he 
 has mastered is his local dialect, and if he has re- 
 course to Latin it is by no means out of affectation, 
 but because Latin was the universal speech, the es- 
 peranto of the period. Then suddenly, in a grip of 
 the giant, he returns to his native language, which is 
 that of Limoges. 
 
 On the other hand, Rabelais gives no explana- 
 tion, and consequently his version of the adventure 
 is less comprehensible. But, as he does not set any 
 limit upon our conjectures, we imagine that, if the 
 scholar talks a pedantic jargon, in which there is 
 much less French than Latin, it is to increase his 
 own importance, to flabbergast Pantagruel. And 
 we laugh heartily when, under pressure of fear, this 
 stupid pedant reveals all of a sudden his humble 
 origin by his provincial gibberish. Thus he mar- 
 vellously symbolizes the pretentious hollowness of 
 the pseudo-educated who have the gift of the gab. 
 And in that way the story, though not so well con- 
 structed, takes on a much wider significance. 
 
 Similarly, compare the "Icaromenippus" of Lu- 
 cian with the episode of the woodcutter Couillatris 
 in the prologue to the Fourth Book of Pantagruel. 
 
 [JOS!]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 You will see that Rabelais appears less intelligent 
 than Lucian. In the "Icaromenippus" Jupiter, hav- 
 ing opened a little trap-door at the foot of his 
 throne, leans over it to listen attentively to the 
 prayers of mortals. Filled with a sense of equity, 
 the father of gods and men puts carefully aside the 
 reasonable requests, in order to grant them, and he 
 blows furiously upon the swarm of unjust prayers, in 
 order to drive them away from him. 
 
 The Jupiter of Rabelais, on the contrary, follows 
 no method. As the appalling din of the supplica- 
 tions rising from the whole universe is head-split- 
 ting, he completely loses his wits. He muddles 
 everything, and it is a matter of mere chance whether 
 he showers benefactions upon men, or overwhelms 
 them with misfortunes. Yet, observe that, in this 
 extravagant form, the buffoonery borders on the 
 sublime. With Lucian it was a rhetorical elabora- 
 tion. With our Rabelais it is a profound satire on 
 the blindness of Destiny. 
 
 That is the way great men make mistakes. What- 
 ever they may do, they are always right, because 
 what they invent is not the result of cold calcula- 
 tion, but of a powerful natural instinct. They cre- 
 ate just as mothers bring children into the world. 
 All the statues they model have the breath of life, 
 though they know not why. Even though their 
 statues be twisted and deformed, they are alive, they 
 
 CI04;]
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 are not still-born, whereas those modelled by other 
 sculptors according to the rules are dead. 
 
 Mr. Brown was more and more discouraged, be- 
 cause he did not succeed in discovering why men of 
 genius are superior to vulgar mortals. Every time 
 he thought he had lit upon a point of superiority it 
 vanished under analysis. With the energy of de- 
 spair, he managed to stutter : 
 
 "If the great writers ... do not imagine the 
 things themselves . . . they write them better, per- 
 haps. . . ." 
 
 FRANCE. You say that they have the merit of 
 composing well. 
 
 Frankly, Professor, I think that you are deceiving 
 yourself in this. I know, of course, that composi- 
 tion usually is regarded as the primary condition of 
 the art of writing. It is one of those eternal veri- 
 ties which our respectable university teaches its off- 
 spring as inalterable dogmas. No salvation with- 
 out plan! Such is the doctrine. Literary work is re- 
 garded as a sort of theorem whose propositions are 
 mutually determined, follow one another, and hasten 
 towards the Q. E. D. But nothing of the kind is 
 visible in the work of many geniuses. Rabelais, 
 Cervantes and Swift troubled very little about the 
 construction of their novels. 
 
 It is only too clear that Master Alcofribas had
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 not the slightest idea of what he was driving at. 
 When he began "Pantagruel" there is no doubt that 
 he did not know exactly what he was going to put 
 into it. The episodes happen without any order, 
 and all are perfect. What more is needed? It is 
 a capricious and heavenly excursion. 
 
 Panurge wants to take unto himself a wife, but 
 he is deeply afraid that he will be made a cuckold. 
 Thereupon he consults the wise men and the fools. 
 Then he sets of to consult the Oracle of the Bottle, 
 and we embark with him upon the dark blue sea, 
 zigzagging our course from shore to shore. All 
 the time adventures are related which have nothing 
 whatever to do with the gnawing anxiety of Pan- 
 urge. Where is the plan in all that? 
 
 The finest masterpieces are made in compart- 
 ments, into which the writer puts whatever he likes. 
 They expand, swell out and distend as they are 
 made. Encouraged by the success of his first book 
 the author continues. 
 
 That is what happened with "Pantagruel" and 
 also with "Don Quixote," of which Gourmont was 
 talking a moment ago. Like Rabelais, Cervantes 
 follows only his own fancy. He advances, retraces 
 his steps, runs, stops, rests in the fields and plunges 
 into the woods. Now he is amongst the shepherds, 
 now amongst the nobility, now amongst brigands. 
 He has no goal. He showed such indifference in 
 
 Cio6]
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 his "Don Quixote" that any other man would as- 
 suredly have lost, but he won. Some have that priv- 
 ilege. 
 
 Theoretically, the interest of his narrative should 
 decrease. In point of fact, the first form of humour 
 exploited by Cervantes is by far the most amusing, 
 in principle, at least. In the beginning of the book, 
 it is the sheer madness of the hero that provokes 
 laughter. He is only his own victim. He is the 
 dupe of his own crazy imagination, which causes him 
 to mistake windmills for giants and a flock of sheep 
 for an army. Further on, however, he has almost 
 recovered his reason, and it is no longer he who cre- 
 ates his own misfortunes. It is idle noblemen who 
 play him a thousand scurvy tricks. They drive him 
 mad with all sorts of fireworks. They plant him 
 blindfolded upon a wooden horse which they shake, 
 and persuade him that he is riding through the air. 
 They throw into his room wild cats that claw his 
 face. In short, they work up every conceivable 
 kind of practical joke against him. It might be 
 feared that the disapproval which these tricks arouse 
 would detract from their humour. Not at all. 
 This fine novel holds one with increasing interest 
 to the last page. It is nothing short of a mir- 
 acle. 
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT. "But is it not the 
 supreme skill of the good authors, that they can
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 follow indolently their own caprices which guide 
 them so well?" 
 
 FRANCE. My dear friend, everything is charm- 
 ing in the writers we love. For them we make 
 infinite allowances, and we praise them for what we 
 condemn in others. As we have decided before- 
 hand that they are excellent, they always appear 
 so to us. 
 
 Listen. One day a rather amusing experience 
 happened to me. 
 
 I had given the manuscript of a novel to a news- 
 paper. As I was going away, I had divided the 
 sheets into sections, each representing an instalment. 
 
 These sections had been placed in a rack with a 
 lot of pigeon holes, in several rows. As luck would 
 have it, the compositor made a mistake. He took 
 the copy from the pigeonholes horizontally, instead 
 of from left to right, as he ought to have done. My 
 story had neither beginning nor end, but nobody 
 noticed it. I was even complimented by certain dis- 
 criminating critics on the delightful whims of my 
 imagination. I was touched by their fervour. 
 
 I am sure, my dear Gourmont, that you have 
 far more legitimate reasons for admiring the 
 disorder of Rabelais and Cervantes. What, after 
 all, does it matter where they lead us? Are we 
 not only too happy to dawdle with them in the thou- 
 sand flowery halting-places along the road? The 
 
 [108:1
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 very disconnectedness of their plots is an imita- 
 tion of the surprises of life. It is like the succession 
 of day following day. And then, it must be ad- 
 mitted, a more robust unity is visible in their works 
 than, that of a well connected plot. That is, the 
 cohesion of their spirit. The episodes are scat- 
 tered, but the thought which plays all through them 
 is always clear and well defined. It is a beautiful, 
 internal radiance which illuminates, vivifies and har- 
 monizes the most varied adventures. 
 
 What nobility, what pride, in "Don Quixote" 
 for example! What amiable sarcasm! What 
 lofty poetry! What kindness! The more to ap- 
 preciate these rare merits one must read Avellan- 
 eda's insipid imitation. This Spaniard, you know, 
 a contemporary of Cervantes, had the impertinence 
 to write a sequel to "Don Quixote," in order to de- 
 prive the author of part of his glory and profit. 
 Cervantes revolted, and he was right, for during his 
 lifetime this plagiarism must have injured him. 
 But nowadays I would like the uninspired elucubra- 
 tion of the imitator to be published in the same edi- 
 tion as the masterpiece. The caricature would en- 
 hance the beauty of the original. 
 
 It so happens that, while Cervantes displays all 
 his genius by abandoning himself to his entirely 
 spontaneous humour, the other adopts a plan, and 
 sets before himself a purpose. Avellaneda regards
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 his pen merely as an instrument for demonstrating 
 the excellence of the Faith. All his stories tend 
 towards that end. And what stones they are! 
 Judge for yourselves: 
 
 Sancho, for instance, meets a beautiful Moorish 
 girl, and in a transport of enthusiasm he cries: 
 
 "Would to God that all the fleas in my bed were 
 like this young Mohametan!" 
 
 "What Sancho" growls [Don Quixote, "is it 
 you who speak so frivolously, you, the husband of 
 Teresa! Assuredly your spouse is outrageously 
 ugly, but she is a good Christian, Sancho. And 
 our holy Mother, the Church, enjoins you to find 
 her more seductive than the most beautiful Musul- 
 man women." 
 
 But what Avellaneda especially recommends is 
 devotion to the Rosary. He is never tired of ex- 
 patiating upon the blessings reserved to the pious 
 who tell their beads assiduously. Amongst the 
 edifying and incongruous homilies which he em- 
 broiders upon this theme there is one well known 
 because our Nodier made a story of it. I cannot 
 even understand how thaf storyteller succeeded in 
 imparting some charm to this feeble invention. 
 
 This is the story. 
 
 A nun, a young sister whom an elegant gentleman 
 noticed while passing the half-opened door of a 
 
 Clio]
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 convent, corresponded with the seducer and decided 
 to join him. In spite of her guilty passion she had 
 not ceased to show ardent devotion to the Holy 
 Virgin. At the moment when she was about to 
 flee from the convent she was driven by an impulse 
 of her heart to the chapel of Mary. She laid upon 
 the steps of the altar her religious habit which she 
 had taken of to put on secular clothing. 
 
 With her lover, as you may imagine, she expe- 
 rienced only disappointment, suffering and torment. 
 That was a foregone conclusion. 
 
 After some years, having drunk the cup of bitter- 
 ness to the dregs, her soul torn with remorse, she 
 passes by her old convent. She re-enters, and goes 
 to the chapel of the Virgin. Behold, a miracle! 
 Her habit is there on the steps of the altar, in the 
 very place where she had left it. She puts it on 
 again. A moment later she meets a young sister 
 who, showing not the slightest astonishment at her 
 return, talks to her as if the lost sheep had never 
 left the fold. 
 
 ( 'Sister, the Mother Superior wants the bunch 
 of keys which she gave you this morning." 
 
 And the repentant sinner actually finds hanging 
 on her girdle these keys which are wanted. 
 
 A sudden light inundates her soul. 
 
 All during her long and lamentable adventure the
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Holy Virgin, touched by her fervour, and pitying 
 her weakness, assumed her likeness, wore her 
 clothes, and played her part in the convent. 
 
 Ah, the great virtues of the Rosary! 
 
 Then France, without any warning, turned to Mr. 
 Brown : 
 
 Listen, Professor, if you were inspired by devo- 
 tion, eminent devotion, to the Rosary, at this very 
 moment the Virgin would be giving your lectures 
 in philology at the University of Sydney. 
 
 Mr Brown began to roll his frightened, globu- 
 lar eyes behind his gold spectacles. 
 
 But, my dear Master, objected Jean Jacques 
 Brousson, France's secretary, there would surely 
 be some difficulty for the Virgin in taking the place 
 of a person of a different sex from her own. 
 
 FRANCE. You do not understand. Nothing 
 is too difficult for her. If there be great devotion, 
 that suffices. The proof is this other story of Avel- 
 laneda. 
 
 A very brave knight was wonderfully devoted to 
 the Rosary. At dawn one holiday he went into the 
 chapel of the Virgin to attend mass. He liked it 
 so much that he wanted to hear a second mass and 
 then a third. After that he remained for a long 
 time absorbed in prayer. Towards the middle of 
 the day he became again conscious of the outer 
 world, and suddenly he remembered that he ought 
 
 CII2]
 
 Professor Brown Still Searches 
 
 to have gone in the morning to a solemn tournament 
 to measure his prowess against his equals. He had 
 issued a great many challenges. What would 
 people think of his absence? Without a doubt, he 
 had been accused of retreating. His honour was 
 lost! 
 
 He comes out of the chapel, and, scarcely has he 
 done so, when he is greeted with frantic applause. 
 
 He thinks that people are making fun of him and 
 blushes to the roots of his hair. He struggles 
 against his admirers. 
 
 "Leave me alone," he says to them. "Leave me 
 alone. I do not deserve your mockery!" 
 
 "Our mockery! Never was an ovation more sin- 
 cere." 
 
 "Stop, I tell you! I will soon have my revenge" 
 
 "What revenge do you talk of taking? You, the 
 victor of victors!" 
 
 At this moment a powerful fellow, with broken 
 armour, comes forward and says: 
 
 "Allow me to shake your hand. One cannot feel 
 any rancour towards so courageous a rival!" 
 
 Then the pious knight has no more doubts. A 
 great miracle has happened in his favour. 
 
 While he was praying so fervently it was the Fir- 
 gin, the Virgin herself, who assumed his appear- 
 ance, mounted his horse, broke many a lance, tum- 
 bled nearly a dozen braggarts head over heels in 
 
 d 133
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 the sand of the lists, and gathered a magnificent 
 harvest of laurels for her faithful adorer. 
 
 Whereupon France turned to his secretary: 
 
 For shame, little sceptic! 
 
 Then, to the professor from Sydney: 
 
 So you see, dear Mr. Brown, it would be child's 
 play for the Holy Virgin to take your place . . . 
 that is, if we are to believe Avellaneda. 
 
 MR. BROWN. But my religion does not author- 
 ize the worship of the Virgin. 
 
 FRANCE. Well, really, Professor/ So much 
 the worse for you!
 
 Professor Brown Bewildered
 
 Professor Brown Bewildered 
 
 Professor Brown was not satisfied. He stared 
 at the floor in gloomy silence. 
 
 Tell me, Professor, I beg you, asked Anatole 
 France, whence comes this worried look upon your 
 face? 
 
 MR. BROWN. "Ah! M. France, I am less ad- 
 vanced now than when I came in, for, if I have 
 understood you aright, great writers have no merit, 
 neither correctness of style, nor the labour which 
 makes perfection, nor imagination, nor method in 
 the arrangement of their stories." 
 
 FRANCE. Let us be quite clear. Some have 
 those qualities, but many others have not, and yet 
 they are geniuses. That proves they are not in- 
 dispensable to great writers. 
 
 MR. BROWN, (energetically) "Then, tell me, 
 what qualities are indispensable?" 
 
 His distress was comic. He looked like a drown- 
 ing man searching for a buoy in a raging sea. 
 
 FRANCE. Dear Mr. Brown, what is a quality
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 and what is a defect? We must know that, first of 
 all. 
 
 He remained thoughtful for a moment, then ad- 
 dressed us all: 
 
 "Yes. It is true. These terms are all relative. 
 What seems good to one judge , seems bad to an- 
 other. And, above all, what is a quality for one 
 generation becomes a defect for the following. 
 
 For example, Brossette makes a curious remark. 
 He reports a judgment upon Malherbe by Des- 
 preaux. 
 
 "Malherbe," the author of "I'Art Poetique" de- 
 clared , "was not free from the faults with which he 
 reproached his predecessors. Thus, one sometimes 
 finds unexpected rhymes in his works." 
 
 There is the theory which was current in the 
 great century. In order to be good, the rhyme had 
 to be foreseen by the reader or the auditor. 
 
 Example: 
 
 "Puisque Venus le veut, de ce sang deplorable 
 Je peris la derniere et la plus miserable." 
 
 In these two lines of Racine the rhyme seemed 
 excellent to his contemporaries because they expec- 
 ted it: "deplorable" naturally suggested "mi- 
 serable." And just for the same reason the rhyme 
 seems bad to us. But do not forget that certain 
 rhymes in Racine strike us as excellent: this, for 
 example:
 
 Professor Brown Bewildered 
 
 "Ah! qu'ils s'aiment, Phenix, j'y consens. Qu'elle parte! 
 Que charmes 1'un de 1'autre, ils retournent a Sparte!" 
 
 But that was precisely the sort of rhyme his con- 
 temporaries thought was bad, because it was unex- 
 pected. 
 
 We Parnassians, on the other hand, demanded 
 rare and unusual rhymes. We swooned with de- 
 light when charming Theodore de Banville in- 
 vented amusing ones, such as 
 
 ". . . des escaliers 
 Qu'un Titan, de sa main gigantesque, a lies." 
 
 / beg your pardon, Professor. No doubt these 
 remarks on French 'versification are too subtle to 
 interest you. But I will choose more striking in- 
 stances to show you that the qualities of yesterday 
 are the defects of today. Let us return to your 
 Shakespeare, if you like. 
 
 "Oh!" said Mr. Brown. 
 
 FRANCE. Juliet says to Romeo: 
 
 "If my kinsmen do see thee, they will murder thee." 
 Whereupon Romeo replies: 
 
 "There lies more peril in thine eyes 
 Than twenty of their swords." 
 
 We call that preciosity, and to us it seems a de- 
 fect. 
 
 Another example: 
 
 In "Hamlet" Laertes, weeping for the death of
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 his sister, Ophelia, who has just drowned herself, 
 cries piteously: 
 
 "Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, 
 And therefore I forbid my tears." 
 
 Instead of moving us, that makes us laugh, does 
 it not? 
 
 As you know, the great Will was full of such con- 
 ceits. We criticize them, for, in our opinion, they 
 are faults of taste. They are blots which unfor- 
 tunately tarnish the splendour of Shakespeare. But 
 we must remember that all the writers of Elizabeth's 
 court wrote the same way. There was an epidemic 
 of fustian in poetry. Euphuism was triumphant. 
 The rhymers expressed themselves only in affecta- 
 tions. Love, hatred, hope, sorrow, all the passions 
 were put into puzzles and charades. 
 
 Referring to Alexander the Great when he had 
 fallen in love, Lyly, the most celebrated of Shake- 
 speare's contemporaries, made the following com- 
 ment, which he thought was clever: 
 
 "A spirit, whose greatness the entire orbit of the 
 world could not contain, is now imprisoned in the 
 narrow orbit of a languishing eye." 
 
