Complete Works of Anatole France Read online

  The Complete Works of

  ANATOLE FRANCE

  (1844-1924)

  Contents

  The Novels

  THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD

  THE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIEN

  HONEY-BEE

  THAÏS

  AT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PÉDAUQUE

  THE OPINIONS OF JEROME COIGNARD

  THE RED LILY

  A CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES I: THE ELM-TREE ON THE MALL

  A CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES II: THE WICKER-WORK WOMAN

  A CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES III: THE AMETHYST RING

  A CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES IV: MONSIEUR BERGERET IN PARIS

  A MUMMER’S TALE

  THE WHITE STONE

  PENGUIN ISLAND

  THE GODS ARE ATHIRST

  THE REVOLT OF THE ANGELS

  The Shorter Fiction

  JOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CAT

  BALTHASAR AND OTHER WORKS

  MOTHER OF PEARL

  THE WELL OF SAINT CLARE

  CLIO

  CRAINQUEBILLE, PUTOIS, RIQUET AND OTHER PROFITABLE TALES

  THE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNEBROCHE

  THE SEVEN WIVES OF BLUEBEARD AND OTHER MARVELLOUS TALES

  CHILD LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRY

  MISCELLANEOUS STORIES

  The Short Stories

  LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Plays

  CRAINQUEBILLE

  THE COMEDY OF A MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE

  COME WHAT MAY

  The Poetry

  LIST OF POETICAL WORKS

  The Non-Fiction

  THE LIFE OF JOAN OF ARC

  The Criticism

  ANATOLE FRANCE — 1904 by Joseph Conrad

  ANATOLE FRANCE by Arnold Bennett

  HOMAGE TO ANATOLE FRANCE by John Galsworthy

  ANATOLE FRANCE by John Cowper Powys

  ANATOLE FRANCE by Robert Lynd

  THE WISDOM OF ANATOLE FRANCE by John Middleton Murry

  ANATOLE FRANCE by George Brandes

  ANATOLE FRANCE by Winifred Stephens

  © Delphi Classics 2015

  Version 1

  The Complete Works of

  ANATOLE FRANCE

  By Delphi Classics, 2015

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  The Novels

  François Anatole (known in English speaking countries as Anatole France) was born in 1844 at 15 Quai Malaquais, Paris

  Quai Malaquais, 1910

  THE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARD

  Translated by Lafcadio Hearn

  The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard was published in 1881 and helped to establish France as a novelist of considerable interest. He had previously been known as a poet and was associated with Parnassianism, a French literary style developed during the 19th century which was greatly influenced by the poet, dramatist and critic Theophile Gautier, and German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. The novel was well received and won a prize from the Academie francaise, the oldest of the five academies of the Instiut de France. The Academie francaise was founded in 1635, and is tasked with being the official authority on the French language. France would later become a member of the academie in January 1896, but entered into a dispute with his fellow members regarding their refusal to support Émile Zola over his famous open letter ’J’accuse’, accusing the government of anti-Semitism over the imprisonment of Alfred Dreyfus.

  France’s first novel centres on the eponymous Sylvestre Bonnard; a historian and philologist, and a man of great intellect. He is a scholar that devotes himself to books and research, allowing little else into his world. When he learns that the manuscript of a great work he wishes to obtain is in Sicily he sets off on a mission to find and purchase the book. During his attempts to acquire the work he encounters the daughter (later revised to be the granddaughter) of a woman he once loved. It is at this point that the issue of Bonnard’s possible ’crime’ comes into focus, although precisely which of his actions is the ’crime’ of the title remains a topic for debate.

  The first edition of the novel

  CONTENTS

  PART I — THE LOG

  December 24, 1849.

  August 30, 1850

  May 7, 1851

  July 8, 1852.

  August 20, 1859.

  October 10, 1859.

  October 25, 1859.

  Naples, November 10, 1859.

  Monte-Allegro, November 30, 1859.

  Girgenti. Same day.

  Girgenti, November 30, 1859.

  Paris, December 8, 1859.

  December 30, 1859.

  PART II — THE DAUGHTER OF CLEMENTINE

  Chapter I — The Fairy

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV — The Little Saint-George

  April 16.

  April 17.

  From May 2 to May 5.

  June 3.

  June 4.

  June 6.

  July 6.

  August 12.

  September-December.

  December 15.

  December 20.

  February 186-.

