My
thoughts
escape from my head like
the foam from a bottle of beer.
the foam from a bottle of beer.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v10 - Emp to Fro
Yet a glance of fervent tenderness, an expres-
sion of the soul beaming in her eyes, such as he had never wit-
nessed there before, left him in undoubted assurance that Undine
bore him no ill-will.
He then rose joyfully, and leaving her, went to the common
apartment, where the inmates of the house had already met.
The three were sitting round the hearth with an air of anxiety
about them, as if they feared trusting themselves to raise their
voice above a low, apprehensive undertone. The priest appeared
to be praying in his inmost spirit, with a view to avert some
fatal calamity. But when they observed the young husband come
forth so cheerful, they dispelled the cloud that remained upon
their brows: the old fisherman even began to laugh with the
knight, till his aged wife herself could not help smiling with
great good-humor.
Undine had in the mean time got ready, and now entered the
room: all rose to meet her, but remained fixed in perfect admi-
ration- she was so changed, and yet the same. The priest,
with paternal affection beaming from his countenance, first went
up to her; and as he raised his hand to pronounce a blessing, the
beautiful bride sank on her knees before him with religious awe;
she begged his pardon in terms both respectful and submissive
for any foolish things she might have uttered the evening
before, and entreated him with emotion to pray for the welfare
of her soul. She then rose, kissed her foster-parents, and after
thanking them for all the kindness they had shown her, said:
"Oh, I now feel in my inmost heart how much, how infinitely
much, you have done for me, you dear, dear friends of my
childhood! "
At first she was wholly unable to tear herself away from their
affectionate caresses; but the moment she saw the good old
## p. 5901 (#489) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5901
mother busy in getting breakfast, she went to the hearth, ap-
plied herself to cooking the food and putting it on the table, and
would not suffer her to take the least share in the work.
She continued in this frame of spirit the whole day: calm,
kind, attentive-half matronly and half girlish. The three who
had been longest acquainted with her expected every instant to
see her capricious spirit break out in some whimsical change or
sportive vagary. But their fears were quite unnecessary. Undine
continued as mild and gentle as an angel. The priest found it
all but impossible to remove his eyes from her; and he often
said to the bridegroom:-
"The bounty of Heaven, sir, through me its unworthy instru-
ment, intrusted to you yesterday an invaluable treasure: cherish
it as you ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal
welfare. "
―――
Toward evening Undine was hanging upon the knight's arm
with lowly tenderness, while she drew him gently out before the
door, where the setting sun shone richly over the fresh grass and
upon the high slender boles of the trees. Her emotion was vis-
ible; the dew of sadness and love swam in her eyes, while a
tender and fearful secret seemed to hover upon her lips, but was
only made known by hardly breathed sighs. She led her hus-
band farther and farther onward without speaking. When he
asked her questions, she replied only with looks, in which, it is
true, there appeared to be no immediate answer to his inquiries,
but a whole heaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they
reached the margin of the swollen forest stream, and the knight
was astonished to see it gliding away with so gentle a murmur-
ing of its waves, that no vestige of its former swell and wildness
was now discernible.
"By morning it will be wholly drained off," said the beautiful
wife, almost weeping, "and you will then be able to travel,
without anything to hinder you, whithersoever you will. "
"Not without you, dear Undine,” replied the knight, laugh-
ing: "think only, were I disposed to leave you, both the Church
and the spiritual powers, the emperor and the laws of the realm,
would require the fugitive to be seized and restored to you. "
"All this depends on you-all depends on you," whispered
his little companion, half weeping and half smiling. "But I still
feel sure that you will not leave me; I love you too deeply to
fear that misery. Now bear me over to that little island which
## p. 5902 (#490) ###########################################
5902
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
lies before us. There shall the decision be made. I could easily,
indeed, glide through that mere rippling of the water without
your aid, but it is so sweet to lie in your arms; and should you
determine to put me away, I shall have rested in them once
more,
for the last time. "
·
Huldbrand was so full of strange anxiety and emotion, that
he knew not what answer to make her. He took her in his
arms and carried her over, now first realizing the fact that this
was the same little island from which he had borne her back to
the old fisherman, the first night of his arrival. On the farther
side he placed her upon the soft grass, and was throwing himself
lovingly near his beautiful burden; but she said to him:-"Not
here, but opposite me. I shall read my doom in your eyes, even
before your lips pronounce it; now listen attentively to what I
shall relate to you. " And she began:-
"You must know, my own love, that there are beings in the
elements which bear the strongest resemblance to the human
race, and which at the same time but seldom become visible to
you. The wonderful salamanders sparkle and sport amid the
flames; deep in the earth the meagre and malicious gnomes pur-
sue their revels; the forest spirits belong to the air, and wander
in the woods; while in the seas, rivers, and streams live the
widespread race of water spirits. These last, beneath resounding
domes of crystal, through which the sky can shine with its sun
and stars, inhabit a region of light and beauty; lofty coral-trees
glow with blue and crimson fruits in their gardens; they walk
over the pure sand of the sea, among exquisitely variegated
shells, and amid whatever of beauty the old world possessed,
such as the present is no more worthy to enjoy,-creations which
the floods covered with their secret veils of silver; and now these
noble monuments sparkle below, stately and solemn, and bedewed
by the water, which loves them, and calls forth from their crevices
delicate moss-flowers and enwreathing tufts of sedge.
(( Now, the nation that dwell there are very fair and lovely to
behold, for the most part more beautiful than human beings.
Many a fisherman has been so fortunate as to catch a view of a
delicate maiden of the waters, while she was floating and sing-
ing upon the deep. He would then spread far the fame of her
beauty; and to such wonderful females men are wont to give the
name of Undines. But what need of saying more?
You, my
dear husband, now actually behold an Undine before you. "
-
## p. 5903 (#491) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5903
The knight would have persuaded himself that his lovely wife
was under the influence of one of her odd whims, and that she
was only amusing herself and him with her extravagant inven-
tions. He wished it might be so. But with whatever emphasis
he said this to himself, he still could not credit the hope for a
moment: a strange shivering shot through his soul; unable to
utter a word, he gazed upon the sweet speaker with a fixed eye.
She shook her head in distress, sighed from her full heart, and
then proceeded in the following manner:
"We should be far superior to you, who are another race of
the human family,- for we also call ourselves human beings, as
we resemble them in form and features,-had we not one evil
peculiar to ourselves. Both we and the beings I have mentioned
as inhabiting the other elements vanish into air at death and go
out of existence, spirit and body, so that no vestige of us re-
mains; and when you hereafter awake to a purer state of being,
we shall remain where sand and sparks and wind and waves
remain. Thus, we have no souls; the element moves us, and
again is obedient to our will while we live, though it scatters us
like dust when we die; and as we have nothing to trouble us,
we are as merry as nightingales, little gold-fishes, and other
pretty children of nature.
"But all beings aspire to rise in the scale of existence higher
than they are. It was therefore the wish of my father, who is a
powerful water prince in the Mediterranean Sea, that his only
daughter should become possessed of a soul, although she should
have to endure many of the sufferings of those who share that gift.
"Now, the race to which I belong have no other means of
obtaining a soul than by forming with an individual of your own.
the most intimate union of love. I am now possessed of a soul,
and my soul thanks you, my best beloved, and never shall cease
to thank you, if you do not render my whole future life miser-
able. For what will become of me, if you avoid and reject me?
Still, I would not keep you as my own by artifice. And should
you decide to cast me off, then do it now, and return alone
to the shore. I will plunge into this brook, where my uncle.
will receive me; my uncle, who here in the forest, far removed
from his other friends, passes his strange and solitary existence.
But he is powerful, as well as revered and beloved by many
great rivers; and as he brought me hither to the fisherman a
light-hearted and laughing child, he will take me home to my
## p. 5904 (#492) ###########################################
5904
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
parents a woman, gifted with a soul, with power to love and to
suffer. "
She was about to add something more, when Huldbrand with
the most heartfelt tenderness and love clasped her in his arms,
and again bore her back to the shore. There amid tears and
kisses he first swore never to forsake his affectionate wife, and
esteemed himself even more happy than Pygmalion, for whom
Venus gave life to this beautiful statue, and thus changed it into
a beloved wife. Supported by his arm, and in the confidence of
affection, Undine returned to the cottage; and now she first
realized with her whole heart how little cause she had for re-
gretting what she had left- the crystal palaces of her mysterious
father.
THE LAST APPEARANCE OF UNDINE
From Undine ›
HOULD I relate to you how passed the marriage feast at Castle
Ringstetten, it would be as if you saw a heap of bright and
pleasant things, but all overspread with a black mourning
crape, through whose darkening veil their brilliancy would ap-
pear but a mockery of the nothingness of all earthly joys.
It was not that any spectral delusion disturbed the scene of
festivity; for the castle, as we well know, had been secured
against the mischief of the water spirits. But the knight, the
fisherman, and all the guests were unable to banish the feeling
that the chief personage of the feast was still wanting, and that
this chief personage could be no other than the gentle and be-
loved Undine.
Whenever a door was heard to open, all eyes were involun-
tarily turned in that direction; and if it was nothing but the
steward with new dishes, or the cup-bearer with a supply of
wine of higher flavor than the last, they again looked down in
sadness and disappointment, while the flashes of wit and mer-
riment which had been passing at times from one to another
were extinguished by tears of mournful remembrance.
