adopted
the practice of numbering every copy of a book. Thus my copy of its
"L'Esprit de Barbey d'Aurevilly" (an exceedingly diverting volume) is
numbered 1424. I prefer this to advertisements of "second large edition,"
etc. One knows where one is. But I fear the example of the Mercure de
France is not likely to be honestly imitated.

* * * * *

If Anatole France's "editions" consist of five hundred copies I am glad.
For an immediate sale of nine thousand copies is fairly remarkable when
the article sold consists of nothing more solid than irony. But I am
inclined to think that they do not consist of five hundred copies. There
is less enthusiasm--that is to say, less genuine enthusiasm--for Anatole
France than there used to be. The majority, of course, could never
appreciate him, and would only buy him under the threat of being disdained
by the minority, whose sole weapon is scorn. And the minority has been
seriously thinking about Anatole France, and coming to the conclusion
that, though a genius, he is not the only genius that ever existed.
(Stendhal is at present the god of the minority of the race which the
_Westminister Gazette_ will persist in referring to as "our French
neighbours." In some circles it is now a lapse from taste to read anything
but Stendhal.) Anatole France's last two works of imagination did not
brilliantly impose themselves on the intellect of his country. "L'Histoire
Comique" showed once again his complete inability to construct a novel,
and it appeared to be irresponsibly extravagant in its sensuality. And
"Sur la Pierre Blanche" was inferior Wells. The minority has waited a long
time for something large, original, and arresting; and it has not had it.
The author was under no compulsion to write his history of Joan of Arc,
which bears little relation to his epoch, and which one is justified in
dismissing as the elegant pastime of a savant. If in Anatole France the
savant has not lately flourished to the detriment of the fighting
philosopher, why should he have spent years on the "Joan of Arc" at a
period when Jaures urgently needed intellectual aid against the
doctrinarianism of the International Congress? Jaures was beaten, and he
yielded, with the result that Clemenceau, a man far too intelligent not to
be a practical Socialist at heart, has become semi-reactionary for want of
support. This has not much to do with literature. Neither has the history
of Joan of