 Well, when you come to think of it, if mannerisms 
 
 were the defect of everybody at the time, then 
 
 they were not really a defect. On the contrary, 
 
 they were a quality. The more involved, obscure 
 
 [1203
 
 Professor Brown Bewildered 
 
 and far-fetched a poet was, the more he was ap- 
 plauded. And the chief merit of Shakespeare in 
 the eyes of the English at this time was precisely 
 that we consider his worst defect. 
 
 All the greatest authors are in the same boat. 
 What their contemporaries admired in them is just 
 what displeases us. Dante sometimes tires us with 
 a kind of mumbo-jumbo which he constantly uses. 
 He attributes special virtues to figures. He ex- 
 plains the mysterious influence of the number g and 
 its root, J. He elaborates a system of abstruse 
 symbols, in which the passions are represented by a 
 forest, sensual desire by a panther, pride by a lion 
 and avarice by a she-wolf, while Beatrice Portinari 
 is theology triumphant. 
 
 These pretentious obscurities disconcert us. They 
 would spoil Dante for us, if it were possible to spoil 
 him. But then, thirteenth century Scholasticism 
 delighted in such puzzles, and Dante owed almost 
 all his fame to this abuse of riddles. 
 
 Similarly, when Rabelais wallows in Greek and 
 Latin, when he piles up references and quotations, 
 he wearies us. In the sixteenth century, however, 
 it was this apparatus of pedantry which particu- 
 larly delighted the reader. This sauce of antiquity 
 then seemed as necessary to literature as Roman 
 profiles to the monuments of Philibert de L'Orme,
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 as pagan ruins to the stained-glass windows of 
 Jean Cousin, and the dancing satyrs in the enamels 
 of Penicaud. 
 
 But, I see you are pensive, my dear Gourmont. 
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT. "I was thinking that, if 
 the reasons for liking great writers change in this 
 fashion, the traditional admiration shown to them 
 is most mysterious." 
 
 FRANCE. Most mysterious, indeed. After all, 
 if we continue to like them, perhaps it is only because 
 we have got into the habit of doing so. 
 
 At this Mr. Brown gave a start. He was scan- 
 dalized. 
 
 "Oh, M. France. Do not say that! Do not 
 say that ! I am sure there are qualities in the good 
 authors which always remain qualities, yes, always, 
 always!" 
 
 Anatole France gazed ironically at his interrup- 
 ter, then said slowly, in a conciliatory tone : 
 
 Well, may be you are right, Professor. 
 
 And he added, looking at Remy de Gourmont: 
 
 Yes. No doubt. Don't you think so? After 
 all . . . ! 
 
 This is a string of phrases which he habitually 
 employs. In a discussion, when he has well weighed 
 the pros and the cons, when he has hesitated for a 
 long time, and when he finally seems to suspend 
 judgment, then he often clings to some probability
 
 Professor Brown Bewildered 
 
 suggested by common sense, to some comforting 
 likelihood. 
 
 Yes. No doubt. Don't you think so? After 
 all . . . ! 
 
 That means that the thing is not absolutely cer- 
 tain, but it might be true, and that, in any case, it is 
 better to believe it is. 
 
 Yes. No doubt. Don't you think so? After 
 all . . . ! great authors have eternal qualities. 
 
 At this point, Mr. Brown's curiosity redoubled, 
 and he opened his mouth wider than ever. 
 
 FRANCE. // the slightest trifle from their pen 
 enchants us it is because a wise head and a sensitive 
 heart always guide their hand. 
 
 It is a matter of indifference that their syntax is 
 a little shaky, since these very slips are evidence of 
 the powerful drive of the mind which is guilty of the 
 atrocities. It is the syntax of passion. 
 
 It is a matter of indifference that they pillage 
 right and left, and that sometimes they get mixed in 
 the plot of their stories. What matters in them is, 
 not the story, however beautifully told, but the 
 opinions and ideas which it clothes. Like nurses 
 rocking babies, they spin us at haphazard adorable 
 stories which go back to the beginning of time. We 
 eagerly swallow the bait, and there is wisdom con- 
 cealed in the honey of their fables. Thus, in the 
 course of centuries the same anecdotes serve to ex-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 press the varying thoughts of the most enlightened 
 men. 
 
 All really great men have the prime virtue of 
 sincerity. They extirpate hypocrisy from their 
 hearts; they bravely reveal their weaknesses, their 
 doubts, their vices. They dissect themselves. They 
 expose their bared souls, so that all their contem- 
 poraries may recognize themselves in this picture, 
 and reject the lies which corrupt their lives. They 
 are courageous. They are not afraid to challenge 
 prejudices. No power, civil, moral or immoral, 
 can impose upon them. 
 
 Sometimes, it is true, frankness is so dangerous 
 that it would cost them their liberty or even their 
 lives. Under the most liberal, as under the most 
 tyrannical, governments, to proclaim what will be 
 recognized as just and right fifty or a hundred years 
 later is sufficient to incur imprisonment or the scaf- 
 fold. 
 
 As it is better to speak than to be silent, the wise 
 often behave like fools, in order not to be gagged. 
 They gambol, shake their cap and bells, and give 
 utterance to the most reasonable follies. They are 
 allowed to caper because they are take"n for buffoons. 
 This stratagem must not be held up against them. 
 "Concerning the opinions which he held dearly Rabe- 
 lais used to say mockingly: "I will maintain them 
 to the stake . . . exclusively." Was he wrong? 
 124]
 
 Professor Brown Bewildered 
 
 And if he had gone to the stake would it now be 
 possible for us to enjoy his pantagruelism? 
 
 Great writers have not mean souls. That, Mr. 
 Brown, is all their secret. 
 
 They profoundly love their fellow-men. They are 
 generous They do not limit their affections. 
 They pity all suffering, and strive to soothe it. 
 They take compassion on the poor players who per- 
 form in the comic tragedy, or the tragi-comedy, 
 of destiny. Pity, you see, is the very basis of gen- 
 ius, Professor. 
 
 "Oh!" cried Mr. Brown, whose eyes were now 
 shining with joy behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. 
 "Let me shake your hand, M. France." And he 
 inflicted on him a hand-shake sufficient to wrench 
 his shoulder from its socket. 
 
 125:1
 
 A Live Woman and a 
 Pretty Doll
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty 
 Doll 
 
 That morning we were told by Josephine that 
 her master was receiving in the library. So we 
 climbed up to the second floor, that is, to the top 
 of the house, for M. Bergeret has installed his 
 bibliotheque, his "Kbrairie," as Montaigne would 
 have said, in the attic of his dwelling. One pushes 
 open an old door, padded with leather, the ancient 
 swinging door of a vestry. On entering one would 
 fancy oneself in a chapel. A mystical light filters 
 through stained-glass windows, ornamented with 
 venerable coats of arms. This gentle light falls 
 lazily upon a low ceiling hung with tooled and gilt 
 leather ; it clings to the pyxes, the chalices, the mon- 
 strances, the patens, and the censers, with which 
 many cabinets are filled to overflowing. 
 
 Anatole France is an enthusiastic collector of re- 
 ligious objects. There is nobody in the world with 
 more ecclesiastical tastes. 
 
 In the first place, like a pious anchorite, he dwells 
 on the edge of a forest. It is true, the forest is a 
 pretty little one: the Bois de Boulogne. Fauns
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 and devils of the female sex are commoner there 
 than wild beasts. 
 
 He wears a long dressing gown of clerical cut. 
 It is true, the colour is of a delicate shade and the 
 material soft in texture. He always wears a skull 
 cap like the priests in chapel. It is true, its colour 
 is a revolutionary red. Sometimes he wears a 
 white head dress with pink designs, whith resembles 
 an Indian turban. He has adopted this headgear 
 from the region of Bordeaux where he often stays. 
 There the servants wrap their heads in handker- 
 chiefs rolled in this fashion, which give them an 
 Oriental grace. 
 
 M. Bergeret, however, much prefers his bonnet 
 of vermilion velvet. It plays an important part in his 
 gestures. Unconsciously he changes its form ac- 
 cording to his thoughts. When he is merry, it is 
 provokingly pointed. It is like a caricature of a 
 tiara, or of a Venetian corno ducale. At times, 
 when he raises his voice in irony, it assumes the dig- 
 nity of the pschent which was the pride of the Egyp- 
 tian Pharaohs. 
 
 When he is listening to a speaker he throws it 
 back of his neck in order that the passage through 
 his forehead may be freer for ideas. When he is 
 thinking he pulls it almost down onto his nose, as 
 though to withdraw behind a visier. 
 
 His profile, with its high forehead and acquilinc
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Dqll 
 
 nose, is very long, and its length is increased by 
 the goatee. The lines of his face are delicate rather 
 than vigorous, and give the impression of great 
 and paternal placidity. But the serenity of this 
 mask is belied by the black eyes, terribly dark and 
 prodigiously alive, ferreting and watching on all 
 sides. This glance, sparkling with malice in an 
 almost immobile face, sums up France. It is the 
 sharp edge of his mind which pierces through the 
 beautiful cadence of his melodious phrases. 
 
 His whole person is a marvel of harmonious 
 tones. His skin like dulled ivory, his silvery hair, 
 moustache and beard, the red velvet, compose a 
 harmony which would inspire any painter with an ir- 
 resistible desire to seize his palette and his brushes. 
 
 The Master is tall and slender. His natural 
 nonchalance, which increases his charm, gives him 
 the appearance of having a slight stoop. Sylvestre 
 Bonnard, member of the Institute, had "a kind 
 back," according to Princess Trepoff. Anatole 
 France has an affable and ironical back, like Voltaire 
 in Houdon's statue. 
 
 To the young writers and the old friends who 
 come to enjoy the flavour of his discourse, he 
 preaches his- indulgent philosophy in slow tones and 
 with a slight nasal drawl. And never did a religious 
 orator put more, unction into urging belief than 
 France into condemning superstition. His strokes
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 arc all the more deadly because of his indolent man- 
 .ner of speaking. When he seems* to be talking to 
 himself, when he hazards some remark in a most 
 inoffensive tone, gazing at the toes of his slippers 
 lined with episcopal purple, it is then that he is 
 most redoubtable, and suddenly his dark eyes flash 
 like two sword points. 
 
 When talking he likes to stand in the framework 
 of an immense Renaissance chimneypiece, in which 
 a man can stand upright. The mantle of this fire- 
 place is decorated with Italian pictures: saints 
 gathered about a Virgin who is nursing a bambino. 
 Two little angels in painted wood are also visible, 
 flitting and playing about. 
 
 Let us complete the furniture of the library. In 
 point of fact, have we not omitted the main thing, 
 the books? 
 
 They cover a multitude of shelves from floor to 
 ceiling. For the most part they are very old books, 
 bound in dark brown leather, or well preserved in 
 a yellowish white pigskin, or encased in the parch- 
 ment of antiphonaries, embellished with illuminated 
 initial headings, and with notes of music rn red and 
 black. This last binding was devised by Anatole 
 France and almost all his friends have copied his 
 charming invention. 
 
 A finikin critic was just interviewing the creator 
 [J32:]
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 of Thai's. He was going to publish in a very 
 serious review a very detailed study of his intellec- 
 tual development. The Master good humouredly 
 submitted to this curiosity. They ran rapidly over 
 his years at school. 
 
 Anatole France was educated at Stanislas College. 
 This calls for no comment, except that something 
 of his religious training remains in his unctuous ex- 
 terior. After all, it is not a bad education, for it 
 fashioned Voltaire, Renan and M. Bergeret. 
 
 Note, said our host slyly, that I failed at the 
 baccalaureat. This is an important point. Yes, 
 Sir, I got nought in geography. This is how it hap- 
 pened. 
 
 Old Hase was questioning me. This excellent 
 German, a very learned Hellenist, had been ap- 
 pointed professor at the Sorbonne by the Empire, 
 which was internationalist, after a fashion. He 
 was given the task of trying to plough candidates, 
 and he abominated the job. 
 
 "My young friend," said he, with thoroughly 
 Teutonic good nature, "you haf been warmly 
 regommended to me." 
 
 He continued in this strain, but I will spare you 
 his accent. 
 
 "Let me see ... I will ask you some easy ques- 
 tions. The Seine flows into the English Channel, 
 doesn't it."
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 "Yes, Sir" I replied with a winning smile. 
 
 "Good. Very good. . . And the Loire flows 
 into the Atlantic Ocean, doesn't it? 
 
 "Yes, Sir." 
 
 "Splendid! . . . The Gironde also flows into the 
 Atlantic, doesn't it?" 
 
 "Certainly, Sir." 
 
 "Your answers are admirable. The Rhone flows 
 into Lake Michigan, doesn't it?" 
 
 Full of confidence, I had not even listened to the 
 insidious question: 
 
 "Yes, Sir," said I, still smiling. 
 
 "Ha, ha! The Rhone flows into Lake Mich- 
 igan," muttered old Hase. "My friend, you are an 
 ignoramus! You are an ass! You will get double 
 nought." 
 
 We began to laugh. But this anecdote did not 
 meet the requirements of the critic. He sought 
 more serious information. 
 
 "I should like some information," said he, "as 
 to your sources. In many of your works, and 
 especially in the Jar din d' Epicure, you have given 
 proof of profound scientific knowledge. Could you 
 tell me from what treatises you obtained it?" 
 
 "Why, certainly. That is very easy. I consul- 
 ted a book by Camille Flammarion, which is called 
 I think, "Astronomy for Children." No, I am 
 wrong. The exact title is: "Popular Astronomy."
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 The critic nearly fell off his chair. 
 
 FRANCE. / also get my most solid erudition 
 from Larousse's Dictionary. Yes, Sir, Larousse's 
 Dictionary is a most useful publication. 
 
 The critic could hardly believe his ears. 
 
 Our host was assuredly amused at his stupefac- 
 tion, and purposely provoked it. 
 
 My dear Sir, the important thing perhaps is not 
 my scientific attainments, which are slight, but 
 rather the effect of modern discoveries on a mind 
 formed by prolonged commerce with the charming, 
 subtle, humane authors of our country. 
 
 He pointed to the old books which burdened the 
 shelves of his library: 
 
 There are my sources. You will find there 
 only great or delightful writers who spoke good 
 French, that is, who thought well, for the one is 
 impossible without the other. I have tried to say 
 as well as possible of the things I have seen and 
 learned in my own time what those fine minds of old 
 would have said, if they had seen and learned the 
 same things. 
 
 Josephine handed him a visiting card. He put 
 on his huge horn spectacles, for he has an enormous 
 pair, such as one sees in certain portraits by El 
 Greco or Velazquez. 
 
 From my friend B ? Show him in.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 A very young man, fair, pink and beardless, made 
 his appearance. 
 
 What can I do for you? asked France. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. (rubbing his stomach with a 
 very shiny silk hat) 
 
 "Ba ... ba ... bah ... bah ... M. France 
 . . . Master . . . you ... It is ... I ... 
 
 FRANCE, (very paternally) Come, my friend. 
 Won't you sit down? 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. (crimson) I have come 
 about ... I have a little girl cousin who collects 
 autographs ... so ... you ... I ... she . . . 
 
 FRANCE. She has sent you to get one from me. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. (radiant) Y-yes! Y-yes! 
 Master. I should be happy to do my cousin this 
 favour. 
 
 FRANCE, (touched) // is an admirable ambi- 
 tion, my child. Where the devil has my pen got to? 
 
 THE YOU.NG MAN. Oh! Master! I do not want 
 to disturb you just now. 
 
 FRANCE. Then I shall send you what you want. 
 I have your address. . . . 
 
 What does your charming cousin prefer, verse or 
 prose? 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN. (in the seventh heaven) 
 Verse ! 
 
 FRANCE. All right. It is understood. I shall 
 send you some lines of poetry. 
 
 r.1363
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 Thereupon the youth, covered with blushes, made 
 his bow. 
 
 "That autograph is three or four times blessed," 
 said some one, "since it will secure for this amiable 
 youth the favours of his young lady cousin." 
 
 FRANCE. He flattered me by asking for 'verse, 
 for I am not a poet. 
 
 There were protests. Poemes dores and Les 
 Noces Corinthiennes were cited. 
 
 / have written verse, he said, yet I am not a poet. 
 I do not think in verse, but in prose, and I turn my 
 prose into verse. Real poets think in verse. That 
 is the distinguishing sign. I knew one who some- 
 times even spoke in verse, Anthony Deschamps. 
 He was not negligible, and in my opinion deserved 
 more glory. His memory haunts me, because I 
 saw him in striking surroundings. He had been in- 
 sane. After he was cured he did not wish to leave 
 the asylum, because he had fallen in love with the 
 keeper's wife. We went to hear him recite his 
 poems in the courtyard of the institution. At every 
 verse some lunatic would come ^nd stare into his 
 face, sneer and disappear. Others would crouch 
 down in front of him, stick out their tongues, walk 
 on all fours and dance around us. He gently pushed 
 them away and continued to recite. It reminded 
 one of Tasso among the madmen, or Dante in hell. 
 This fantastic vision still haunts me.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Victor Hugo also spoke in verse sometimes. 
 
 Suddenly our host remarked in the most innocent 
 fashion in the world: 
 
 What is poetry, after all? An amusement for 
 children. . . . It is simply the game of corbillon. 1 
 
 "Dans mon corbillon que met-on?" 
 
 "Un melon, des oignons, des citrons, des cornichons." 
 
 He became serious again. 
 
 / should not make fun of it. No. Rhyme is not 
 just a pastime. In our language, where the differ- 
 ence between long and short vowels is so imper- 
 ceptible, it is the only natural way of strongly mark- 
 ing the cadence. The recurrence of the same 
 sounds divides the phrases into lines of a certain 
 number of syllables, and thus brings out the rhythm 
 more clearly. 
 
 Moreover, rhyme is not a difficulty for real poets. 
 As they think in images they command a much larger 
 vocabulary than prose writers, and can easily draw 
 upon it for all their rhymes. What is an image? 
 It is a comparison. Now, all things can be com- 
 pared with one another: the moon to a cheese, and 
 a broken heart to a cracked pot. So images furnish 
 an almost unlimited supply of words and rhymes. 
 Still better, rhyme calls attention to the image like 
 
 1 A game in which every word must rhyme with on (Trans- 
 lator's note). 
 
 CI38H
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 the tinkling of a bell. Add the fact that every 
 poet has his own images, his multicoloured epithets, 
 and consequently an immense reserve of rhymes, 
 which is the property of his genius. 
 
 Corneille rhymes with heroic words: front, 
 affront, outrage, rage. Racine rhymes with tender 
 and painful adjectives: deplorable, miserable. The 
 rhymes of La Fontaine are mocking; those of 
 Moliere are wanton, etc. 
 
 The fact is, every great poet discovers his own 
 new world. One finds a land of heroism, another 
 of burning passion; one of mockery and another of 
 generous gaiety. And the imaged rhymes are, as 
 it were, the flowers of those mysterious shores. 
 They grow abundantly beneath the feet of the ex- 
 plorer. He has only to stoop and pick those whose 
 colours harmonize. A bouquet of rhymes is the 
 perfume, the ornament of the shores where each 
 dreamer landed. It expresses the shade of his im- 
 agination. 
 