The bride was the least thoughtful of the company, and there-
fore the most happy; but even to her it sometimes seemed strange
that she should be sitting at the head of the table, wearing a
green wreath and gold-embroidered robe, while Undine was lying
a corpse, stiff and cold, at the bottom of the Danube, or carried
## p. 5905 (#493) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUE
5905
out by the current into the ocean. For ever since her father
had suggested something of this sort, his words were continually
sounding in her ear; and this day in particular, they would neither
fade from her memory nor yield to other thoughts.
Evening had scarcely arrived when the company returned to
their homes; not dismissed by the impatience of the bridegroom,
as wedding parties are sometimes broken up, but constrained
solely by heavy sadness and forebodings of evil. Bertalda retired
with her maidens, and the knight with his attendants, to undress;
but there was no gay laughing company of bridesmaids and
bridesmen at this mournful festival.
Bertalda wished to awake more cheerful thoughts: she ordered
her maidens to spread before her a brilliant set of jewels, a pres-
ent from Huldbrand, together with rich apparel and veils, that
she might select from among them the brightest and most beauti-
ful for her dress in the morning. The attendants rejoiced at this
opportunity of pouring forth good wishes and promises of happi-
ness to their young mistress, and failed not to extol the beauty
of the bride with the most glowing eloquence. This went on
for a long time, until Bertalda at last, looking in a mirror, said
with a sigh:-
"Ah, but do you not see plainly how freckled I am growing?
Look here on the side of my neck,"
They looked at the place and found the freckles indeed, as
their fair mistress had said; but they called them mere beauty-
spots, the faintest touches of the sun, such as would only heighten
the whiteness of her delicate complexion. Bertalda shook her
head, and still viewed them as a blemish.
—
"And I could remove them," she said at last, sighing.
« But
the castle fountain is covered, from which I formerly used to
have that precious water, so purifying to the skin. Oh, had I
this evening only a single flask of it! "
"Is that all? " cried an alert waiting-maid, laughing as she
glided out of the apartment.
"She will not be so foolish," said Bertalda, well pleased and
surprised, "as to cause the stone cover of the fountain to be
taken off this very evening? " That instant they heard the
tread of men already passing along the court-yard, and could see
from the window where the officious maiden was leading them
directly up to the fountain, and that they carried levers and
other instruments on their shoulders.
X-370
## p. 5906 (#494) ###########################################
5906
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
"It is certainly my will," said Bertalda with a smile, "if it
does not take them too long. " And pleased with the thought
that a word from her was now sufficient to accomplish what had
formerly been refused with a painful reproof, she looked down
upon their operations in the bright moonlit castle court.
The men raised the enormous stone with an effort; some one
of the number indeed would occasionally sigh, when he recol-
lected that they were destroying the work of their former be-
loved mistress. Their labor, however, was much lighter than
they had expected. It seemed as if some power from within the
fountain itself aided them in raising the stone.
"It appears," said the workmen to one another in astonish-
ment, as if the confined water had become a springing fount-
ain. " And the stone rose more and more, and almost without
the assistance of the workpeople, rolled slowly down upon the
pavement with a hollow sound. But an appearance from the
opening of the fountain filled them with awe, as it rose like a
white column of water; at first they imagined it really to be a
fountain, until they perceived the rising form to be a pale
female, veiled in white. She wept bitterly, raised her hands
above her head, wringing them sadly as with slow and solemn
step she moved toward the castle. The servants shrank back,
and fled from the spring, while the bride, pale and motionless
with horror, stood with her maidens at the window. When the
figure had now come close beneath their room, it looked up to
them sobbing, and Bertalda thought she recognized through the
veil the pale features of Undine. But the mourning form passed
on, sad, reluctant, and lingering, as if going to the place of exe-
cution. Bertalda screamed to her maids to call the knight; not
one of them dared to stir from her place; and even the bride
herself became again mute, as if trembling at the sound of her
own voice.
While they continued standing at the window, motionless as
statues, the mysterious wanderer had entered the castle, ascended
the well-known stairs, and traversed the well-known halls, in
silent tears. Alas, how differently had she once passed through
these rooms!
The knight had in the mean time dismissed his attendants.
Half undressed and in deep dejection, he was standing before a
large mirror; a wax taper burned dimly beside him. At this
moment some one tapped at his door very, very softly.
Undine
## p. 5907 (#495) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5907
had formerly tapped in this way, when she was playing some of
her endearing wiles.
"It is all an illusion! " said he to himself. "I must to my
nuptial bed. "
"You must indeed, but to a cold one! " he heard a voice,
choked with sobs, repeat from without; and then he saw in the
mirror that the door of his room was slowly, slowly opened, and
the white figure entered, and gently closed it behind her.
"They have opened the spring," said she in a low tone; "and
now I am here, and you must die. "
He felt in his failing breath that this must indeed be; but
covering his eyes with his hands, he cried: "Do not in my death-
hour, do not make me mad with terror. If that veil conceals
hideous features, do not lift it! Take my life, but let me not see
you,»
――
"Alas! " replied the pale figure, "will you not then look upon
me once more? I am as fair now as when you wooed me on
the island! "
"Oh, if it indeed were so," sighed Huldbrand, "and that I
might die by a kiss from you! "
"Most willingly, my own love," said she. She threw back her
veil; heavenly fair shone forth her pure countenance. Trembling
with love and the awe of approaching death, the knight leant
towards her. She kissed him with a holy kiss; but she relaxed
not her hold, pressing him more closely in her arms, and weeping
as if she would weep away her soul. Tears rushed into the
knight's eyes, while a thrill both of bliss and agony shot through
his heart, until he at last expired, sinking softly back from her
fair arms upon the pillow of his couch a corpse.
"I have wept him to death! " said she to some domestics who
met her in the ante-chamber; and passing through the terrified
group, she went slowly out, and disappeared in the fountain.
## p. 5908 (#496) ###########################################
5908
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
SONG FROM MINSTREL LOVE›
H WELCOME, Sir Bolt, to me!
And a welcome, Sir Arrow, to thee!
But wherefore such pride
In your swift airy ride?
You're but splints of the ashen tree.
When once on earth lying,
There's an end of your flying!
Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby!
But we freshly will wing you
And back again swing you,
And teach you to wend
To your Moorish friend.
Ο
Sir Bolt, you have oft been here;
And Sir Arrow, you've often flown near;
But still from pure haste
All your courage would waste
On the earth and the streamlet clear.
What! over all leaping,
In shame are you sleeping?
Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby!
Or if you smote one,
'Twas but darklingly done,
As the grain that winds fling
To the bird on the wing.
## p. 5909 (#497) ###########################################
5909
ANATOLE FRANCE
(1844-)
NATOLE FRANCE, whose real name of Thibault is sunk in his
literary signature, was born in Paris, April 16th, 1844. His
father, a wealthy bookseller, seems to have been a thought-
ful, meditative man, and his mother a woman of great refinement
and tenderness. Their son shows the result of the double influence.
Always fond of books, he early devoted himself to literary work,
and made his début as writer in 1868 in a biographical study of
Alfred de Vigny. This was shortly followed by two volumes of
poetry: 'Les Poèmes Dorés' (Golden Verses)
and 'Les Noces Corinthéennes (Corinthian
Revels). Since this work of his youth he
has published at least twelve novels and
romances, of which the most familiar are:
'Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard' (The
Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard), 'Le Livre de
Mon Ami (My Friend's Book), 'Le Lys
Rouge (The Red Lily), and 'Les Désirs
de Jean Servieu' (Jean Servieu's Wishes).
Several volumes of essays, critical intro-
ductions to splendid editions of Racine,
Molière, La Fontaine, and Le Sage, of
'Manon Lescaut' and 'Paul and Virginia,'
numberless studies of men and books for
the reviews and journals, - these measure the tireless industry of an
incessant worker. In 1876 M. France became an attaché of the
Library of the Senate. In December 1896 he was received as
member of the French Academy, succeeding to the chair of Ferdi-
nand de Lesseps, whose eulogy he pronounced with exquisite taste
and grace.
ANATOLE FRANCE
Like Renan, whose disciple he is, this fine artist was formed in
the clerical schools. His perfection of style, clear, distinguished,
scintillating with wit and fancy, furnishes, as a distinguished French
critic remarks, a strong contrast to the painful and heavy periods of
the literary products of a State education. He is an enthusiastic
humanist, a fervent Neo-Hellenist, delicately sensitive to the beauty
of the antique, the magic of words, and the harmony of phrase.
Outside of France, his best known works are 'Le Crime de Syl-
vestre Bonnard' (crowned by the Academy) and 'Le Livre de Mon
## p. 5910 (#498) ###########################################
5910
ANATOLE FRANCE
Ami. ' The first of these expresses the author's Hellenism, sentiment,
experience, love of form, and gentle pessimism. Into the character
of Sylvestre Bonnard, that intelligent, contemplative, ironical, sweet-
natured old philosopher, he has put most of himself. In 'Le Livre de
Mon Ami' are reflected the childhood and youth of the author. It is
a living book, made out of the impulses of the heart, holding the
very essence of moral grace, written with exquisite irony absolutely
free from bitterness.
It is to be regretted that in some of his later writings this charm-
ing writer has fallen short of the standard of these works, though
the versatility of talent he displays is great and admirable.
'Thaïs' he has painted the magnificent Alexandria of the Ptolemies;
in Le Lys Rouge' the Florence of to-day. In 'La Rôtisserie de la
Reine Pedauque' (The Cook-Shop of the Queen Pedauque) and in
'Les Opinions de M. Jérome Coignard,' Gil Blas, Rabelais, Wilhelm
Meister, and Montaigne seem to jostle each other. In 'Le Jardin
d'Épicure (The Garden of Epicurus) a modern Epicurus, discreet,
indulgent, listless, listens to lively discussions between the shades of
Plato, Origen, Augustine, Hegel, and Schopenhauer, while an Esqui-
maux refutes Bossuet, a Polynesian develops his theory of the soul,
and Cicero and Cousin agree in their estimate of a future life.