  April-June

  August, September.

  October 3.

  December 28.

  December 29.

  January 15, 186-.

  May.

  September 20.

  The Last Page

  August 21, 1869.

  The original frontispiece

  France as a young man

  PART I — THE LOG

  December 24, 1849.

  I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed from me the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois.

  I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and took up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me. Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion, with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell with his regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of his agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed again almost at once, thinking to himself, “It is nothing; it is only my friend.”

  “Hamilcar,” I said to him, as I stretched my legs— “Hamilcar, somnolent Prince of the City of Books — thou guardian nocturnal! Like that Divine Cat who combated the impious in Heliopolis — in the night of the great combat — thou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the old savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigable zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that shelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person are united the formidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while awaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dance before the Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!”

  The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied it with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as my voice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my part so to declaim.

  “This
old-book man,” evidently thought Hamilcar, “talks to no purpose at all while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of good sense, full of significance — containing either the announcement of a meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this old man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing.”

  So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I opened a book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a catalogue of manuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinating, more delightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I was reading — edited in 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas Raleigh — sins, it is true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that character of exactitude which the archivists of my own generation were the first to introduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a good deal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why I find myself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature more imaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself to drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when my housekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz desired to speak with me.

  In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was a little man — a poor little man of puny appearance, wearing a thin jacket. He approached me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he was very pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked ill. I thought as I looked at him, of a wounded squirrel. He carried under his arm a green toilette, which he put upon a chair; then unfastening the four corners of the toilette, he uncovered a heap of little yellow books.

  “Monsieur,” he then said to me, “I have not the honour to be known to you. I am a book-agent, Monsieur. I represent the leading houses of the capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour me with your confidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few novelties.”

  Kind gods! just gods! such novelties as the homunculus Coccoz showed me! The first volume that he put in my hand was “L’Histoire de la Tour de Nesle,” with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the Captain Buridan.

  “It is a historical book,” he said to me, with a smile— “a book of real history.”

  “In that case,” I replied, “it must be very tiresome; for all the historical books which contain no lies are extremely tedious. I write some authentic ones myself; and if you were unlucky enough to carry a copy of any of them from door to door you would run the risk of keeping it all your life in that green baize of yours, without ever finding even a cook foolish enough to buy it from you.”

  “Certainly Monsieur,” the little man answered, out of pure good-nature.

  And, all smiling again, he offered me the “Amours d’Heloise et d’Abeilard”; but I made him understand that, at my age, I had no use for love-stories.

  Still smiling, he proposed me the “Regle des Jeux de la Societe” — piquet, bezique, ecarte, whist, dice, draughts, and chess.

  “Alas!” I said to him, “if you want to make me remember the rules of bezique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to play cards every evening before the Five Academies solemnly escorted him to the cemetery; or else bring down to the frivolous level of human amusements the grave intelligence of Hamilcar, whom you see on that cushion, for he is the sole companion of my evenings.”

  The little man’s smile became vague and uneasy.

  “Here,” he said, “is a new collection of society amusements — jokes and puns — with a receipt for changing a red rose to a white rose.”

  I told him that I had fallen out with the roses for a long time, and that, as to jokes, I was satisfied with those which I unconsciously permitted myself to make in the course of my scientific labours.

  The homunculus offered me his last book, with his last smile. He said to me:

  “Here is the Clef des Songes — the ‘Key of Dreams’ — with the explanation of any dreams that anybody can have; dreams of gold, dreams of robbers, dreams of death, dreams of falling from the top of a tower.... It is exhaustive.”

  I had taken hold of the tongs, and, brandishing them energetically, I replied to my commercial visitor:

  “Yes, my friend; but those dreams and a thousand others, joyous or tragic, are all summed up in one — the Dream of Life; is your little yellow book able to give me the key to that?”

  “Yes, Monsieur,” answered the homunculus; “the book is complete, and it is not dear — one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur.”

  I called my housekeeper — for there is no bell in my room — and said to her:

  “Therese, Monsieur Coccoz — whom I am going to ask you to show out — has a book here which might interest you: the ‘Key of Dreams.’ I shall be very glad to buy it for you.”

