Complete Works of Anatole France

by Anatole France

  When I had conducted the Princess to the principal salon, I prepared to leave. In the ante-chamber I found Wood putting on his overcoat. He did not appear to feel any ill effects from his attack.

  “My dear fellow,” he said, “I think we are neighbours. I suppose you are still living on the Quai Malaquais, and I have taken up my quarters in a hotel in the Rue des Saints Pères. In dry weather like this it is a pleasure to go on foot. If you are willing we will stroll along together and chat.”

  I agreed readily. On the doorstep he offered me a cigar, and held out a pocket electric torch for me to light it by.

  “I find it very convenient,” he said, and proceeded to explain the principle of it very lucidly.

  I recognized the Wood of old times again. We moved on perhaps a hundred paces along the street chatting on indifferent subjects. Then suddenly my companion put his hand quietly on my shoulder.

  “My dear friend,” he began, “some of the things I said this evening cannot have failed to surprise you. You would probably like me to explain them.”

  “I was intensely interested, my dear Wood, pray do.”

  “I will do so willingly. I have the greatest admiration of your character. We may not regard life from the same point of view. But you are not one of those who repel an idea because it is new, and that is a disposition sufficiently rare, in France especially.”

  “I fancy, however, my dear Wood, that for liberty of thought—”

  “Oh! no, you are not, like the English, a race of theologians. But enough of that. I want to tell you in as few words as possible the history of my convictions. When you knew me fifteen years ago I was the correspondent of the London World. With us journalism is a more lucrative profession, and is held in higher esteem than with you. My appointment was a good one, and I fancy I reaped the greatest possible advantages from it. I am familiar with business transactions, and I carried through some very profitable ones, and in a few years I achieved two very desirable things: influence and fortune. You are aware that I am a practical man.

  “I have never worked without a goal in view. And, above all things, I aimed at attaining the supreme goal of life. Fairly exhaustive theological studies undertaken in my youth had convinced me that that goal lay outside the sphere of this terrestrial life. But I was yet in doubt as to the practical means of attaining it. As a result, I suffered cruelly. Uncertainty is absolutely insupportable to a man of my temperament.

  “In this state of mind I turned my attention seriously to the psychical researches of Sir William Crookes, one of the most distinguished members of our Royal Society. I knew him personally, and needed no assurance that he was both a man of learning and a gentleman. He was at that time giving his attention to the case of a young woman endowed with psychic powers of an altogether uncommon nature, and, like Saul of old, he was fortunate enough to evoke the presence of an indisputable disembodied spirit.

  “A charming woman, who had passed through the experience of earthly life and was now living the life beyond the tomb, lent herself to the experiments of the eminent spiritualist, and submitted to every test he could exact from her within the limits of decorum. I considered that investigations such as this, bearing on the point at which terrestrial existence borders on extra-terrestrial existence, would lead me, if I followed them step by step, to the discovery of that which it is above all necessary to know, that is to say, the true aim of life. But it was not long before I was disappointed in my hopes. The researches of my respected friend, although conducted with a precision which left nothing to be desired, did not result in a theological and moral conviction sufficiently unequivocal.

  “Moreover, Sir William was suddenly deprived of the co-operation of the incomparable dead lady who had so graciously attended several of his spiritualistic séances.

  “Discouraged by the incredulity of the public, and irritated by the sallies of his colleagues, he ceased to give any information relative to his psychic experiences. I communicated my discomfiture to the Reverend Mr. B — , with whom I had been on friendly terms from the time of his return from South Africa, where he had laboured as an evangelist in a devoted and systematic fashion truly worthy of old England.

  “Mr. B — is, of all men, the one who has at all times exercised the most powerful and decisive influence over me.”

  “He is very intellectual, then?” I asked.

  “His knowledge of doctrine is profound,” replied Wood. “But better than all else he has a strong character, and you are aware, my dear fellow, that it is by force of character that men are swayed. My mischances occasioned no surprise to him; he attributed them to my lack of method, and, above all, to the pitiable moral infirmity I had shown on this occasion.

