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Author: British Museum. Department of Printed Books
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : English imprints
Languages : en
Pages : 482
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Book Description
Author: British Museum. Department of Printed Books
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : English imprints
Languages : en
Pages : 482
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Book Description
Author: British Museum. Dept. of Printed Books
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : English imprints
Languages : en
Pages : 1290
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Book Description
Author: University of California (System). Institute of Library Research
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : Library catalogs
Languages : en
Pages : 944
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Book Description
Author: New York Public Library. Research Libraries
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : Library catalogs
Languages : en
Pages : 610
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Author: British Library
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : English imprints
Languages : en
Pages : 488
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Book Description
Author: Anatole France
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
ISBN: 1465542078
Category : Fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 293
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Book Description
I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision. A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed from me the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois. I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and took up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me. Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion, with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell with his regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of his agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed again almost at once, thinking to himself, "It is nothing; it is only my friend." "Hamilcar," I said to him, as I stretched my legsÑ"Hamilcar, somnolent Prince of the City of BooksÑthou guardian nocturnal! Like that Divine Cat who combated the impious in HeliopolisÑin the night of the great combatÑthou dost defend from vile nibblers those books which the old savant acquired at the cost of his slender savings and indefatigable zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, softly as a sultana, in this library, that shelters thy military virtues; for verily in thy person are united the formidable aspect of a Tatar warrior and the slumbrous grace of a woman of the Orient. Sleep, thou heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, while awaiting the moonlight hour in which the mice will come forth to dance before the Acta Sanctorum of the learned Bolandists!" The beginning of this discourse pleased Hamilcar, who accompanied it with a throat-sound like the song of a kettle on the fire. But as my voice waxed louder, Hamilcar notified me by lowering his ears and by wrinkling the striped skin of his brow that it was bad taste on my part so to declaim. "This old-book man," evidently thought Hamilcar, "talks to no purpose at all while our housekeeper never utters a word which is not full of good sense, full of significanceÑcontaining either the announcement of a meal or the promise of a whipping. One knows what she says. But this old man puts together a lot of sounds signifying nothing." So thought Hamilcar to himself. Leaving him to his reflections, I opened a book, which I began to read with interest; for it was a catalogue of manuscripts. I do not know any reading more easy, more fascinating, more delightful than that of a catalogue. The one which I was readingÑedited in 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to Sir Thomas RaleighÑsins, it is true, by excess of brevity, and does not offer that character of exactitude which the archivists of my own generation were the first to introduce into works upon diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a good deal to be desired and to be divined. This is perhaps why I find myself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature more imaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself to drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when my housekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz desired to speak with me.
Author: Anatole France
Publisher: BoD – Books on Demand
ISBN: 9360465704
Category : Fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 206
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Book Description
"The Red Lily — Complete" is a literary masterpiece penned with the aid of Anatole France. This novel, set in opposition to the backdrop of the French Revolution, intricately weaves collectively elements of romance, politics, and social upheaval. The narrative unfolds inside the past due 18th century, following the intertwined lives of characters navigating the tumultuous duration of progressive fervor. At the heart of the story is the character of Thérèse Martin, a passionate and independent lady whose existence turns into entangled with the political upheavals of the time. As the revolution unfolds, Thérèse grapples with love, loss, and the complexities of societal change. France skillfully explores the impact of political unrest on private destinies, presenting a nuanced portrayal of characters grappling with their convictions and dreams. Anatole France, a Nobel Prize-prevailing French writer, is celebrated for his literary craftsmanship and eager social observation. "The Red Lily — Complete" showcases France's capacity to mixture ancient events with wealthy man or woman improvement, imparting readers with a compelling and concept-upsetting exploration of the human experience amidst a backdrop of revolution and societal transformation. The novel stays a testament to France's enduring contribution to literature.
Author: Paul Gsell
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category :
Languages : en
Pages : 208
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Book Description
Author: Anatole France
Publisher:
ISBN:
Category : French fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 302
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Book Description
Author: Anatole France
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
ISBN: 146560491X
Category : Fiction
Languages : en
Pages : 803
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Book Description
FROM Neufch‰teau to Vaucouleurs the clear waters of the Meuse flow freely between banks covered with rows of poplar trees and low bushes of alder and willow. Now they wind in sudden bends, now in gradual curves, for ever breaking up into narrow streams, and then the threads of greenish waters gather together again, or here and there are suddenly lost to sight underground. In the summer the river is a lazy stream, barely bending in its course the reeds which grow upon its shallow bed; and from the bank one may watch its lapping waters kept back by clumps of rushes scarcely covering a little sand and moss. But in the season of heavy rains, swollen by sudden torrents, deeper and more rapid, as it rushes along, it leaves behind it on the banks a kind of dew, which rises in pools of clear water on a level with the grass of the valley. This valley, two or three miles broad, stretches unbroken between low hills, softly undulating, crowned with oaks, maples, and birches. Although strewn with wild-flowers in the spring, it looks severe, grave, and sometimes even sad. The green grass imparts to it a monotony like that of stagnant water. Even on fine days one is conscious of a hard, cold climate. The sky seems more genial than the earth. It beams upon it with a tearful smile; it constitutes all the movement, the grace, the exquisite charm of this delicate tranquil landscape. Then when winter comes the sky merges with the earth in a kind of chaos. Fogs come down thick and clinging. The white light mists, which in summer veil the bottom of the valley, give place to thick clouds and dark moving mountains, but slowly scattered by a red, cold sun. Wanderers ranging the uplands in the early morning might dream with the mystics in their ecstasy that they are walking on clouds. Thus, after having passed on the left the wooded plateau, from the height of which the ch‰teau of BourlŽmont dominates the valley of the Saonelle, and on the right Coussey with its old church, the winding river flows between le Bois Chesnu on the west and the hill of Julien on the east. Then on it goes, passing the adjacent villages of Domremy and Greux on the west bank and separating Greux from Maxey-sur-Meuse. Among other hamlets nestling in the hollows of the hills or rising on the high ground, it passes Burey-la-C™te, Maxey-sur-Vaise, and Burey-en-Vaux, and flows on to water the beautiful meadows of Vaucouleurs. In this little village of Domremy, situated at least seven and a half miles further down the river than Neufch‰teau and twelve and a half above Vaucouleurs, there was born, about the year 1410 or 1412, a girl who was destined to live a remarkable life. She was born poor. Her father, Jacques or Jacquot d'Arc, a native of the village of Ceffonds in Champagne, was a small farmer and himself drove his horses at the plough. His neighbours, men and women alike, held him to be a good Christian and an industrious workman. His wife came from Vouthon, a village nearly four miles northwest of Domremy, beyond the woods of Greux. Her name being Isabelle or Zabillet, she received at some time, exactly when is uncertain, the surname of RomŽe. That name was given to those who had been to Rome or on some other important pilgrimage; and it is possible that Isabelle may have acquired her name of RomŽe by assuming the pilgrim's shell and staff. One of her brothers was a parish priest, another a tiler; she had a nephew who was a carpenter. She had already borne her husband three children: Jacques or Jacquemin, Catherine, and Jean.
