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diff --git a/old/25406-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/25406-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1f23fb9 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/25406-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,1676 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Marguerite, by Anatole France + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Marguerite, by Anatole France + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Marguerite + 1921 + +Author: Anatole France + +Illustrator: Simeon + +Translator: J. Lewis May + +Release Date: May 9, 2008 [EBook #25406] +Last Updated: October 5, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGUERITE *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> <a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/margTP.jpg" alt="Titlepage 010 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + MARGUERITE + </h1> + <h2> + By Anatole France + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Translated From The French By J. Lewis May <br /> <br /> With Twenty-Nine + Original Woodcuts By Simeon + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + London, John Lane Company, MCMXXI + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> PREFATORY LETTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <big><b>MARGUERITE</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> 5th July </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> 10th July </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> 1st November </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> 5th July </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> 10th July </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> 25th July </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> 10th August </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> 20th August </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> 21st August </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFATORY LETTER + </h2> + <p> + Publish Marguerite, dear Monsieur André Coq, if you so desire, but pray + relieve me from all responsibility in the matter. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The specimens of type and the woodcuts you have shown me promise a very + comely little book. + </p> + <p> + Believe me, dear Monsieur Coq, + </p> + <p> + Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + Anatole France. + </p> + <p> + La Béchellerie, 16th April, 1920. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MARGUERITE + </h2> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/018.jpg" alt="018 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 5th July + </h2> + <p> + 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 he + is wise, will not ask much more than that of a beautiful woman. A gleam + and a perfume! Many a love-affair leaves even less behind it. Moreover, + that day, if Fortune herself had run with her wheel a-spinning before my + very nose along the pavement of the Pont de la Concorde, I should not have + so much as stretched forth an arm to pluck her by her golden hair. I + lacked nothing that day; all was mine. It was five o’clock and I was free + till dinner-time. Yes, free! Free to saunter at will, to breathe at my + ease for two hours, to look on at things and not have to talk, to let my + thoughts wander as I listed. All was mine, I say again. My happiness was + making me a selfish man. I gazed at everything about me as though it were + all a picture, a splendid moving pageant, arranged for my own particular + delectation. It seemed to me as though the sun were shining for me alone, + as though it were pouring down its torrents of flame upon the river for my + special gratification. I somehow thought that all this motley throng was + swarming gaily around me for the sole purpose of animating, without + destroying, my solitude. And so I almost got the notion that the people + about me were quite small, that their apparent size was only an illusion, + that they were but puppets; the sort of thoughts a man has when he has + nothing to think about. But you must not be angry on that score with a + poor man who has had his head crammed chock-full for ten years on end with + politics and law making and is wearing away his life with those trivial + preoccupations men call affairs of state. + </p> + <p> + In the popular imagination, a law is something abstract, without form or + colour. For me a law is a green baize table, sealing-wax, paper, pens, + ink-stains, green-shaded candles, books bound in calf, papers yet damp + from the printer’s and all smelling of printer’s ink, conversations in + green papered offices, files, bundles of documents, a stuffy smell, + speeches, newspapers; a law, in short, is all the hundred and one things, + the hundred and one tasks you have to fulfil at all hours, the grey and + gentle hours of the morning, the white hours of middle day, the purple + hours of evening, the silent, meditative hours of night; tasks which leave + you no soul to call your own and rob you of the consciousness of your own + identity. + </p> + <p> + Yes, it is so. I have left my own <i>ego</i> behind me there. It is + scattered up and down among all sorts of memoranda and reports. + Industrious junior clerks have put away a parcel of it in each one of + their beautiful green filing cases. And so I have had to go on living + without my <i>ego</i>, which, moreover, is how all politicians have to + live. But an <i>ego</i> is a strangely subtle thing. And wonder of + wonders! mine came back to me just now on the Pont de la Concorde. ‘Twas + he without a doubt and, would you believe it, he had not suffered so very + much from his sojourn among those musty papers. The very moment he arrived + I found myself again, I recognized my own existence, whereof I had not + been conscious these ten years. “Ha ha!” said I to myself, “since I exist, + I am just as well pleased to know it. Behold I will set forth here and now + to improve this new