 There are, in truth, excellent poets in whose work 
 imagination and feeling take the place of every- 
 thing else, even of intelligence. 
 
 "According to Renan," some one remarked, "Vic- 
 tor Hugo's stupidity was stupendous." 
 
 FRANCE. Yes. No doubt, he was stupid. I 
 agree. But his was the most delicately strung tern-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 perament, and in spite of ourselves we still respond 
 to his thrills. We Parnassians have been accused 
 of having tried to explode his reputation. That is 
 not true. We held him in the greatest respect. 
 We even thought of him as the leader of our little 
 group. That was when we were founding the 
 Parnassian movement. We had foregathered many 
 times at Lemerre's, the publisher's, and the first 
 number of our review was on the eve of publication. 
 We were trying to find something that would draw 
 the attention of the universe to our new-born child. 
 
 One of us, I cannot remember whom, suggested 
 that we ask Victor Hugo, then in exile in Guernesey, 
 for a prefatory letter. The idea was received with 
 enthusiasm, and we immediately wrote to the illus- 
 trious exile. A few days later an extraordinary 
 epistle reached us: 
 
 "Young men, I belong to the past: you are the 
 future. I am but a leaf: you are the forest. I am 
 but a flickering taper: you are the rays of the sun. 
 I am but one of the oxen: you are the wise men of 
 the East. I am but a rivulet: you are the Ocean. 
 1 am but a molehill: you are the Alps. I am . . . 
 etc. . . . etc. . . ." 
 
 This went on through four large pages, and was 
 signed Victor Hugo. 
 
 Together we read this terrifying missive. At the 
 second line we burst out laughing; at the fourth we
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 were holding our sides; at the tenth we were in con- 
 vulsions. C a tulle Mendes declared that we were 
 the 'victims of a hateful trick. This eccentric reply 
 could not have come from the great man. Imperial 
 police spies must have intercepted our request and 
 have tried to play a practical joke on us. But we 
 would not be caught. 
 
 We took counsel together as to what we should 
 do. The result of this conference was that we 
 corresponded with Juliette Drouet, who was living 
 at the time in Guernesey, near her deity. We con- 
 fided our mishap to her and our impatience to have 
 a real letter from Victor Hugo. 
 
 Six days later we received a reply from Juliette 
 Drouet. The poor woman was heartbroken. The 
 first letter really was from Victor Hugo. His de- 
 voted friend assured us of the fact. She was even 
 surprised at our scepticism, for, after all, she said, 
 his genius was self-evident in these four pages. 
 
 Nevertheless, we did not publish the epistle of the 
 sublime poet. Our pious thought was that it would 
 not do him honour. How naive we were! The 
 gods cannot be dishonoured. 
 
 Anatole France continued: 
 
 Granted that he was not intelligent. His sensi- 
 tiveness has influenced that of all his contempor- 
 aries. What is most characteristic of the man is 
 those intimate impressions which had never been so
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 profoundly analysed: the feelings of a lover, of a 
 father at the grave of his daughter, of a mother 
 beside the cradle of her child. 
 
 "Sa pauvre mere, helas! de son sort ignorante, 
 Avoir mis tant d'amour sur ce frele roseau, 
 Et si longtemps veille son enfance souffrante, 
 Et passe tant de nuits a 1'endormir pleurante, 
 Toute petite en son berceau!" 
 
 That is peculiarly his own. And by insisting 
 upon the store each one of us sets upon the secrets 
 of the heart, he modified our souls. He helped to 
 quicken the life of the emotions. 
 
 Oh! I know that many others have reaped the 
 same field, but it was he who bound the sheaves. 
 He was a powerful binder. When one feels with 
 such intensity, intelligence is unnecessary. One has 
 more influence than the cleverest logicians. Even 
 the logicians do nothing more perhaps than express 
 in well-balanced syllogisms the flights of the 
 prophets who are supposed to be lacking in intelli- 
 gence. 
 
 I am very glad, said the critic, to hear you prais- 
 ing the formidable originality of Victor Hugo. 
 
 FRANCE. He was certainly original . . . but, take 
 care! Let us beware of exaggeration. 
 
 All at once, after having celebrated with such 
 spirit the personal qualities of the giant, M. Ber-
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 geret, with the habitual pendulum-swing of his un- 
 bounded dialectical skill, began to point out all that 
 the author of La Legende des siecles owed to tradi- 
 tion. 
 
 The truth is that what the best poets, the 
 greatest writers, bring back from their travels in 
 the realm of fancy is as nothing beside the treasures 
 accumulated by their predecessors. Victor Hugo is 
 regarded as a wonderful innovator. But just think. 
 He owed ninety-nine hundredths of his genius to 
 others. However original he seems, his versifica- 
 tion is traditional. It is the alexandrine. A cer- 
 tain liberty in the caesura and the enjambement, I 
 admit, but still an alexandrine. 
 
 Then, his language did he invent it? Let us 
 go a step further. The alphabet which he uses. . . . 
 
 EsCHOLiER. 2 If you talk about language and 
 alphabet. . . . ! 
 
 FRANCE. What of it? They must, of course, 
 be discussed. 
 
 What would our thoughts be without words? 
 What would words be without the letters which en- 
 able us to represent them easily. We do not think 
 enough, my dear friends, about the men of genius 
 who conceived the idea of representing sounds by 
 
 2 Raymond Escholler, <wko interrupted here to defend the origi- 
 nality of Victor Hugo, has since become the official priest of the 
 demi-god. He is the Keeper of the museum in the Place des 
 Vosges.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 signs. Yet, it was they who rendered possible the 
 dizzy mental gymnastics of the Western world. 
 And those who gradually created speech? Did 
 they not furnish us with the very tissue of our argu- 
 ments? 
 
 Grammatical constructions govern the habits of 
 the mind. So, we can not escape from the in- 
 fluence of those who spoke French before us, who 
 gave it form, and made it famous. Together with 
 their words, their syntax and their rhythms, we have 
 inherited their ideas, which we scarcely enrich. I 
 was wrong in saying that Victor Hugo owed to 
 others ninety-nine hundredths of his genius. I 
 should have said nine hundred and ninety-nine 
 thousandths. 
 
 Just then Captain X. entered. 
 
 He is a Jew, with a hatchet face, a curved nose, 
 hollow, feverish eyes, and a weather-beaten skin, 
 which looked as if it had been smoked: the phy- 
 sique of one who lives on locusts and wild honey. 
 A proselyte to humanitarianism, he is the modern 
 depositary of that flame which so nobly aroused 
 the old crusaders against existing institutions. Like 
 them he is always marching towards the Promised 
 Land, where there is nothing to recall the accursed 
 past.
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 After shaking hands with Anatole France, he 
 said: 
 
 "You know several of my hobby-horses, amongst 
 others pacifism and negrophilism. I have a new 
 one: Esperanto. 
 
 "Yes, I am one of those who are working to 
 establish a common language amongst all men, and 
 to reconcile the workers of the Tower of Babel." 
 
 Thereupon, the captain launched into a little 
 propaganda speech: 
 
 "Esperanto is the best means of communication 
 for business men. After eight days' practice Es- 
 perantists are able to correspond." 
 
 FRANCE. Gentlemen in commercial life would 
 do well, then, to learn this language. 
 
 THE CAPTAIN. "But it has loftier ambitions. 
 We have translated a selection of masterpieces from 
 every country. Your Crainquebille is one of them, 
 and I have come to ask you to authorize the publi- 
 cation in Esperanto of another of your works." 
 
 FRANCE. / should not like to rebuff a friend, 
 but I would prefer him not to make such a request 
 of me. 
 
 THE CAPTAI.N. "What is your objection to Es- 
 peranto, my dear Master?" 
 
 FRANCE. Why, nothing*. On the contrary, I 
 greatly approve of your zeal in wishing to facilitate
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 commercial relations. I should be delighted if it 
 were possible for all men to understand one another 
 without the trouble of prolonged studies. I am 
 sure a universal language would dissipate cruel mis- 
 understandings between them. 
 
 But then, is your Esperanto, which would doubt- 
 less render great practical services, capable of inter- 
 preting even the most fugitive appearance of ideas? 
 
 THE CAPTAI.N. "I assure you that. . . ." 
 
 FRANCE. Ah, no! For it is not born of suffer- 
 ing and joy. It has not borne the lamentations and 
 hymns of the human soul. It is a mechanical thing, 
 constructed by a scholar. 'It is not life. 
 
 Come, my dear Captain. Let us suppose that 
 you have been made a present of a wonderful doll. 
 Its big soft eyes are shaded with long eyelashes 
 divinely curved. Its mouth is deliciously red, and 
 is like the pulp of a cherry. Its hair is like spun 
 sunlight. It smiles at you. It talks to you. It 
 calls you "my darling." 
 
 Would you love it? 
 
 Suppose that you found yourself for a long time 
 alone with it on a desert island, and that suddenly 
 a real woman appeared, even rather ugly, but, after 
 all, a live woman. Is it to the doll you would ad- 
 dress your madrigals? 
 
 Your Esperanto is the doll. The French lan- 
 guage is a live woman. And this woman is so 
 
 [1463
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 beautiful, so proud, so modest, so daring, so touch- 
 ing, so voluptuous, so chaste, so noble, so familiar, 
 so foolish, so wise, that one loves her with all one's 
 soul, and is never tempted to be unfaithful to her. 
 
 We all burst into laughter, and the captain 
 seemed a little peeved. Brousson said to him ma- 
 liciously: 
 
 "Pygmalion breathed life into his statue. Per- 
 haps your passion will effect the same miracle in 
 favour of your doll." 
 
 "Young man," said the captain with some heat, 
 "you are sparkling, no doubt, but could you not put 
 a little water in your champagne?" 
 
 "And you, Captain," said Brousson, "a little 
 champagne in your water?" 
 
 Anatole France interrupted the dispute: 
 
 My dear Captain, I will propose a test for you. 
 
 THE CAPTAIN. "As many as you like !" 
 
 FRANCE. Here are two lines of Racine. I am 
 choosing the most musical, I warn you. They are 
 heavenly music: 
 
 "Ariane, ma soeur, de quelle amour blessee, 
 Vous mourutes aux bords ou vous futes laissee!" 
 
 Come now! Translate that into Esperanto! 
 
 Boldly, as if he had drawn his sword to charge 
 at the head of his company, the captain pronounced 
 in a loud voice some words of the idiom which he so 
 ardently extolled. 
 
 CI47]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Come! Come! said France to him very gently, 
 touching his arm. The verdict is obvious, my dear 
 friend* 
 
 Once again, how could the work of a grammar- 
 ian, however learned, compete with a living Ian- 
 guage, in which millions of men have expressed 
 their grief and their joy, in which the laboured 
 breathing of the people and the chattering of pretty 
 magpies in the drawing-rooms are both per- 
 ceptible; in which are heard the roar of all the 
 handicrafts, the rumble of all revolutions, the 
 death rattle of despair and the murmur of dreams. 
 How beautiful words are, haloed with the memory 
 of long usage! 
 
 This word has rung clear as a bell in a line of 
 Corneille. That one has languished in a hemi- 
 stitch of Racine. Another has gathered the per- 
 fume of thyme and wild flowers in a fable of La 
 Fontaine. They all glitter with infinite shades 
 which they have acquired in the course of centuries. 
 
 Just think, my dear friend, the words for "laugh" 
 and "cry" have not the same meaning in French as 
 in other languages, because no other man has 
 laughed like Moliere, like Reynard, or like Beau- 
 marchais. No woman has wept like certain great 
 Frenchwomen who have loved, Mile, de Lespinasse, 
 
 3 M. Anatole France, however, has modified his attitude. Phil- 
 osophically, he ended by allowing, in addition to "Crainquebille," 
 several of his admirable short stories to be translated into Esperanto.
 
 A Live Woman and a Pretty Doll 
 
 for example. Well, I want my ideas to rest upon 
 words in which the sentiments of all our dead still 
 live. 
 
 THE CAPTAI.N. But, then you condemn all 
 translations. 
 
 FRANCE. Not at all. Have you forgotten the 
 apologue of the doll? The other living languages 
 are real women. And I do not feel any great re- 
 pugnance to entrust my thoughts to them, however: 
 
 "J'aime mieux ma mie, 6 gue! J'aime mieux ma mie." 
 
 / prefer my own beloved tongue. I shall be 
 happy, only too happy, if I have been able to add a 
 new beauty to that which I have received so limpid, 
 so luminous, so beneficent and so human. 
 
 149:3
 
 M. Bergeret Collaborates 
 with the Divine Sarah
 
 M. Bergeret Collaborates with 
 the Divine Sarah 
 
 M. Bergeret does and does not like the theatre. 
 He likes it because a den of mummers arouses his 
 curiosity. He is amused by actors, who have the 
 brains and the vanity of peacocks. He is attracted 
 by actresses, because of their gracefulness, their 
 princely manners, their superb vacuity, or their ma- 
 licious cleverness, and by the swarm of coxcombs, 
 nincompoops, financial sharks and political puppets, 
 which gravitates about them. 
 
 He does not like the theatre because ... he 
 doesn't. 
 
 The art of the stage seems rather clumsy to this 
 subtle logician, who tends a flock of ideas as light 
 and many-hued as the clouds. He has written very 
 little for the theatre. When he composed the 
 Noces Corinthiennes he certainly never dreamt that 
 it would one day be performed. 
 
 It was produced, however, first at the Odeon, be- 
 fore the war, and afterwards, in 1918, at the Co- 
 medie Franchise. It may be remembered perhaps, 
 that, on the night of the first performance at the
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 latter theatre, the Gothas dropped on Paris their 
 eggs laden with terror. The harmonious lines were 
 spoken to the heroic accompaniment of the noise of 
 sirens, bombs and cannon. This anachronism, in 
 a classical subject, so far from hurting its success 
 rather increased it. The venerable M. Silvain an- 
 nounced that the performance would continue, and 
 the audience, delighted with their own courage, 
 brought down the house with their applause for both 
 the players and the author who, forgetting his con- 
 tempt for such solemn vanities, was present at the 
 production. 
 
 A farce of Anatole France's is also mentioned, 
 entitled La Comedie de celui qui epousa une femme 
 muette. It is a reconstruction of a pretty fable 
 which is mentioned in the third book of PantagrueL 
 He published it in I' Illustration, but would not allow 
 it to be played except to an audience of Rabelaisians. 
 However, out of affection for Lucien Guitry he made 
 of Crainquebille an exquisite little play, in which the 
 great artist scored a triumph. For the rest, indus- 
 trious adapters have often displayed the glorious 
 name of Anatole France on the theatrical posters. 
 At the Vaudeville Le Lys Rouge thrived for a long 
 time in the glare of the footlights. At the Theatre 
 Antoine, the Crime de Syhestre Bonnard was pro- 
 duced. Gemier was excellent in it, as usual. 
 
 It is Gemier, too, who will shortly stage Les
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 Dieux ont soif. Vivid pictures of the French Rev- 
 olution will whirl amidst the shouting of Qa ira and 
 the Carmagnole. 
 
 Sometimes musicians have attuned their fiddles 
 to the fantasy of M. Bergeret. Massenet religiously 
 offered his crochets and arpeggios to the courtesan 
 Thais. And lately in the comic opera of the Relne 
 Pedauque the good Abbe Jerome Coignard surprised 
 us by sending forth pleasant trills and skilful 
 quavers, right up to the "flies." 
 
 When the libretto of Thais is mentioned to him, 
 M. Bergeret smiles maliciously: 
 
 Gallet confided to me that he would not be able 
 to retain the name of Paphnuce for my hero, because 
 he had difficulty in making it rhyme with noble 
 words. All he could find was "puce" and "prepuce," 
 and he was not satisfied with that. So he chose 
 another name, Athanael. Athanael rhymes with 
 "del," "autel," "irreel" "miel," which are nice 
 words fit for polite society. 
 
 "All right, then. Let it be Athanael!" I said 
 to him. M. Bergeret added, mezza voce: 
 
 Between ourselves, I prefer Paphnuce! 
 
 One morning at the Villa Sai'd a queen of the 
 footlights, Mme. M., was one of the company, and, 
 of course, dramatic art came up for discussion. A 
 young poet mentioned that he was finishing a play. 
 
 CI553
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 FRANCE. 7 congratulate you, my friend, on 
 working for mimes. As they mumble abominably 
 with a few exceptions, such as our dear M., who 
 speaks verse as divinely as the Muses themselves 
 as one cannot hear a word they are saying, you are 
 at liberty to display your genius. 
 
 THE YOUNG POET. "Master, I do not see ex- 
 actly what advantage I shall derive from their mum- 
 bling." 
 
 FRANCE. What advantage? Ungrateful wretch! 
 . . . Remember that you will not have to be afraid 
 of shocking the public, which will not hear a single 
 word of your text. You will not be compelled to 
 make any concessions. You can say anything. It 
 will be possible for you to express in the most 
 original language the newest and most daring ideas. 
 Is that not the height of bliss for a writer? 
 
 The young poet made a wry face. 
 
 France continued: 
 
 It must be admitted that in the theatre fine shades 
 are quite lost. Claptrap is the only thing that has 
 any chance of reaching the public ear. Corneille 
 knew that well. His lapidary phrases are models 
 of stage style, but I do not praise him so much for 
 having found those sublime phrases which create an 
 uproar, as for having employed them with a certain 
 discretion. After all, in a pastime of that sort, 
 the most difficult thing is to know when to stop. 
 
 CI563
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 Que vouliez-vous qu'il fit centre trois? 
 
 Qu'il mourut! 
 
 It is magnificent, and it could go on for ever. 
 Valere might -protest: 
 
 Mais c'etait votre fils. 
 
 Whereupon old Horace would yell in reply : 
 Mon fils, il ne Test plus! 
 
 Imagine a prolonged jingle of such clashing 
 phrases, and the whole house would become deliri- 
 ous. The method is easy, and we must confess that 
 the great Corneille really used it discreetly. 
 
 France continued : 
 
 The language of the theatre is not that of liters 
 ture. Is it worse? I cannot say. For instance, it 
 is often said that Moliere writes badly. The truth 
 is, he writes for the ear and not for the eye, that is, 
 in such a way as to overcome the inattention and the 
 weariness of the audience, and the wretched elo- 
 cution of bad actors. He often repeats the same 
 thing three or four times, to make sure that it is 
 understood. Out of six or eight lines there are 
 sometimes only two that count. The others are 
 simply padding which enables the spectator to 
 rest his mind before coaching the essential 
 words a moment or two later. Listen to Al- 
 ee ste: 
 
 Non, non, il n'est point d'ame un peu bien situcc, 
 Qui veuille d'une estime ainsi prostituee.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 The sense Is complete and it is deep enough to 
 arouse reflection. Here is the sequel: 
 
 Et la plus glorieuse a des regals peu chers 
 
 Des qu'on voit qu'on nous mele avec tout 1'univers. 
 
 That is pure nonsense . . . but it is dramatic. 
 