  “‘Scientific experiments,’ he declared, ‘can never lead to discoveries in any other domain than that of science. How is it you did not understand this? Leslie Wood, you have been strangely heedless and frivolous. The Apostle Paul has told us that the Spirit searcheth all things. If we would discover spiritual truths we must set our feet on the spiritual path.’

  “These words produced a profound impression on me.

  “‘ How then,’ I asked, ‘shall I enter on the spiritual path?’

  “‘Poverty and simplicity must be your guides!’

  Mr. B — replied. ‘Sell your goods and give the purchase money to the poor. You are renowned. Conceal yourself. Pray, and devote yourself to works of charity. Put on a spirit of simplicity and a pure soul and you will attain truth.’

  “I resolved to follow out these precepts to the letter. I sent in my resignation as correspondent to the World. I realized my investments, which were in great part in commercial enterprises, and, fearing to repeat the sin of Ananias and Sapphira, I conducted this delicate operation in such a way as not to risk the loss of a penny of the capital which was no longer my own. Baron Moïse, who kept an eye on my negotiations, conceived an almost religious reverence for my financial genius.

  By direction of Mr. B — , I handed over to the treasurer of the Evangelical Society the sums I had realized, and when I expressed to that eminent theologian my delight at being poor —

  “‘Have a care,’ said he, ‘that in your poverty you do not indulge in exaltation at your prowess. It will serve you but ill to strip yourself outwardly if within your own breast you cherish a golden idol. Be humble!’”

  Leslie Wood had reached this point in his narrative when we arrived at the Pont Royal. The Seine, upon whose surface the lights threw flickering reflections, flowed beneath the arches with a dull moan.

  “I shall have to cut my story short,” Wood began once more. “Each episode of my new life would occupy a whole night to recount. Mr. B — , to whom I was as obedient as a child, sent me to the Basutos, commissioned to fight against the slave trade. There I lived under a tent alone with that hardy bedfellow whose name is danger, and through fever and drought became aware of the presence of God.

  “At the end of five years Mr. B — recalled me to England. On the steamer I met a young girl. What a haunting face she had! She was a vision a thousand times more radiant than the phantom presence which appeared to Sir William Crookes!

  “She was the orphan daughter of a colonel in the Indian army and she was poor. She had no particular beauty of features. Her pale complexion and emaciated face indicated suffering; but her eyes expressed all that one can imagine of heaven; her body seemed to glow gently with an inward light. How I loved her! At sight of her fathomed the hidden meaning of all creation! That simple young girl with one glance revealed to me the secret of the harmony of the spheres!

  “Ah! she was simple, very simple, my monitress, my well-loved lady, sweet Annie Fraser! In her translucent soul I could read the sympathy she felt for me. One night, one serene night, when we were alone together on the deck of the ship in the presence of the seraphic company of the stars, which throbbed in chorus in the sky, I took her hand and said —

  Annie Fraser, I love you. I believe that it would be good for
us both for you to become my wife, but I am debarred from planning my own future in order that God may dispose of it as He sees fit. May it be His will to unite us! I have surrendered my own will into the hands of Mr. B — . When we reach England we will go together in search of him; will you, Annie Fraser? And if he gives his sanction we will marry.’

  “She gave her consent. For the remainder of the voyage we read the Bible together.

  “Immediately on our arrival in London I accompanied my fellow passenger to Mr. B— ‘s, and told him what the love of this young girl meant to me, and with what clear insight it inspired me.

  “Mr. B — gazed for a long time on her with kindliness.

  “‘You may marry,’ he said at length. ‘The Apostle Paul has declared that the husband is sanctified by the wife, and the wife by the husband. But let your union resemble those held in honour amongst Christians in the primitive Church! Let it remain purely spiritual, and see that the angel’s sword lies between you in your bed. Go, now, and remain humble and secluded, and let not the world hear your name.’

  “I married Annie Fraser, and I need scarcely tell you that we complied rigidly with the condition imposed on us by Mr. B — . For four years I delighted in that brotherly and sisterly union.

  “By grace of simple little Annie Fraser I advanced in the knowledge of God. There was nothing now that could cause us suffering.