acquaintance by strolling, with a lover’s thoughts in + my heart, down the Champs-Elysées.” + </p> + <p> + And this is why I am here, at this hour, beneath the sculptured steeds of + Marly, more high-spirited than those aristocratic quadrupeds themselves; + this is why I am setting foot in the avenue whose entrance is marked by + their hoofs of stone perpetually poised in air. The carriages flow past + endlessly, like a sombre scintillating stream of lava or molten asphalt, + whereon the hats of the women seem borne along like so many flowers, and + like everything else one sees in Paris, at once extravagant and pretty. I + light up a cigar and looking at nothing, behold everything. So intense is + my joy that it scares me. It is the first cigar I have smoked for ten + years. Oh yes, I grant I have begun as many as ten a day in my room; but + those I scorched, bit, chewed and threw away; I never smoked them. This + one I am really and truly smoking and the smoke it exhales is a cloud of + poesy spreading grace and charm about it. What an interest I take in all I + see. These little shops, which display at regular intervals their motley + assortment of wares, fill me with delight. Here especially is one which I + cannot forbear stopping to look at. What I chiefly delight to contemplate + there is a decanter with lemonade in it. The decanter reflects in + miniature on its polished sides the trees around it and the women that + pass by and the skies. It has a lemon on the top of it which gives it a + sort of oriental air. However, it is not its shape nor its colour that is + the attraction in my eyes; I cannot keep my gaze from it because it + reminds me of my childhood. At the sight of it, innumerable delightful + scenes come thronging into my memory. Once again do I behold those shining + hours, those hours divine of early childhood. Ah, what would I not give to + be again the little boy of those days and to drink once more a glass of + that precious liquid! + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/024.jpg" alt="024 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + In that little shop, I find once more, besides the lemonade and the + gooseberry syrup, all those divers things wherein my childhood took + delight. Here be whips, trumpets, swords, guns, cartridge-pouches, belts, + scabbards, sabretaches, all those magic toys which, from five to nine + years old, made me feel that I was fulfilling the destiny of a Napoleon. I + played that mighty rôle, in my tenpenny soldier’s kit, I played it from + start to finish, bating only Waterloo and the years of exile. For, mark + you, I was always the victor. Here, too, are coloured prints from Épinal. + It was on them that I began to spell out those signs which to the learned + reveal a few faint traces of the Mighty Riddle. Yes, the sorriest little + coloured daub that ever came out of a village in the Vosges consists of + print and pictures, and what is the sum and substance of Science after all + but just pictures and print? + </p> + <p> + From those Épinal prints I learned things far finer and more useful than + anything I ever got from the little grammar and history books my + schoolmasters gave me to pore over. Épinal prints, you see, are stories, + and stories are mirrors of destiny. Blessed is the child that is brought + up on fairy-tales. His riper years should prove rich in wisdom and + imagination. And see! here is my own favourite story <i>The Blue Bird</i>. + I know him by his outspread tail. ‘Tis he right enough. It is as much as I + can do to prevent myself flinging my arms round the old shop-woman’s neck + and kissing her flabby cheeks. The Blue Bird, ah me, what a debt I owe + him! If I have ever wrought any good in my life, it is all due to him. + Whenever we were drafting a Bill with our Chief, the memory of the Blue + Bird would steal into my mind amid the heaps of legal and parliamentary + documents by which I was hemmed in. I used to reflect then that the human + soul contained infinite desires, unimaginable metamorphoses and hallowed + sorrows, and if, under the spell of such thoughts, I gave to the clause I + chanced to be engaged upon an ampler, a humaner sense, an added respect + for the soul and its rights, and for the universal order of things, that + clause would never fail to encounter vigorous opposition in the Chamber. + The counsels of the Blue Bird seldom prevailed in the committee stage. + Howbeit some did manage to get through Parliament. + </p> + <p> + I now perceive that I am not the only one inspecting the little stall: a + little girl has come to a halt in front of the brilliant display. I am + looking at her from behind. Her long, bright hair comes tumbling in + cascades from under her red velvet hood and spreads out on her broad lace + collar and on her dress, which is the same colour as her hood. Impossible + to say what is the colour of her hair (there is no colour so beautiful) + but one can describe the lights in it; they are bright and pure and + changing, fair as the sun’s rays, pale as a beam of starlight. Nay, more + than that, they shine, yes; but they flow also. They possess the splendour + of light, and the charm of pleasant waters. Methinks that, were I a poet, + I should write as many sonnets on those tresses as M. José Maria de + Heredia composed concerning the Conquerors of Castille d’Or. They would + not be so fine, but they would be sweeter. The child, so far as I can + judge, is between four and five years old. All I can see of her face is + the tip of her ear, daintier than the daintiest jewel, and the innocent + curve of her cheek. She does not stir; she is holding her hoop in her left + hand; her right is at her lips as though she were biting her nails in her + eager contemplation. What is it she is gazing at so longingly? The shop + contains other things besides the arms and the gear of fighting men. Balls + and skipping ropes are suspended from the awning. On the stall are baby + dolls with bodies made of grey cardboard, smiling after the manner of + idols, monstrous and