 MME. M. "How hard you are on our poor 
 theatre I" 
 
 FRANCE. Not at all. Let me explain. It is 
 beyond question that these last two lines are detesta- 
 ble. What is the meaning of "the cheap delights 
 of the most glorious esteem?" What is the mean- 
 ing of "as soon as one sees oneself confounded with 
 the whole universe?" The repetitions of the same 
 word are horrible. The meaning which one vaguely 
 perceives is exactly the same as that of the preceding 
 two lines. Why, then, this redundancy, one asks? 
 
 It is useful precisely because it is superfluous, that 
 is, because these meaningless words which are not 
 heard give the audience time to dwell upon the two 
 very beautiful lines that precede. Moreover, in 
 that admirable distich, a purist might object to the 
 lameless of the locution "un peu bien." But what 
 of that? That locution is not heard either. The 
 effective words are those which, being placed where 
 the caesura falls, or at the end of the line, are 
 stressed by the rhythm: "dme," "bien situee," "es- 
 time," "prostituee." These notes ring so clear that
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 one is compelled to hear them, and they satisfy the 
 mind. With the instinct of genius, Moliere has al- 
 ways shaped his best lines in this way. The cadence 
 gives balance to the principal terms, which occur at 
 the caesura and the rhyme. For example, Donne 
 says to Tartufe: 
 
 Et je vous verrais nu, du haut jusques en has, 
 Que toute votre peau ne me tenterait pas. 
 
 Observe the spirit infused into the words "nu" 
 "jusques en bas," "peau" and "tenterait pas." On 
 the other hand, Moliere often filled up the interstices 
 with feeble words, simply to preserve the measure. 
 
 I prefer his prose which is no less substantial, but 
 does not force him to pad it out. But may be I am 
 wrong, because in a theatre poetic rhythm, even 
 when obtained at the cost of a few defects, launches 
 the words with more vigour. 
 
 Some one wondered that France, in his quotations, 
 should be able to draw on an infallible memory. 
 
 The Master's mocking reply was : 
 
 It is because I was a very bad scholar. All the 
 lines I have been set to write have engraved many 
 verses on my memory. 
 
 A moment later : 
 
 There is no denying it, Moliere forces us to listen 
 to him, and he makes us laugh, for it is foolish to 
 say that he is sad. It was the Romanticists who
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 attributed to him their own melancholy. They have 
 made of him a saturnine hero, a Manfred, a Lara, 
 an Obermann. They have denatured him. 
 
 He wished to be comic, and he really is. Even his 
 Alceste is gay; yes, indeed, he is gay. He is subtly 
 humorous, only we do not understand him properly 
 nowadays. 
 
 My friend Pelletan, the publisher, asked me one 
 day for a preface to the "Misanthrope" I 
 promised it to him. More than once he reminded 
 me of my promise. 
 
 "My preface!" he would beg, whenever I visited 
 his shop. Irritated by this, I chanced to reply that I 
 would certainly not write it. He looked so heart- 
 broken that I thought he was contemplating suicide, 
 so I corrected myself. 
 
 "I will not write a preface, but a dialogue." 
 
 The word dialogue had just caught my eye in the 
 shop window on the cover of a translation of Lucian. 
 
 He jumped for joy. His flaming red hair 
 touched the ceiling, and his eyes sparkled: 
 
 "A dialogue, excellent! A title page in three 
 colours. The characters in small Capitals. The 
 text in italics. A masterpiece, it will be a master- 
 piece!" 
 
 What he meant was a masterpiece of typography, 
 for he is convinced that it is typography which makes 
 a writer's talent.
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 So I imagined the conversation between Alceste 
 and a critic. 
 
 "You are sad, Alceste," says the critic. 
 
 "On the contrary," he replies, "I am a buffoon." 
 
 Then he explains that he is not more than twenty- 
 three to twenty-five years o j d. He is in love. He 
 wants to marry. Now, in the seventeenth century, 
 the nobles married at twenty-five, at the latest. To 
 wait beyond that was to depart from good usage. 
 At forty one was a graybeard. To try, at that age, 
 to light the hymeneal torch was to invite ridicule. 
 Arnolphe is forty. It was regarded as unreasonable 
 of him to have pretensions to marrying Agnes. 
 
 In Moliere an old man of forty is fated to become 
 a cuckold. It is a matter of course. 
 
 Alceste, then, is a greenhorn, and the funny thing 
 is that this young prig, who ought to abandon him- 
 self entirely to the carelessness of youth, takes it 
 upon himself to deliver homilies to everybody. It is 
 the contrast between his blond wig and his morose 
 appearance which is the very basis of the comedy. 
 Note, also that, if he grumbles, it is only when he is 
 personally offended, when he hears the sonnet which 
 Oronte intends for Celimene, when he is going to 
 lose his lawsuit, when rivals make love to his sweet- 
 heart in his own presence. Misanthropy is merely 
 a form of selfishness, such is the profound and funny 
 moral of the play. But modern actors distort the
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 character by making him forty or fifty years old. 
 Instead of a grumbly young spark, who is comic, 
 they give us an old bear with a sore head, who does 
 not make us laugh at all. Thus, an error of detail 
 renders the whole masterpiece unintelligible, and 
 gives Moliere an air of Heraclitus. 
 
 It is also customary to paint the cuckoldry of 
 Moliere in the darkest colours, which are reflected 
 in his works. He is the tragic cuckold. Yet, why 
 should his cuckoldry be sad, when all the matri- 
 monial misadventures which he has put on the stage 
 arouse laughter? 
 
 At times, it is true, he has expressed sensual de- 
 sire with an intensity which is almost painful. Do 
 you remember Tar tuff e's declaration of love? 
 What a mysterious tremor! 
 
 Et je n'ai pu vous voir, parfaite creature, 
 Sans admirer en vous 1'auteur de la Nature. 
 
 It is already Baudelairian. But Baudelaire is tor- 
 tured, whereas Moliere mocks the torture of Tar- 
 tufe. 
 
 After this little walk round the garden of 
 Moliere we returned to the mummers. 
 
 FRANCE. They sacrifice everything to their 
 mania for appearances, and their art, more often 
 than not, is mere bluff. 
 
 MME. M. Hm! Hm!
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 FRANCE. / beg your pardon, my dear lady. 
 There is no question about you, who are a peerless 
 luminary. 
 
 . . . Provided an actor tops the bill and gets all the 
 limelight on the stage, he cares nothing for the 
 play. And probably he is right, for it is he whom 
 the public come to applaud, not the author. And 
 what self-complacency! Sardou used to play upon 
 just that weakness of his interpreters, the clever 
 rascal! I saw him at work during rehearsals. In 
 order to mortify the stars, and keep them within 
 bounds, he used to pretend sometimes that he could 
 not recall their names. He would say to the most 
 famous actor: 
 
 "You, Thingabob, what's this your name is? . . . 
 Anyhow, you who are playing the part of Napoleon 
 . . . you are execrable!" 
 
 Then, to a wretched twenty-fifth rate barnstormer ', 
 who had a walking-on part: 
 
 "Good! Fery good, M. Evariste Dupont! I 
 am delighted!" 
 
 This apparent praise for a nobody touched the 
 lords of the theatre to the quick, and made them 
 as pliable as wax. 
 
 We spoke of the liberties that stars take with 
 their text. 
 
 FRANCE. Once again, what does it matter, since 
 nobody can hear them. It is sufficient for them to
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 appear to be saying something. Did not some one 
 assure me that an illustrious tragedienne sometimes 
 used to interlard her part with remarks to the scene- 
 shifters. With her golden voice she intones: 
 
 Dieux, que ne suis-je assise a Fombre des forets! 
 Then, suddenly, in the same tone of purest gold: 
 
 Trois lampes sont eteintes a la deuxieme frise. 
 L'electricien sera mis a 1'amende. 
 
 Afer that, without any interruption: 
 
 Quand pourrai-je, au travers d'une noble poussiere, 
 Suivre d'un ceil un char fuyant dans la carriere! 
 
 The public does not notice anything and the elec- 
 trician relights his bulbs. 
 
 The anecdote made us snigger. 
 
 FRANCE. One day, I am told, the supers fol- 
 lowed the example of their superior, and began also 
 to talk while on the stage. It was at a performance 
 of "L'Aiglon." 
 
 At a dazzling ball given in the Imperial Palace 
 at Vienna marquises, archdukes and princes had been 
 played by hawkers from the Holies, bedizened with 
 trappings and trimmings, trinkets and gold braid. 
 Unfortunately, as they were somewhat deficient in 
 the usages of court life, the illusion had not been 
 complete. Consequently, during the interval, the 
 queen of tragedy did not fail to admonish them 
 roundly: 
 
 1:164:1
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 "You marched like a flock of sheep," she shouted, 
 "like sheep, like sheep!" 
 
 The next scene is the battle field of Wagram. Our 
 friends the hawkers, who had divested themselves 
 of their fine gala dress, were now representing the 
 dead and dying with which the plain was strewn. 
 They had been told to utter groans whose lugubrious 
 chant was to rise to heaven. Scarcely had the cur- 
 tain risen than they began to modulate their moans. 
 At first it was a confused murmur, but soon definite 
 sounds emerged: . . . "arch," " . . ik. ..""... .ock," 
 ". . . eep". . . . Then the dying finally droned 
 lamentably a phrase which they pronounced and re- 
 peated in perfect unison! 
 
 "We . . . marched . . . like . . . a flock . . . 
 of sheep . . . a flock . . . of sheep." 
 
 The tragedienne who was listening in the wings 
 was afraid that a phrase so clearly enunciated would 
 cross the footlights: 
 
 "Curtain! Curtain!" she ordered peremptorily. 
 
 Thereupon, we spoke of the genius of Mme. Sarah 
 Bernhardt. 
 
 FRANCE. She was often sublime. Without be- 
 traying Racine, she was an entirely different Phedre. 
 Every generation admires beauties hitherto unknown 
 in the works of great authors. Sarah was our 
 Phedre.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Do you know that I formerly collaborated with 
 her? 
 
 Yes, indeed. That is a long time ago. She in- 
 vited me to come and see her and talk about a 
 scenario she had planned. In the studio where she 
 received me Maurice Bernhardt, still a child, was 
 playing with a huge Dane. The divine tragedienne 
 was talking. Maurice, seeing the eye of the dog 
 glitter, put out his little hand to grasp this shining 
 object. Naturally, the good dog, found this game 
 lacking in charm. It turned away, and uninten- 
 tionally it sent Maurice rolling on the carpet with 
 a slight movement of its back. Maurice yelled. 
 His mother interrupted her conversation to lift 
 him up and console him. After that, to make 
 sure of being understood, she began her narrative 
 again. 
 
 Once more Maurice tried to seize the dog's eye- 
 ball. Once more the Dane knocked Maurice down. 
 Again Mme. Sarah Bernhardt wiped away the tears 
 of her offspring and resumed her story. Maurice 
 fell four times, and four times his mother related 
 the beginning of the scenario. A few days later she 
 was to sail for America. 
 
 "Good-bye to our lovely collaboration," I said 
 to her. 
 
 "Not at all," she replied, "we shall continue our 
 play by correspondence." 
 
 CI66]
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 "By letter?" I inquired. 
 
 "By telegram.'' 
 
 "But you are crossing the Ocean." 
 
 "The telegrams will be cablegrams, that's all!" 
 
 "But" I said again, "you will be travelling in 
 America. I have been told that it is your intention 
 to go right out to the Far West." 
 
 "You have been correctly informed. That will 
 not prevent us from going on with our collaboration. 
 Across the silent plains of the Far West I will des- 
 patch Redskins who, mounting barebacked and un- 
 tamed horses, will gallop to the nearest town with 
 the text of my cablegrams." 
 
 "But . . ." I ventured. 
 
 "You are making mountains out of molehills," she 
 cried, laughingly. 
 
 I said good-bye to her. 
 
 In spite of her desire and mine, our correspond- 
 ence was not established so easily as she had said 
 Our collaboration ceased. I was very sorry about 
 it. I suspect those damned Redskins of having lost 
 the missives of Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. 
 
 "Master, you are charming," said Mme. M., "but 
 your irony will certainly disgust with the theatre 
 this young man who has confided to you his hopes." 
 
 FRANCE. That is not my intention. In fact, to 
 prove my sympathy, I am going to give him a piece 
 of valuable advice.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Young man, if you want to be performed, get a 
 very bad actress for your principal part. 
 
 THE YOUNG AUTHOR. Oh, upon my word ! . . . 
 
 FRANCE. Yes, indeed. The great difficulty for 
 an author is to find a very bad actress of renown. 
 Understand this: To make up for lack of talent she 
 must be very beautiful. If she is very beautiful, 
 heaven will send her magnificent protectors. If she 
 has magnificent protectors, she can perform in every 
 play that strikes her fancy. So, find a very bad 
 actress. 
 
 As he said this, M. Bergeret toyed with a book 
 which he had just received. It was La Pisanella, 
 by Gabriele d'Annunzio. The dedication caught his 
 eye and he read it aloud: 
 
 "To Anatole France, on whom all the faces of Truth and 
 Error smile equally. 
 
 "GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO." 
 
 That is a scratch of his paw, but very neatly done, 
 I must say! 
 
 As he has scratched me, here, by way of revenge, 
 is a story I heard yesterday. 
 
 At the time when "La Pisanella'' was being re- 
 hearsed at the Chdtelet a reporter came to interview 
 the author, who cheerfully submitted to his ques- 
 tions. 
 
 By chance the journalist noticed an old cameo ring 
 on the poet's finger. 
 
 Ci683
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 'What a wonderful stone!" he cried. 
 
 "Do you like it?" inquired Gabriele d'Annunzio. 
 "It is yours" 
 
 Drawing the ring from his finger immediately, he 
 slipped it onto that of the caller, who tried in vain 
 to refuse so generous a present. 
 
 Our reporter counted on keeping this rare piece 
 of jewellery as a souvenir of tine great writer. But 
 he was dying to know its value. He entered the 
 first best lapidary's and showed him the carved stone. 
 The jeweller did not even take the trouble to use his 
 magnifying glass'. 
 
 "That," he said disdainfully, "is a piece of glass. 
 It is worth about four cents" 
 
 Whence I conclude that Gabriele d'Annunzio is 
 an excellent dramatist. 
 
 MME. M. "Very well, Master. The theatre 
 is the land of deceptive and often clumsy ap- 
 pearances. Everything in it is a delusion to re- 
 fined minds. But is life so different from the 
 theatre? 
 
 "My profession brings me into contact with all the 
 bigwigs of the world. I must tell you of my inter- 
 views with them. 
 
 "In Berlin, after an evening when I had played 
 before the Kaiser, I was presented to him. You 
 know that he is an expert in strategy, painting, poli- 
 tics, architecture, diplomacy, music, theology, danc- 
 
 169:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 ing, dressmaking and cookery. He is also an expert 
 in French literature. 
 
 " 'Ach!' said he, 'I love France very much.' (He 
 loves it, no doubt, the way the wolf loves the lamb.) 
 'Ach ! I adore your literature above everything. I 
 adore it! At the present time you are the happy 
 possessors of a great genius. I read his works a 
 great deal. I adore them! I adore them! We 
 have nothing like them in Germany.' 
 
 " 'To whom does Your Majesty refer?' 
 
 " 'To Georges Ohnet. Ach ! Georges Ohnet ! 
 Nothing so collossal as the Maitre de Forges has 
 ever been written.' 
 
 "You can see that the Kaiser is an expert in French 
 literature. In brief, this monarch who makes the 
 world tremble by twirling his moustache, is nothing 
 but a perfect imbecile." 
 
 Mme. M. continued: 
 
 "At the Imperial Theatre at Petersburgh, I was 
 taken to the Tsar's box. It appeared, he wanted to 
 congratulate me. 
 
 "Just when I was brought into his presence, it so 
 happened, why I kndw not, that he was seized with a 
 fit of indigestion. A metal basin was being held in 
 front of him. However, he received me, turned his 
 pale eyes towards me, and Nature, which is no more 
 merciful to potentates than to beggars, caused this 
 wretched puppet to go through a most unappetising 
 
 [1703
 
 M. Bergeret 
 
 pantomime. I left without hearing his compliments, 
 I assure you. 
 
 "That is how, at the height of their splendour, the 
 most powerful sovereigns in the world appeared to 
 me. 1 Distance lends enchantment to the view: 
 
 De loin, c'est quelque chose et de pres ce n'est rien. 
 
 "Now, after that, do not tell me that the theatre 
 is more deceptive than real life." 
 
 M. Bergeret smiled and raised the hand of Mme. 
 M. to his lips. 
 
 I am much obliged for the lesson, my dear lady. 
 I was wrong to abuse the theatre. It is much less 
 mendacious than I pretend, and it certainly resembles 
 life, since life is so like a stage. 
 
 1 At the time when Mme. M. spoke of these t<wo crowned pup- 
 pets, she took them for characters in a comedy. She little knew 
 that they would soon act in drama. But, whether comedy or 
 drama, is it not always the stage?
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's: 
 Or Lunch at Meudon
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's: Or 
 Lunch at Meudon 
 
 Anatole France went one day to call on Auguste 
 Rodin at Meudon. Mme. de N. took him there. 
 She is a Polish noblewoman, of uncertain age, 
 small, smiling, and plump, and lisps volubly a 
 French that is strongly flavoured with a foreign 
 accent. She adores men of genius. She loves 
 them platonically, but passionately. She becomes 
 their slave. She had given her soul both to Rodin 
 and M. Bergeret. 
 
 She came to all the gatherings at the Villa Said. 
 She used to bring roses to our host and, 
 courtesying, almost kneeling, before him, she 
 would plant greedy little kisses on his aristocratic 
 hands. She did the same for Rodin, when she went 
 to see him in the Rue de 1'Univcrsite, the Rue de 
 Varenne, or at Meudon. 
 
 This idolization of great men is commoner than 
 people imagine, and they have often great difficulty 
 in escaping from it. They are besieged with love- 
 letters. Some women openly make advances to 
 fame, just as men pay homage to beauty. 
 
 1:175:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 France came to the rustic studio of the celebrated 
 sculptor, accompanied by Mme. de. N. 
 
 When M. Bergeret goes out he wears a grey 
 felt hat, rather low in the crown, which looks like 
 a cake, because of its broad brim. His overcoat 
 hangs rather loosely on his thin body. Tall, simple, 
 and with a slight stoop, he looks like a respectable 
 taxpayer on his way to his house in the country. 
 He never wears his decoration. As is probably 
 well known, he is an officer of the Legion of 
 Honour. It is a trifle for his reputation, but he 
 himself has been at pains to say, on many occasions, 
 that he cares nothing for official /honours. He 
 ceased to wear the rosette at the time of the 
 Dreyfus Affair, by way of protest when Emile 
 Zola was divested of the Order. 
 
 Occasionally, amongst friends, he will give a 
 dissertation upon the taste of his compatriots for 
 badges of honour. 
 
