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as I have endeavored to set it forth briefly in this paper, a drawing-room ought to be emphatically a living-room, a place reasonably fitted for moments of relaxation after the work and worry of the day are over. Its framework should consist of restful colors and beautiful designs, so that wherever the eye falls it may be gratified without being wearied or over-stimulated. Its chairs should be meant for the human body to sit in comfortably and naturally, without being cramped, confined, or chafed. Its sofas should be similarly designed for the human body to lie upon, without being doubled up into a physiologically indistinguishable mass. Its tables should hold such things as are useful for the main purpose of a drawing-room, and not such things as merely incommode and bother the inmates. Its hearth should be placed where every one can see the fire, and its seats should be so arranged that they may all look in that direction. Its lights should occupy the best places for lighting the room as a whole, and the books, papers, or music in particular. Its purely ornamental objects should be set where they can be best and most effectively

seen, while they are in no danger of being broken, and form no obstruction to one's freedom of movement. And, finally, it should contain such external evidences of culture and refinement as may give it an air not merely of material comfort, but of æsthetic and literary interest. In such a room as this one may sit at moments of leisure, and feel a positive though quiet delight in the mere act of looking around one. The picture is in itself a beautiful one, and, like every other thing of beauty, is a joy for ever. And, lest any reader should fancy that a room like that which we have imagined is beyond the reach of humble purses, it may be added that every one may gaze on such a picture himself for no greater outlay than one hundred pounds. That is not a penny more than is ordinarily spent upon the gilt-andwhite paper and blue-satin chairs of the commonplace eight-roomed London cottage. Beautiful carpets, wall-papers, and curtains now cost no more than ugly ones; and only the taste, not the money, is wanting to-day wherever we find inartistic or uncomfortable homes.

(Cornhill Magazine.)

I

MONSIEUR

FRANÇOIS.

A RECOLLECTION OF 1848.*

PASSED the whole winter of 1847 and 1848 in Paris. My residence there was not far from the Palais Royal, whither I went nearly every morning to drink coffee and read the newspapers. At that time the Palais Royal had not yet become almost entirely desolate, though the days of its glory had even then long been pastthat peculiar glory, I mean, which caused our Russian veterans of 1814 and 1815 to say, whenever they met any one who had just come from Paris, "And how does our dear good Palais Royal come on?"

One day in the beginning of February, 1848, I sat by one of the little tables which were placed around the Café de la Rotonde. A tall man, spare and withered-looking, with black hair turning to gray, and wearing on his aquiline nose a pair of spectacles with rusted metal and smokedarkened glasses, stepped out of the café, cast a glance around, and, seeing that all the other tables were occupied, asked for permission to take

This little sketch has one great fault-it seems to contain prophecies made after the happening of the events foretold. But I affirm that the person of whom I speak really existed, and said to me what I repeat here.

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bent form, and his slow gait? The poor and humble do not usually have such an aspect." I was especially impressed by his eyes, which were dark brown, with yellowish whites. Sometimes they were wide open, while he looked straight before him, gloomy and motionless. Then he would contract them in a peculiar way, while he elevated his bushy eyebrows and cast sidelong glances across the rims of his spectacles. At such times an expression of bitterness and scorn would spread over his face. However, I did not think about him very long just then. All Paris was excited over the anticipated Reform Banquet, and I soon began reading the papers.

The next day I returned to the Palais Royal, and again met there the man I had seen on the preceding day. He smiled slightly, and spoke to me immediately, like an old acquaintance. Although other tables were unoccupied, he seated himself at my side without speaking, as though his society could not be disagreeable to me. Then began the following conversation:

"You are a foreigner-a Russian," he said suddenly, while he slowly moved the spoon about in his cup.

"You can tell I'm a foreigner by my pronunciation," I answered. "But why do you conclude that I'm a Russian?"

"Why? You said 'pardon' in a drawling tone. Only Russians talk in that sing-song way. But I knew you were a Russian anyhow.”

I was about to ask him to explain himself more clearly, but he began speaking again.

"You have done well to come here just at this time. It's an interesting time for travelers. You will see great things."

"What, for instance?"

"Listen! It's now the beginning of February. Before a month passes France will be a republic."

"A republic? ?"

Yes, a republic. But don't be in a hurry to rejoice, if you consider it a thing to rejoice over. Before a year has gone by, the Bonapartes will own this same France."

careless tone with which he uttered his paradoxes! No, he was not a confidence operator.

"You understand that the King won't consent to anything like a reform?" I said after a pause. "Yet the demands of the opposition don't seem unreasonable."