  “Annie was ill, and her strength declined, and we repeated joyfully in union, ‘May the will of God be done on earth as it is in heaven!’

  “After four years of this life together, there came a day, a Christmas day, when Mr. B — summoned me to him.

  “‘Leslie Wood,’ he said, ‘I have put you to the proof for your soul’s sake. But it would be to fall into papistical error to believe that the union of His creatures after the flesh is displeasing to God. Twice He blessed both animals and mankind in pairs, in the earthly Paradise, and in the ark of Noah. Go, and live henceforth with your wife, Annie Fraser, as a husband with his wife.’

  “When I arrived home, Annie, my well-loved Annie, was dead....

  “I own my weakness. It was with my lips and not with my heart that I pronounced the words, ‘O God, Thy will be done!’ and thinking upon Mr. B— ‘s tardy removal of the restrictions upon our love, I felt my mouth full of bitterness, and as it were ashes in my heart.

  “So it was with a forlorn soul that I knelt down at the foot of the bed where, beneath a cross or roses, silent and white and with the faint violets of death on her cheeks, my Annie slept her last sleep.

  “O thou of little faith! thou didst bid her adieu and remain a whole week plunged in barren sorrow that approached despair. How much rather shouldst thou, on the contrary, have rejoiced, both in body and soul!...

  “On the night of the eighth day, as I was weeping, my forehead bowed upon the cold and empty bed, I had a sudden conviction that the beloved was near me in my chamber.

  “Nor was I deceived. When I raised my head I saw Annie, smiling and radiant, holding out her arms to me. But how find words for what remains to tell? How express the ineffable? And is it permissible to reveal such mysteries of love?

  “Clearly when Mr. B — said to me, ‘Live with Annie as a husband with his wife!’ he knew that love is stronger than death.

  “Learn, then, my friend, that from that hour of forgiveness and joy my Annie has returned nightly to my side distilling celestial odours.”

  He spoke with appalling exaltation.

  We had slackened our pace. He stopped in front of a hotel of Moorish exterior.

  “This is where I live,” he said. “Do you see that window on the second floor with the light in it? She is waiting for me.”

  He left me abruptly.

  Eight days later I learned from the newspapers of the sudden death of Leslie Wood, former correspondent of the World.

  GESTAS

  TO CHARLES MAURRAS

  “‘Gestas,’ dixt li Signor, ‘entrez en Paradis.’”

  “Gestas, dans nos anciens mystères, c’est le nom du larron crucifié à la droite de Jésus-Christ” (Augustin Thierry, la Rédemption de Larmor). (“‘Gestas,’ said the Lord, ‘enter into Paradise.’”

  “Gestas, in our ancient mystery plays, was the name of the thief who was crucified on the right hand of Jesus Christ” (Augustin Thierry, The Redemption of Larmor).)

  FOLKS say that we have amongst us at this very day a sad rogue named Gestas, who writes the sweetest songs in the world. It was written on his flat-featured face that he would be a sinner after the flesh, and towards evening evil exultation shines in his green eyes. He is no longer young. The protuberances on his skull have taken on the lustre of copper; the long hair falling about his neck has taken a greenish tinge. Nevertheless he is ingenuous, and has kept fast hold on the naive faith of his childhood. When he is not in hospital he occupies a little room in some squalid hotel between’ the Panthéon and the Jardin des Plantes. There, in the old impoverished quarter, every stone is familiar with his tread, the gloomy byways are tolerant of him, and one of these narrow lanes is entirely after his own heart; for, lined though it is with dram shops and boosing kens, it boasts on the corner of one of the houses an image of the Virgin in a blue niche behind bars. Of an evening he progresses from café to café, and at station after station, with pious orderliness, he takes his beer or his spirits: the exacting duties of the devotee of debauchery call for method and regularity. The night is far gone when, without knowing how, he once more reaches his den, and by a daily miracle discovers the sacking bed, upon which he falls fully dressed. There with clenched fists he sleeps the sleep of the vagabond and the child. But that sleep is brief.