In his own words, M. Anatole France has always been inclined to
take life as a spectacle, offering no solution of its perplexities, pro-
posing no remedies for its ills. His literary quality, as M. Jules
Lemaître observes, owes little or nothing to the spirit or literature of
the North. His intelligence is the pure and extreme product of
Greek and Latin tradition.
IN THE GARDENS
From The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Copyright, 1890, by Harper &
Brothers
APRIL 16.
T. DROCTOVEUS and the early abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Prés
S have been occupying me for the past forty years; but I do
not know whether I shall be able to write their history be-
fore I go to join them. It is already quite a long time since I
became an old man. One day last year, on the Pont des Arts,
one of my fellow-members at the Institute was lamenting before
me over the ennui of becoming old.
"Still," Sainte-Beuve replied to him, "it is the only way that
has yet been found of living a long time. "
## p. 5911 (#499) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5911
I have tried this way, and I know just what it is worth.
The trouble of it is not that one lasts too long, but that one
sees all about him pass away-mother, wife, friends, children.
Nature makes and unmakes all these divine treasures with gloomy
indifference, and at last we find that we have not loved,-- we have
only been embracing shadows. But how sweet some shadows
are! If ever creature glided like a shadow through the life of a
man, it was certainly that young girl whom I fell in love with
when incredible though it now seems-I was myself a youth.
-
A Christian sarcophagus from the catacombs of Rome bears a
formula of imprecation, the whole terrible meaning of which I
only learned with time. It says:-"Whatsoever impious man vio-
lates this sepulchre, may he die the last of his own people! » In
my capacity of archæologist I have opened tombs and disturbed
ashes, in order to collect the shreds of apparel, metal ornaments,
or gems that were mingled with those ashes. But I did it only
through that scientific curiosity which does not exclude the feel-
ings of reverence and of piety. May that malediction graven by
some one of the first followers of the Apostles upon a martyr's
tomb never fall upon me! I ought not to fear to survive my own
people so long as there are men in the world; for there are
always some whom one can love.
But the power of love itself weakens and gradually becomes
lost with age, like all the other energies of man. Example
proves it; and it is this which terrifies me. Am I sure that I
have not myself already suffered this great loss? I should surely
have felt it, but for the happy meeting which has rejuvenated
me. Poets speak of the Fountain of Youth: it does exist; it
gushes up from the earth at every step we take.
And one
passes by without drinking of it!
The young girl I loved, married of her own choice to a rival,
passed, all gray-haired, into the eternal rest. I have found her
daughter-so that my life, which before seemed to me without
utility, now once more finds a purpose and a reason for being.
To-day I "take the sun," as they say in Provence; I take it
on the terrace of the Luxembourg, at the foot of the statue of
Marguerite de Navarre. It is a spring sun, intoxicating as young
wine. I sit and dream.
My thoughts escape from my head like
the foam from a bottle of beer. They are light, and their fizzing
amuses me. I dream; such a pastime is certainly permissible to
an old fellow who has published thirty volumes of texts, and
## p. 5912 (#500) ###########################################
5912
ANATOLE FRANCE
contributed to the Journal des Savants for twenty-six years.
have the satisfaction of feeling that I performed my task as well
as it was possible for me, and that I utilized to their fullest
extent these mediocre faculties with which nature endowed me.
My efforts were not all in vain, and I have contributed, in my
own modest way, to that renaissance of historical labors which
will remain the honor of this restless century. I shall certainly
be counted among those ten or twelve who revealed to France
her own literary antiquities. My publication of the poetical
works of Gautier de Coincy inaugurated a judicious system and
made a date. It is in the austere calm of old age that I decree
to myself this deserved credit, and God, who sees my heart,
knows whether pride or vanity have aught to do with this self-
award of justice.
But I am tired; my eyes are dim; my hand trembles, and I
see an image of myself in those old men of Homer, whose weak-
ness excluded them from the battle, and who, seated upon the
ramparts, lifted up their voices like crickets among the leaves.
So my thoughts were wandering, when three young men seated
themselves near me. I do not know whether each one of them
had come in three boats, like the monkey of La Fontaine, but the
three certainly displayed themselves over the space of twelve
chairs. I took pleasure in watching them, not because they had
anything very extraordinary about them, but because I discerned
in them that brave joyous manner which is natural to youth.
They were from the schools. I was less assured of it by the
books they were carrying than by the character of their physiog-
nomy. For all who busy themselves with the things of the mind
can be at once recognized by an indescribable something which
is common to all of them. I am very fond of young people; and
these pleased me, in spite of a certain provoking wild manner
which recalled to me my own college days with marvelous vivid-
ness. But they did not wear velvet doublets and long hair, as
we used to do; they did not walk about, as we used to do, with
a death's-head; they did not cry out, as we used to do, "Hell
and malediction! " They were quite properly dressed, and neither
their costume nor their language had anything suggestive of the
Middle Ages. I must also add that they paid considerable atten-
tion to the women passing on the terrace, and expressed their
admiration of some of them in very animated language. But
their reflections, even on this subject, were not of a character to
## p. 5913 (#501) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5913
oblige me to flee from my seat. Besides, so long as youth is
studious, I think it has a right to its gayeties.
One of them having made some gallant pleasantry which I
forget, the smallest and darkest of the three exclaimed, with a
slight Gascon accent:
-
"What a thing to say! Only physiologists like us have any
right to occupy ourselves about living matter. As for you, Gélis,
who only live in the past,-like all your fellow archivists and
paleographers,-you will do better to confine yourself to those
stone women over there, who are your contemporaries. "
And he pointed to the statues of the Ladies of Ancient France
which towered up, all white, in a half-circle under the trees of
the terrace. This joke, though in itself trifling, enabled me to
know that the young man called Gélis was a student at the École
des Chartes. From the conversation which followed I was able
to learn that his neighbor, blond and wan almost to diaphaneity,
taciturn and sarcastic, was Boulmier, a fellow-student. Gélis and
the future doctor (I hope he will become one some day) dis-
coursed together with much fantasy and spirit. In the midst of
the loftiest speculations they would play upon words, and make
jokes after the peculiar fashion of really witty persons- that is
to say, in a style of enormous absurdity. I need hardly say, I
suppose, that they only deigned to maintain the most monstrous
kind of paradoxes. They employed all their powers of imagina-
tion to make themselves as ludicrous as possible, and all their
powers of reasoning to assert the contrary of common-sense.
All the better for them! I do not like to see young folks too
rational.
The student of medicine, after glancing at the title of the
book that Boulmier held in his hand, exclaimed:-
—
"What! - you read Michelet -
you? »
"Yes," replied Boulmier very gravely.
"I like novels. "
Gélis, who dominated both by his fine stature, imperious ges-
tures, and ready wit, took the book, turned over a few pages
rapidly, and said:-
"Michelet always had a great propensity to emotional tender-
ness. He wept sweet tears over Maillard, that nice little man
who introduced la paperasserie into the September massacres.
But as emotional tenderness leads to fury, he becomes all at once
furious against the victims. There is no help for it. It is the
sentimentality of the age. The assassin is pitied, but the victim.
## p. 5914 (#502) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5914
is considered quite unpardonable. In his later manner Miche-
let is more Michelet than ever before. There is no common-
sense in it; it is simply wonderful! Neither art nor science,
neither criticism nor narrative; only furies and fainting spells
and epileptic fits over matters which he never deigns to explain.
Childish outcries-envies de femme grosse! -and a style, my
friends! not a single finished phrase! It is astounding! "
And he handed the book back to his comrade.
"This is
amusing madness," I thought to myself, "and not quite so devoid
of common-sense as it appears. This young man, though only
playing, has sharply touched the defect in the cuirass. "
But the Provençal student declared that history was a thor-
oughly despicable exercise of rhetoric. According to him, the
only true history was the natural history of man. Michelet was
in the right path when he came in contact with the fistula of
Louis XIV. , but he fell back into the old rut almost immediately
afterwards.
―
After this judicious expression of opinion, the young physiol-
ogist went to join a party of passing friends. The two archi-
vists, less well acquainted in the neighborhood of a garden so
far from the Rue Paradis-aux-Marais, remained together, and
began to chat about their studies. Gélis, who had completed his
third class-year, was preparing a thesis, on the subject of which
he expatiated with youthful enthusiasm. Indeed, I thought the
subject a very good one, particularly because I had recently
thought myself called upon to treat a notable part of it. It was
the 'Monasticum Gallicanum. ' The young erudite (I give him the
name as a presage) wants to describe all the engravings made
about 1690 for the work which Dom Michel Germain would have
had printed, but for the one irremediable hindrance which is
rarely foreseen and never avoided. Dom Michel Germain left
his manuscript complete, however, and in good order when he
died. Shall I be able to do as much with mine? - but that is
not the present question. So far as I am able to understand,
M. Gélis intends to devote a brief archæological notice to each
of the abbeys pictured by the humble engravers of Dom Michel
Germain.
His friend asked him whether he was acquainted with all the
manuscripts and printed documents relating to the subject. It
was then that I pricked up my ears. They spoke at first of ori-
ginal sources; and I must confess they did so in a satisfactory
## p. 5915 (#503) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5915
Then
manner, despite their innumerable and detestable puns.
they began to speak about contemporary studies on the subject.
"Have you read," asked Boulmier, "the notice of Courajod? »
"Good! " I thought to myself.