serene as they. Little six-penny dolls, dressed like + servant girls, stretch out their arms, little stumpy arms so flimsy that + the least breath of air sets them a-tremble. But the little maid whose + hair is made of liquid light, has no eyes for these dolls and puppets. Her + whole soul hangs upon the lips of a beautiful baby doll that seems to be + calling her his mummy. He is hitched on to one of the poles of the booth + all by himself. He dominates, he effaces everything else. Once you have + beheld him, you see naught else save him. + </p> + <p> + Bolt upright in his warm wraps, a little swansdown tucker under his chin, + he is stretching out his little chubby arms for some one to take him. He + speaks straight to the little maid’s heart. He appeals to her by every + maternal instinct she possesses. He is enchanting. His face has three + little dots, two black ones for the eyes, and one red one for the mouth. + But his eyes speak, his mouth invites you. He is alive. + </p> + <p> + Philosophers are a heedless race. They pass by dolls with never a thought. + Nevertheless the doll is more than the statue, more than the idol. It + finds its way to the heart of woman, long ere she be a woman. It gives her + the first thrill of maternity. The doll is a thing august. Wherefore + cannot one of our great sculptors be so very kind as to take the trouble + to model dolls whose lineaments, coming to life beneath his fingers, would + tell of wisdom and of beauty? + </p> + <p> + At last the little girl awakens from her silent day-dream. She turns round + and shows her violet eyes made bigger still with wonder, her nose which + makes you smile to look at it, her tiny nose, quite white, that reminds + you of a little pug dog’s black one, her solemn mouth, her shapely but too + delicate chin, her cheeks a shade too pale. I recognize her. Oh yes! I + recognize her with that instinctive certainty that is stronger than all + convictions supported by all the proofs imaginable. Oh yes, ‘tis she, ‘tis + indeed she and all that remains of the most charming of women. I try to + hasten away but I cannot leave her. That hair of living gold, it is her + mother’s hair; those violet eyes, they are her mother’s own; Oh, child of + my dreams, child of my despair! I long to gather you to my arms, to steal + you, to bear you away. + </p> + <p> + But a governess draws near, calls the child and leads her away: “Come, + Marguerite, come along, it’s time to go home.” + </p> + <p> + And Marguerite, casting a look of sad farewell at the baby with its + outstretched arms, reluctantly follows in the footsteps of a tall woman + clad in black with ostrich feathers in her hat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0004" id="linkimage-0004"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/033.jpg" alt="Endpiece 033 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0005" id="linkimage-0005"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/034.jpg" alt="034 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 10th July + </h2> + <p> + “Jean, bring me file 117.... Now then, M. Boscheron, let’s get this + circular done. Take this down: <i>I draw your special attention, M. le + Préfet, to the following point. An end must be put at the earliest + possible moment to an abuse which, if suffered to continue, would tend to—tend + to—I draw your special attention to the following point, M. le + Préfet. An end must be put as soon as possible to an abuse</i>. Take that + down, M. Boscheron.” + </p> + <p> + But M. Boscheron, my secretary, respectfully remarks that I keep on + dictating the same sentence. Jean deferentially places a file on my table. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that, Jean?” + </p> + <p> + “File number 117. You asked me to fetch it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I asked you for file number 117?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Jean gives me an anxious glance and retires. + </p> + <p> + “Where were we, M. Boscheron?” + </p> + <p> + “An end must be put as soon as possible to an abuse . . . .” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right... <i>an abuse which would tend to diminish popular respect + for government servants and to transform</i>... transform, what a wealth + of hidden things that word conceals. I cannot so much as pronounce it but + a world of ideas and sentiments come thronging pell-mell to invade the + secret recesses of my being.” “I beg pardon, monsieur?” “What did you say, + M. Boscheron?” “Please repeat, monsieur; I didn’t quite follow you.” + </p> + <p> + “Really, Monsieur Boscheron? Possibly I was not very clear. Well, well! we + will stop there if you like. Give me what I have dictated, I will finish + it myself.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0006" id="linkimage-0006"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/036.jpg" alt="036 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + M. Boscheron gives me his notes, gathers up his papers, bows and retires. + Left alone in my office, I fall to examining the wallpaper with a sort of + idiotic minuteness. It has the appearance of green felt with here and + there a yellow stain; I begin to draw little men on my paper; I make an + effort to write; for the fact is my Chief has asked for the circular three + times and has promised the government deputies that it shall go to the + prefects forthwith. I am bound to let him have it. I begin reading it + through: <i>to diminish popular respect for government servants and to + transform them</i>. I make a blot; then with my pen I adorn it with hair. + I transform it into a comet. I dream of Marguerite’s tresses. The other + day, in the Champs-Elysées, little filaments of gold, little delicate + spirals stood out from the rest of her graceful tresses, with a singular + brightness. You can see their like in fifteenth century miniatures, also + in some of an earlier date. Dante says in his <i>Vita Nuova</i>: “One day + when I was busy drawing angel’s heads . . .” And now here am I trying to + draw angels’ heads on a government circular. Come now, we must get on with + it: <i>government servants and to transform them—transform them</i> + . . . How is it I simply cannot write a single word after that? How is it + I am here dreaming still, as I have been ever since I rediscovered my <i>ego</i> + on the Pont de la Concorde that evening of the lovely sunset? Transform, + did I say? O God of mystery, nature, truth, if she whose name even now + after four years I dare not utter, if she died in giving life to + Marguerite, I should believe, I should know with the certainty of + instinct, that the soul of the mother had passed into the daughter and + that they are one and the same being. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0007" id="linkimage-0007"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/040.jpg" alt="040 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0008" id="linkimage-0008"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/042.jpg" alt="042 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 1st November + </h2> + <p> + All’s well. I have lost my <i>ego</i> again. It has gone back into the + green filing cases. Number 117 contains a good part of it. I have finished + my circular. It is drawn up in good official style. We have a fine piece + of legislation to get off before the holidays. My Chief speaks every day + in the House. Every night I correct the proofs of his speeches. If the + Blue Bird comes to see me now and again in the small hall of the Palais + Bourbon, it is merely to advise me to tone down some rather too forcible + expression and he never addresses himself to my imagination. I don’t know + whether I am living happily or unhappily since I don’t know that I am + living at all. I do not even recognize my own clothes. I picked up the hat + of the Comte de Mérodac a little while ago and wore it for three days + without knowing it, yet it is a romantic sombrero-like sort of thing worn + nowadays by no one save this elderly nobleman. I cut an astounding figure + they told me, but I never noticed myself, and, if by chance I had, I + should not have heeded what I saw since it had nothing to do with + politics. I am no longer a person; I am a piece of the official machine. + To-night I have neither proofs to correct nor official reception to + attend. I have put on my slippers. There is always a tiny bit of my <i>ego</i> + hidden away in these slippers. I am in my room seated by the fire and I am + conscious of being there. By heaven I wonder whether I should know myself + in the glass. Let’s have a look. Hum! not so very ... I didn’t think I was + so grave and respectable looking. I quite see that I shall have to take + myself seriously. I have been a long time about it, but then it wasn’t for + me to begin. + </p> + <p> + I am a man of weight and I account myself such. But, alas, I do not know + myself. And I am not anxious to acquire the knowledge; it would be a + tedious business. No, I haven’t the smallest desire to hold converse with + the grave and frigid gentleman who mimics all my movements. On the other + hand, did I but dare, what a happy time I should have with that little + fellow whose miniature I see there in that locket hanging against the + frame of the mirror. He is building a house with dominoes. What a nice + little chap. I feel like calling him and saying “Let’s go and have a game + together shall we?” But, alas, he is far away, very far away. That little + boy is myself as I was forty years ago. He is dead, just as dead as if I + were lying beneath the sod, sealed up in a leaden coffin. For what have we + in common, he and I? In what respect does he survive in me to-day? In what + do my castles of cards resemble his tower of dominoes? + </p> + <p> + We say that we live, we miserable beings, because we keep dying over and + over again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0009" id="linkimage-0009"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/046.jpg" alt="046 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + I remember, it is true, how I used to play my games of an evening what + time my mother sat sewing at the table and gazed at me, now and again, + with a look full of that beautiful and simple tenderness that makes one + adore life, bless God and gives one courage enough to fight a score of + battles. Ah yes, hallowed memories, I shall treasure you in my heart like + a precious balm which, till my days are done, will have power to soothe + all bitterness and soften the very agony of death. But does the child that + I then was survive in me today? No. He is a stranger to me; I feel that I + can love him without selfishness and weep for him without unmanliness. He + is dead and gone, and has taken away with him my innocent simplicities and + my boundless hopes. We all of us die in swaddling clothes. Little + Marguerite, that delightful image of unfolding life, how many times has + she not died and what profound depths of irrevocable memories, what a + grave of dead thoughts and emotions has not already been delved within + her, though she is but five years old. I, a stranger, a passer-by, know + more of her life than she does and, in consequence, I am more truly she + than she herself. After that let him who will prate of the feeling of + identity and the consciousness of self. + </p> + <p> + Oh, gracious Heaven, what things we mortals be and into what an abyss of + terrors we should be for ever plunging if we had but time to think, + instead of making laws or planting cabbages. I feel like pulling my + slippers off my feet and pitching them out of the window, since they have + called me back to the consciousness of my existence. Our lives are only + bearable provided we do not think about them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0010" id="linkimage-0010"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/049.jpg" alt="049 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0011" id="linkimage-0011"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/050.jpg" alt="050 