Les primitifs français, contes de la Vierge
The French Primitives, Tales of the Virgin
Tharaud
We published in our previous editions and in our first five series, 1900-1904, so great a number of cahiers of literature — short stories, novels, dramas, dialogues, poems and tales — so great a number of cahiers of history and philosophy; and these cahiers of literature, history and philosophy were so considerable that we cannot think of giving here even the most succinct statement of them; to know what has appeared in the first five series of the cahiers, it suffices to send a money order for five francs to M. Andre Bourgeois, administrator of the cahiers, 8, rue de la Sorbonne, ground floor, Paris, fifth arrondissement; one will receive in return the brief analytical catalogue, 1900-1904, of our first five series.
This catalogue was precisely established to give, as much as was possible, an image in brief, an abridgment, an idea, abbreviated but complete, of our previous editions and of our first five series; everything is classified there in order; it suffices to read it to find, in their place, the references requested.
This catalogue, 18mo grand-jesus, forms a very thick cahier of XII + 408 very dense pages, marked five francs; this cahier counted as the first cahier of the sixth series and our subscribers received it at its date, October 2, as the first cahier of the sixth series; every person who subscribes to the sixth series receives it, by the very fact of subscription, at the head of the series; we send it for a money order of five francs to any person who requests it.
Francois Porche
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
Understand me, I dreamed that in winter I was knocking, At the hour when your evening vigil ends, upon your door. I arrive by an evening train, from far away, I bring Trouble into your house of prayer and peace. The servant has frightened eyes, I leave her Lantern in hand, trembling on the threshold, And I enter, and here you are pale in your armchair, And seized on seeing me by an immense weakness. From the first glance why speak? You know. What is it again? A fault or sorrows no doubt, A despair of a tender child excessive in all. We are silent. Seated near the hearth, I listen To the silence of the closed rooms where the beds Have each softened the effort of an agony, While in my heart there calms the rolling Of the journey and, distant, deep within, reviled And dear, the murmur of a great city… The wardrobes, the gleaming chairs, the mirrors, All these cared-for furniture, in order, in the same places, Fix upon me eyes of tranquil clarity, And the clock, far from the passions, shelters The long hours beneath its globe… Understand me, In my blood, this blood yours yet, I know not what Impatient, unsatisfied thing broods and chafes. I rise. Forgive your proud son. He so weak, he sets off already, full of defiance. Toward what dreams does he think, the fool, that the trains roll? O weeping one, you say nothing, your tears flow.
FRANCOIS PORCHE