"Yes," replied Gélis; "it is accurate. "
"Have you read," said Boulmier, "the article by Tamisey de
Larroque in the Revue des Questions Historiques? "
"Good! " I thought to myself, for the second time.
"Yes," replied Gélis, "it is full of things. "
"Have you read," said Boulmier, "the "Tableau des Abbayes
Bénédictines en 1600,' by Sylvestre Bonnard? »
"Good! " I said to myself, for the third time.
"Ma foi! no! " replied Gélis.
Turning my head, I perceived that the shadow had reached
the place where I was sitting. It was growing chilly, and I
thought to myself what a fool I was to have remained sitting
there, at the risk of getting the rheumatism, just to listen to the
impertinence of those two young fellows!
"Let this prat-
"Well! well! " I said to myself as I got up.
tling fledgeling write his thesis, and sustain it! He will find my
colleague Quicherat, or some other professor at the school, to
show him what an ignoramus he is. I consider him neither more
nor less than a rascal; and really, now that I come to think of
it, what he said about Michelet awhile ago was quite insufferable,
outrageous! To talk in that way about an old master replete with
genius! It was simply abominable! "
"Bonnard is an idiot! "
CHILD-LIFE
From The Book of My Friend'
Ε΄
It was
VERYTHING in immortal nature is a miracle to the little child.
I was happy. A thousand things at once familiar and
mysterious filled my imagination, a thousand things which
were nothing in themselves, but which made my life.
very small, that life of mine; but it was a life—which is to say,
the centre of all things, the kernel of the world. Do not smile
at what I say,—or smile only in sympathy, and reflect: whoever
lives, be it only a dog, is at the centre of all things.
Deciding to be a hermit and a saint, and to resign the good
things of this world, I threw my toys out of the window.
## p. 5916 (#504) ###########################################
5916
ANATOLE FRANCE
"The child is a fool! " cried my father, closing the window.
I felt anger and shame at hearing myself thus judged. But im-
mediately I considered that my father, not being so holy as I,
could never share with me the glory of the blessed, and this
thought was for me a great consolation.
Every Saturday we were taken to confession. If any one will
tell me why, he will greatly oblige me. The practice inspired me
with both respect and weariness. I hardly think it probable that
M. le Curé took a lively interest in hearing my sins; but it was
certainly disagreeable to me to cite them to him. The first diffi-
culty was to find them. You can perhaps believe me, when I
declare that at ten years of age I did not possess the psychic
qualities and the methods of analysis which would have made it
possible rationally to explore my inmost conscience.
less it was necessary to have sins: for no sins, no confession.
I had been given, it is true, a little book which contained them
all: I had only to choose. But the choice itself was difficult.
There was so much obscurely said of "larceny, simony, prevari-
cation"! I read in the little book, "I accuse myself of having
despaired; I accuse myself of having listened to evil conversa-
tions. " Even this furnished little wherewith to burden my con-
science. Therefore ordinarily I confined myself to "distractions. "
Distractions during mass, distractions during meals, distractions.
in "religious assemblies,"I avowed all; yet the deplorable
emptiness of my conscience filled me with deep shame.
I was
humiliated at having no sins.
I will tell you what, each year, the stormy skies of autumn,
the first dinners by lamplight, the yellowing leaves on the shiver-
ing trees, bring to my mind; I will tell you what I see as I
cross the Luxembourg garden in the early October days - those
sad and beautiful days when the leaves fall, one by one, on the
white shoulders of the statues there.
.
-
What I see then is a little fellow who with his hands in his
pockets is going to school, hopping along like a sparrow. I see him
in thought only, for he is but a shadow, a shadow of the "me"
as I was twenty-five years ago. Really, he interests me,- this
little fellow. When he was living I gave him but little thought,
but now that he is no more, I love him well. He was worth alto-
gether more than the rest of the "me's" that I have been since.
He was a happy-hearted boy as he crossed the Luxembourg gar-
den in the fresh air of the morning. All that he saw then I see
## p. 5917 (#505) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5917
to-day.
It is the same sky, and the same earth; the same soul
of things is here as before, that soul that still makes me gay,
or sad, or troubled: only he is no more! He was heedless enough,
but he was not wicked; and in justice to him I must declare
that he has not left me a single harsh memory. He was an
innocent child that I have lost. It is natural that I should
regret him; it is natural that I should see him in thought, and
delight in recalling him to memory.
Nothing is of more value for giving a child a knowledge of
the great social machine than the life of the streets. He should
see in the morning the milkwomen, the water carriers, the char-
coal men; he should look in the shop windows of the grocer, the
pork vender, and the wine-seller; he should watch the regiments
pass, with the music of the band. In short, he should suck in
the air of the streets, that he may learn that the law of labor is
Divine, and that each man has his work to do in the world.
Oh! ye sordid old Jews of the Rue Cherche-Midi, and you
my masters, simple sellers of old books on the quays, what
gratitude do I owe you! More and better than university pro-
fessors, have you contributed to my intellectual life! You dis-
played before my ravished eyes the mysterious forms of the life
of the past, and every sort of monument of precious human
thought. In ferreting among your shelves, in contemplating
your dusty display laden with the pathetic relics of our fathers
and their noble thoughts, I have been penetrated with the most
wholesome of philosophies. In studying the worm-eaten volumes,
the rusty iron-work, the worn carvings of your stock, I expe-
rienced, child as I was, a profound realization of the fluent,
changing nature of things and the nothingness of all, and I have
been always since inclined to sadness, to gentleness, and pity.
The open-air school taught me, as you see, great lessons; but
the home school was more profitable still. The family repast, so
charming when the glasses are clear, the cloth white, and the
faces tranquil,-the dinner of each day with its familiar talk,-
gives to the child the taste for the humble and holy things of
life, the love of loving. He eats day by day that blessed bread
which the spiritual Father broke and gave to the pilgrims in the
inn at Emmaus, and says, like them, "My heart is warmed
within me. " Ah! how good a school is the school of home! . .
The little fellow of whom I spoke but just now to you, with a
sympathy for which you pardon me, perhaps, reflecting that it is
-
•
## p. 5918 (#506) ###########################################
5918
ANATOLE FRANCE
not egotistic but is addressed only to a shadow, the little fellow
who crossed the Luxembourg garden, hopping like a sparrow,-
became later an enthusiastic humanist.
---
I studied Homer. I saw Thetis rise like a white mist over
the sea, I saw Nausicaa and her companions, and the palm-tree
of Delos, and the sky, and the earth, and the sea, and the tear-
ful smile of Andromache. I comprehended, I felt. For six
months I lived in the Odyssey. This was the cause of numerous
punishments: but what to me were pensums? I was with Ulys-
ses on his violet sea. Alcestis and Antigone gave me more noble
dreams than ever child had before. With my head swallowed up
in the dictionary on my ink-stained desk, I saw divine forms,-
ivory arms falling on white tunics,- and heard voices sweeter
than the sweetest music, lamenting harmoniously.
This again cost me fresh punishments. They were just; I was
"busying" myself "with things foreign to the class. " Alas! the
habit remains with me still. In whatever class in life I am put
for the rest of my days, I fear yet, old as I am, to encounter
again the reproach of my old professor: "Monsieur Pierre No-
zièrre, you busy yourself with things foreign to the class. "
But the evening falls over the plane-trees of the Luxembourg,
and the little phantom which I have evoked disappears in the
shadow. Adieu! little
Adieu! little "me" whom I have lost, whom I should
forever regret, had I not found thee again, beautified, in my son!
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature. '
FROM THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS ›
IN
RONY and pity are two good counselors: the one, who smiles,
makes life amiable; the other, who weeps, makes it sacred.
The Irony that I invoke is not cruel. She mocks neither
love nor beauty. She is gentle and benevolent. Her smile calms
anger, and it is she who teaches us to laugh at fools and sinners
whom, but for her, we might be weak enough to hate.
## p. 5919 (#507) ###########################################
5919
ST. FRANCIS D'ASSISI
(1182-1225)
BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN
RANCIS D'ASSISI was at first called Francis Bernardone. His
father Pietro was a merchant of Assisi, much given to the
pomps and vanities of the world, a lover of France and of
everything French. It was after a visit to France in 1182 that, re-
joining his beloved wife Pica in the vale of Umbria, he found that
God had given to him a little son. Pica called the boy John, in
honor of the playmate of the little Christ; but Pietro commanded
that he should be named Francis, because of the bright land from
whence he drew the rich silks and thick velvets he liked to handle
and to sell.
The vale of Umbria is the place for poets; it should be visited in
the summer, when the roses bloom on the trellises which the early
Italian painters put as backgrounds to their mothers and children.
Florence is not far away; and near is the birthplace of one of the
fathers of the sonnet, Fra Guittone, and of another poet, Propertius.
Francis's childhood, boyhood, and later youth were happy. His
father denied him no luxury in his power to give; he was sent to the
priests of the church of St. George. They taught him some Latin
and much of the Provençal tongue, - for at that time there was no
Italian language; there were only dialects, and the Provençal was
used by the elegant, those who loved poetry. Francis Bernardone
was one of these; he sang the popular Provençal songs of the day to
the lute, for he had learned music. And so passionately did he long
for "excess of it," that, the legend says, he stayed up all one night
singing a duet with a nightingale. The bird conquered; and later,
Francis made a poem glorifying the Creator who had given such a
thrilling voice to it.
Up to the age of twenty-four Francis had been one of the lightest
hearted and the lightest headed of the rich young men of Assisi.
sion of the soul beaming in her eyes, such as he had never wit-
nessed there before, left him in undoubted assurance that Undine
bore him no ill-will.