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 5th July + </h2> + <p> + It is a year ago to-day since I fell in with that little girl in front of + a toyshop in the Champs-Elysées, the child of her who first awakened in me + the sense of beauty. + </p> + <p> + I was happy before I saw her; but the poetry of the wide world was unknown + to me, nor had I had experience of the dolorous joys of love. The first + time I saw Marie was one Good Friday at a classical concert to which her + father, an old diplomat with a passion for music, who had heard the finest + orchestras of every Court in Europe, had conducted her attired in stately + weeds of solemn black. Her mourning garb only served to accentuate her + radiant beauty. The sight of her aroused in me feelings which bore, I + think, a close resemblance to religious exaltation. I was no longer very + young. The uncertainty of my worldly position, dependent as it then was + upon the vicissitudes of a political party, combined with my natural + timidity to deprive me of all hope of figuring as a successful suitor. I + often saw her at her father’s and she treated me with an air of open + friendliness that did not encourage me to foster higher ambitions. It was + clear I did not impress her as the sort of man with whom she could fall in + love. As for me, the sight of her and the sound of her voice produced in + me such a state of delicious agitation that the mere memory of it, mingled + though it be with grief, still avails to make me in love with life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0012" id="linkimage-0012"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/052.jpg" alt="052 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + Nevertheless, shall I avow it? I longed to hear her and to see her always; + I would have died in rapture at her side, but I was never fain to wed her. + No, some instinct of harmony held desire remote from my heart. “It was not + love then,” some one will say. I know not what it was, but I know that it + filled my soul. + </p> + <p> + Clearly, however, the feelings I experienced cannot have been strange to + the heart of man, since I have found them expressed with power and + sweetness in the works of the poets, in Virgil, in Racine and Lamartine. + They have given utterance to the emotions which I but felt. I could not + break silence. The miracles wrought in my soul by this young girl will + remain for ever unrevealed. For two years I lived an enchanted life; then, + one day, she told me she was going to be married. My feelings, as I have + said, bear a strong resemblance to religious emotion. They are sad, but in + their sadness they still preserve their charm. Grief corrupts them not. + From suffering they derive a wholesome bitterness that lends them + strength. I listened to her with that gentle courage which comes with + renunciation. She was marrying a man senior to myself, a widower, almost + an old man, whose birth and fortune had marked him out for the public + career in which he had displayed a haughtiness of disposition and much + misplaced courage. Although I moved in a lower sphere, I came in contact + with him on several important occasions. I belonged to a political group + with views very similar to his own, but we had never been able to meet + without considerable friction and, although the newspapers treated us with + the same approval or, as was more often the case, with the same hostility, + we were not friends, far from it, and we avoided each other with sedulous + care. + </p> + <p> + I was present at the wedding. I saw, and I shall ever see Marie, wearing + her white dress and lace veil. She was a little pale and very lovely. I + was struck, without apparent reason, by the impression of fragility with + which this girl who was animated by so poetic a soul seemed to give one. + This impression, which I think occurred to no one but myself, was only too + well founded. I never saw Marie again. + </p> + <p> + She died after three years of married life, leaving a little girl ten + months old. An indescribable feeling of tender affection has always drawn + me to this child, to Marie’s Marguerite. An unconquerable desire to see + her took possession of me. + </p> + <p> + She was being brought up at ——— near Melun, where her + father had a château standing in the midst of a magnificent park. One day + I went to ——— and wandered for hours, like a thief, + about the park bound-aries. At last, through a gap in the trees, I caught + sight of Marguerite in the arms of her nurse, who was dressed in black. + She was wearing a hat with white plumes and an embroidered pelisse. I + cannot say in what respect she differed from any other child, but I + thought she was the fairest in the world. It was autumn. The wind that was + sighing in the trees was whirling the dead leaves about in little eddies + as they floated to earth. Dead leaves covered all the long avenue in which + the little white-robed child was being carried up and down. An immense + sadness took possession of me. At the edge of a bed of flowers as white as + the raiment of Marguerite, an old gardener who was gathering up the fallen + leaves saluted his little mistress with a smile and, with his hand on his + rake and hat in hand, spoke to her with the gentle gaiety of old men who + are not overburdened with their thoughts. But she paid no heed to him. + With her little hand like to a star she sought her nurse’s breast. As I + hurried away with grief in my heart, the nurse resumed her walk and I + heard the sound of the dead leaves sighing sorrowfully beneath her steps. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0013" id="linkimage-0013"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/058.jpg" alt="058 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0014" id="linkimage-0014"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/060.jpg" alt="060 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 10th July + </h2> + <p> + The President of the Chamber rises and says: “The motion proposed by + Messrs. ——— and ——— is now put.” + </p> + <p> + The Prime Minister, without quitting his seat says: “The Government does + not assent to the motion.” + </p> + <p> + The President rings his bell and says: “A ballot has been demanded. A + ballot will therefore be taken. Those in favour of Messrs. ——— + and ———‘s motion must place a white paper in the urn; + those who are against it, a blue paper.” + </p> + <p> + There was a great movement in the hall. The deputies poured out in a + disorderly mob into the corridors, while the ushers passed the white metal + urn along the tiers of seats. The corridors were full of the sound of + shuffling feet, and of shouting and gesticulating people. Grave looking + young men and excited old ones went passing by. The air was pierced with + the sound of voices calling out figures: + </p> + <p> + “Eleven votes.” + </p> + <p> + “No, nine.” + </p> + <p> + “They are being checked.” + </p> + <p> + “Eight against.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not at all; eight for.” + </p> + <p> + “What, the amendment is carried?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The Government is beaten?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + The President’s bell is heard in the corridors. + </p> + <p> + Slowly the hall fills again. + </p> + <p> + The President standing up with a paper in his hand rings his bell for the + last time and says: + </p> + <p> + “The following is the result of the ballot on the motion proposed by + Messrs. ——— and ———. Number of votes + 470; for the motion 239 ; against 231. The motion is carried.” + </p> + <p> + There is an immense sensation. The Ministers get up and leave their seats. + Two or three friends shake them timidly by the hand. It’s all over, they + are beaten. They go under and I with them. I no longer count. I make up my + mind to it. To say that I am happy would be to go too far. But it spells + the end of my worries and bothers and toils. I have regained my freedom, + but not voluntarily. Repose and liberty, I’ve got them back again, but it + is to my defeat that I owe them. An honourable defeat it is true, but + painful all the same because our ideas suffer with ourselves. How many + things are involved in our fall, alas. Economy, public security, + tranquillity of conscience and that spirit of prudence, that continuity of + policy, which gives a nation its strength. I hurried away to shake hands + with the Chief of my department, proud of having rendered faithful service + to so upright a leader. Then, pushing my way through the crowd that had + gathered about the precincts of the Palais Bourbon, I crossed the Seine + and made my way slowly towards the Madeleine. At the top of the boulevard + there was a barrow of flowers drawn up alongside the kerb. Between the two + shafts was a young girl making up bunches of violets. I went up to her and + asked her for a bunch. I then saw a little girl of four sitting on the + barrow amid the flowers. With her baby fingers she was trying to make + bunches like her mother. She raised her head at my approach and, with a + smile, held out all the flowers she had in her hands. When she had given + them all to me, she blew kisses. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0015" id="linkimage-0015"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/064.jpg" alt="064 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + I was extremely flattered. “I must have a kindly look about me,” I said to + myself, “for a child to smile a welcome at me like that. What is your + name?” I asked her. + </p> + <p> + “Marguerite,” replied her mother. + </p> + <p> + It was half-past six. There was a news-vendor’s hard by. I bought a paper. + As soon as I glanced at it I saw that I was in for a wigging. The + political editor, having referred to my Chief as an individual of ill + omen, spoke of me too, on the first page, as a sinister creature. But, + after Marguerite’s kisses, I could not believe it. I felt at once a + lightness and a sort of emptiness at heart; both glad and sorrowful. + </p> + <p> + A week later found me on my way, to ——— near Melun, + where I had taken a little house hard by the Château of Marguerite’s + upbringing. In my eyes it was the fairest region in the world. + </p> + <p> + As we approached the station I looked out of the carriage window. The + silver river flowed in graceful curves between willows, until it vanished + from the sight. But long after it was lost to view one could divine its + course by the rows of poplars which lined its banks. A weathercock and two + towers visible amid the trees marked the site of the town. Then I + exclaimed, “Here is the resting place for me, here will I lay my head.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0016" id="linkimage-0016"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/067.jpg" alt="067 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0017" id="linkimage-0017"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/068.jpg" alt="068 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 25th July + </h2> + <p> + The walk I love best is the walk to Saint-Jean, for there, about a hundred + yards from the town is a little wood, or rather a little half-wild cluster + of hornbeams, maples, limes and lilac bushes, a bouquet that murmurs in + the breeze. The very first day I discovered it, I felt its charm. I + determined to make love to it; I made up my mind to know it tree by tree, + to search out its humblest plants, its vetches, its saxifrages, and to see + whether there was no Solomon’s seal to be found growing beneath the shade + of the big trees. I kept my word and now I am beginning to make + acquaintance with the flora and fauna of my little wood. I had been + reclining on the grass to-day for the space of an hour, book in hand, when + I heard some one crying in a faint voice. I looked up and beheld a little + girl standing beside an elderly man and weeping. The man was undeniably + old. His face was long and pallid. There was an expression of sadness in + his eyes and his mouth drooped mournfully. He had a skipping-rope in his + hand and was looking fixedly at the child. Then he turned aside to brush + away a tear from his cheek. It was then that I beheld him full face and + saw that he was Marguerite’s father. I was shocked at the great change + that illness and sorrow had wrought in his haughty mien. Despair was + graven on his countenance and he seemed to be calling for help. