an attempt to get back to jail he commits the indiscretion for which he was previously unjustly convicted. This time, however, he incurs only the rebuke of a patient gendarme, and is left to continue his miserable existence without even the shelter of a prison. Sufficiently apparent here is France's attack on the injustice of the law; obvious enough too, are his views on war and nationalism as set forth in Opinions Sociales and Vers les Temps Meilleurs. These contain his addresses, which had commenced with the defense of Picquart, an early supporter of Dreyfus' innocence. Certainly it is a far cry from the time of Sylvestre Bonnard to the day of Anatole France, Socialist speechmaker! Sequestred booklover, anti-clerical satirist, ironic realist, denouncer of injustice, pacifistic socialist-in all of these rôles Anatole France has shown himself, and in the capacity of historian and in the manner of Voltaire he again portrays them (with the exception of the first) in L'Ile des Pingouins. It would be difficult to find a book more inclusive in its satire than this; from the embarrassment of the Lord at the holy Mael's baptism of the penguins to the affair of the eighty thousand trusses of hay it is one vast caricature of French history. No attempt at camouflage is made; that the acrid chapter on Penguin Primitives is a parody on Ruskin is as manifest as is the true identity of Pyrot or Colomban. It is satire pure and simple, undiluted with the philosophic indulgence of France's younger days. The abrupt, pessimistic ending seems to indicate that the irony of the author has so taken hold of him that his biting intellect is no longer tempered by emotion......

Mistaken is the attitude of those who claim that through his writings it is always possible to form an accurate estimate of the author's character. Prone to read in hidden meanings where none was intended, they belong to the same category as those unfortunates who can see in poetry only some trite moral dished up in froth, who think that the greatest pleasure and benefit to be derived from The Ancient Mariner is the philosophy of life which Coleridge has so cleverly concealed therein-namely, "Be kind to animals", or, more specifically, "Be kind to albatrosses". Nevertheless, in the case of Anatole France, whose best books are frankly autobiographical, not only is it possible but it is difficult

to avoid attempting the formation of a definite picture of the author. Success may not accompany this attempt, for the picture is a kaleidoscope of changing and often contradictory phases rather than a plausible pattern. Even in an essay of this sort-of necessity curtailed and with no pretension to completeness-it should be possible to gain some conception of the breadth of the man whose moods varied from a laissez-faire pessimism to the optimism of a reformer, from a sympathy with the aristocratic ancien régime to a regard for an almost Utopian Socialism.

Anatole France, the author of Les Poèmes Dorés and La Vie de Jeanne d'Arc, has purposely been neglected here, for the greatest charm and value of his work rest neither in his ability as a writer of verse nor as a patient historian, except in that his sense of poetry and aptitude for accurate narration are patent in nearly all of his books. Nor has he secured his laurels merely by the individuality of an inimitable style. Superior as are his polished phrases (according to one critic, "M. France n'a guère donné au public que des ouvrages achevés") to the froth of a Michael Arlen or the less superficial finish of a James Branch Cabell, style alone does not account for his unique position.

An unmatched imagination coupled with an acuteness of analysis formed the framework which France's immense knowledge and seemingly artless simplicity embellished. Constructive he was not, but those criticisms which brand him as an empty hedonist are without adequate foundation. Even Rodin's expressive remark, "Anatole a la sauce, mais il n'a pas le lapin"-reminiscent of James Elroy Flecker in Hassan-seems untrue. Satire does not inevitably denote shallowness; often it is the weapon of one who sees with uncommon clearness. Such a perception was granted to Anatole France, man and writer of almost inexplicably diverse views, whose death deprived the world of a personality not to be duplicated.

GEOFFREY T. HELLMAN.

"I

Imitation Bund

TINK it's better I go," said Mary. "I tink it be better for bote of us. I go some place else and Mrs. Benn finds a girl she gets along wit."

Mary with her calm rotundity faced Mrs. Benn and Aunt Emma, who reasoned desperately with the departing cook.

"Well, and at the last minute," said Mrs. Benn. "Now we've asked the Gilberts for lunch-and you let me know at the last minute."

Through their sister, who entertained widely for a circle of prominent musicians, Mrs. Benn and Aunt Emma had met the world-known violinist, Gilbert, and his wife, and had invited them to luncheon, because the husbands of the sisters had wild. ideas about what should be done to musicians.

"Well, now listen to me, Mary," said Aunt Emma. "Mrs. Benn didn't mean what she said. We all get excited at times, we say things we don't mean, we're sorry afterwards, and that's the way it is, and we've got to make the best of it. Now Mrs. Benn is having Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert for lunch and she promised them some of your Bundkuchen because they're crazy about German cooking. Mrs. Benn knows you're a grand girl and she can't get another like you. Now be a good girl and say you'll stay. Here's a present for you."

Aunt Emma offered her five dollars.

"I tink it's better I go," said Mary.

Aunt placed the money on the white enamelled table.

"I'll leave it here because I know you're going to stay," she said, and smiled slyly.

Mrs. Benn nervously fingered the edge of the table. She saw unlimited German Bruststeckels, Schneckens, and Bundkuchens about to step over her threshold and be lost forever.

"You know you don't have to act like that just because I tell you the meat's wrong," she said. "And now at the last minute."

Ach, I'm sick of it," said Mary. "Alwayce yelling and excitement. I giff you the recipe and anodder cook can make the Bundkuchen. I vant qviet, too, you know. Na; it's too late. I go, Mrs. Benn. Dere are odder girls."

Aunt Emma was distracted.

"Now listen, Mary. It's going to be all right, and you're going to stay. We all make mistakes. Mrs. Benn is sorry; she's got lots of worries and she's a little nervous, and you can't leave her after she promised the lunch and the Bundkuchen to Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert."

"Ach, I neffer see anyting like it," said Mary. "So much talk. I stay till you get anodder girl, and leaff me alone or I get cracy." "Now you see," said Aunt Emma. "Everything's all right. Now make a good lunch. Why sure; Mrs. Benn didn't mean anything. Now take that present and forget about it."

The sisters went out with sly inward smiles and retired to Mrs. Benn's bedroom.

"She's the biggest devil," said Mrs. Benn. "She's the biggest devil that ever walked in shoe leather."

She took the clothes stand hung with pink stockings and underwear from the bathroom and put it in another room. She stuffed the bath towels into the wash basket and put some stained medicine bottles in the medicine chest. When she had put out fancy towels and wiped the dried soap suds from the basin the bathroom looked as if no one used it. The bathroom took on a new dignity at the expense of other rooms.

"If she only doesn't get rattled," said Mrs. Benn.
"She won't," said Aunt Emma. "Now don't worry."

The Gilberts came.

"Not at all," said Mrs. Benn. "She isn't even ready yet."

Mrs. Gilbert was large and worldly and jovial; she acted as if she had had two cocktails and were always about to say something risqué. Mr. Gilbert was sincerely polite, as though he were bowing to an audience.

"Well, Mrs. Benn," said Mrs. Gilbert, "we're glad to be back. Japan is a crowded country, but they never mention the millions of other things that live in the houses."