tire il faut le boire.” Well, a translator who would translate quand le cheval, etc., by quand le vin, etc., is an ass, and does not know his business.  In translation, only a strictly classical language should be used; no word of slang, or even word of modern origin should be employed; the translator’s aim should be never to dissipate the illusion of an exotic.  If I were translating the “Assommoir” into English, I should strive after a strong, flexible, but colourless language, something—­what shall I say?—­a sort of a modern Addison.

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What, don’t you know the story about Mendes?—­when Chose wanted to marry his sister? Chose’s mother, it appears, went to live with a priest.  The poor fellow was dreadfully cut up; he was brokenhearted; and he went to Mendes, his heart swollen with grief, determined to make a clean breast of it, let the worst come to the worst.  After a great deal of beating about the bush, and apologising, he got it out.  You know Mendes, you can see him smiling a little; and looking at Chose with that white cameo face of his he said, “Avec quel meilleur homme voulez-vous que votre mere se fit? vous n’avez donc, jeune homme, aucun sentiment religieux.”

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Victor Hugo, he is a painter on porcelain; his verse is mere decoration, long tendrils and flowers; and the same thing over and over again.

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How to be happy!—­not to read Baudelaire and Verlaine, not to enter the Nouvelle Athenes, unless perhaps to play dominoes like the bourgeois over there, not to do anything that would awake a too intense consciousness of life,—­to live in a sleepy country side, to have a garden to work in, to have a wife and children, to chatter quietly every evening over the details of existence.  We must have the azaleas out to-morrow and thoroughly cleansed, they are devoured by insects; the tame rook has flown away; mother lost her prayer-book coming from church, she thinks it was stolen.  A good, honest, well-to-do peasant, who knows nothing of politics, must be very nearly happy;—­and to think there are people who would educate, who would draw these people out of the calm satisfaction of their instincts, and give them passions!  The philanthropist is the Nero of modern times.

CHAPTER VIII

EXTRACT FROM A LETTER

Why did you not send a letter?  We have all been writing to you for the last six months, but no answer—­none.  Had you written one word I would have saved all.  The poor concierge was in despair; she said the proprietaire would wait if you had only said when you were coming back, or if you only had let us know what you wished to be done.  Three quarters rent was due, and no news could be obtained of you, so an auction had