Synopses & Reviews
MEMORIES AND VAGARIES BY AXEL MUNTHE AUTHOR OF THE STORY OF SAN MICHELE ETC, Chacmi ne doit raconter que ce quil a TU lui-ro me de cette fagon le monde connattra la v6rlt NEW YORK E. P. BUTTON 8c CO., INC. MEMORIES ANDVA IBS I figST PUBLISHED IN TrfE UNITED-SrSpES 0 AMERICA BY E. P. DUTXQN COMPANY, INC. 1980 1930 SXCOND PRINTING .... H . M . WH .... M ... NovEMBES f 1930 THIRD PRINTING ... ... NOVEMBER, 1930 FOURTH PRINTING .. M . H . H ..... M ....... NOVEKBES, 1930 FIFTH PRINTING .............. NovEMBB2, 1930 SIXTH PRINTING MMMM . MmM ... M . M ... JNovEiCBER, 1930 SEVENTH PRINTING ................ NOVZMBER, 1930 EIGHTH PRINTING .. M..... M.-. NOVEMBBR, 1930 NINTH PRINTING ............................... NOVEMBER, 1930 TENTH PRINTING ......... NOVEMBER, 1930 ELEVENTH PRINTING NOVEMBER, 1930 TWXXFTH PRINTING . .. ...... NOVEMBER, 1930 TO R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM JFROM HIS jElHEND AND ATVfti i K U. K. PREFACE TO THE T LIRD ENGLISH EDITION BENEVOLENT readers of The Story of Sew Michele have come forth with a gallant attempt to rescue this little book from oblivion. I fear I have not done very well for myself by consenting to a re print of these small sketches or stories, or whatever they are to be called. They were all written long, long ago by an inexperienced hand in rather indif ferent English. I flatter myself with the belief that, were I to sit down and rewrite them to-day, I would make a better book, at least to the majority of its readers. But there still exists a minority of booklovers with a sneaking weakness for sponta neous writing, who will, maybe, approve of my bold ness in leaving these stories just as they were writ ten, to take care of themselves as best they can. Readersof The Story of San Michele will come . across several old acquaintances here, all in their same old clothes, for they have nothing else to put on their backs. My friend Archangelo Fusco, the street-sweeper of Quartier Montparnasse the Sal vatore family Don Gaetano, the organ-grinder PREFACE with his shivering monkey Monsieur Alfredo with the MS. of his last five-act tragedy under his arm, are all here. Even Soeur Philomne, the sweet guar dian angel of Salle St. Claire in the Paris hospital, lives and dies in these pages. The same shabby old monks and priests are carrying through the cholera slums of Naples their respective madonnas and patron saints, all quarrelling among themselves. The same glorious sun is shining over Golfo di Napoli. Out of its sparkling waters rises the same enchanted island, where the same friendly people welcome the reader. Even the dogs in this book are wagging their tails in token of recognition. The beloved Tappio in the chapter When Tappio was lost in this book was the great-grandfather of the Tappio Miss Hall took for his daily walk in Villa Borghese, and who lay half - asleep in the sunny pergola of San Michele while Billy, the drunkard baboon, was busy catching his fleas. The pedigree of Billy is more obscure, though I still stick to my belief that he was an illegitimate son of II Demonio. But I know for certain that the wooden horse I gave on Christmas Day to John, the blue-eyed lit tle boy in The Story of San Michele, was a lineal descendant of the wooden horse which Petrucchio, the child of sorrow of the Salvatore family, is hold ing in his withered hand in this book. I know, too, that my friend Archangelo Fusco, the street sweeper in Impasse Roussel, is the same Archangelo Fusco I met in Heaven in the last chapter of the PREFACE book of San Michele. I am equally certain that his cruel landlord, the money-lender to the poor in Im passe Roussel, whom I caused to hang himself in this book, is now keeping company in hell with the ex-butcher who blinded the quails with a red-hot needle in The Story of San Michele. Memories and Vagaries have been out of print for long...
Synopsis
Memories and Vagaries have been out of print for long. Death was due to natural cause, and the few mourners who accompanied the book to the common grave of oblivion, have so far borne their loss with stubborn resignation. So have I, until the long-forgotten book was read to me the other day by a friendly voice. As I listened with a compassionate smile on my lips to these humble stories, I suddenly felt a pang in my heart, and I wished I could write to-day just such a book as this with all its shortcomings, its boyish boisterousness, its guileless self-consciousness, its incorrigible joie de vivre and its unshaken faith. Alas I shall wish it in vain, it is my youth I wish for La vie s'en va, Madame, la vie s'en va H las la vie non, mais nous, nous en allons.