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    Marguerite
    Marguerite
    Marguerite
    Ebook53 pages27 minutes

    Marguerite

    By Anatole France

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Publish Marguerite, dear Monsieur André Coq, if you so desire, but pray relieve me from all responsibility in the matter.
    It would argue too much literary conceit on my part were I anxious to restore it to the light of day. It would argue, perhaps, still more did I endeavour to keep it in obscurity. You will not succeed in wresting it for long from the eternal oblivion where-unto it is destined. Ay me, how old it is! I had lost all recollection of it. I have just read it over, without fear or favour, as I should a work unknown to me, and it does not seem to me that I have lighted upon a masterpiece. It would ill beseem me to say more about it than that. My only pleasure as I read it was derived from the proof it afforded that, even in those far-off days, when I was writing this little trifle, I was no great lover of the Third Republic with its pinchbeck virtues, its militarist imperialism, its ideas of conquest, its love of money, its contempt for the handicrafts, its unswerving predilection for the unlovely. Its leaders caused me terrible misgivings. And the event has surpassed my apprehensions.
    But it was not in my calculations to make myself a laughing-stock, by taking Marguerite as a text for generalizations on French politics of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
    The specimens of type and the woodcuts you have shown me promise a very comely little book.
    Believe me, dear Monsieur Coq,
    Yours sincerely,
    Anatole France.
    LanguageEnglish
    Publisheranboco
    Release dateAug 20, 2016
    ISBN9783736409378
    Marguerite
    Author

    Anatole France

    Anatole France (1844–1924) was one of the true greats of French letters and the winner of the 1921 Nobel Prize in Literature. The son of a bookseller, France was first published in 1869 and became famous with The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard. Elected as a member of the French Academy in 1896, France proved to be an ideal literary representative of his homeland until his death.

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      Book preview

      Marguerite - Anatole France

      MARGUERITE

      By Anatole France

      Translated From The French By J. Lewis May

      PREFATORY LETTER

      Publish Marguerite, dear Monsieur André Coq, if you so desire, but pray relieve me from all responsibility in the matter.

      It would argue too much literary conceit on my part were I anxious to restore it to the light of day. It would argue, perhaps, still more did I endeavour to keep it in obscurity. You will not succeed in wresting it for long from the eternal oblivion where-unto it is destined. Ay me, how old it is! I had lost all recollection of it. I have just read it over, without fear or favour, as I should a work unknown to me, and it does not seem to me that I have lighted upon a masterpiece. It would ill beseem me to say more about it than that. My only pleasure as I read it was derived from the proof it afforded that, even in those far-off days, when I was writing this little trifle, I was no great lover of the Third Republic with its pinchbeck virtues, its militarist imperialism, its ideas of conquest, its love of money, its contempt for the handicrafts, its unswerving predilection for the unlovely. Its leaders caused me terrible misgivings. And the event has surpassed my apprehensions.

      But it was not in my calculations to make myself a laughing-stock, by taking Marguerite as a text for generalizations on French politics of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

      The specimens of type and the woodcuts you have shown me promise a very comely little book.

      Believe me, dear Monsieur Coq,

      Yours sincerely,

      Anatole France.

      La Béchellerie, 16th April, 1920.

      MARGUERITE

      5th July

      As I left the Palais-Bourbon at five o'clock that afternoon, it rejoiced my heart to breathe in the sunny air. The sky was bland, the river gleamed, the foliage was fresh and green. Everything seemed to whisper an invitation to idleness. Along the Pont de la Concorde, in the direction of the Champs-Elysées, victorias and landaus kept rolling by. In the shadow of the lowered carriage-hoods, women's faces gleamed clear and radiant and I felt a thrill of pleasure as I watched them flash by like hopes vanishing and reappearing in endless succession. Every woman as she passed by left me with an impression of light and perfume. I think a man, if

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