  As soon as dawn casts its pale radiance upon the window, and between the curtains darts its luminous shafts into the attic, Gestas opens his eyes, rises, shakes himself like an ownerless dog awakened by a kick, hurries down the long, spiral staircase, and once more sets his eyes delightedly on the street, the kind street which is so indulgent to the vices of the lowly and the poor. His eyelids wink at the clear light of the early morning; the nostrils, which recall Silenus, inhale the clean air. Vigorous and upright, one leg stiffened by rheumatism of long standing, he goes on his way leaning on his dog-wood stick, the ferrule of which he has worn out with twenty years of wandering. But in his nocturnal adventures he has never lost either his pipe or his stick. And at the beginning of the day his appearance is that of a man perfectly simple and perfectly happy. Which is what he actually is. His greatest joy in life, which he buys at the sacrifice of sleep, is to go from bar to bar in the morning drinking white wine with the workmen. It is an innocent sort of tippling: the transparent wine, in the pale light of early morning, amongst the white blouses of the masons; there you have a symphony in whites which enchants this soul, of which vice has not yet subdued the candour.

  Now one spring morning when he had sauntered in this fashion from his lodging as far as The Little Moor, Gestas had the satisfaction of seeing the door, over which appeared a Saracen’s head in cast iron, gay with paint, thrown open as he came up, and so he reached the tin counter in the company of friends with whom he had no acquaintance: a gang of workmen from La Creuse, who clinked their glasses, talked of their own part of the country, and indulged in boasting after the manner of the twelve peers of Charlemagne. They drank a glass and cracked a crust; when one of them thought of a good thing he laughed very loudly at it, and so that his comrades might understand it the better gave them a good thump or two on the back with his fist. The older men, however, dispatched their potations slowly and silently. When these had all departed to their work, Gestas, the last left, quitted The Little Moor and made his way to The Juicy Quince, with the lance-headed railings of which he was familiar. Here, again, in excellent company, he had a drink, and even offered a glass to two mistrustful but mild guardians of the peace. After this he visited a third bar, the ancient wrought-iron sign of which represents two little men staggering under an enormous bunch of grapes, and th
ere he was served by the lovely Madame Trubert, famous all the quarter through for her prudence, her strength, and her jollity. Then as he neared the fortifications he had yet another drink at the distillery where, in the shadow, the gleaming copper taps of the barrels attract the eye; and still another at the general shop where the green shutters were still fast closed between the two boxes of laurels; after which he returned to the most populous districts and ordered vermouth and the brandy known as marc in various cafés. Eight o’clock struck. He walked very erect, with a steady, rigid, solemn gait; he was astonished when women, running to buy provisions, with bare head and their hair twisted in a knot low on the neck, ran against him with their heavy baskets, or when he came into collision with some small girl grasping an enormous loaf in her arms. Still, at times, if he crossed the road the milkman’s cart, with its clinking, rattling tin cans, would pull up so close to him that he could feel the horse’s warm breath on his cheek. But he continued his way unhasting and careless of the imprecations of the rustic milk-vendor. His gait, secure of support from his dog-wood stick, was calm and haughty. But internally the old man was staggering. Nothing was left of his early morning gaiety. The lark, whose joyous trills had thrilled through him with his earliest sips of the pale-hued wine, had sped away at a single flight, and now his soul was a murky rookery, where crows croaked hoarsely upon inky trees. He was mortally sad. A great disgust of himself welled up in his heart. The voice of his repentance, his shame, cried out in him: “Hog, hog! What a hog you are!” And he marvelled at that clear, angry voice, that superb angel’s voice, which spoke mysteriously within himself, repeating: “Hog! hog! What a hog you are!” A yearning desire for innocence and purity woke in him. He wept; great tears fell down on his goat-like beard. He wept over himself. Obedient to the words of his Master, who said, “Weep for yourselves and for your children, O daughters of Jerusalem,” he shed the bitter dew from his downcast eyes upon the body he had delivered up to the seven deadly sins, and upon the obscene fancies born of his drunkenness. The faith of his childhood revived in him, and spread out fresh vigorous tendrils. From his lips pathetic prayers flowed forth. He said under his breath: “O God, grant me to become once more even as the little child which once was I!” At the moment he offered up this simple petition he realized that he was standing under a church porch.