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M. Anatole France is something of a Socialist; and in that respect he seems to depart from his sceptical philosophy. But as an illustrious statesman, now no more, a great prince too, with an ironic mind and a literary gift, has sarcastically remarked in one of his public speeches: "We are all Socialists now."
Had he told them precisely what she was seeking they had been, possibly, less at ease. "Let her hasten," cried the courier, "for I am famished." "Have patience, Anatole," murmured the ever-gentle Cadoux. "The good woman did not expect us." Anatole! The name buzzed through Caron's brain. To whom did it belong? He knew of someone who bore it.
In his conscience he does not think himself culpable; but M. Anatole France's philosophical mind discovers for us that he feels all the insignificance of such a thing as the conscience of a mere street- hawker in the face of the symbols of the law and before the ministers of social repression.
Natasha looked round at her, and then, red and trembling, threw a frightened look of inquiry at Anatole and moved toward the door. "One word, just one, for God's sake!" cried Anatole. She paused. She so wanted a word from him that would explain to her what had happened and to which she could find no answer.
Anatole kept on refilling Pierre's glass while explaining that Dolokhov was betting with Stevens, an English naval officer, that he would drink a bottle of rum sitting on the outer ledge of the third floor window with his legs hanging out. "Go on, you must drink it all," said Anatole, giving Pierre the last glass, "or I won't let you go!"
So he who wills to reject nothing, wills the destruction of will; for will is not only the choice of something, but the rejection of almost everything. And as I turn and tumble over the clever, wonderful, tiresome, and useless modern books, the title of one of them rivets my eye. It is called "Jeanne d'Arc," by Anatole France.
Thus blending with the subject, it loses a good deal of its proper virtue, which explains why it does not afford the pleasure of form enjoyed in such writers as George Sand, Flaubert, Renan, and Anatole France. The pleasure his word-conjuring can yield is chiefly of the sensuous order. The following passage is, as Taine says, botany turned into imagination and passion:
He went in timidly, albeit with quite an air, for this adventure disturbed him much. The American manager of Kellner and Son, M. Anatole Charles, was a Frenchman by birth and training, familiar with the spirit and history of French art, and with the drift and tendency of art in various other sections of the world.
Johnson, who had no great reason to be prejudiced in their favour, defined booksellers as 'the patrons of literature, and M. Anatole France has recently said that 'a great publisher is a kind of Minister for belles-lettres. Such definitions are, doubtless, prophecies of the ideal rather than descriptions of the actual.
"Please, Miss!" whispered a maid entering the room with a mysterious air. "A man told me to give you this-" and she handed Natasha a letter. "Only, for Christ's sake..." the girl went on, as Natasha, without thinking, mechanically broke the seal and read a love letter from Anatole, of which, without taking in a word, she understood only that it was a letter from him from the man she loved.
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