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 Jaurès urgently needed intellectual aid against the
doctrinarianism of the International Congress? Jaurès 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 Arc. To return to literature, it is indubitable that Anatole
France is slightly acquiring the reputation of a dilettante.

* * * * *

In "L'Ile des Pingouins" he returns, in a parable, to his epoch. For this
book is the history of France "from the earliest time to the present
day," seen in the mirror of the writer's ironical temperament. It is very
good. It is inimitable. It is sheer genius. One cannot reasonably find
fault with its amazing finesse. But then one is so damnably
_un_reasonable! One had expected--one does not know what one had
expected--but anyhow something with a more soaring flight, something more
passionate, something a little less gently "tired" in its attitude towards
the criminal frailties of mankind! When an A.B. Walkley yawns in print
before the spectacle of the modern English theatre, it really doesn't
matter. But when an Anatole France grows wearily indulgent before the
spectacle of life, one is inclined to wake him by throwing "Leaves of