He then rose joyfully, and leaving her, went to the common
apartment, where the inmates of the house had already met.
The three were sitting round the hearth with an air of anxiety
about them, as if they feared trusting themselves to raise their
voice above a low, apprehensive undertone. The priest appeared
to be praying in his inmost spirit, with a view to avert some
fatal calamity. But when they observed the young husband come
forth so cheerful, they dispelled the cloud that remained upon
their brows: the old fisherman even began to laugh with the
knight, till his aged wife herself could not help smiling with
great good-humor.
Undine had in the mean time got ready, and now entered the
room: all rose to meet her, but remained fixed in perfect admi-
ration- she was so changed, and yet the same. The priest,
with paternal affection beaming from his countenance, first went
up to her; and as he raised his hand to pronounce a blessing, the
beautiful bride sank on her knees before him with religious awe;
she begged his pardon in terms both respectful and submissive
for any foolish things she might have uttered the evening
before, and entreated him with emotion to pray for the welfare
of her soul. She then rose, kissed her foster-parents, and after
thanking them for all the kindness they had shown her, said:
"Oh, I now feel in my inmost heart how much, how infinitely
much, you have done for me, you dear, dear friends of my
childhood! "
At first she was wholly unable to tear herself away from their
affectionate caresses; but the moment she saw the good old
## p. 5901 (#489) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5901
mother busy in getting breakfast, she went to the hearth, ap-
plied herself to cooking the food and putting it on the table, and
would not suffer her to take the least share in the work.
She continued in this frame of spirit the whole day: calm,
kind, attentive-half matronly and half girlish. The three who
had been longest acquainted with her expected every instant to
see her capricious spirit break out in some whimsical change or
sportive vagary. But their fears were quite unnecessary. Undine
continued as mild and gentle as an angel. The priest found it
all but impossible to remove his eyes from her; and he often
said to the bridegroom:-
"The bounty of Heaven, sir, through me its unworthy instru-
ment, intrusted to you yesterday an invaluable treasure: cherish
it as you ought, and it will promote your temporal and eternal
welfare. "
―――
Toward evening Undine was hanging upon the knight's arm
with lowly tenderness, while she drew him gently out before the
door, where the setting sun shone richly over the fresh grass and
upon the high slender boles of the trees. Her emotion was vis-
ible; the dew of sadness and love swam in her eyes, while a
tender and fearful secret seemed to hover upon her lips, but was
only made known by hardly breathed sighs. She led her hus-
band farther and farther onward without speaking. When he
asked her questions, she replied only with looks, in which, it is
true, there appeared to be no immediate answer to his inquiries,
but a whole heaven of love and timid devotion. Thus they
reached the margin of the swollen forest stream, and the knight
was astonished to see it gliding away with so gentle a murmur-
ing of its waves, that no vestige of its former swell and wildness
was now discernible.
"By morning it will be wholly drained off," said the beautiful
wife, almost weeping, "and you will then be able to travel,
without anything to hinder you, whithersoever you will. "
"Not without you, dear Undine,” replied the knight, laugh-
ing: "think only, were I disposed to leave you, both the Church
and the spiritual powers, the emperor and the laws of the realm,
would require the fugitive to be seized and restored to you. "
"All this depends on you-all depends on you," whispered
his little companion, half weeping and half smiling. "But I still
feel sure that you will not leave me; I love you too deeply to
fear that misery. Now bear me over to that little island which
## p. 5902 (#490) ###########################################
5902
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
lies before us. There shall the decision be made. I could easily,
indeed, glide through that mere rippling of the water without
your aid, but it is so sweet to lie in your arms; and should you
determine to put me away, I shall have rested in them once
more,
for the last time. "
·
Huldbrand was so full of strange anxiety and emotion, that
he knew not what answer to make her. He took her in his
arms and carried her over, now first realizing the fact that this
was the same little island from which he had borne her back to
the old fisherman, the first night of his arrival. On the farther
side he placed her upon the soft grass, and was throwing himself
lovingly near his beautiful burden; but she said to him:-"Not
here, but opposite me. I shall read my doom in your eyes, even
before your lips pronounce it; now listen attentively to what I
shall relate to you. " And she began:-
"You must know, my own love, that there are beings in the
elements which bear the strongest resemblance to the human
race, and which at the same time but seldom become visible to
you. The wonderful salamanders sparkle and sport amid the
flames; deep in the earth the meagre and malicious gnomes pur-
sue their revels; the forest spirits belong to the air, and wander
in the woods; while in the seas, rivers, and streams live the
widespread race of water spirits. These last, beneath resounding
domes of crystal, through which the sky can shine with its sun
and stars, inhabit a region of light and beauty; lofty coral-trees
glow with blue and crimson fruits in their gardens; they walk
over the pure sand of the sea, among exquisitely variegated
shells, and amid whatever of beauty the old world possessed,
such as the present is no more worthy to enjoy,-creations which
the floods covered with their secret veils of silver; and now these
noble monuments sparkle below, stately and solemn, and bedewed
by the water, which loves them, and calls forth from their crevices
delicate moss-flowers and enwreathing tufts of sedge.
(( Now, the nation that dwell there are very fair and lovely to
behold, for the most part more beautiful than human beings.
Many a fisherman has been so fortunate as to catch a view of a
delicate maiden of the waters, while she was floating and sing-
ing upon the deep. He would then spread far the fame of her
beauty; and to such wonderful females men are wont to give the
name of Undines. But what need of saying more?
You, my
dear husband, now actually behold an Undine before you. "
-
## p. 5903 (#491) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5903
The knight would have persuaded himself that his lovely wife
was under the influence of one of her odd whims, and that she
was only amusing herself and him with her extravagant inven-
tions. He wished it might be so. But with whatever emphasis
he said this to himself, he still could not credit the hope for a
moment: a strange shivering shot through his soul; unable to
utter a word, he gazed upon the sweet speaker with a fixed eye.
She shook her head in distress, sighed from her full heart, and
then proceeded in the following manner:
"We should be far superior to you, who are another race of
the human family,- for we also call ourselves human beings, as
we resemble them in form and features,-had we not one evil
peculiar to ourselves. Both we and the beings I have mentioned
as inhabiting the other elements vanish into air at death and go
out of existence, spirit and body, so that no vestige of us re-
mains; and when you hereafter awake to a purer state of being,
we shall remain where sand and sparks and wind and waves
remain. Thus, we have no souls; the element moves us, and
again is obedient to our will while we live, though it scatters us
like dust when we die; and as we have nothing to trouble us,
we are as merry as nightingales, little gold-fishes, and other
pretty children of nature.
"But all beings aspire to rise in the scale of existence higher
than they are. It was therefore the wish of my father, who is a
powerful water prince in the Mediterranean Sea, that his only
daughter should become possessed of a soul, although she should
have to endure many of the sufferings of those who share that gift.
"Now, the race to which I belong have no other means of
obtaining a soul than by forming with an individual of your own.
the most intimate union of love. I am now possessed of a soul,
and my soul thanks you, my best beloved, and never shall cease
to thank you, if you do not render my whole future life miser-
able. For what will become of me, if you avoid and reject me?
Still, I would not keep you as my own by artifice. And should
you decide to cast me off, then do it now, and return alone
to the shore. I will plunge into this brook, where my uncle.
will receive me; my uncle, who here in the forest, far removed
from his other friends, passes his strange and solitary existence.
But he is powerful, as well as revered and beloved by many
great rivers; and as he brought me hither to the fisherman a
light-hearted and laughing child, he will take me home to my
## p. 5904 (#492) ###########################################
5904
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
parents a woman, gifted with a soul, with power to love and to
suffer. "
She was about to add something more, when Huldbrand with
the most heartfelt tenderness and love clasped her in his arms,
and again bore her back to the shore. There amid tears and
kisses he first swore never to forsake his affectionate wife, and
esteemed himself even more happy than Pygmalion, for whom
Venus gave life to this beautiful statue, and thus changed it into
a beloved wife. Supported by his arm, and in the confidence of
affection, Undine returned to the cottage; and now she first
realized with her whole heart how little cause she had for re-
gretting what she had left- the crystal palaces of her mysterious
father.
THE LAST APPEARANCE OF UNDINE
From Undine ›
HOULD I relate to you how passed the marriage feast at Castle
Ringstetten, it would be as if you saw a heap of bright and
pleasant things, but all overspread with a black mourning
crape, through whose darkening veil their brilliancy would ap-
pear but a mockery of the nothingness of all earthly joys.
It was not that any spectral delusion disturbed the scene of
festivity; for the castle, as we well know, had been secured
against the mischief of the water spirits. But the knight, the
fisherman, and all the guests were unable to banish the feeling
that the chief personage of the feast was still wanting, and that
this chief personage could be no other than the gentle and be-
loved Undine.
Whenever a door was heard to open, all eyes were involun-
tarily turned in that direction; and if it was nothing but the
steward with new dishes, or the cup-bearer with a supply of
wine of higher flavor than the last, they again looked down in
sadness and disappointment, while the flashes of wit and mer-
riment which had been passing at times from one to another
were extinguished by tears of mournful remembrance.
The bride was the least thoughtful of the company, and there-
fore the most happy; but even to her it sometimes seemed strange
that she should be sitting at the head of the table, wearing a
green wreath and gold-embroidered robe, while Undine was lying
a corpse, stiff and cold, at the bottom of the Danube, or carried
## p. 5905 (#493) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUE
5905
out by the current into the ocean. For ever since her father
had suggested something of this sort, his words were continually
sounding in her ear; and this day in particular, they would neither
fade from her memory nor yield to other thoughts.