"I know that-I know that," said he carelessly. "Extension of the suffrage, formation of new voting classes-words! words! There will be no banquet. The King won't allow it. Guizot is opposed to it. However," he added, as he no doubt noticed the not very favorable impression his words made upon me, "the deuce take politics! To be engaged in them is interesting, but to stand and gaze while others do the acting is foolish. The little dogs do that, while the big ones-enjoy life. Nothing is left for the little dogs but to yelp and whine. something else."

Let's talk about

I don't remember what we did talk of immediately after that.

"Of course you go to the theatre," he soon said, with a suddenness which I had already noticed, and which made me think he paid little attention to what any one said to him. "All you Russians are great patrons of the theatre."

"Yes, I go sometimes."

"And you are charmed with our actors, I suppose?"

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With some of them, especially at the Comédie Française."

"It is good taste," he continued, with a thoughtful manner, "that ruins our actors. These stage traditions and conservatisms are what destroy their acting. They are all frozen and lifeless, like the frozen fish one sees at your Russian markets in winter. Not one of our players knows how to say 'I love you' without stretching his legs apart like a pair of compasses and rolling his eyes around with a ridiculous, languishing expression. And that comes from good taste. One can see good players only in Italy nowadays. When I lived in Naples-by the way, what do you think of the new Constitution which

His face, as he said this, assumed a cynical King Bomba has just granted to his faithful subexpression.

When he spoke of the republic I did not take much interest in what he said, but said to myself: "He takes me for an unsophisticated Scythian, and wants to enlighten me. But the Bonapartes! Why in the world did he select them? Who thought of the Bonapartes at that epoch in the reign of Louis Philippe? Or, at any rate, who spoke of them? Was my companion one of those persons who like to gull people? or one of those chevaliers d'industrie who infest the hotels and cafés, on the watch for strangers to fleece? And yet, his independent manner, the

jects? He won't forgive them that act of grace very soon. Ah, surely not! Well, then, when I was in Naples, there were some good fellows at the People's Theatre there. But, the deuce take it, every Italian is an actor! It's in their natures, while, as for us, we only lag along, far behind nature. Our best comedians can't compare with the first Italian street-preacher you may chance to meet. Per le santissime anime del purgatorio!" he cried suddenly, with a nasal, drawling tone, and, as far as I could judge, with the purest Neapolitan accent.

I began laughing, and so did he, making no

noise, but opening his mouth wide, and looking at fault in quoting a Latin sentence which no one at me over his spectacles. asked you to quote?"

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'Rachel-yes, she is a power-she's like Meyerbeer, who cajoles and threatens us constantly with his 'Prophets.' 'I will give-no, I will not give.' He is a skillful man, a maestro; but not in the musical sense. Certainly not! Rachel has deteriorated lately, and you are to blame for it, you foreign gentlemen! In Italy there's an actress named Ristori. They say she has just married some marquis or other, and that the stage is going to lose her. It's a pity. She's good, though she does grimace a little."

"Were you in Italy long?"

The stranger smiled coldly, as though he had understood my thoughts.

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"Oh, literature is not an art," he said, with a kind of carelessness in his manner. Literature ought by all means to amuse, and biographical literature is the only kind that does amuse." "You are particularly fond of biographies, then?"

"No, you don't understand what I mean. I was speaking of those works in which the author talks about himself, and exposes himself to the judgment—that is, to the laughter of the readThat's all a writer can do, and on that ac

er.

“Yes, I wandered around in that country, too. count Montaigne is the greatest of all writers. Where haven't I been?" He's really the only one."

"Even in Russia, it seems?"

"You love music, too?" he suddenly asked, without answering my question. "You go to the opera?"

"I do love music."

"Ah, that's a matter of course! You are a Slav, and all Slavs are enthusiasts about music. Well, now, that's the last of the arts, my dear sir. When music makes no impression on people it bores them, and when it does make an impression it's hurtful."

"Why is it hurtful ? ”

"He's considered a great egotist," I interjected.

"Yes, but that's his strong point. He alone has been sharp enough to exhibit himself in every case as an egotist and a subject for laughter. That's just why he amuses me. I read one page after another, think how ridiculous he is, and stop thinking how ridiculous I am myself. E basta!"

"How about the poets?"

"Oh, poets occupy themselves with musicwith word-music-and you know my opinion of

Because it's enervating, like overheated music." baths. Ask the doctors."

"And what do you think of the other arts?" "There is only one art, sir. It is sculpture. That's an art-cold, sensationless, and powerful. It gives men conceptions-or, if you will, deceptions-about immortality and eternity."