  My housekeeper responded:

  “Monsieur, when one has not even time to dream awake, one has still less time to dream asleep. Thank God, my days are just enough for my work and my work for my days, and I am able to say every night, ‘Lord, bless Thou the rest which I am going to take.’ I never dream, either on my feet or in bed; and I never mistake my eider-down coverlet for a devil, as my cousin did; and, if you will allow me to give my opinion about it, I think you have books enough here now. Monsieur has thousands and thousands of books, which simply turn his head; and as for me, I have just tow, which are quite enough for all my wants and purposes — my Catholic prayer-book and my Cuisiniere Bourgeoise.”

  And with those words my housekeeper helped the little man to fasten up his stock again within the green toilette.

  The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile. His relaxed features took such an expression of suffering that I felt sorry to have made fun of so unhappy a man. I called him back, and told him that I had caught a glimpse of a copy of the “Histoire d’Estelle et de Nemorin,” which he had among his books; that I was very fond of shepherds and shepherdesses, and that I would be quite willing to purchase, at a reasonable price, the story of these two perfect lovers.

  “I will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur,” replied Coccoz, whose face at once beamed with joy. “It is historical; and you will be pleased with it. I know now just what suits you. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring you the Crimes des Papes. It is a good book. I will bring you the edition d’amateur, with coloured plates.”

  I begged him not to do anything of the sort, and sent him away happy. When the green toilette and the agent had disappeared in the shadow of the corridor I asked my housekeeper whence this little man had dropped upon us.

  “Dropped is the word,” she answered; “he dropped on us from the roof, Monsieur, where he lives with his wife.”

  “You say he has a wife, Therese? That is marvelous! Women are very strange creatures! This one must be a very unfortunate little woman.”

  “I don’t really know what she is,” answered Therese; “but every morning I see her trailing a silk dress covered with grease-spots over the stairs. She makes soft eyes at people. And, in the name of common sense! does it become a woman that has been received here out of charity to make eyes and to wear dresses like that? For they allowed the couple to occupy the attic during the time the roof was being repaired, in consideration of the fact that the husband is sick and the wife in an interesting condition. The concierge even says that the pain came on her this morning, and that she is now confined. They must have been very badly off for a child!”

  “Therese,” I replied, “they had no need of a child, doubtless. But Nature had decided that they should bring one into the world; Nature made them fall into her snare. One must have exceptional prudence to defeat Nature’s schemes. Let us be sorry for them and not blame them! As for silk dresses, there is no young woman who does not like them. The daughters of Eve adore adornment. You yourself, Therese — who are so serious and sensible — what a fuss you make when you have no white apron to wait at table in! But, tell me, have they got everything necessary in their attic?”

  “How could they have it,
Monsieur?” my housekeeper made answer. “The husband, whom you have just seen, used to be a jewellery-peddler — at least, so the concierge tells me — and nobody knows why he stopped selling watches, you have just seen that his is now selling almanacs. That is no way to make an honest living, and I never will believe that God’s blessing can come to an almanac-peddler. Between ourselves, the wife looks to me for all the world like a good-for-nothing — a Marie-couche toi-la. I think she would be just as capable of bringing up a child as I should be of playing the guitar. Nobody seems to know where they came from; but I am sure they must have come by Misery’s coach from the country of Sans-souci.”

  “Wherever they have come from, Therese, they are unfortunate; and their attic is cold.”

  “Pardi! — the roof is broken in several places and the rain comes through in streams. They have neither furniture nor clothing. I don’t think cabinet-makers and weavers work much for Christians of that sect!”

  “That is very sad, Therese; a Christian woman much less well provided for than this pagan, Hamilcar here! — what does she have to say?”

  “Monsieur, I never speak to those people; I don’t know what she says or what she sings. But she sings all day long; I hear her from the stairway whenever I am going out or coming in.”

  “Well! the heir of the Coccoz family will be able to say, like the Egg in the village riddle: Ma mere me fit en chantant. [“My mother sang when she brought me into the world.”] The like happened in the case of Henry IV. When Jeanne d’Albret felt herself about to be confined she began to sing an old Bearnaise canticle:

  “Notre-Dame du bout du pont,

  Venez a mon aide en cette heure!

  Priez le Dieu du ciel

  Qu’il me delivre vite,

  Qu’il me donne un garcon!

  “It is certainly unreasonable to bring little unfortunates into the world. But the thing is done every day, my dear Therese and all the philosophers on earth will never be able to reform the silly custom. Madame Coccoz has followed it, and she sings. This is creditable at all events! But, tell me, Therese, have you not put the soup to boil to-day?”