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0018" id="linkimage-0018"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/070.jpg" alt="070 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + I went up to him and, in response to my offer to assist him in any way + possible, he explained with some embarrassment that a ball with which his + little girl had been playing had got caught in a tree and that his stick, + which he had thrown up in order to dislodge it, had become entangled in + the branches. He was at his wit’s end. + </p> + <p> + Only a few years before, this same man had circumvented the policy of + England and imparted a vigorous stimulus to French diplomacy in Europe. + Then he fell with honour, and was followed in his retirement by a profound + but honourable unpopularity. And now, behold his powers are unequal to the + task of dislodging a ball from a tree. Such is the frailty of man. As for + his daughter, Marie’s daughter, a sort of presentiment forbade me to look + in her face. And then when at length I did look at her, I could not tear + myself away from such a sorrowful object of contemplation. She was no + longer the little pink and white child I had seen in the Champs-Elysées; + she had grown taller and thinner, and her face was wan as a waxen taper. + Her languid eyes were encircled with blue rings. And her temples . . . + what invisible hand had laid those two sad violets upon her temples? + </p> + <p> + “There! there! there!” cried the old man as he stretched forth a trembling + arm which pointed aimlessly in all directions. + </p> + <p> + The first thing to be done was to help him. By means of a stone which I + threw up into the tree, I soon managed to bring the ball down. X . . . + witnessed its fall with childish delight. He had not recognized me. I + hurriedly escaped to spare him the trouble of thanking me and myself the + agony of seeing the change that had taken place in Marie’s daughter. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0019" id="linkimage-0019"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/074.jpg" alt="074 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0020" id="linkimage-0020"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/076.jpg" alt="076 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 10th August + </h2> + <p> + I seldom go out. I am no longer moved by the beauty of things. Or to speak + more truly, the more pleasurable and splendid aspects of nature give me + pain. All day long I sully sheet after sheet of paper and beguile the + tedious hours with the half-faded recollections of my childhood. What I am + writing will be burned. I should be ashamed that pages, tear-stained and + dream-haunted, should fall beneath the eyes of grave, sober-minded folk. + What would they see in them? Naught but childish faces. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0021" id="linkimage-0021"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/078.jpg" alt="078 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 20th August + </h2> + <p> + To-dau I went for a stroll by the river in whose blue waters are mirrored + the willows and the houses that befringe its banks. There is a seductive + charm about running waters. They bear along with them as they flow all + those idlers who love to dream their time away. + </p> + <p> + The river lured me as far as the château de- ——— which + had witnessed the betrothal and the death of Marie, and the birth of + Marguerite. My heart tolled a knell within me when I saw once more that + peaceful abode, which, despite the scenes of sorrow enacted within its + walls, speaks, with its white pillared façade, of naught save elegant + opulence and luxurious repose. I was so overcome that, to save myself from + falling, I clung to the bars of the park gate and gazed at the wide lawns + which stretched away as far as the flight of steps which the hem of + Marie’s robe had kissed so often. I had been there some minutes when the + gate was opened and X ... came out. + </p> + <p> + On this occasion, also, he was accompanied by his child: but this time she + was not walking. She was lying in a perambulator which was being pushed by + a governess. With her head resting on an embroidered pillow in the shadow + of the lowered hood, she resembled one of those little waxen images of + saint or martyr, embellished with silver filigree, on whose wounds and + gems the nuns of Spain are wont to pore in the solitude of their cells. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0022" id="linkimage-0022"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/080.jpg" alt="080 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + Her father, elegantly dressed, presented a faded, tear-stained + countenance. He advanced towards me with little faltering steps, took me + by the hand and led me to his little girl. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” he said in the tone of a child asking a favour, “you don’t + think she has changed since you last saw her, do you? It was the day she + threw her ball up into the tree.” + </p> + <p> + The perambulator which we were following in silence came to a halt in the + Bois Saint-Jean. The governess lowered the hood. Marguerite lay with her + head thrown back, her eyes big with terror, and she was stretching out her + arms to push aside something that we could not see. Oh, I guessed well + enough what invisible hand it was. The same hand that had touched the + mother was now laid upon the child. I fell on my knees. But the phantom + departed and Marguerite, raising her head, lay resting peacefully. I + gathered some flowers and laid them reverently beside her. She smiled. + Seeing her come back to life I gave her more flowers and sang to her, + endeavouring to beguile her. The air and the feeling of happiness she now + experienced brought back to her that desire to live which had forsaken + her. At the end of an hour her cheeks were almost rosy. When it grew cool + and we had to take the little suffering child back to the château again, + her father took my hand as we parted and, pressing it, said in suppliant + tones: + </p> + <p> + “Come again to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0023" id="linkimage-0023"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/084.jpg" alt="084 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="linkimage-0024" id="linkimage-0024"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/086.jpg" alt="086 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 21st August + </h2> + <p> + I returned next day. On the steps of the Empire château I encountered the + family doctor. He is a spare, elderly man whom you meet wherever there is + good music to be heard. He seems like a man perpetually listening to the + harmonies of some inward concert. He is for ever under the spell of sounds + and lives by his ear alone. He is specially noted for his treatment of + nervous complaints. Some say he is a genius; others that he is mad. + Certainly there is something peculiar about him. When I saw him he was + coming down the steps; his feet, his finger and his lips moving in time to + some intricate measure. + </p> + <p> + “Well, doctor,” I said with an involuntary quaver in my voice, “and how is + your little patient?” + </p> + <p> + “She means to live,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “You will pull her through for us, won’t you?” I said eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you she means to live.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think, doctor, that people live just as long as they really want + to and that we do not die save with our own consent?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + I walked with him along the gravel path. He stopped for a moment at the + gate, his head bowed as if in thought. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” he said again, “but they must really want to and not merely + think they want to. Conscious will is an illusion that can deceive none + save the vulgar. People who believe they will a thing because they say + they will it, are fools. The only genuine act of volition is that in which + all the obscure forces of our nature take part. That will is unconscious, + it is divine. It moulds the world. By it we exist, and when it fails we + cease to be. The world <i>wills</i>, otherwise it would not exist.” + </p> + <p> + We walked on a few steps farther. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” he exclaimed, tapping his stick against the bark of an oak + tree that spread out its broad canopy of grey branches above our heads, + “if that fellow there had not <i>willed</i> to grow, I should like to know + what power could have made him do so.” + </p> + <p> + But I had ceased to listen. + </p> + <p> + “So you have hopes,” I said at length, “that Marguerite . . .” + </p> + <p> + But he was a stubborn little old fellow. + </p> + <p> + He murmured as he walked away: “The Will’s crowning Victory is Love.” + </p> + <p> + And I stood and watched him as he departed with little quick steps, + beating time to a tune that was running in his head. + </p> + <p> + I went quickly back to the château and found little Marguerite. The moment + I saw her, I realized that she had the will to live. She was still very + pale and very thin, but her eyes had more colour in them and were not so + big, and her lips, lately so dead-looking and so silent, were gay with + prattling talk. + </p> + <p> + “You are late,” she said. “Come here, see! I have a theatre and actors. + Play me a beautiful piece. They say that ‘Hop o’ my Thumb’ is nice. Play + ‘Hop o’ my Thumb’ for me.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0025" id="linkimage-0025"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/090.jpg" alt="090 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + You may be sure I did not refuse. However, I encountered great + difficulties at the very outset of my undertaking. I pointed out to + Marguerite that the only actors she had were princes and princesses, and + that we wanted woodmen, cooks and a certain number of folks of all sorts. + </p> + <p> + She thought for a moment and then said: + </p> + <p> + “A prince dressed like a cook; that one there looks like a cook, don’t you + think?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so too.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, we’ll make woodmen and cooks out of all the princes we have + over.” + </p> + <p> + And that’s what we did. O Wisdom, what a day we spent together! + </p> + <p> + Many others like it followed in its train. I watched Marguerite taking an + ever firmer hold on life. Now she is quite well again. I had a share in + this miracle. I discovered a tiny portion of that gift wherein the + apostles so richly abounded when they healed the sick by the laying on of + hands. + </p> + <p> + <i>Editor’s Note</i>.—I found this manuscript in a train on the + Northern Railway. I give it to the public without alteration of any sort, + save that, as the names were those of well-known persons, I have thought + it well to suppress them. + </p> + <p> + Anatole France. + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkimage-0026" id="linkimage-0026"> + <!-- IMG --></a> + </p> + <div class="fig" style="width:60%"> + <img src="images/093.jpg" alt="093 " width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Marguerite, by Anatole France + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARGUERITE *** + +***** This file should be named 25406-h.htm or 25406-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/5/4/0/25406/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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