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Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were returning from town. As they neared their home, they saw one of the Taine automobiles in front of the house. "Company," said the artist with a smile thinking of his letter to the millionaire. "It's Rutlidge," said the novelist noting the absence of the chauffeur.
Take her away, Jim." As the physician passed Mrs. Taine, who had thus far stood like a statue, seemingly incapable of thought or feeling or movement, he said in a low tone, "I will be just outside the door, madam; easily within call." When only the woman was left in the room with her husband, the dying man spoke again; "Come here. Stand where I can see you."
It was three days after the incidents just related when an automobile from Fairlands Heights stopped at the home of Aaron King and the novelist. Mrs. Taine, dressed in black and heavily veiled, went, alone, to the house, where Yee Kee appeared in answer to her ring. There was no one at home, the Chinaman said. He did not know where the artist was. He had gone off somewhere with Mr.
She sat by the window, indeed, but her eyes were upon the open pages of a book a popular novel that by some strange legal lapse of the governmental conscience was and is still permitted in print. The author of the story that so engrossed Mrs. Taine was in her opinion almost as great in literature as Conrad Lagrange, himself.
It did not occur to them that their oaths and fraternal embraces did not change their minds or hearts, and that, as Taine remarked, they remained what ages of political subjection and one age of political literature had made them. The assumption that new social machinery could alter human nature and create a heaven upon earth was to be swiftly and terribly confuted.
Then: "Nothing new within a million miles ..." The skipper said bitingly: "Then you'd better check on objects that are not new!" He turned aside, and his voice came more faintly as he spoke into another microphone. "Mr. Taine! Arm all rockets and have your tube crews stand by in combat readiness! Engine room! Prepare drive for emergency maneuvers!
In a review of Longfellow's "Dante," published last year, we argued this very point in one of its special applications; the artist must copy his original, but he must not copy it too literally. What then must he copy? He must copy, says Taine, the mutual relations and interdependences of the parts of his model.
When they disappeared it was easy to convince a credulous public that crocodiles were philanthropists; that many possessed genius; that they scarcely ate others than the guilty, and that if they sometimes ate too many it was unconsciously and in spite of themselves, or through devotion and self-sacrifice for the common good. H. A. Taine, Menthon Saint Bernard, July 1884.
It puzzled him often; for he knew very well that Eugénie was no follower of things received. She had been a friend of Renan and of Taine in her French days; and he, who was a Gallic with a leaning to the Anglican Church, had sometimes guessed with discomfort that Eugénie was in truth what his Low Church wife called a 'free-thinker. She never spoke of her opinions, directly, even to him.
The Abbe replied with the same air: "Si vous conduisez ma brouette, Ne versez pas, beau postillon, Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton." "Ah, Abbe, your songs will drive me mad!" said Fontrailles. "You've got airs ready for every event in life." "I will also find you events which shall go to all the airs," answered Gondi. "Faith, the air of these pleases me!" said Fontrailles, in an under voice.
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