Evening had scarcely arrived when the company returned to
their homes; not dismissed by the impatience of the bridegroom,
as wedding parties are sometimes broken up, but constrained
solely by heavy sadness and forebodings of evil. Bertalda retired
with her maidens, and the knight with his attendants, to undress;
but there was no gay laughing company of bridesmaids and
bridesmen at this mournful festival.
Bertalda wished to awake more cheerful thoughts: she ordered
her maidens to spread before her a brilliant set of jewels, a pres-
ent from Huldbrand, together with rich apparel and veils, that
she might select from among them the brightest and most beauti-
ful for her dress in the morning. The attendants rejoiced at this
opportunity of pouring forth good wishes and promises of happi-
ness to their young mistress, and failed not to extol the beauty
of the bride with the most glowing eloquence. This went on
for a long time, until Bertalda at last, looking in a mirror, said
with a sigh:-
"Ah, but do you not see plainly how freckled I am growing?
Look here on the side of my neck,"
They looked at the place and found the freckles indeed, as
their fair mistress had said; but they called them mere beauty-
spots, the faintest touches of the sun, such as would only heighten
the whiteness of her delicate complexion. Bertalda shook her
head, and still viewed them as a blemish.
—
"And I could remove them," she said at last, sighing.
« But
the castle fountain is covered, from which I formerly used to
have that precious water, so purifying to the skin. Oh, had I
this evening only a single flask of it! "
"Is that all? " cried an alert waiting-maid, laughing as she
glided out of the apartment.
"She will not be so foolish," said Bertalda, well pleased and
surprised, "as to cause the stone cover of the fountain to be
taken off this very evening? " That instant they heard the
tread of men already passing along the court-yard, and could see
from the window where the officious maiden was leading them
directly up to the fountain, and that they carried levers and
other instruments on their shoulders.
X-370
## p. 5906 (#494) ###########################################
5906
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
"It is certainly my will," said Bertalda with a smile, "if it
does not take them too long. " And pleased with the thought
that a word from her was now sufficient to accomplish what had
formerly been refused with a painful reproof, she looked down
upon their operations in the bright moonlit castle court.
The men raised the enormous stone with an effort; some one
of the number indeed would occasionally sigh, when he recol-
lected that they were destroying the work of their former be-
loved mistress. Their labor, however, was much lighter than
they had expected. It seemed as if some power from within the
fountain itself aided them in raising the stone.
"It appears," said the workmen to one another in astonish-
ment, as if the confined water had become a springing fount-
ain. " And the stone rose more and more, and almost without
the assistance of the workpeople, rolled slowly down upon the
pavement with a hollow sound. But an appearance from the
opening of the fountain filled them with awe, as it rose like a
white column of water; at first they imagined it really to be a
fountain, until they perceived the rising form to be a pale
female, veiled in white. She wept bitterly, raised her hands
above her head, wringing them sadly as with slow and solemn
step she moved toward the castle. The servants shrank back,
and fled from the spring, while the bride, pale and motionless
with horror, stood with her maidens at the window. When the
figure had now come close beneath their room, it looked up to
them sobbing, and Bertalda thought she recognized through the
veil the pale features of Undine. But the mourning form passed
on, sad, reluctant, and lingering, as if going to the place of exe-
cution. Bertalda screamed to her maids to call the knight; not
one of them dared to stir from her place; and even the bride
herself became again mute, as if trembling at the sound of her
own voice.
While they continued standing at the window, motionless as
statues, the mysterious wanderer had entered the castle, ascended
the well-known stairs, and traversed the well-known halls, in
silent tears. Alas, how differently had she once passed through
these rooms!
The knight had in the mean time dismissed his attendants.
Half undressed and in deep dejection, he was standing before a
large mirror; a wax taper burned dimly beside him. At this
moment some one tapped at his door very, very softly.
Undine
## p. 5907 (#495) ###########################################
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
5907
had formerly tapped in this way, when she was playing some of
her endearing wiles.
"It is all an illusion! " said he to himself. "I must to my
nuptial bed. "
"You must indeed, but to a cold one! " he heard a voice,
choked with sobs, repeat from without; and then he saw in the
mirror that the door of his room was slowly, slowly opened, and
the white figure entered, and gently closed it behind her.
"They have opened the spring," said she in a low tone; "and
now I am here, and you must die. "
He felt in his failing breath that this must indeed be; but
covering his eyes with his hands, he cried: "Do not in my death-
hour, do not make me mad with terror. If that veil conceals
hideous features, do not lift it! Take my life, but let me not see
you,»
――
"Alas! " replied the pale figure, "will you not then look upon
me once more? I am as fair now as when you wooed me on
the island! "
"Oh, if it indeed were so," sighed Huldbrand, "and that I
might die by a kiss from you! "
"Most willingly, my own love," said she. She threw back her
veil; heavenly fair shone forth her pure countenance. Trembling
with love and the awe of approaching death, the knight leant
towards her. She kissed him with a holy kiss; but she relaxed
not her hold, pressing him more closely in her arms, and weeping
as if she would weep away her soul. Tears rushed into the
knight's eyes, while a thrill both of bliss and agony shot through
his heart, until he at last expired, sinking softly back from her
fair arms upon the pillow of his couch a corpse.
"I have wept him to death! " said she to some domestics who
met her in the ante-chamber; and passing through the terrified
group, she went slowly out, and disappeared in the fountain.
## p. 5908 (#496) ###########################################
5908
FRIEDRICH LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ
SONG FROM MINSTREL LOVE›
H WELCOME, Sir Bolt, to me!
And a welcome, Sir Arrow, to thee!
But wherefore such pride
In your swift airy ride?
You're but splints of the ashen tree.
When once on earth lying,
There's an end of your flying!
Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby!
But we freshly will wing you
And back again swing you,
And teach you to wend
To your Moorish friend.
Ο
Sir Bolt, you have oft been here;
And Sir Arrow, you've often flown near;
But still from pure haste
All your courage would waste
On the earth and the streamlet clear.
What! over all leaping,
In shame are you sleeping?
Lullaby! lullaby! lullaby!
Or if you smote one,
'Twas but darklingly done,
As the grain that winds fling
To the bird on the wing.
## p. 5909 (#497) ###########################################
5909
ANATOLE FRANCE
(1844-)
NATOLE FRANCE, whose real name of Thibault is sunk in his
literary signature, was born in Paris, April 16th, 1844. His
father, a wealthy bookseller, seems to have been a thought-
ful, meditative man, and his mother a woman of great refinement
and tenderness. Their son shows the result of the double influence.
Always fond of books, he early devoted himself to literary work,
and made his début as writer in 1868 in a biographical study of
Alfred de Vigny. This was shortly followed by two volumes of
poetry: 'Les Poèmes Dorés' (Golden Verses)
and 'Les Noces Corinthéennes (Corinthian
Revels). Since this work of his youth he
has published at least twelve novels and
romances, of which the most familiar are:
'Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard' (The
Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard), 'Le Livre de
Mon Ami (My Friend's Book), 'Le Lys
Rouge (The Red Lily), and 'Les Désirs
de Jean Servieu' (Jean Servieu's Wishes).
Several volumes of essays, critical intro-
ductions to splendid editions of Racine,
Molière, La Fontaine, and Le Sage, of
'Manon Lescaut' and 'Paul and Virginia,'
numberless studies of men and books for
the reviews and journals, - these measure the tireless industry of an
incessant worker. In 1876 M. France became an attaché of the
Library of the Senate. In December 1896 he was received as
member of the French Academy, succeeding to the chair of Ferdi-
nand de Lesseps, whose eulogy he pronounced with exquisite taste
and grace.
ANATOLE FRANCE
Like Renan, whose disciple he is, this fine artist was formed in
the clerical schools. His perfection of style, clear, distinguished,
scintillating with wit and fancy, furnishes, as a distinguished French
critic remarks, a strong contrast to the painful and heavy periods of
the literary products of a State education. He is an enthusiastic
humanist, a fervent Neo-Hellenist, delicately sensitive to the beauty
of the antique, the magic of words, and the harmony of phrase.
Outside of France, his best known works are 'Le Crime de Syl-
vestre Bonnard' (crowned by the Academy) and 'Le Livre de Mon
## p. 5910 (#498) ###########################################
5910
ANATOLE FRANCE
Ami. ' The first of these expresses the author's Hellenism, sentiment,
experience, love of form, and gentle pessimism. Into the character
of Sylvestre Bonnard, that intelligent, contemplative, ironical, sweet-
natured old philosopher, he has put most of himself. In 'Le Livre de
Mon Ami' are reflected the childhood and youth of the author. It is
a living book, made out of the impulses of the heart, holding the
very essence of moral grace, written with exquisite irony absolutely
free from bitterness.
It is to be regretted that in some of his later writings this charm-
ing writer has fallen short of the standard of these works, though
the versatility of talent he displays is great and admirable.
'Thaïs' he has painted the magnificent Alexandria of the Ptolemies;
in Le Lys Rouge' the Florence of to-day. In 'La Rôtisserie de la
Reine Pedauque' (The Cook-Shop of the Queen Pedauque) and in
'Les Opinions de M. Jérome Coignard,' Gil Blas, Rabelais, Wilhelm
Meister, and Montaigne seem to jostle each other. In 'Le Jardin
d'Épicure (The Garden of Epicurus) a modern Epicurus, discreet,
indulgent, listless, listens to lively discussions between the shades of
Plato, Origen, Augustine, Hegel, and Schopenhauer, while an Esqui-
maux refutes Bossuet, a Polynesian develops his theory of the soul,
and Cicero and Cousin agree in their estimate of a future life.