 Whence this mania? he asks. Oh, yes. I know. 
 A man with a decoration can wear a soft hat with- 
 out incurring the humiliating contempt of the 
 concierges. That, at least, is something. He need 
 no longer be so punctilious about his appearance, 
 and the stains on his waistcoat are overlooked. In 
 short, the piece of ribbon is a substitute for benzine. 
 This emblem may also be useful in case of a flagrant 
 outrage on public morals. How could a police spy
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 seize in his clutches a gentleman whose buttonhole 
 is adorned with red? But, of course, this suppo- 
 sition is entirely gratuitous, for a man with a 
 decoration is always a man of honour. 
 
 I cannot see why French people covet the cross 
 so obstinately. Are they more vain than other 
 mortals? No. I do not think so. Man is the 
 same everywhere, only the manifestations of his 
 vanity differ from nation to nation. The pride of 
 the Italians seizes upon impressive titles: Cavalier e, 
 Commendatore. That of Germans upon parch- 
 ments: Herr Doktor, Herr Professor. That of 
 the Yankees upon the amount of one's fortune: So- 
 and-So is worth so much, and So-and-So is worth 
 twice that. In short, our appetite for ribbons, 
 braids, medals and stars is perhaps the most harm- 
 less and unobjectionable of all. 
 
 Rodin was doubtless greatly flattered by the 
 visit of M. Bergeret. Yet, these two prophets did 
 not profess unreserved admiration for one another. 
 In private conversation Anatole France is in the 
 habit of commenting freely upon the inspiration of 
 the celebrated artist. 
 
 He is a genius. I am sure of it. I have seen 
 some nudes of his, palpitating with life. But he is 
 not one of those great decorators such as France 
 has known, especially in the seventeenth and eigh*
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 teenth centuries. He seems to me to know nothing 
 of the science of grouping. Above all, it must be 
 said, he collaborates too much with accidents. 
 
 M. Bergeret explains what he means by these 
 rather cryptic words: 
 
 He abuses his right to destroy what is not per- 
 fect in a work. Dear old President Fallieres, who 
 was one day paying an official visit to the Salon, 
 stopped in front of a statue which had neither head, 
 nor arms, nor legs, and said, with great simplicity: 
 
 "M. Rodin is certainly a great man, but his 
 furniture removers are singularly careless." 
 
 Then M. Bergeret began to draw upon his store 
 of anecdotes: 
 
 Do you know how he conceived that Victor 
 Hugo, the half-reclining figure in marble in the 
 gardens of the Palais-Royal? This is the story: 
 
 Rodin had just finished in clay an imposing 
 statue of the poet. Victor Hugo was standing up- 
 right on the crest of a rock. All sorts of Muses 
 and Ocean deities were circling about him. One 
 morning the sculptor brought a whole troup of 
 journalists to his studio, that they might contem- 
 plate the new work. Unfortunately, the evening be- 
 fore, he had left the window open, and, as a 
 terrible storm had broken out during the night, a 
 stream of water had reduced the huge group to 
 formless pulp. The cliff had collapsed upon the
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 dancing deities. As for Victor Hugo, he had 
 flopped down into a sea of mud. 
 
 Rodin opened the door, and allowed his guests 
 to go in first. Suddenly he beheld the disaster. 
 He all but tore his beard with despair. But the 
 chorus of praise had already begun: 
 
 "Wonderful! Marvellous! Formidable! 
 Victor Hugo rising from this bed of slime, what a 
 symbol! Master, it is a stroke of genius! 
 You have tried to represent the ignominy of an 
 epoch in which the inspiration of the bard alone 
 survived, noble and pure. How beautiful!" 
 
 "Do you think so?" Rodin asked timidly. 
 
 "Of course! It is the masterpiece of master- 
 pieces. Oh! Please, Master, leave it as it is!" 
 
 The story is certainly piquant. . . . Si non e 
 vero. . . . 
 
 In his drawings, continued M. Bergeret, Rodin 
 represents little more than women showing their 
 . . . And his monotonous audacity is just a little 
 tiring. 
 
 The other day I met him at the house of a friend, 
 and he confided to me with delight that he was 
 doing a series of water-colours with a darling little 
 model. 
 
 "This young woman," he said to me, "is abso- 
 lutely Psyche. . . . By the way, you who are a 
 scholar f could you tell me who Psyche was?"
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 As I always try to make people happy, I tried to 
 give him the answer he expected. 
 
 "Psyche'' said I, "was an obliging young woman, 
 who was always ready to show her. . . ." 
 
 "My word!" cried Rodin, "that is exactly the 
 way she appears to me. You have made me very 
 happy." 
 
 But I cannot reproach him with his eroticism, 
 added M. Bergeret, for I know very well that sen- 
 suality makes up three-quarters of the genius of 
 great artists. 
 
 I do not pardon him so easily for his too casual 
 habit of appropriating the work of others. I was 
 told lately that a photographer went to Meudon to 
 take photographs of the Master's sculpture. As 
 Rodin was away, he was received by a figure-carver. 
 He noticed a huge block of marble still in the rough, 
 in which only a knee was visible, finely carved. 
 He became most enthusiastic: 
 
 "Admirable!" He cried. "Do tell me the 
 name of this masterpiece." 
 
 "It is 'La Pensee,' " replied the carver. 
 
 The delighted photographer was already focus- 
 sing his camera, when he was told: "It is not by 
 Rodin, but by his collaborator, Despiau." 
 
 The photographer turned to another massive 
 block, from which a nude back emerged.
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 "Splendid," said he. "What is the name of 
 that?" 
 
 "Also 'La Pensee,' but that is not by Rodin 
 either. It is by Desbois, his collaborator. 9 ' 
 
 The disappointed photographer perceived a third 
 block, in which a foot stood out. 
 
 "Marvellous!" he declared. 'What does that 
 represent?" 
 
 "Still 'La Pensee' Besides, that is rather 
 evident! But it is not by Rodin. It is by Bour- 
 delle, his collaborator" 
 
 At this, the photographer became desperate, 
 hoisted his camera on his back again, and made of 
 as fast as his legs could carry him. 
 
 Rodin, in his turn, sometimes spoke of M. Ber- 
 geret in rather harsh terms. Of course, he praised 
 highly the wit of Anatole France and the charm 
 of his style, but he had scanty esteem for the vary- 
 ing shades of his thought, which he considered 
 specious and instable. 
 
 He has the gravy, he declared bluntly, but not the 
 rabbit. 
 
 It should be explained that rabbit was his favour- 
 ite dish. It was a remembrance of the time when 
 he was a figure-carver and ate his meals in cheap 
 restaurants. Rabbit seemed to him a food of the 
 gods. Obviously, Anatole France lacked some-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 thing essential when he had no rabbit. Conse- 
 quently, he would never model the bust of M. Ber- 
 geret. He had been commissioned to do so by dear 
 old Dujardin-Beaumetz, the Uhder-Secretary at the 
 Ministry of Fine Arts, but he never began. Per- 
 haps the extraordinary mobility of such a face dis- 
 couraged him. 
 
 Rodin invited M. Bergeret to admire the work 
 which he had on the stocks, and his collection of 
 antiques. Then they went into the dining-room. 
 
 Rose, the sculptor's old companion, wanted to slip 
 away. She did not feel at home in the presence of 
 the illustrious visitor. Rodin caught her by the 
 arm. 
 
 Rose, sit do^vn there! he said to her imperiously. 
 
 "But, Monsieur Rodin. . . ." 
 
 I tell you to sit down there! 
 
 Rose used to call her companion "Monsieur 
 Rodin" to show her respect for him. 
 
 She grumbled again: 
 
 "What funny creatures men are! They think 
 you can be in the kitchen and the dining-room at 
 the same time!" 
 
 But she sat down with us to eat her soup. Dur- 
 ing the meal she got up several times, cleared away 
 the dishes, and trotted off into the kitchen to bring 
 in the courses. Then she would sit down quickly. 
 
 Cite]
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 Rodin would not have any other servant near him. 
 
 Rose was a most gentle creature. The life of 
 this woman, timid, discreet, obscured, terrified, 
 in the shadow of that despotic colossus, haloed 
 with glory, would make a story for Balzac. Once 
 upon a time she was a fascinating beauty. Some- 
 times Rodin would point out in his studio an admir- 
 able bust of Bellona, with frowning glance. Then, 
 addressing Rose : 
 
 // was you, he would say, who posed for that 
 Bellona. Do you remember? 
 
 In a tremulous voice she would reply : 
 
 "Yes, Monsieur Rodin." 
 
 The contrast was striking between this nice little 
 old woman and the terrible helmeted goddess who 
 had formerly been modelled in her likeness. She 
 idolized her great man. She had shared with 
 him the harsh experience of an existence full of 
 ups and downs. He often tortured her, for he 
 was the most fantastic and changeable of men. She 
 used to see lovely women coming into her house, 
 who were her victorious rivals, and she had to bear 
 their presence without a word of complaint. 
 
 The slightest attention from him filled her with 
 joy. In her garden at Meudon she passionately 
 cultivated flowers. One day I saw him pluck one 
 and offer it to her: 
 
 Here, Rose, this is for you.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 "Oh! Thank you, Monsieur Rodin," she said, 
 swelling with celestial happiness. 
 
 Let me complete this sketch of a touching picture 
 with a few more strokes, and recall the last hours 
 of this humble existence. 
 
 When Rose's health declined, Rodin married her. 
 And it was as if the gates of heaven had opened to 
 receive her. But her illness was consuming her. 
 She was installed in a wickerwork armchair on the 
 steps, so that the rays of the sun might warm her. 
 Her eyes were too bright in their hollow sockets and 
 her cheekbones a feverish red. She had a ceaseless 
 dry cough. 
 
 All of a sudden Rodin realized what he was about 
 to lose. He was well on in years himself. He 
 sat beside her in a similar chair, and looked at her 
 in silence. He put his great hairy paw on the thin, 
 bloodless hand of the poor woman, as if to keep her 
 by main force. 
 
 She breathed her last, and very shortly after, the 
 giant followed her to the grave. 
 
 The dining-room in which we sat was as spring- 
 like as an idyll. The windows looked out onto the 
 bluish slopes of Meudon, and upon the valley of 
 the Seine, winding lazily beneath a silver sky. 
 
 Rose served up a huge dish of rabbit, and Rodin 
 himself fished out rashers and placed them politely 
 
 184:1
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 on the plate of Anatole France, whom he wished to 
 honour. 
 
 At a certain moment, when the sculptor made 
 a movement to pour some water into his wine, he 
 stretched out his hand towards a square decanter 
 whose glass stopper was curiously ornamented with 
 coloured spirals, like those glass marbles in which 
 urchins delight. Suddenly he said: 
 
 Rose, I have already told you that I did not 
 want to see on my table. . . . 
 
 Precipitately Rose seized the abhorrent object and 
 fled with it. She returned a moment later with 
 another decanter and said to us: 
 
 "M. Rodin would have thrown on the ground the 
 one which annoys him so much!" 
 
 We are invaded by ugliness, growled the sculptor. 
 AH the things we use every day are an offence to 
 good taste. Our glasses, our dishes, our chairs, are 
 horrible. They are machine-made, and machines 
 kill the mind. Formerly the slightest domestic 
 utensils were beautiful, because they reflected the 
 intention of the artisan who made them. The 
 human soul ornamented them with its dreams. 
 
 I read in Andersen, the adorable Danish writer, 
 that, when night comes, the furniture and other 
 domestic objects begin to talk amonst themselves. 
 The chandeliers chat tyuith the clock, the fire-dogs 
 gossip with the tongs. As a matter of fact, all the
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 relics of the past speak in this fashion, even during 
 the daytime. They whisper to us a hundred touch- 
 ing confidences about the good people who made 
 them. But our furniture of today is silent. 
 What could it have to say? The wood of an arm- 
 chair would repeal to us that it was sold in large 
 quantities from a mechanical sawmill in the North- 
 ern provinces; the leather, that it comes from a great 
 leather-dressing factory in the South; the copper, 
 that it was cast by thousands in some factory in 
 the East or West. And if they all began to talk 
 together, what a dreadful cacophony. It is sad, you 
 Jknow, to live at a time when the little familiar house- 
 hold deities maintain the silence of the grave. 
 
 M. Bergeret admitted that our decorative arts 
 had fallen very low. 
 
 RODIN. // it were only our decorative arts! But 
 it is art, art pure and simple, which has dwindled 
 to nothing. No distinction can be made between 
 decorative art and art. To make a very beautiful 
 table or model the torso of a woman, is all one. 
 Art always consists in translating dreams into forms. 
 We no longer dream! People have forgotten that 
 every line, if it is to be harmonious, must express hu- 
 man joy and sorrow. And in what is called great 
 art, in sculpture, for example, as well as in the mak- 
 ing of ordinary things, machinery has put dream to 
 flight. 
 
 Ci86]
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 This prophetic outburst disconcerted M. Ber- 
 geret a little, for it is not his wont to take such 
 dizzy flights. He brought the conversation down 
 to a more modest level. 
 
 How can machinery influence sculpture? he asked. 
 
 How? replied Rodin still grumbling. Why, be- 
 cause casting is a substitute for talent* 
 
 FRANCE. Casting? 
 
 RODIN. Yes; nowadays this mechanical process 
 is commonly employed by our sculptors. They are 
 satisfied to make casts of living models. The pub- 
 lic does not know this yet, but in the profession it 
 is an open secret. Modern statues are nothing 
 more than casts placed on pedestals. The sculptor 
 has nothing more to do. It is the maker of plaster- 
 casts who does all the work. 
 
 FRANCE. Allow me to ask a question. I quite 
 understand what you say when the figures of a mon- 
 ument are exactly life size. But what do our art- 
 ists do when they execute figures larger or smaller 
 than the actual dimensions? 
 
 RODIN. There is no difficulty whatever about 
 
 1 When Auguste Rodin began he was accused by the academic 
 sculptors of having recourse to the process which he disapproves 
 of so violently. The State, which wanted to purchase his "Age 
 of Bronze," went so far as to appoint a commission to ascertain 
 that this work was not simply cast from living models. It is 
 striking to hear the man of genius, who always spiritualised 
 nature, turning the tables on his opponents, whose uninspired 
 technique assuredly deserves his sharp censure.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 that, for they have instruments for enlarging or re- 
 ducing the casts. 
 
 FRANCE. And in ancient times, you say, the 
 sculptors refrained from making casts of living 
 models? 
 
 RODIN. They used casts only for documentary 
 purposes. Formerly in the studios one saw arms, 
 legs, and torsos, in casts, whose contour was per- 
 fect. The artists studied them to check the position 
 of the muscles in their works, but they were careful 
 never to copy them. They always attempted to put 
 life into the models to which they referred, to trans- 
 form them, to breathe into them their inspiration. 
 It 'was the Italian, Canova, who began, at the close 
 of the eighteenth century, to incorporate cast pieces 
 into his statues. The great number of commissions 
 which he received forced him to adopt this expedi- 
 tious method. Since then, his example has been uni- 
 versally followed. 
 
 Sculptors have ceased to give their work the 
 stamp of thought which transfigures objects and 
 illuminates them with an interior light. They have 
 sought only vulgar substitutes. Not content with 
 casting nudes, by a fatal descent they have repro- 
 duced exactly real clothing. In women's costumes 
 they have imitated ribbons, laces, trimmings; in 
 men's clothes, frock-coats, trousers, cuffs, collars, the 
 whole department of latest fashions. Thus our 
 
 Ci88]
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 streets and the fronts of our national buildings have 
 become branches of a waxwork museum. 
 
 FRANCE. // is only too true, my dear Master, 
 and this vulgar realism is also visible in modern 
 sculpture in a quantity of incidentals of ordinary 
 life, furniture which seems to have come from the 
 cabinet-maker's, scientific instruments, objects of all 
 kinds which are a dead weight upon art, for their 
 stiff precision defies imaginative interpretation. A 
 strange collection of bric-a-brac could be made of all 
 the incidental features that disfigure our public mon- 
 uments. 
 
 The stove of Bernard Palissy would jostle the 
 phial of Pelletier and Caventou, the scales of Lav- 
 oisier, the dissecting -table and dead poodle of 
 Claude Bernard, Diderot's armchair, the chair of 
 Camille Desmoulins, Renaudot's press, Doctor Tar- 
 nier's hospital bed, the revolving stool of Gerome, 
 etc. . . . But besides this old curiosity shop, an ex- 
 tensive annex would have to be opened to house the 
 unusually large items such as Chappe's telegraph and 
 the Balloon of the Siege. 
 
 RODIN. The artists of today do not know that 
 the function of art is to express the human soul, 
 that science cannot be represented by machinery, but 
 by a thinking forehead and brooding eyes; that 
 courage cannot be represented by cannons and 
 dirigibles, but by virile features and resolute breasts. 
 
 1:189]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Accessories are their supreme resource because 
 they no longer know how to rueal the mind. 
 
 M. Bergeret, who is very polite, thought it 
 necessary to say that our modern sculpture, never- 
 theless, was not without a certain distinction. And, 
 as if the allusion were not by himself, Rodin gener- 
 ously cited Dalou, praising his Republique triom- 
 phante, drawn by lions in a chariot and followed 
 by Justice and Plenty. 
 
 FRANCE. Certain critics have disapproved of this 
 mythology, but I do not share their prejudices. 
 Allegory, which is greatly abused, seems to me alone 
 capable of expressing general ideas. Do you not 
 agree with me? 
 
 RODIN. Quite right! It is simply a question of 
 rejuvenating old images. Thus, Dalou' s Marianne 
 wearing her Phrygian bonnet reproduces the tradi- 
 tional figure of Liberty, but her gesture, so full of 
 friendliness, her face, at once grave and modest, are 
 those of a decent working woman of today. 
 
 FRANCE. It is the same in literature. Look at 
 the allegory of Victory. It is extremely ancient 
 and seems exhausted. Yet, read the Proclamation 
 of Napoleon on his return from Elba : "Victory will 
 come charging onward." Is that the Nike of an- 
 tiquity, I ask youf No; it is his own Victory which
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 Napoleon brings thus to the beating of drums. 
 "Charging onward!" Victory is no longer winged. 
 She tramps the roads and fields with fury. She is 
 dusty, dishevelled, plebeian. . . . 
 
 Thereupon they agreed that, like every literary 
 or artistic resource, allegory is effective only by rea- 
 son of the genius which employs it. The name of 
 M. Puech happened to be mentioned. 
 
 FRANCE. Oh! That man terrifies me. It 
 sometimes happens that I cannot avoid crossing 
 the Luxembourg Gardens. They bristle with fun- 
 ereal monuments to writers, and give me the 
 unpleasant impression of being a cemetery of 
 the Muses. But I particularly pity Leconte de 
 Lisle, in the embraces of a huge winged woman 
 made of lard. Whenever I see him I fly, thinking 
 that perhaps one day, beneath those shady trees, 
 M. Puech will represent the Dreyfus Afair in suet, 
 kissing my bust, in margarine, on the mouth. 
 
 Rodin gave the laugh of a great good-humoured 
 giant. 
 
