IT was a November evening. Outside, the rain was sweeping in gusts against the windows; but indoors, with the curtains drawn and a fire burning on the hearth, my little sitting-room was warm and ...

The last of the sages, he Has been called. An old man in a grey dressing-gown and scarlet skullcap, with objects d’art, with his disciples about him, in his home on the Avenue du Bois, Anatole France ...

AFTER Anatole France’s death there was such a spate of books about him that, by the time they came to be translated, a reaction against them had set in. That fact cannot, however, detract from the ...

M. ANATOLE FRANCE is a writer who is continually saying something. His thought is always breaking into bloom. He is not one of those who, on the ground of weightiness of matter, or other supposed ...