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"All! You, I, even that good-natured-looking old boy there buying a doll for his own or some other person's child. All are full of guilt. There's a criminal court in the life of everybody, and no one has a right to imagine that he ought not to be brought into that cursed little prisoner's dock."

"You must know this better than most people," I said, in spite of myself.

"What should one read, then? And what should the people read? Or do you think people oughtn't to read at all ?”

I had noticed on his finger a ring with a coatof-arms, and, in spite of his miserable appearance, his manner made me think he was familiar with aristocratic ideas, and might even be of aristocratic extraction.

"The people ought to read," he answered. "But just what they read is of no importance. They say your Russian peasants all read one and the same book" (" Francile the Venetian,"* I thought). After they have read one copy into tatters they buy another. And they're right. Their reading gives them a certain importance in their own eyes, and keeps them from thinking. As for those who go to church, they needn't read at all."

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The stranger eyed me over his spectacles. "I don't believe in God, my good sir," he said. "But religion is an important thing. "I certainly do. Experto credi" (instead of Priesthood is, perhaps, the best calling in the crede)" Roberto." world. Droll fellows, these clergymen! They alone have gotten at the true nature of power.

"And what do you think of literature?" I asked, carrying on my examination. "If you want to make a fool of me," I thought, “why shouldn't I make a fool of you, too-you who are of Haimon."

* A popular tale, in the style of "The Four Children

To command with humility, to obey with pride, that's the whole secret. Ah, power! To possess power is the only real happiness on earth.”

I had begun to be accustomed to the eccentric turns in our conversation, and merely took pains to keep up with my singular companion. Whatever came into his mind he uttered, with a cool, calm manner, as if all those axioms which he stated with such perfect confidence had followed each other in a thoroughly natural sequence. At the same time, one saw clearly that it was an indifferent matter to him whether any one agreed with him or not.

"If you love power so," I observed, “and if you have such respect for the clerical profession, why didn't you become a clergyman?"

"Your remark is just, my good sir. But I aimed at something higher. I intended to found a religion of my own. I tried the experiment in America. But I wasn't alone in making the attempt. Pretty much everybody over there is occupied with such matters."

"You've been in America, too, then?"

himself to be a king, a despot. But let's drop politics."

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'Would you rather talk about philosophy?"

He spat at long range, in the American style. "Ah,” said he, "you're ironical! Well, I don't mind talking about philosophy, especially as my philosophy is peculiar. It has no resemblance to the German philosophy, which, it is true, I know very little about, but which I detest, as I do everything German.” His eyes flashed as he spoke. "Yes, I detest the Germans, because I'm patriotic. And you, too, as a Russian, ought to hate them."

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"Well-in Italy. I took part- But let's come back to philosophy. I have the honor to inform you, sir, that my whole system of philosophy may be stated as follows: There are two great misfortunes in human life-birth and death. The second is the lesser of the two, for it may be voluntary."

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'And life itself?"

"I passed two years there. You have noticed that I've brought back with me the bad habit of chewing tobacco. I don't smoke, or use snuff, but I chew. Excuse me!" He turned away to spit. "To return to our subject, I had an idea of founding a religion. I had invented a very pretty little legend, and, to get people to accept it, I only needed to become a martyr. When that sort of cement is wanting, the foundations are not lasting. It's not like war, where it's much more advantageous to pour out the blood of others. But, to make an offering of my own blood_tioned." -thank you, no! I gave it up. Just now," he continued, after a moment of silence, "you quizzed me about my love of power. It's true, and I'm convinced I shall yet be a king."

"A king!"

"Yes, a king of some uninhabited island." "A king without subjects, then!" "Subjects will soon come. You have a proverb in Russia which says, in effect, 'Wherever there's a trough there'll be hogs.' It's born in men to place themselves in subjection to some one. They'll be sure to cross the ocean, land on my island, and there find a master. What I shall say to them is clear."

"He is really insane," I thought." Is it for the same reason that you believe the French will subject themselves to a Bonaparte?" I asked.

"Certainly, just for that reason, sir." "Pardon me! The French already have a master. So, in their case, this need of being in subjection, of which you speak, ought to be satisfied."

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"Well, that's not so easy to describe. serve, though, that there are only two good things in life, namely, taking part in birth or in death; that is, in one of the two misfortunes I men

"Yes, war, the chase, and love, as the Spaniards say. But, it's true, they add, 'for one pleasure a thousand pains.'"*

"Bravo! They have good thoughts, sometimes, those infernal Spaniards. And there you have testimony to the correctness of my philosophy."