 The two great men naturally drifted into a con- 
 versation about the changes which have been made in 
 Paris. They were both born there, and M. Ber- 
 geret, who was brought up in a bookshop facing the 
 Louvre, on the banks of the lazy Seine, tenderly 
 
 191:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 cherishes the memory of the landscape of friendly 
 edifices and trembling leaves, which enchanted his 
 gaze as a child. 
 
 They will end, he said, by making our Paris ugly. 
 
 RODIN. As a matter of fact, the old houses 
 which are its noblest ornament are being everywhere 
 destroyed. The politicians, engineers, architects 
 and financiers of today are plotting a damnable 
 conspiracy against the grace which we have inherited 
 from the past. The most brilliant remains of the 
 seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are being de- 
 molished by the strokes of innumerable pickaxes. 
 Did they not recently ravage the delightful Ile- 
 Saint-Louis where dream, hounded everywhere, 
 seemed to have taken refuge? 
 
 Virgil has related a dramatic legend. In order 
 to feed the flames of a sacrificial fire &neas breaks 
 the boughs of a myrtle tree. Suddenly the broken 
 branches begin to bleed and a groan is heard: 
 
 'Stop, wretch, you are wounding and tearing 
 me!" 
 
 The tree was a man metamorphosed by the will of 
 the gods. 
 
 The poet's fable often comes to my mind when I 
 see the vandals laying the ax to the proud dwell- 
 ings of long ago. Then it seems to me that the 
 walls are bleeding, for they are alive and human like 
 the myrtle tree of Virgil. In the harmonious
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 rhythm of their buildings do we not hear the voices 
 of the Frenchmen of old? To break a sixteenth 
 century stone mask, a seventeenth century portico, 
 a delicate eighteenth century frieze, is to scar crim- 
 inally the faces of our ancestors, to strike them on 
 their eloquent lips. What a crime to stifle their 
 voices! If the buildings were even beautiful which 
 are erected in the place of those demolished! But 
 most of them are hideous. 
 
 FRANCE. They are all too tall. The modest 
 height of the houses was the chief charm of old 
 Paris. They did not hide from view the soft sky 
 of the Ile-de-France. As ground was cheap, they 
 developed laterally. That was the secret of their 
 charm. Ground has become very expensive, and 
 the houses of today grow higher simply because 
 they cannot spread out. That is the reason of 
 their ugliness. 
 
 RODIN. They present neither proportion, nor 
 style, nor pleasant details. People have forgotten 
 that architecture, like painting, sculpture, poetry and 
 music, is an expression of the soul. Taste is dying, 
 and taste is the mind of a people expressed in its 
 everyday life; its character made visible in its cos- 
 tumes, its homes, its gardens, its public places. Our 
 society hates the mind. It kills dream. 
 
 He continued: 
 
 Are they not now talking of substituting an enor-
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 mous iron bridge for the light Pont des Arts, in 
 front of the Louvre? It is maddening! There 
 should be only stone in front of the Palace of the 
 Kings. This mass of iron, which threatens us, will 
 cross the river just beside the Pointe du Vert-Galant, 
 it seems. 
 
 In this way they will spoil the amazing view 
 composed of the two banks of the river, the 
 Louvre, the Palais Mazarin, the Monnaie, the 
 verdant prow of the Ile-de-la-Cite, and the 
 Pont-Neuf, majestic as a tragedy of Corneille, or 
 a canvas of Poussin. If that view is perfect, it is 
 because from generation to generation Parisians be- 
 queathed to each other the task of embellishing it. 
 Just as the strains of Amphion's lyre raised the 
 obedient stones which formed divine monuments of 
 themselves, so a secret melody has grouped in 
 irreproachable order all these radiant edifices around 
 the Seine, in whose waters their reflection trembles. 
 
 Now, all of a sudden, this great masterpiece must 
 be ravaged! 
 
 FRANCE. Practical utility, they say. But, is 
 there anything more useful to a nation than the 
 charm of a city which visibly expresses the mind of 
 the race, sociable, daring, well-balanced, clear and 
 joyous? That is a lesson which, in my opinion, is 
 worth all the iron bridges to the life and the future 
 of a people.
 
 Anatole France at Rodin's 
 
 
 
 After coffee we went out into the garden, and on 
 to the edge of a slope from which the eye could 
 take in the immensity of Paris. As far as the most 
 distant horizon there spread out an ocean of domes, 
 towers and steeples. Through the fleecy clouds 
 the gold and opal rays of the sun shone upon this 
 vast billow of stone. But frequently the smoke 
 from the factories which hummed in the valley 
 spread gigantic black ribbons over this fairyland. 
 
 Was it so difficult, asked France, to remove away 
 from the city these nauseating factories? Is it not 
 absurd to allow the air of Paris to be poisoned con~ 
 tinually by the lofty chimneys that surround it? 
 Is it not an odious sacrilege against so lovely a city? 
 
 RODIN. Our epoch, in which money rules, tol- 
 erates the worst outrages upon the right of all to 
 both health and beauty. It infects and soils every- 
 thing. It kills Dream! It kills Dream! 
 
 FRANCE. But Dreams always rise again, and per- 
 haps it will take vengeance. Perhaps it will soon 
 create another social order less basely utilitarian, 
 and less contemptuous of the spirit. 
 
 Such was the sad discourse held by these two 
 prophets on the hill of Meudon. 
 
 1:195:1
 
 On War
 
 On War 
 
 M. Bergeret has always detested war. In sev- 
 eral of his books, Le Lys rouge, L'Orme du Mail 
 and Le Mannequin d'Osier, for example, he has ex- 
 pressed his hatred with an irony even more power- 
 ful than rage. Before the storm broke he would 
 sometimes say that he did not believe in it, because 
 formidable armaments would make it too horrible, 
 and because the governments of Europe, all more or 
 less tinged with democracy, would hesitate before 
 the risks of warfare. At other times, however, 
 like all of us, he was filled with dread. 
 
 "It would be madness," he wrote in the preface 
 to Jeanne d'Arc, "to pretend that we are assured of 
 a peace which nothing can disturb. The terrible 
 industrial and commercial rivalries which are grow- 
 ing up around us, on the contrary, give us a fore- 
 boding of future conflicts, and there is no guaran- 
 tee that France will not be involved one day in a 
 European or world-wide conflagration." 
 
 A tragic prophecy which was to be confirmed only 
 too soon, alas! 
 
 During the dreadful years when his native land,
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 which he cherishes with filial piety, was threatened 
 with destruction, his heart was heavy with grief. 
 Occasionally his conversation revealed the appre- 
 hension which he felt at the rise of the spirit of 
 conquest in the allies accordingly as their triumph 
 became more certain. 
 
 Immediately after the armistice, when he was 
 taking part in a ceremony in memory of Jean Jaures, 
 he made in the midst of the excited crowd one of 
 those noble gestures which the latter easily under- 
 stand and always applaud. Taking the cross of a 
 wounded soldier he pinned it on the bust of the man 
 who had so passionately preached fraternity, and 
 who had given his life for it. In this fashion he 
 testified that the people of France had made a holy 
 sacrifice of their blood to peace, which they would 
 defend henceforth, without flinching, against belli- 
 cose madness. Ever since, he has not missed an 
 opportunity of again launching his anathema against 
 war, and praying for a social order from which it 
 will be banished for ever. 
 
 The following conversation took place at the 
 Villa Said some years before the inexpiable calam- 
 ity. On account of Morocco our relations were 
 strained with our inconvenient neighbours in the 
 East. In the distance the storm was beginning to 
 rumble. This day M. Bergeret began by speaking 
 [2003
 
 On War 
 
 of the cross-Channel press, which was taking our 
 side against the Germans just a little too blatantly. 
 
 England frightens me, he murmured; she is ex- 
 cessively warlike. There is no doubt she is brave, 
 and it may be that she does not fear war for her- 
 self. But I have not the slightest doubt that she 
 fears it still less for France. 
 
 (We laughed.) 
 
 FRANCE. Oh, the phrase is not mine! At least, 
 it is merely a variation of the funny threat which a 
 certain Bermudez de Castro once made against 
 Baudelaire. 
 
 France was asked to tell the story of Bermudez, 
 and he did not have to be pressed. 
 
 He was a noble Spaniard. He had been perse- 
 cuted in his own country for translating "Les 
 Mysteres de Paris.'' The clericals down there 
 were so sensitive to offence that our puerile 
 Eugene Sue seemed devilish to them. So the 
 translator had exiled himself in France, where he 
 had been well received by literary society. 
 Theophile Gautier, Baudelaire, Flaubert, admitted 
 him to their circle, for his originality amused them. 
 As an hildalgo he was monstrously proud, and he 
 was miraculously dirty. In order to know what 
 he had eaten at his last meal it was only necessary 
 to look at his great black beard. With all that, 
 as vain as Narcissus.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 One day when he was dining with his friends he 
 found a deliriously perfumed letter underneath his 
 napkin. It had been put there by Baudelaire. 
 Bermudez sniffed the envelope, fancied he was 
 about to have a pleasant adventure, and shoved the 
 letter furtively into his pocket. Then, as soon as 
 they rose from the table, he went off into a corner 
 by himself to read it. His eyes were flashing, his 
 nostrils quivering, and he sighed with anticipation. 
 Baudelaire and the others were watching him 
 surreptitiously and enjoying every one of his 
 expressions. 
 
 This is more or less what the damsel wrote: 
 
 "Noble Spaniard, you are so tall and I am so 
 supple; you are dark and I am fair; you are strong 
 and I am beautiful. I love you. Be at the Place Saint- 
 Sulpice tonight at midnight, near the fountain." 
 
 At midnight the practical jokers, who had pre- 
 tended to go home, went off and hid themselves not 
 far from the meeting-place. It was winter, and 
 bitterly cold. The hidalgo was already there, 
 holding himself more stiffly than ever. With his 
 hand on his hip, and his moustaches bristling, he 
 was walking around the fountain. A biting wind 
 swept the deserted square, and lashed the water, 
 which had frozen on the muzzles of the stone lions 
 and formed fantastic white beards. 
 
 Bermudez kept walking round and round, 
 [202]
 
 On War 
 
 // struck the quarter, then half-past. Phlegmatic 
 and proud, he continued to walk round. Suddenly, 
 from a corner of the square there came a great 
 burst of laughter, followed by the mocking shout: 
 "Ah, ha! Senor Don Juan!" 
 Then Bermudez shouted in a fury: 
 "Ah! I recognize that voice. It is Bodelairre." 
 He rolled his r's terrifically. 
 
 "I will kill him; I will kill him, if I have to die 
 myself. I do not hold my life very dear, but I hold 
 Bodelairre's even more cheaply. 
 
 Then he withdrew majestically. Next day he 
 had forgotten his threats. 
 
 Charles Saunier, the art critic, took a notebook 
 from his pocket, and wrote down this anecdote. 
 
 "I belong," said he, "to the Historical Society 
 of the Sixth Ward, in which the Visconti Fountain 
 is situated. The slightest incidents that take place 
 within this limited area interest us prodigiously. 
 The greatest events that happen in the rest of the 
 world hardly disturb us. But," he continued, 
 "I fancy you have related a similar scene in 
 Jocaste et le Chat maigre. }> 
 
 Ah, yes! said France. It was precisely the 
 adventure of Bermudez which I attributed to 
 another character. 
 
 C203;]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 An old gentleman who was present cut short this 
 conversation, which he considered frivolous: 
 
 "We were talking of a war in the near future," 
 he grumbled. "Well, if it breaks out, so much 
 the better I" 
 
 The author of this peremptory declaration was 
 an obscure poet, who has since died. To judge by 
 his remarks, always overflowing with jingoism, 
 his Muse must have been very heroic. But no- 
 body had ever read his poems. He was so swollen 
 with gout that he could not put on his boots. His 
 feet dragged in old shoes laced over huge bandages 
 of white linen. It was in this attire that he went 
 visiting. He coughed, his eyes ran water, and he 
 stammered. He often came to Anatole France's, 
 for he had known him a long time. The Master 
 tolerated him, but he would sometimes say, when 
 he was not there: 
 
 Certain old friends would make me doubt friend- 
 ship, that divine gift. They plume themselves on 
 being deeply attached, and, indeed, they are, like 
 mussels on the keel of a ship. As you know, they 
 are often poisonous! 
 
 Nobody had taken up the challenging remark 
 of the gouty bard. But, tapping the arms of his 
 chair with his flabby hands, he continued, between 
 two attacks of asthma: 
 
 "We have remained, thank God, a nation of 
 C204]
 
 On War 
 
 soldiers! Atchew! We are fond of war! Atchew! 
 . . . All we ask is an opportunity to fight! 
 Atchew! We shall go and get back the clocks 
 which the Boches stole from us in 1870. Atchew! 
 Atchew!" 
 
 France, who had looked at him for a moment 
 without speaking, said to him gently: 
 
 / ad(mire this fine enthusiasm in a veteran, and I 
 am sure, if the country is in danger, that the young 
 men of spirit will pour out their blood generously 
 for it. But as for the pretence that the French 
 like war; it is not true. No people ever loved war. 
 No people ever wanted to fight. At bottom, the 
 crowd always looks upon fighting without en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 What particularly distorts the ideas of historians 
 is the rhetoric of Livy. Now, I do not believe 
 this Paduan was sincere. He knew very well that 
 nobody is happy to be exposed to death. But he 
 said to himself that it was necessary to raise the 
 morale of the Romans, who were becoming ener- 
 vated, and he swelled his sonorous periods. 
 
 The valour which he celebrated is usually at- 
 tributed to the armies that win victories. We 
 imagine that they deserved their success because of 
 their contempt of danger, and that the conquered 
 armies, on the contrary, were lacking in courage. 
 These are gratuitous assumptions. Most fre- 
 [205;]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 quently it is chance that decides battles. So far 
 as armies are concerned, I suspect them all of being 
 mediocre, and that none will face suffering and 
 death gladly. 
 
 Our revolutionary troops have been praised in 
 lyric strains. In this connection I discovered by 
 chance a very edifying little work, by some one 
 called Roziere, "La Revolution a Meulan." I 
 have not the book any longer. I lent it, and it has 
 not been returned: a proof of its interest. 
 
 When the country was in danger troops were 
 raised at Meulan as in every other part of France. 
 It was done with great pomp. The mayor as- 
 sembled the population in the chapel. Drums 
 rolled and the young men swore to conquer or die, 
 they sang the "Chant du Depart," and set of to 
 join the army. . . . But a week later most of them 
 were found in the country around Meulan. When 
 the situation again became critical, the mayor 
 deemed it advisable to make a fresh appeal to the 
 citizens. He reassembled them. The same con- 
 scripts were enrolled . . . and returned after a few 
 days' absence. This ceremony was repeated several 
 times with the same actors. Finally, one lone 
 citizen of Meulan remained in the army, one only! 
 They say he became a general. He certainly 
 deserved to. 
 
 I fancy it was not very different with the number 
 
 206:1
 
 On War 
 
 of enrolments at the Pont-Neuf, for, after all, when 
 one offers one's devotion to France on the Pont- 
 Neuf, you must understand that it is particularly to 
 show oneself of. To have been seen is sufficient! 
 One's duty has been done. 
 
 THE OLD POET, (coughing) "Come! Come! 
 My dear France. ... I cannot accept your irony. 
 Military virtue . . . atchew ! is fortunately not 
 rare, atchew! and you will grant that . . . atchew! 
 atchew! . . ." 
 
 FRANCE. Certainly, I will grant you that there 
 are heroes. Even then, they are not always 
 heroic. The true hero admits that he has some- 
 times lacked courage. I grant that certain troops, 
 in moments of exaltation, brave frightful risks with 
 intrepidity. But from everything we know we 
 must conclude that the majority of soldiers in an 
 army cling desperately to life, and would not expose 
 themselves, if they were not compelled. That is 
 why the little book I have just mentioned, though 
 it obviously does not indicate the state of mind of 
 all Frenchmen during the Revolution, does seem to 
 me worthy of credit. And my own experience 
 corroborates it. 
 
 THE OLD POET. "Your ex ... atchew . . . 
 perience?" 
 
 FRANCE. Yes. . . . Listen. I will give you a 
 very faithful account of some of my impressions as 
 
 207]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 a member of the national guard during the siege of 
 Paris. 
 
 The major of our batallion was a stout grocer 
 from our quarter. He was lacking in authority, it 
 must be confessed, because he tried to humour his 
 customers. One day we were ordered to take 
 part in a sortie. We were sent to the banks of the 
 Marne. Our major looked splendid in his bright 
 uniform which had never seen service. He rode 
 a charming little Arab pony which he had managed 
 to get somewhere or other, and of which he was 
 very proud, an all white pony, adorably graceful 
 and frisky. Too frisky, for it proved the poor 
 grocer's undoing. When he was making it prance, 
 it reared up to its full height, fell on its back and 
 killed our major on the spot by breaking his spine. 
 We had few regrets for our leader. We decided 
 to stop, break our ranks and stretch ourselves out 
 on the grass of the river's bank. We lay there all 
 the morning, then all the afternoon. The artillery 
 was thunderng in the distance. . . . We took care 
 to give the cannons a wide berth. 
 
 Towards evening we saw some sailors running 
 along the road which dominated the bank of the 
 river. Many of them were black with gunpowder. 
 Wounded men were wearing bloody bandages. 
 These brave fellows had fought well, but they had
 
 On War 
 
 to give way to bad luck. Why, I cannot say, but 
 we began to shout: "Hurrah for the fleet!" 
 
 This shout, which the sailors thought ironical, 
 succeeded in annoying them. Several charged upon 
 us with fixed bayonets. This looked dangerous 
 to us. We rushed headlong from the grassy slopes 
 and put some distance between us and them. As 
 we 'were well rested and our pursuers were over- 
 come with fatigue, we easily got away from them. 
 We returned to Paris. But our prolonged inac- 
 tivity weighed upon us and we were very hungry. 
 Consequently, we had no scruples in pillaging a 
 bakery whch we encountered on the way. Fortu- 
 nately, the owners had had time to escape, so we 
 were not guilty of homicide. 
 
 Such was our conduct. I do not boast of it. 
 No; I do not. But I love truth and must do her 
 homage. 
 
 THE OLD POET. "Those are certainly ex- 
 ceptional incidents . . . atchew! I am sure that 
 > 
 
 France. My dear friend, I should not like to 
 shake your faith. Above all, beware of the notion 
 that I want to belittle my companions in arms. 
 Our enemy was in no wise different from ourselves. 
 Few of them were heroes. Many witnesses saw 
 German soldiers weeping when they were sent into 
 
 C209]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 dangerous zones. And why mock at those tears? 
 They probably were aroused by the memory of 
 young wives who would never see their husbands 
 again, of little children who would never kiss their 
 fathers. 
 
 But, let me tell you another anecdote. 
 
 Shortly after the war of '70 I happened to be in 
 X. ... As I entered an inn I heard great shouts of 
 laughter, and I saw the natives of the place in a 
 circle around a robust lad. He was explaining to 
 them how he had succeeded in avoiding all the 
 battles. 
 