In his own words, M. Anatole France has always been inclined to
take life as a spectacle, offering no solution of its perplexities, pro-
posing no remedies for its ills. His literary quality, as M. Jules
Lemaître observes, owes little or nothing to the spirit or literature of
the North. His intelligence is the pure and extreme product of
Greek and Latin tradition.
IN THE GARDENS
From The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Copyright, 1890, by Harper &
Brothers
APRIL 16.
T. DROCTOVEUS and the early abbots of Saint-Germain-des-Prés
S have been occupying me for the past forty years; but I do
not know whether I shall be able to write their history be-
fore I go to join them. It is already quite a long time since I
became an old man. One day last year, on the Pont des Arts,
one of my fellow-members at the Institute was lamenting before
me over the ennui of becoming old.
"Still," Sainte-Beuve replied to him, "it is the only way that
has yet been found of living a long time. "
## p. 5911 (#499) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5911
I have tried this way, and I know just what it is worth.
The trouble of it is not that one lasts too long, but that one
sees all about him pass away-mother, wife, friends, children.
Nature makes and unmakes all these divine treasures with gloomy
indifference, and at last we find that we have not loved,-- we have
only been embracing shadows. But how sweet some shadows
are! If ever creature glided like a shadow through the life of a
man, it was certainly that young girl whom I fell in love with
when incredible though it now seems-I was myself a youth.
-
A Christian sarcophagus from the catacombs of Rome bears a
formula of imprecation, the whole terrible meaning of which I
only learned with time. It says:-"Whatsoever impious man vio-
lates this sepulchre, may he die the last of his own people! » In
my capacity of archæologist I have opened tombs and disturbed
ashes, in order to collect the shreds of apparel, metal ornaments,
or gems that were mingled with those ashes. But I did it only
through that scientific curiosity which does not exclude the feel-
ings of reverence and of piety. May that malediction graven by
some one of the first followers of the Apostles upon a martyr's
tomb never fall upon me! I ought not to fear to survive my own
people so long as there are men in the world; for there are
always some whom one can love.
But the power of love itself weakens and gradually becomes
lost with age, like all the other energies of man. Example
proves it; and it is this which terrifies me. Am I sure that I
have not myself already suffered this great loss? I should surely
have felt it, but for the happy meeting which has rejuvenated
me. Poets speak of the Fountain of Youth: it does exist; it
gushes up from the earth at every step we take.
And one
passes by without drinking of it!
The young girl I loved, married of her own choice to a rival,
passed, all gray-haired, into the eternal rest. I have found her
daughter-so that my life, which before seemed to me without
utility, now once more finds a purpose and a reason for being.
To-day I "take the sun," as they say in Provence; I take it
on the terrace of the Luxembourg, at the foot of the statue of
Marguerite de Navarre. It is a spring sun, intoxicating as young
wine. I sit and dream.
My thoughts escape from my head like
the foam from a bottle of beer. They are light, and their fizzing
amuses me. I dream; such a pastime is certainly permissible to
an old fellow who has published thirty volumes of texts, and
## p. 5912 (#500) ###########################################
5912
ANATOLE FRANCE
contributed to the Journal des Savants for twenty-six years.
have the satisfaction of feeling that I performed my task as well
as it was possible for me, and that I utilized to their fullest
extent these mediocre faculties with which nature endowed me.
My efforts were not all in vain, and I have contributed, in my
own modest way, to that renaissance of historical labors which
will remain the honor of this restless century. I shall certainly
be counted among those ten or twelve who revealed to France
her own literary antiquities. My publication of the poetical
works of Gautier de Coincy inaugurated a judicious system and
made a date. It is in the austere calm of old age that I decree
to myself this deserved credit, and God, who sees my heart,
knows whether pride or vanity have aught to do with this self-
award of justice.
But I am tired; my eyes are dim; my hand trembles, and I
see an image of myself in those old men of Homer, whose weak-
ness excluded them from the battle, and who, seated upon the
ramparts, lifted up their voices like crickets among the leaves.
So my thoughts were wandering, when three young men seated
themselves near me. I do not know whether each one of them
had come in three boats, like the monkey of La Fontaine, but the
three certainly displayed themselves over the space of twelve
chairs. I took pleasure in watching them, not because they had
anything very extraordinary about them, but because I discerned
in them that brave joyous manner which is natural to youth.
They were from the schools. I was less assured of it by the
books they were carrying than by the character of their physiog-
nomy. For all who busy themselves with the things of the mind
can be at once recognized by an indescribable something which
is common to all of them. I am very fond of young people; and
these pleased me, in spite of a certain provoking wild manner
which recalled to me my own college days with marvelous vivid-
ness. But they did not wear velvet doublets and long hair, as
we used to do; they did not walk about, as we used to do, with
a death's-head; they did not cry out, as we used to do, "Hell
and malediction! " They were quite properly dressed, and neither
their costume nor their language had anything suggestive of the
Middle Ages. I must also add that they paid considerable atten-
tion to the women passing on the terrace, and expressed their
admiration of some of them in very animated language. But
their reflections, even on this subject, were not of a character to
## p. 5913 (#501) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5913
oblige me to flee from my seat. Besides, so long as youth is
studious, I think it has a right to its gayeties.
One of them having made some gallant pleasantry which I
forget, the smallest and darkest of the three exclaimed, with a
slight Gascon accent:
-
"What a thing to say! Only physiologists like us have any
right to occupy ourselves about living matter. As for you, Gélis,
who only live in the past,-like all your fellow archivists and
paleographers,-you will do better to confine yourself to those
stone women over there, who are your contemporaries. "
And he pointed to the statues of the Ladies of Ancient France
which towered up, all white, in a half-circle under the trees of
the terrace. This joke, though in itself trifling, enabled me to
know that the young man called Gélis was a student at the École
des Chartes. From the conversation which followed I was able
to learn that his neighbor, blond and wan almost to diaphaneity,
taciturn and sarcastic, was Boulmier, a fellow-student. Gélis and
the future doctor (I hope he will become one some day) dis-
coursed together with much fantasy and spirit. In the midst of
the loftiest speculations they would play upon words, and make
jokes after the peculiar fashion of really witty persons- that is
to say, in a style of enormous absurdity. I need hardly say, I
suppose, that they only deigned to maintain the most monstrous
kind of paradoxes. They employed all their powers of imagina-
tion to make themselves as ludicrous as possible, and all their
powers of reasoning to assert the contrary of common-sense.
All the better for them! I do not like to see young folks too
rational.
The student of medicine, after glancing at the title of the
book that Boulmier held in his hand, exclaimed:-
—
"What! - you read Michelet -
you? »
"Yes," replied Boulmier very gravely.
"I like novels. "
Gélis, who dominated both by his fine stature, imperious ges-
tures, and ready wit, took the book, turned over a few pages
rapidly, and said:-
"Michelet always had a great propensity to emotional tender-
ness. He wept sweet tears over Maillard, that nice little man
who introduced la paperasserie into the September massacres.
But as emotional tenderness leads to fury, he becomes all at once
furious against the victims. There is no help for it. It is the
sentimentality of the age. The assassin is pitied, but the victim.
## p. 5914 (#502) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5914
is considered quite unpardonable. In his later manner Miche-
let is more Michelet than ever before. There is no common-
sense in it; it is simply wonderful! Neither art nor science,
neither criticism nor narrative; only furies and fainting spells
and epileptic fits over matters which he never deigns to explain.
Childish outcries-envies de femme grosse! -and a style, my
friends! not a single finished phrase! It is astounding! "
And he handed the book back to his comrade.
"This is
amusing madness," I thought to myself, "and not quite so devoid
of common-sense as it appears. This young man, though only
playing, has sharply touched the defect in the cuirass. "
But the Provençal student declared that history was a thor-
oughly despicable exercise of rhetoric. According to him, the
only true history was the natural history of man. Michelet was
in the right path when he came in contact with the fistula of
Louis XIV. , but he fell back into the old rut almost immediately
afterwards.
―
After this judicious expression of opinion, the young physiol-
ogist went to join a party of passing friends. The two archi-
vists, less well acquainted in the neighborhood of a garden so
far from the Rue Paradis-aux-Marais, remained together, and
began to chat about their studies. Gélis, who had completed his
third class-year, was preparing a thesis, on the subject of which
he expatiated with youthful enthusiasm. Indeed, I thought the
subject a very good one, particularly because I had recently
thought myself called upon to treat a notable part of it. It was
the 'Monasticum Gallicanum. ' The young erudite (I give him the
name as a presage) wants to describe all the engravings made
about 1690 for the work which Dom Michel Germain would have
had printed, but for the one irremediable hindrance which is
rarely foreseen and never avoided. Dom Michel Germain left
his manuscript complete, however, and in good order when he
died. Shall I be able to do as much with mine? - but that is
not the present question. So far as I am able to understand,
M. Gélis intends to devote a brief archæological notice to each
of the abbeys pictured by the humble engravers of Dom Michel
Germain.
His friend asked him whether he was acquainted with all the
manuscripts and printed documents relating to the subject. It
was then that I pricked up my ears. They spoke at first of ori-
ginal sources; and I must confess they did so in a satisfactory
## p. 5915 (#503) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5915
Then
manner, despite their innumerable and detestable puns.
they began to speak about contemporary studies on the subject.
"Have you read," asked Boulmier, "the notice of Courajod? »
"Good! " I thought to myself.