"But," he exclaimed, springing up, talked long enough. Au revoir!"

we have

"Wait!" I cried. "We've been talking for more than an hour, and I don't know yet with whom I have the honor-”

"You want to know my name? Why? I haven't asked yours. Neither have I inquired where you live, so I don't think it necessary to tell you in what hole I lodge. We shall meet here again; that's enough. My talk amuses you." He winked, with a malicious expression. "I amuse you, eh?”

I felt not a little insulted. Decidedly, this man was too free.

*"Guerra, caza, y amores,
Por un placer mil dolores."

"You excite my interest," I said. don't please me at all."

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"But you

And you interest and please me too. That's enough, I think, for such interviews as our. If you choose, call me Monsieur François; and if it suits you I shall call you Monsieur Ivan. Nearly all Russians are Ivans. I had a chance to find that out for myself once, for I was unfortunate enough to be a tutor in the family of one of your generals, and to live in one of your provinces. What an ass that general was! And what a poverty-stricken province it was! I wish you a very good day, Monsieur Ivan."

He turned on his heel and went away. "What a strange creature!" I thought, as I walked homeward. "Is he making fun of me? Does he really believe what he professes? What is he? A reduced author? An old student? A ruined tradesman? A poor countryman? An actor without engagements? And what impels him to make disclosures to me?" I asked myself these questions, but could arrive at no conclusion about him. My curiosity was excited, and it was with a good deal of interest that I looked for him, the next day, at the Palais Royal. I waited for my original in vain. But on the day after that he appeared again, under the portico of the café.

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"Very well; and you, Monsieur François ?" So-so. But yesterday I was very near giving up the ghost. Heart-disease. It's very much like death-infernally like it! That's nothing, though. Let's sit in the garden. It's too crowded here. I can't bear to have any one looking at me from one side, or leaning on my back. Besides, it's fine weather."

We seated ourselves in the garden. In paying his two sous for the chair he drew out an old, flat pocket-book in which he searched for a long time before finding the two sous which were its sole contents. I expected a new course of his paradoxes, but he began questioning me about certain important Russian personages of that era. I answered him, but he wanted more details, more biographical anecdotes. He knew many things which I had not suspected that he could know. His fund of knowledge was certainly remarkable. By degrees we approached the subject of politics. It was hard to avoid it in that time of public excitement. Carelessly, as though he attached little importance to them, he mentioned Guizot and Thiers. Speaking of the first, he said France was certainly in bad luck. "She has only one public man with a will, and he's the very one who is standing in her way. As for Thiers," he added, " his role was played long ago."

"What!" cried I. “Why, his rôle has hardly been begun. Think of the speeches he makes in the Chambers!"

“Other men will come," he murmured, “and all these speeches are nothing but sound-nothing more. He is like a man in a boat addressing a cataract. In a moment the flood will destroy the boat and him with it. However, you don't believe me. I know it, and I'll say no more."

"Do you think, then," I continued, "that Odilon Barrot would be—"

Here Monsieur François opened his eyes wide, laughed aloud, and shook his head. “Bum, bum, bum," he said, imitating the waiter who brought the coffee. 'That's all there is of Odilon Barrot."

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Then," I returned, a little indignant, “according to your opinion we are really on the eve of the republic. And I suppose the other men of whom you spoke just now are the socialists."

Monsieur François assumed a somewhat more earnest aspect. "Socialism was born among us, in France," he said, "and in France it will die, if it is not dead already; or rather, it will be killed. There are two ways in which it can be killed: either by ridicule (for Monsieur Considérant will not always be able to state with impunity that men can grow tails, with an eye on the tip); or else in this way." He raised both hands, as though taking aim with a gun. "Voltaire said Frenchmen have no head for epic poetry. I venture to say Frenchmen have no head for socialism."

"People don't think so outside of France." "Then foreigners show for the hundredth time that they don't understand us. Socialism to-day needs a creative power. It will seek it among the Italians, the Germans, perhaps among you. As for the French, they are discoverers. They have found out almost everything, but they don't originate. Frenchmen are sharp and narrow, like a sword. They penetrate the hearts of things. They discover, they explore. But to originate one must be broad and round."

46

Like the English, or like your friends the Germans," I said, not without some intention of bantering him. But he did not notice my jest.

"Socialism!" he continued. "That's not a French principle. Our principles are very different. We have two of them, two corner-stones. They are revolution and routine. Robespierre and Monsieur Prudhomme-they are our heroes."

"Indeed? And how about the military element?"

"We are not a military people. Does that surprise you? We are a brave people, very brave; warlike, but not military. Thank God, we are better than that!" He bit the end of

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