 "First of all," he was saying, "I leaves my place 
 two weeks late. When I sees the sergeant I thinks 
 to myself he's goin' to blow me up. But I ain't 
 such a fool; I plays the idiot. To everything he 
 asks I says: moo, moo, like a cow. 
 
 " What a swine! What a swine!' says he. 
 'Not a damned thing to be got out of him except, 
 moo, moo.' 
 
 "In the end an officer said to me: 'Heh, there, 
 you idiot! Since you're a farm hand, you know 
 about horses' 
 
 "I nods, yes. 
 
 " 'Well, you can take these two nags to Colonel 
 Bouchard of the Twenty-eighth Regiment, Third 
 Army Corps. There are your marching orders, 
 
 C2IO]
 
 On War 
 
 and food for the three of you, the two beasts and 
 yourself.' 
 
 "I nods again, and of we go. 
 
 "But, it so happens that I takes the wrong road 
 and the two nags to the colonel of another regi- 
 ment. This one, as soon as he spots my papers: 
 
 " 'Hell! what a fool you are!' he says to me, 
 and he puts me on to the right road and gives me 
 a few francs. 
 
 "I need hardly tell you that I loses my way 
 again. And all the time the trouble lasted I 
 wanders about from one colonel to another. But 
 once peace come, I takes my two nags straight to 
 the right colonel of the right regiment. And here 
 I am." 
 
 Now, the cynical confessions of this rascal were 
 greeted with sympathetic laughter. 
 
 I do not assert that the same audience would not 
 have responded to a narrative of great devotion 
 to duty. The roughest men, if they admire cunning, 
 also venerate nobility. 
 
 However, the gallery did not blame this slyboots. 
 The crowd has always a fund of indulgence for 
 Panurge when that unpleasant accident befalls him 
 in the fight, for Sosie, when he gorges himself 
 with ham and wine in a tent far from the battle. 
 It really seems to me quite impossible that the plain
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 people can ever be infected with the jingoism which 
 infects our middle-classes from time to time. On 
 the contrary, I notice that anti-militarism is bolder 
 than ever. Formerly the deserters, and the 
 slackers, never tried to defend their conduct. 
 "We are betrayed'' they would shout. "We are 
 sold!" That was their only justification. 
 
 Now they have a theory and reasoned motives. 
 "Le Chant du Depart" has been replaced by a 
 hymn "Pour ne pas Partir." To set one's refusal 
 to march to music, is to become glorious. 
 
 THE OLD POET. "So you approve of them?" 
 
 FRANCE. Do not put into my mouth what is not 
 in my mind. No; I do not approve of them, for 
 in the present European situation they run the risk 
 of helping the worst enemies of civilization. 
 
 THE OLD POET. "So you admit that one's 
 country. . . ' 
 
 FRANCE. / admit that our country would deserve 
 to be passionately defended, if it were threatened. 
 And then, we must clearly see in what way it has a 
 right to our affection. If by the word country is 
 meant the sum of great ideas and profound feelings 
 which differ from one country to another, and con- 
 stitute French wit, English good sense, German 
 dialectics, that is certainly a treasure which should 
 be dear to every nation. It is a flag of light 
 planted on each territory. The finest geniuses of 
 
 [2123
 
 On War 
 
 each race have borne it higher and higher. After 
 the event, and gradually, they have given a magnif- 
 icent spiritual significance to these groups which the 
 fortuitous circumstances of history had originally 
 brought together haphazardly. 
 
 But these moving national doctrines, if they 
 differ, are not divergent, at least. The most emi- 
 nent thinkers clasp hands across frontiers. They 
 have neither the same tendencies nor the same 
 thoughts, yet they are brought together by their 
 humanity, by their compassion for their fellow-men. 
 It is, therefore, by a culpable deception that people 
 try to oppose one national consciousness against 
 another. On the contrary, in their most serene ex- 
 pression they are complementary. A man can 
 adore his own country while revering others. 
 
 Unfortunately, a country is not only a collection 
 of radiant ideas. It is also the business address 
 of a host of financial enterprises of which many 
 have little to recommend them. More than any- 
 thing, else it is the antagonism of capitalistic appe- 
 tites, often most illegitimate, which drives the 
 nations into conflict, and causes modern wars. 
 Nothing could be sadder. From the bottom of 
 my soul I wish my country to abstain from all greed 
 which might make her in the slightest degree re- 
 sponsible for a struggle. But if she were ever in- 
 vaded by a covetous neighbour, it would be the duty 
 
 C2I33
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 of her sons to fly to her help. It would, indeed, 
 be the darkest calamity if France were diminished, 
 for after all, do you not agree, our country stands 
 for very generous aspirations? 
 
 THE OLD POET. "Ah, ha! you see ... at- 
 chew ! Chauvinism has its good points." 
 
 FRANCE, (emphatically) Not at all! It is 
 criminal folly. When the jingos say that war is 
 sublime, that it is the school of all the virtues, 
 that it refashions and regenerates men, that 
 Providence gives victory to the most worthy, and 
 that the greatness of a people is measured by its 
 victories, that is, by massacres in which its own 
 children perish with the enemy, they are ridiculous 
 and odious. 
 
 THE OLD POET. "But how will you per- 
 suade people to sacrifice themselves to their 
 country?" 
 
 FRANCE. By making the country always better, 
 always more just, more ^maternal towards the 
 people . . . more loyal, more fraternal towards 
 other nations . . . by ceaselessly repeating that war 
 is abominable, by carefully avoiding all the tortuous 
 intrigues which might provoke it . . . by proving 
 by the striking frankness of our conduct that we do 
 not wish to take up arms, that we shall use them 
 only to defend our liberty. 
 
 Then the people will love their country which
 
 On War 
 
 will be identified in their hearts *with the finest fu- 
 ture of the human race. And if, by any misfor- 
 tune, it is attacked, they will not allow it to sue- 
 cumb. 1 
 
 1 Sue h ivere the opinions of M. France at that time. By ad- 
 hering to communism he has since testified that only the inter- 
 national organization of the proletariat seems to him capable of 
 preventing the return of ivar. 
 
 215:1
 
 The Russian Revolution 
 at the Villa Said
 
 The Russian Revolution at the 
 Villa Said 
 
 It was during the cold season. When Jose- 
 phine opened the door for me I saw the hall littered 
 with overcoats, mufflers and furs. The clothes of 
 M. Bergeret's friends were piled up on chairs and 
 consoles. Hats were hanging on lovely rococo 
 chandeliers. Overcoats were thrown over the bot- 
 tom of the gothic bannisters of old carved oak. 
 
 "Are there many visitors?" I asked Josephine. 
 
 "Too many," she replied in a surly tone. 
 "There are heaps of Russians." 
 
 Josephine had little sympathy for the Slavic race. 
 
 "It is hard to know,'" she went on, "why the 
 Master receives such people. They're full of fleas. 
 Just look at those old topcoats." 
 
 As she spoke she felt with her thumb and fore- 
 finger a wretched Inverness, all threadbare. She 
 continued to mutter between her teeth. 
 
 "These Russians, they're good for nothing ex- 
 cept making dirt about the house. And I'm sure 
 they have bombs. If the Master would listen to 
 me, he would choose his society more carefully. 
 Celebrated as he is, he ought only to see the best 
 people." 
 
 C2I9;]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 I left her to her bad humour. 
 
 In the library I found several Russian revolu- 
 tionaries with the Master. Amongst others there 
 was K. the famous sociologist, a colossus with long 
 fair curly hair, stray hairs all over his face, large 
 blue eyes, surprised and tender, and a smiling, in- 
 fantine and beatific expression the perfect type of 
 the scholarly anarchist who candily overturns so- 
 ciety with his ideas. 
 
 It was the time when Nicholas II was beginning 
 to struggle against the revolt of his people, grown 
 tired of the knout and the nagaika. S. the Peters- 
 burgh newspaper correspondent, who had under- 
 taken a tour of lectures against Tsarism all over 
 France, was giving an account of a speech he had 
 made the previous evening at Valenciennes. 
 
 "A most sympathetic audience," he said, "which 
 seemed well informed on the subject." 
 
 FRANCE. In other words, nowadays the prov- 
 inces are on the same Intellectual level as Paris. 
 
 S. "Except certain regions; for example, Brit- 
 tany." 
 
 FRANCE. It is true, the Bretons are backward. 
 That is partly due to their ignorance of our lan- 
 guage. If they understood it, they would perhaps 
 be more favourable than others to certain of our 
 social ideas. Thus, I believe they would readily 
 accept collectivism. They have been prepared for 
 C2203
 
 Russian Revolution at Villa Said 
 
 it by the habit of common ownership, which is fre- 
 quent with them as in all poor countries, for at pres- 
 ent it is only the worst land and the poorest pas- 
 ture which can remain common property, while the 
 slightest fertile bit is at once seized upon. Un- 
 fortunately, we have no speakers who know their 
 dialect. 
 
 Their drunkenness is also fatal. 
 
 At all events, during my last stay at Quiberon 
 they seemed to me to be very backward. They 
 apply none of the new methods of fishing. It is in 
 the most haphazard fashion that they go out for 
 fish. They never think of telegraphing to each 
 other the movements of the shoals. When it comes 
 to selling they do it under the most heart-breaking 
 conditions. 
 
 The fishwife who sells the haul is a big, substan- 
 tial beldame, who waits for them on the shore and 
 anxiously watches for their return. As soon as 
 they land she takes them all to the public-house, 
 where she makes them drunk, and it is when they are 
 drunk that she settles 'with them for the purchase 
 of the haul. 
 
 Observe that she is an intermediary with whom 
 they could quite well dispense. Often the merchant 
 who is going to send the fish to Paris is also wait- 
 ing, right beside her on the shore. But it never 
 occurs to them to deal directly with him. 
 
 C22I]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 What has confirmed me in my unfavourable opin- 
 ion of their intelligence is a conversation which I 
 overheard between two Breton women. I assure 
 you I was not eavesdropping, for they were separ- 
 ated by half a kilometre, and it was at this distance 
 that they apostrophized each other at top of their 
 voices, like heroes of Homer. 
 
 One of them shouted note this carefully, said 
 France to the old sociologist she shouted: "You 
 are a dirty dog, to go with my man!" And the 
 other replied, in the same tone-. "If your man 
 goes with me, it is because I am a better made woman 
 than you are." 
 
 Now, I do not kno\w, Sir, if you agree with me, 
 but that retort seemed to me to denote the most 
 complete absence of psychological observation. It 
 is certain that, if we love one woman more than an- 
 other, it is not because her physical charms seem 
 greater, but for a host of very different and very 
 complex reasons. 
 
 The venerable sociologist endeavoured to form 
 an opinion, but without success. A moment later 
 France said to him: 
 
 Father Gapon must be pleased: the Russian rev- 
 olution has come to a full stop. 
 
 Then addressing the other persons present: 
 
 Our friend S. introduced me to this priest of 
 which we hear so much. He brought him here to 
 C222]
 
 Russian Revolution at Villa Said 
 
 the house. He is a robust young man, with dark 
 hair and tanned skin. I timidly confess that he did 
 not make a very good impression on me. He is 
 verbose and emphatic. As he does not know a 
 word of French, S. translated what he said and 
 took it upon himself to curtail it. Gapon noticed 
 this and flew into a great rage. 
 
 "He is scolding me," said S., "because I cut short 
 his last sentence, in which he compared Nicholas II 
 to a tiger. What he said was: "He is a tiger 
 thirsty for human blood." 
 
 Well, that quarrel about a metaphor seemed to 
 me in bad taste. After all, every royal or imperial 
 tiger thirsts for human blood. 1 
 
 Gapon, who led the first processions of the 
 strikers at Petersburg, believes that the people 
 must be granted some respite before asking new 
 e forts of them. I do not know if he is right, but 
 the danger is that the halt may become a long de- 
 
 1 It may perhaps be recalled that this Gapon <was an agent, 
 provocateur, in the pay of the Tsarist police. In Petersburgh he 
 placed himself at the head of a great working-class demonstration, 
 and disappeared just at the moment when the machine-guns were 
 mowing down the crowd. Shortly afterwards he came to France, 
 and it was then that he called at the Villa Sa'id. Then he went 
 off to the Cote d'Azur to have a good time with the price of his 
 treason. He met with the end he deserved. Having secured proof 
 of his infamy, the Revolutionaries lured him into a trap and 
 executed him. When he visited Anatole France, he was still 
 unsuspected. Yet, as the dialogue noted here shows, M. Bergeret 
 vias not his dupe. 
 
 223:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 lay. Maybe the Russians are still too much en- 
 slaved and too unhappy to desire liberty passion- 
 ately. It is a fact that almost all revolutions that 
 succeed permanently limit themselves to confirm- 
 ing results already achieved. Look at that of '8g. 
 It was the centres already freed from feudalism 
 which arose and demanded the abolition of the old 
 order. As for the provinces, which were still galled 
 by the traditional yoke, they had so little thought 
 of shaking it of, that they shed their blood oppos- 
 ing the revolution. That was the case of Vendee 
 and Brittany. 
 
 Similarly with socialism. It numbers its staunch- 
 est adherents in the big unions, like the miners, 
 who, thanks to their discipline, are precisely those 
 who have already obtained a good part of the ad- 
 vantages promised by socialism. Whereas the most 
 obstinate opponents of this doctrine are the peasants, 
 who suffer most from the bourgeois system. The 
 fact is, social changes take place only when they are 
 ripe. That is why I wonder whether the Russians 
 are not still too greatly deprived of the benefits 
 which revolution would procure them to be willing 
 to fight for them. 
 
 K. protested that his compatriots were more en- 
 lightened than people imagined. 
 
 FRANCE. And is their devotion to the Tsar not 
 an obstacle in the way of their emancipation? 
 
 122$
 
 Russian Revolution at Villa Said 
 
 K. "The religious respect of Russia for its sov- 
 ereign has quickly evaporated. Our people are 
 mystical, but perspicacious. Having proved the 
 Tsar's lack of good faith, they have turned away 
 from him. Their piety remains intact, but they 
 jump an intermediate stage and address themselves 
 directly to God." 
 
 "They are more intelligent than the Breton fisher- 
 men," some one remarked, "they suppress the 
 middleman." 
 
 K. "Moreover, it is wrong to picture the Rus- 
 sians as blindly submissive to their priests. On the 
 contrary, though pious, they do not care much for 
 the clergy. When they kiss the hand of a pope they 
 mean to do homage, not to the cleric, but to the 
 God he represents." 
 
 FRANCE. You do not surprise me at all. Con- 
 tempt for priests is quite compatible with piety. 
 Usually, the populace detests the cassock. Why? 
 No doubt for the simple reason that is is lugubrious 
 and evokes the idea of the extreme unction. 
 
 But, tell me, is not Russian mysticism contem- 
 plative, by preference, and opposed to action? 
 For instance, does your prophet, Tolstoy, not preach 
 resignation to the moujiks, and what he calls "non- 
 resistance to evil?" 
 
 K. "Between ourselves, nobody listens to him. 
 Our workmen and peasants are rough fellows, and 
 
 C225]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 it is not easy to put them to sleep again, once they 
 have been roused." 
 
 FRANCE. Yes, I understand. Moujiks become 
 wolves more easily than wolves become sheep. In- 
 deed, that is truth which your compatriot, 
 Prince Troubetzkoy, recently tested in Paris, where 
 he lives. Just as Tolstoy invites men to bleat, this 
 prince had undertaken to tame wolves. He had 
 caught two of them very young. He had reared 
 them and led them on a leash like dogs. In order 
 to wean them from their instincts he fed them 
 chiefly on vegetables, and the strangest thing is 
 that, for some time, they appeared to be satisfied 
 with this diet. But the other day one of them sud- 
 denly planted its claws in the arm of the fruiterer 
 from whom the prince himself condescended to buy 
 the meals of his pets, and they had great difficulty 
 in making this wicked wolf let go. 
 
 There is no moral, by the way, to this story. 
 
 K. (laughing) "Nevertheless, there are socio- 
 logical conclusions to be drawn." 
 
 FRANCE. // you like . . . 
 
 K. "It seems to me the best way to help the prog- 
 ress of liberalism in our country at this moment 
 is to advise other nations, and especially the French, 
 not to subscribe to the Russian loan until the Tsar- 
 ist government has put a liberal constitution into 
 force." 
 
 C2263
 
 Russian Revolution at Villa Said 
 
 FRANCE. / hope with all my heart that these 
 tactics will proceed, for it would save thousands of 
 human lives. Unfortunately, it is certain that, if 
 the Russian government found itself supported by 
 our money, it would not hesitate to plunge into the 
 most atrocious reaction. 
 
 K. "It is preparing for that." 
 
 FRANCE. It is even possible that it may succeed 
 in stifling for a long time all desire for indepen- 
 dence. 
 
 K. "No; for reaction would soon call forth 
 Terrorist reprisals. But it is important to facili- 
 tate the task of the Liberals, and, as you say, to 
 save human lives." 
 
 FRANCE. Alas I Every human advance consumes 
 too many. 
 
 C'est un ordre des dieux, qui jamais ne se rompt 
 De nous vend re bien cher les bienfaits qu'ils nous font. 
 L'exil des Tarquins meme ensanglanta nos terres. 
 Et nos premiers consuls nous ont coute des guerres! 
 
 A young Slav, very dark, with long hair plastered 
 with {bear's grease, a Mongol complexion, high 
 cheek bones and the drooping moustaches of a Kal- 
 muck, suddenly broke the silence which he had 
 hitherto preserved. He spoke French with extreme 
 difficulty: 
 
 [2273
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 "For the success of the Revolution it would be 
 better to. ... 
 
 FRANCE. Do you not admire the power of our 
 great Corneille? 
 
 THE YOUNG SLAV. "Yes; he is wonderful . . . 
 would be better to. . . ." 
 
 FRANCE.- 
 
 L'exil des Tarquins meme ensanglanta nos terres 
 Et nos premiers consuls nous ont coute des guerres! 
 
 That is more than poetry; it is more than 
 eloquence . . . 
 
 THE YOUNG SLAV. u The Revolution. . . ." 
 
 France. It is monumental! . . . 
 
 THE YOUNG SLAV, (obstinately) "Yes, yes. 
 . . . You are mistaken in hoping that Tsarism will 
 abdicate. . . . No confidence. ... It would be 
 better to suffer atrocious persecution. It would be 
 better to have many martyrs, a great deal of blood- 
 shed, and then the government swept away by an 
 infuriated people." 
 
 FRANCE, (addressing his guests) This young 
 man, as you see, is a pure-blooded revolutionary. 
 If necessary, he would throw bombs! . . . 
 
 The dynamiter began to smile. From his coat 
 pockets he drew two steel tubes. Then, in great 
 triumph : 
 
 C2283
 
 Russian Revolution at Villa Said 
 
 "Bomb in two parts. Separated; nothing to 
 fear. If the two halves are screwed together, the 
 whole house blow up." 
 
 FRANCE, (politely) Do not screw them, 
 please. And take my word for it, my young friend, 
 as long as there are other means, we must have 
 recourse to them. Remember this: homicidal 
 justice, even when administered by a people strug- 
 gling for freedom, can never be anything but a 
 wretched substitute. It is not good to quench with 
 blood the thirst of the gods. 
 