"Yes," replied Gélis; "it is accurate. "
"Have you read," said Boulmier, "the article by Tamisey de
Larroque in the Revue des Questions Historiques? "
"Good! " I thought to myself, for the second time.
"Yes," replied Gélis, "it is full of things. "
"Have you read," said Boulmier, "the "Tableau des Abbayes
Bénédictines en 1600,' by Sylvestre Bonnard? »
"Good! " I said to myself, for the third time.
"Ma foi! no! " replied Gélis.
Turning my head, I perceived that the shadow had reached
the place where I was sitting. It was growing chilly, and I
thought to myself what a fool I was to have remained sitting
there, at the risk of getting the rheumatism, just to listen to the
impertinence of those two young fellows!
"Let this prat-
"Well! well! " I said to myself as I got up.
tling fledgeling write his thesis, and sustain it! He will find my
colleague Quicherat, or some other professor at the school, to
show him what an ignoramus he is. I consider him neither more
nor less than a rascal; and really, now that I come to think of
it, what he said about Michelet awhile ago was quite insufferable,
outrageous! To talk in that way about an old master replete with
genius! It was simply abominable! "
"Bonnard is an idiot! "
CHILD-LIFE
From The Book of My Friend'
Ε΄
It was
VERYTHING in immortal nature is a miracle to the little child.
I was happy. A thousand things at once familiar and
mysterious filled my imagination, a thousand things which
were nothing in themselves, but which made my life.
very small, that life of mine; but it was a life—which is to say,
the centre of all things, the kernel of the world. Do not smile
at what I say,—or smile only in sympathy, and reflect: whoever
lives, be it only a dog, is at the centre of all things.
Deciding to be a hermit and a saint, and to resign the good
things of this world, I threw my toys out of the window.
## p. 5916 (#504) ###########################################
5916
ANATOLE FRANCE
"The child is a fool! " cried my father, closing the window.
I felt anger and shame at hearing myself thus judged. But im-
mediately I considered that my father, not being so holy as I,
could never share with me the glory of the blessed, and this
thought was for me a great consolation.
Every Saturday we were taken to confession. If any one will
tell me why, he will greatly oblige me. The practice inspired me
with both respect and weariness. I hardly think it probable that
M. le Curé took a lively interest in hearing my sins; but it was
certainly disagreeable to me to cite them to him. The first diffi-
culty was to find them. You can perhaps believe me, when I
declare that at ten years of age I did not possess the psychic
qualities and the methods of analysis which would have made it
possible rationally to explore my inmost conscience.
less it was necessary to have sins: for no sins, no confession.
I had been given, it is true, a little book which contained them
all: I had only to choose. But the choice itself was difficult.
There was so much obscurely said of "larceny, simony, prevari-
cation"! I read in the little book, "I accuse myself of having
despaired; I accuse myself of having listened to evil conversa-
tions. " Even this furnished little wherewith to burden my con-
science. Therefore ordinarily I confined myself to "distractions. "
Distractions during mass, distractions during meals, distractions.
in "religious assemblies,"I avowed all; yet the deplorable
emptiness of my conscience filled me with deep shame.
I was
humiliated at having no sins.
I will tell you what, each year, the stormy skies of autumn,
the first dinners by lamplight, the yellowing leaves on the shiver-
ing trees, bring to my mind; I will tell you what I see as I
cross the Luxembourg garden in the early October days - those
sad and beautiful days when the leaves fall, one by one, on the
white shoulders of the statues there.
.
-
What I see then is a little fellow who with his hands in his
pockets is going to school, hopping along like a sparrow. I see him
in thought only, for he is but a shadow, a shadow of the "me"
as I was twenty-five years ago. Really, he interests me,- this
little fellow. When he was living I gave him but little thought,
but now that he is no more, I love him well. He was worth alto-
gether more than the rest of the "me's" that I have been since.
He was a happy-hearted boy as he crossed the Luxembourg gar-
den in the fresh air of the morning. All that he saw then I see
## p. 5917 (#505) ###########################################
ANATOLE FRANCE
5917
to-day.
It is the same sky, and the same earth; the same soul
of things is here as before, that soul that still makes me gay,
or sad, or troubled: only he is no more! He was heedless enough,
but he was not wicked; and in justice to him I must declare
that he has not left me a single harsh memory. He was an
innocent child that I have lost. It is natural that I should
regret him; it is natural that I should see him in thought, and
delight in recalling him to memory.
Nothing is of more value for giving a child a knowledge of
the great social machine than the life of the streets. He should
see in the morning the milkwomen, the water carriers, the char-
coal men; he should look in the shop windows of the grocer, the
pork vender, and the wine-seller; he should watch the regiments
pass, with the music of the band. In short, he should suck in
the air of the streets, that he may learn that the law of labor is
Divine, and that each man has his work to do in the world.
Oh! ye sordid old Jews of the Rue Cherche-Midi, and you
my masters, simple sellers of old books on the quays, what
gratitude do I owe you! More and better than university pro-
fessors, have you contributed to my intellectual life! You dis-
played before my ravished eyes the mysterious forms of the life
of the past, and every sort of monument of precious human
thought. In ferreting among your shelves, in contemplating
your dusty display laden with the pathetic relics of our fathers
and their noble thoughts, I have been penetrated with the most
wholesome of philosophies. In studying the worm-eaten volumes,
the rusty iron-work, the worn carvings of your stock, I expe-
rienced, child as I was, a profound realization of the fluent,
changing nature of things and the nothingness of all, and I have
been always since inclined to sadness, to gentleness, and pity.
The open-air school taught me, as you see, great lessons; but
the home school was more profitable still. The family repast, so
charming when the glasses are clear, the cloth white, and the
faces tranquil,-the dinner of each day with its familiar talk,-
gives to the child the taste for the humble and holy things of
life, the love of loving. He eats day by day that blessed bread
which the spiritual Father broke and gave to the pilgrims in the
inn at Emmaus, and says, like them, "My heart is warmed
within me. " Ah! how good a school is the school of home! . .
The little fellow of whom I spoke but just now to you, with a
sympathy for which you pardon me, perhaps, reflecting that it is
-
•
## p. 5918 (#506) ###########################################
5918
ANATOLE FRANCE
not egotistic but is addressed only to a shadow, the little fellow
who crossed the Luxembourg garden, hopping like a sparrow,-
became later an enthusiastic humanist.
---
I studied Homer. I saw Thetis rise like a white mist over
the sea, I saw Nausicaa and her companions, and the palm-tree
of Delos, and the sky, and the earth, and the sea, and the tear-
ful smile of Andromache. I comprehended, I felt. For six
months I lived in the Odyssey. This was the cause of numerous
punishments: but what to me were pensums? I was with Ulys-
ses on his violet sea. Alcestis and Antigone gave me more noble
dreams than ever child had before. With my head swallowed up
in the dictionary on my ink-stained desk, I saw divine forms,-
ivory arms falling on white tunics,- and heard voices sweeter
than the sweetest music, lamenting harmoniously.
This again cost me fresh punishments. They were just; I was
"busying" myself "with things foreign to the class. " Alas! the
habit remains with me still. In whatever class in life I am put
for the rest of my days, I fear yet, old as I am, to encounter
again the reproach of my old professor: "Monsieur Pierre No-
zièrre, you busy yourself with things foreign to the class. "
But the evening falls over the plane-trees of the Luxembourg,
and the little phantom which I have evoked disappears in the
shadow. Adieu! little
Adieu! little "me" whom I have lost, whom I should
forever regret, had I not found thee again, beautified, in my son!
Translated for A Library of the World's Best Literature. '
FROM THE GARDEN OF EPICURUS ›
IN
RONY and pity are two good counselors: the one, who smiles,
makes life amiable; the other, who weeps, makes it sacred.
The Irony that I invoke is not cruel. She mocks neither
love nor beauty. She is gentle and benevolent. Her smile calms
anger, and it is she who teaches us to laugh at fools and sinners
whom, but for her, we might be weak enough to hate.
## p. 5919 (#507) ###########################################
5919
ST. FRANCIS D'ASSISI
(1182-1225)
BY MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN
RANCIS D'ASSISI was at first called Francis Bernardone. His
father Pietro was a merchant of Assisi, much given to the
pomps and vanities of the world, a lover of France and of
everything French. It was after a visit to France in 1182 that, re-
joining his beloved wife Pica in the vale of Umbria, he found that
God had given to him a little son. Pica called the boy John, in
honor of the playmate of the little Christ; but Pietro commanded
that he should be named Francis, because of the bright land from
whence he drew the rich silks and thick velvets he liked to handle
and to sell.
The vale of Umbria is the place for poets; it should be visited in
the summer, when the roses bloom on the trellises which the early
Italian painters put as backgrounds to their mothers and children.
Florence is not far away; and near is the birthplace of one of the
fathers of the sonnet, Fra Guittone, and of another poet, Propertius.
Francis's childhood, boyhood, and later youth were happy. His
father denied him no luxury in his power to give; he was sent to the
priests of the church of St. George. They taught him some Latin
and much of the Provençal tongue, - for at that time there was no
Italian language; there were only dialects, and the Provençal was
used by the elegant, those who loved poetry. Francis Bernardone
was one of these; he sang the popular Provençal songs of the day to
the lute, for he had learned music. And so passionately did he long
for "excess of it," that, the legend says, he stayed up all one night
singing a duet with a nightingale. The bird conquered; and later,
Francis made a poem glorifying the Creator who had given such a
thrilling voice to it.
Up to the age of twenty-four Francis had been one of the lightest
hearted and the lightest headed of the rich young men of Assisi.
