The Red Lily | Page 2

that
has appeared since Montaigne. 'Le Livre de mon Ami' is mostly
autobiographical; 'Clio' (1900) contains historical sketches.
To represent Anatole France as one of the undying names in literature
would hardly be extravagant. Not that I would endow Ariel with the
stature and sinews of a Titan; this were to miss his distinctive qualities:
delicacy, elegance, charm. He belongs to a category of writers who are

more read and probably will ever exercise greater influence than some
of greater name. The latter show us life as a whole; but life as a whole
is too vast and too remote to excite in most of us more than a somewhat
languid curiosity. France confines himself to themes of the keenest
personal interest, the life of the world we live in. It is herein that he
excels! His knowledge is wide, his sympathies are many-sided, his
power of exposition is unsurpassed. No one has set before us the mind
of our time, with its half-lights, its shadowy vistas, its indefiniteness, its
haze on the horizon, so vividly as he.
In Octave Mirbeau's notorious novel, a novel which it would be
complimentary to describe as naturalistic, the heroine is warned by her
director against the works of Anatole France, "Ne lisez jamais du
Voltaire. . . C'est un peche mortel . . . ni de Renan . . . ni de l'Anatole
France. Voila qui est dangereux." The names are appropriately united; a
real, if not precisely an apostolic, succession exists between the three
writers.
JULES LEMAITRE de l'Academie Francais

BOOK 1.
CHAPTER I
"I NEED LOVE"
She gave a glance at the armchairs placed before the chimney, at the
tea-table, which shone in the shade, and at the tall, pale stems of
flowers ascending above Chinese vases. She thrust her hand among the
flowery branches of the guelder roses to make their silvery balls quiver.
Then she looked at herself in a mirror with serious attention. She held
herself sidewise, her neck turned over her shoulder, to follow with her
eyes the spring of her fine form in its sheath-like black satin gown,
around which floated a light tunic studded with pearls wherein sombre
lights scintillated. She went nearer, curious to know her face of that day.
The mirror returned her look with tranquillity, as if this amiable woman

whom she examined, and who was not unpleasing to her, lived without
either acute joy or profound sadness.
On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures of
the tapestries, vague as shadows, showed pallid among their antique
games and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender
columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke
of past glories. On a pedestal ornamented with precious bronzes, the
marble bust of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about
to fly out of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of
Night, powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed
flowers. Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and
the light rattle of Therese's pearls could be heard.
Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw
through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay, the Seine
spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water
was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the 'Hirondelle',
emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble
travellers toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her
eyes, then let the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers,
took a book from the table. On the straw-colored linen cover shone the
title in gold: 'Yseult la Blonde', by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of
French verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London.
She read indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the
poetry than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most
agreeable friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of
their meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her "darling,"
and babbled; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly
exquisite, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated
her as her most beloved poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson,
she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without
even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in
Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French
poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent her 'Yseult la Blonde' to
"Darling," with a letter inviting her to spend a month with her at
Fiesole. She had written: "Come; you will see the most beautiful things

in the world, and you will embellish them."
And "darling" was saying