 He resumed: 
 
 The cause of the Russian revolutionaries con- 
 cerns us much more closely than people imagine. 
 If they were defeated the spirit of liberty would 
 undergo a crisis all over Europe. On the other 
 hand, their victory would give a great impetus to 
 socialism in other countries, and especially in our 
 own. 
 
 The conversation turned to the French revo- 
 lutionary party. 
 
 FRANCE. The people in our country are, I be- 
 lieve, very favorable to collectivism. But they 
 have only an instinct where, their interests are con- 
 cerned, and remain shockingly indifferent to ideas. 
 Recently at Bordeaux I had occasion to question 
 two coopers who had been present the previous 
 [229]
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 evening at a lecture by Jules Guesde. "Did he 
 speak well?" "Certainly!" "Did you under- 
 stand everything he said?" "Of course!" It was 
 quite obvious. "He wishes coopers to be happy!" 
 That is all they remembered. 
 
 Another anecdote. A few days ago I was at the 
 Bourse du Travail, in the office of the redoubtable 
 Pataud, the secretary of the Electricians' Union. 
 You know whom I mean. Pataud, who has merely 
 to move his finger to plunge Paris into darkness. 
 On the floor around him there were piles of pam- 
 phlets. Good! I said. You are trying to educate 
 your comrades, for these, I suppose, are doctrinal 
 works intended for them. 
 
 "Those" he replied, "are copies of 'Sherlock 
 Holmes' The members of the Union " cannot 
 stand any other kind of literature." 
 
 Then France concluded: 
 
 // our party were better organized, if it were 
 not divided into thirty-six fragments, it could organ- 
 ize more persistent and more methodical propa- 
 ganda, and our principles would have a more 
 thoughtful reception from the working classes. 2 
 
 2 Anatole France has not lost his interest in the Russian rev- 
 olutionaries. 
 
 One day Gustave Her<ve brought him a young man of thirty-five 
 years, pale, with the close-cropped hair of a convict, and an enig- 
 matical sneer perpetually on his emaciated face. 
 
 D230;]
 
 Russian Revolution at Villa Said 
 
 r ( turning to a young engraver) Just look at these 
 plates by Hans Burgmair, and tell me what you 
 think of them! This lord and his lady embracing: 
 how touching they are. Look at the lady's big 
 belly. It is not because she is pregnant. At that 
 time fashion demanded that the women should have 
 
 The editor of the "Guerre Sociale" introduced him: 
 
 "Boris Savinkov, assassin." 
 
 "Delighted," said M. Bergeret, holding out his hand to the 
 stranger. 
 
 "1 must ask my friend Herve to have a hundred visiting cards 
 printed for me with the title he has given me" said Savinkov jok- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Whom has he assassinated?" asked France. 
 
 "The minister Plevhe and the Grand Duke Sergius" replied 
 Herve. 
 
 t'Big game" declared M. Bergeret. 
 
 Afterwards Savinkov became a minister under the Kerensky gov- 
 ernment. He vainly tried to resist Bolshevism. He had to leave 
 Russia. From the other side of Europe he tries unceasingly to 
 raise up adversaries against Lenin and Trotsky. This erstvjhile 
 Terrorist is now labelled a reactionary. This is not the least par- 
 adoxical turn of his fate. 
 
 Another Russian, M. Rappoport, who has become a French citizen, 
 and vjho has a deep and unshakable sympathy for the Bolshevists, 
 keeps up a warm friendship with Anatole France. The truculent 
 portrait of him by the painter Van Dongen is well known. A to- 
 bacco jar furnished iuith a red beard which hides the features al- 
 most completely. In the midst of this beard two gold-rimmed 
 glasses glitter. He is a Diogenes or a Menippus thrown into 
 modern society. He speaks with a strong accent, and launches a 
 continuous stream of amusing and cruel witticisms which hit at 
 socialists and bourgeois indiscriminately. During the war he went 
 many times to Touraine, to La Bechellerie where France had re- 
 tired. He used to turn his host's library upside down, stuff his 
 
 231:1
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 big bellies, just as today it commands them to 
 have none. What bold lines! What a lovely 
 harmony of composition! 
 
 After all, from time to time one must enjoy what 
 is the greatest consolation in life. 
 
 pockets with venerable tomes of the sixteenth century, and enjoy 
 them lying flat on his stomach under the willows in the meadow. 
 After his departure M. Bergeret would ask his secretary to pick 
 up among the tall grass the volumes which failed to answer the 
 roll-call. One day a precious Ronsard was found astride of the 
 wire clothes-line. 
 
 During a bombardment of Paris by Gothas an unpleasant ad-ven- 
 ture befell M. Rappoport. Denounced because of alarmist state- 
 ments which he was alleged to have made in a cellar, and which 
 some over-zealous patriots pretended to have heard, he was locked 
 up. Anatole France did not hesitate to write him a letter which 
 was read in court and saved the prisoner. In it M. Bergeret said 
 that M. Rappoport's ideas were well known to him, that they were 
 sound, and that the imprisonment of such a man was a scandal. 
 It is certainly M. Rappoport's influence of late which has inclined 
 Anatole France more and more to communism. 
 
 C2323
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream 
 
 There was a vacancy for one of the Paris seats 
 in the Chamber of Deputies. A delegation from 
 the Socialist Party came to propose that M. 
 Bergeret should stand for election. That showed 
 how little they knew him. He is nothing of a poli- 
 tician. He often speaks in public, but very much 
 against his natural inclination. "Comrade Ana- 
 tole," as he is sometimes called at these meetings, 
 is not an adept in the art of oratory. By striking 
 contrast, he is a divine talker. He is a magician 
 of words. Now tender, now mocking, he speaks 
 like a book, like the most exquisite of books. 
 
 At a public meeting he has difficulty in finding 
 words. He reads his speeches. He intones them 
 in a nasal voice which is not lacking in solemnity. 
 If he has to improvize, he stammers, and loses his 
 head. This emotion itself is the most delicate 
 compliment to the crowd which, proud of intimi- 
 dating a man of genius, applauds him frantically. 
 iBut in Parliament his opponents would not perhaps 
 be so well disposed. Another insuperable defect! 
 He never replies to letters. He does not even 
 
 C2353
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 open them. Formerly they used to pile up on a 
 tray until old Josephine burned them. It was a 
 ritual of this faithful servant. Also note that M. 
 Bergeret forgets appointments, or else he presents 
 himself a day too soon or a day too late. The 
 voters would soon tire of such a representative. 
 As a matter of fact; the tricoloured sash would 
 suit this philosopher about as well as a hat would 
 a monkey. 
 
 Consequently, on this occasion he declined the 
 perilous honour extended to him. The delegates 
 insisted. He stuck to his refusal. 
 
 / am flattered and touched by your proposal, but 
 I have not in me the stuff of a representative of the 
 people. But, at least, do not accuse me of des- 
 pising politics. On the contrary, I admire the in- 
 trepid spirits who consecrate their lives to it, and 
 who, of course, stand for sound ideas, that is, ours. 
 
 Thereupon the name of Jean Jaures came to 
 his lips. Anatole France professed the deepest 
 friendship for him. He liked him for the agility of 
 his mind, for the prodigious range of his knowledge, 
 and, above all, for the greatness of his character. 
 
 What a noble conscience! said he. Sometimes 
 he is unskilful by dint of honesty. He is not afraid 
 to challenge the passions of the mob. He even 
 irritates his own partisans by his opposition to their 
 extremism, and by his loyalty towards his adver- 
 
 236:1
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream 
 
 saries. He has elected the most ungrateful part. 
 He tries to be the mediator between the workers 
 and the bourgeois, and to avoid violence.. .It is a 
 fine task, but a hard one. 
 
 Sometimes in a strike, when the military call up- 
 on the workers, who are brandishing paving-stones, 
 to disperse, an heroic man, to prevent blood-shed, 
 will advance into the danger zone which separates 
 the opposing forces. Amidst the rumbling of the 
 storm, he preaches calm, thus running the risk of 
 receiving both the bullets of Law and Order and 
 the stones of the rioters. That picture exactly rep- 
 resents the mission which my friend Jaures has 
 assumed and the threats which he must face. 
 
 We remembered those words later on, when the 
 celebrated orator tragically perished, and they 
 seemed prophetic. 
 
 A moment afterwards France praised the 
 disinterestedness of Jules Gucsde. 
 
 What strength this man finds in his poverty! 
 He always wears the most modest clothes; but even 
 his demeanour suggests poverty, and would do so, 
 even though his clothes were less faded. It must 
 be admitted, his role is not so arduous as that of 
 Jaures. It is less difficult to refuse obstinately to 
 collaborate with the middle class than to try to re- 
 form it. The hostility which exists between these 
 two leaders of socialism frightens the pessimists. 
 
 C2373
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 And the profound divisions in our party are often 
 interpreted as signs of weakness. But they are 
 rather signs of vitality, I think. 
 
 There was some astonishment. 
 
 Yes, indeed! he resumed. Just think. There 
 will never be such lively dissensions amongst the 
 leading revolutionaries of today as there were 
 among the early Christians, between Saint Peter 
 and Saint Paul, for instance. In the first century 
 there were assuredly Pagans who were nearer to 
 Paul than Peter was, the Syrians, amongst others. 
 Yet, so far as I know, Christianity has not proved 
 abortive. In fact, it has not succeeded too badly. 
 And it is on the same day, it is together, that Peter 
 and Paul are celebrated. So everything leads me 
 to believe that the socialists of the future will 
 celebrate Jean Jaufes and Jules Guesde on the 
 same date. 
 
 We laughed. 
 
 Then M. Bergcret spoke of Briand, who was 
 for many years his friend. 
 
 For many a year he planned to leave us in the 
 lurch. He used to get impatient with the ambitious 
 young men who tried to overthrow him at con- 
 gresses. 
 
 "I have let them walk on me long enough," he 
 would grumble. 
 
 Do you not think that a nice metaphor? It well 
 
 [238:1
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream 
 
 describes that tactics of those newcomers who, in 
 order to gain the confidence of meetings, begin by 
 trampling on the speakers of renown. 
 
 Briand accepted very reluctantly the desision of 
 the congresses against socialist participation in 
 bourgeois government. 
 
 "It is a great pity," he said to me, "a great pity! 
 There are four or five of us who would do very 
 well in the Cabinet." 
 
 I am sure that, amongst those four or five, he 
 counted himself as equalling five or six. He has 
 attained the power he so ardently desired, and he 
 wields it with skill, for he understands the art of 
 governing men. 
 
 I remember that, at the time when he used to 
 speak at popular meetings, he was wonderfully 
 clever at working up the public. One day at a 
 meeting he was near me on the platform. The 
 audience was cold, and the most inflammatory 
 rhetoric could not make it thaw. 
 
 "Wait," Briand whispered to me, "I am going to 
 'enliven' the discussion." 
 
 In the middle of the crowd he noticed an honest 
 booby who, with eyes and mouth wide open, was 
 not saying a word. 
 
 "Comrade!" he shouted, "why do you keep 
 interrupting?" 
 
 "I?" replied the other, utterly flabbergasted. 
 
 C2393
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 "Yes; you! You ought to know that a loyal 
 opponent attacks openly. Come up on the plat- 
 form." 
 
 "Speech! Speech!" yelled the crowd. 
 
 They jostled the poor fellow, who was trying to 
 get away. Suddenly he was grabbed by half a 
 dozen madmen, who hoisted him up onto the plat- 
 form. He got there head first. For half a second 
 I beheld two legs struggling desperately in space. 
 
 "Throw him out! Throw him out!" shouted 
 the mob. And the two legs disappeared in the con- 
 fusion. The ice was broken, and the audience, its 
 appetite whetted by this summary execution, listened 
 to the speakers with edifying sympathy. 
 
 M. Bergeret continued: 
 
 Recently again, Briand gave proof of his great 
 enterprising spirit. It was the day when old Cardi- 
 nal Richard was leaving the house of M. Denys 
 Cochin, whose guest he had been, to take pos- 
 session of his new house in the Rue Barbet-de-Jouy. 
 Briand, who was then in power, was afraid that 
 there might be hostile demonstrations against the 
 Archbishop on his way. So he devised this scheme. 
 
 He sent policemen in plain clothes in front of M. 
 Denys Cochin s house. When the prelate's carriage 
 came out, the police shouted at the top of their 
 voices: "Long live the Archbishop! Long live the 
 Archbishop!" Unyoking the horses they got be- 
 C240]
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream 
 
 tween the shafts, as if to show their fanatical devo- 
 tion to the Cardinal. Then they pulled the carriage, 
 pushing and shoving and shouting hurrahs, and 
 made of at top speed. When they met fervent 
 young Catholics who cheered the venerable old 
 gentleman, they jostled them, and continued their 
 way as fast as their legs could carry them. They 
 covered the distance in no time, rushed the Arch- 
 bishop into the house and closed the door on him. 
 And in this fashion the trouble was avoided which 
 the goverment feared. It is by such subtle artifices 
 that political wisdom may be recognized. 
 
 I praise that quality in others, and it seems almost 
 miraculous to me, for I feel that I am quite desti- 
 tute of it. That is why I should make a very poor 
 deputy. Yes, yes! I assure you. Moreover, I 
 prefer my trade as a philosopher. My foolish van- 
 ity leads me to think that it also has its uses. 
 
 Then M. Bergeret developed the parallel for 
 which we were waiting. 
 
 I know very well that the dreamer is a person of 
 little consequence beside the politician. The, poli- 
 tician is the idol of the mob. He is its master and 
 its slave. He drags in his wake the whole tribe 
 of those who seek favours. He is influential, cele- 
 brated, famous. He holds in his hands the destiny 
 of the people. He leads them to prosperity or to 
 ruin. He makes the laws, and that, more than 
 
 1:241:
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 anything else, seems to denote his power. To make 
 laws, to draw up regulations which the crowd must 
 obey, to set the limits beyond which no citizen has 
 the right to go, is that not almost divine sover- 
 eignty? 
 
 There is only one reservation to be made, that 
 is, laws never regulate anything. When the author- 
 ities formulate a law it has long since passed into 
 common usage. It can merely sanction custom. 
 If it does not, it remains a dead letter. Above the 
 legislator there are accepted customs. Now, by 
 whom are these established? By everybody, but 
 particularly by the dreamers. Is their mission not 
 to think for the community? In order to think, 
 training is necessary, as it is for manual labour, for 
 commerce, for seamanship, for house-building. 
 I do not know whether the men who cut and polish 
 ideas have more merit than other mortals. At 
 least, when they play their part well, they are en- 
 titled to some gratitude. 
 
 In many ways they make life better for every- 
 body. In his laboratory, from his quiet courtyard, 
 the frail, bespectacled man of science reshapes the 
 world. Under our very eyes do we not see the 
 revolution spreading which modern machinery, and 
 particularly the steam engine, have efected? The 
 echoes of this invention are far from dying down. 
 
 C2423
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream 
 
 Distances are shortened. This Europe of ours, re- 
 duced in size by the extreme rapidity of communi- 
 sations, is really no larger now than France was 
 under the First Empire. At this moment the whole 
 world is not much larger than little Europe was a 
 century ago. What imminent changes in the his- 
 tory of the world this truth foretells! 
 
 Then there is the prodigious rise of books, pam- 
 phlets and newspapers, which scatter everywhere 
 the most daring ideas. Do they not hasten the com- 
 ing changes? It is not only by inventions that the 
 dreamers change the existence of their fellow-men, 
 but by ideas and speculations which seem most use- 
 less. Copernicus proves that the earth is not sta- 
 tionary. He drives it from that central position 
 which it so proudly occupied. It is nothing more 
 than a frail wanderer through infinity. Consider 
 the deep repercussions of this change. Since man 
 no longer dwells at the immovable centre of the 
 world, since he wanders over a little drop of mud 
 lost in the immensity of space, he is no longer lord 
 of the universe. He is losing his theological assur- 
 ance. Doubt, criticism, and all the fruitful rest- 
 lessness of modern times are getting under his skull. 
 A poor creature, most uncertain and very pitiable, 
 he realizes a little better every day the sancitity of 
 tolerance and mutual compassion.
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 Darwin teaches the law of evolution. Think of 
 the unlimited influence it will henceforth exercise 
 upon the mind. Constantly the mind feels more 
 and more the profound, original sympathy which 
 unites all that lives and suffers. Constantly it under- 
 stands more clearly that everything is gradually 
 changing, and that it is useless to try to stop the 
 tide of inevitable change, or to hasten it. Thus 
 most of the great discoveries end by acting upon 
 our daily existence. 
 
 And the other dreamers, the writers and the art- 
 ists have they not as much power as the scientists? 
 In truth, it is they who guide the people from above 
 and in advance, since they form or clarify the mind 
 of each nation. Without the intervention of the 
 poets, how would the moral unity of a country be 
 born? How would a common idea emerge from 
 the diversity of races, the extraordinary differences 
 of the provinces, brought together at haphazard by 
 conquests and treaties, if the thinkers did not el- 
 elaborate it together, and then for all their compat- 
 riots in turn? First of all, some dreamers express 
 the feelings of the people about them: they become 
 the mouthpiece of those who toil and rejoice beside 
 them. Then, if their words are clear, if their natal 
 domain imposes its law by wisdom or by force upon 
 neighbouring territories, those first poetic accents 
 [244]
 
 The Omnipotence of Dream 
 
 are transmitted like echoes to other bards, who take 
 them up and spread them. 
 
 Gradually over the whole area of a country an 
 agreement is reached, a harmony is composed, all 
 dissonances are resolved in a single melody. Many 
 dreamers, many poets, many artists take part in 
 this concert. Yet from century to century, the 
 leaders of the orchestra are few. There are not 
 many Fillons, Rabelais', Montaignes, Molieres and 
 Voltaires., . . . 
 
 To change the metaphor, these great men are 
 the master-builders who construct a nation. At 
 the call of their genius, hundreds and thousands of 
 journeymen respond. In this way the character of 
 a State is defined. Thus our spiritual motherland 
 grew up, an edifice of independence and sincerity, 
 of ironic wit and deadly mockery, an edifice of 
 reason, of sociability, of pity, an edifice of human 
 fraternity. 
 
 Now, my friends, we must continue bravely to 
 build up this lovely edifice. This is not the time to 
 stand by with folded arms. It must be enlarged 
 that it may receive the whole world. That is the 
 task of the dreamers, great and small. In order to 
 see the walls rising, the proud colonnades and broad 
 facades outlined, the humblest workman will joy- 
 fully climb the ladders, and carry the hod full of
 
 The Opinions of Anatole France 
 
 mortar to the more skilled labourers, who are lay- 
 ing the stones at the top of the scaffolding. 
 
 Therefore, my friends, let me mix the mortar, 
 let me mix the mortar, for the City of Dream. 
 That is my destiny; I like it, and I ask no other. 
 
 THE END 
 
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