In the Bibliotheque Nationale

ISIT in the big Work-Hall of the National Library of France. It is a great square room, with a wide centre passage : at one end of this the entrance, at the other—in a great apse—the tribune or platform where the officials sit in judgment on the readers. Reference shelves are ranged all about. I am writing a book. It is a book that our country and time are waiting for. The War and the international movements since the War have brought us into ever closer touch with France and the French civilization. But we still fail to understand these—to value as we should the French intellect, the French artistic sense, the French genius for system and order, the French for gaining the sympathy and allegiance of other peoples. My book is to alter all this. For perhaps the first time it is to reveal to the English speaking peoples the essential soul of France, and revealing this is to show how all that we ridicule and criticize in that sacred land and its people is really good, vital, and beautiful. So I sit in the Work-Hall and breathe the air redolent of disinfectant. I fill up a yellow card given me by the porter at the entrance and study a little booklet I have bought, entitled " Guide for Readers at the Bibliotheque Nationale." I note that if I sit on this side of the room I must use a slip of a particular colour—if on the other side, of a different colour ; also I must fill in from the catalogue the exact particulars. . . . It is a little complicated at first, but I shall learn my way about. The catalogue needs some study. Part of it is printed —many volumes issued over a long series of years ; part consists of printed slips fixed in loose-leaf cases ; part is hand written ; part is photographed. You must know the date of the book before you can find it easily. . . . An hour passes thus ; still, I am learning my way about. At last I have found the book I want. I fill up a coloured slip and hand it with my yellow card to my lady of the tribune. She is not interested, but she makes a pencil note and starts the documents on their course. I return to my seat and wait. I have an English newspaper with me. . . . Twenty minutes later I am summoned to the tribune by a uniformed attendant. A higher official looks at me with distaste. I have filled up a slip of the wrong colour. He is plainly tired of me. I apologize and obtain a slip of the right colour. Can I have my original slip back to copy the particulars, and so save time ? No—quite firmly not. Apparently it is by the laws of France already confiscate ; perhaps even destroyed. So I go back to the catalogues, find the entry, and again laboriously copy it. I hand in the slip and hope for the best. Three quarters of an hour later a large official brings me a book. It is not the volume whose title I have ; it is a book 200 years old, and of no interest to me. What has happened ? I say to him very quietly : " Sir, this is not the book I asked for." He knows it is not the book I asked for. But he is firm and unyielding. He says angrily, " You must have it ; it is your fault." I can see that he wishes to teach me a lesson. In what, then, have I sinned ? I return to the catalogue ; I humbly ask the aid of the officials at the tribune.

It appears that I have omitted a little sign like this —" 8° "—in the catalogue entry. Can I have my slip to alter it ? No ; it is confiscate ; I must write-another. Forty minutes more and the book reaches me. It is already past the Piris lunch time. May I leave the book on the table and -return in half an hour ? No : quite firmly not. I must give it up at the tribune and reclaim my yellow card ; only then shall I be permitted to leave the Hall. I learn this after trial and failure.

I . return in the afternoon with my spirits revived. Now we can get down to it. What was that reference I wanted to look up—Volume III of a large three-volume work—quarto size ? Let us put in the slip (right colour !) at once ; then there will be enough time to allow for accidents.

So I sit quietly for a little. Readers come and go. The officials at the tribune have much to talk about.

My reference book arrives ; two large volumes. But where is Volume III with the passage I want ? I must go again to the tribune. Yes, I understand it now ! " To prevent confusion and delay " no reader can have more than two volumes of quarto size in exchange for one slip. It is the law.

What must I do then ? I do not want the two volumes I have got ; but I want Volume III.

I must fill up another slip.

May I have back the slip already sent in to copy the particulars and save time ? I see it there before me ; the official has his hand on it.

No ; it is impossible. I must go back to the catalogue and copy all the particulars again. . . .

Next morning I must look up some details in that well-known History of Art. It is, thank Heaven, on the reference shelves for any reader to consult at will. I want Volume I. It is not there. Again in the afternoon it is still not there.

I consult the tribune. The official is tired ; he thinks perhaps some reader has taken Volume I to his table to read.

But the regulation (in large type on all the reference shelves) says that readers must not do this.

VVell—it would be best for me to come early to-morrow at 9 a.m., when the Hall opens—and thus get Volume I before another reader takes it. This is said in a final tone.

Next morning I am there at 9. Still no Volume I. To make doubly sure I wait that evening till all readers have gone ; still no Volume I in place.

On the third day I talk to the official again. I have done as he said—made great efforts, as he sees. What can have happened ? He will ask the attendant whose duty it is.

Later, the attendant—in uniform—visits me at my place. He is a little humorous, a little contemptuous. " Volume I is at the book-binder's." There is a notice of this at the shelf ; unfortunately it had got a little out of place. He means that any intelligent person ought to have known and ought not to have troubled him. I have no more to say.

However, I think it all over. At this rate the book on France will never be written ; misunderstandings will go on, and the future peace of the world is imperilled. After all I had perhaps better go back to London and work at the British Museum ? I should not be in the atmosphere, it is true ; but I could get the books I want.

I reclaim my yellow ticket for the last time. As I go out the porter taps my dispatch case and commands me to open it in accordance with the rule. You see, I might have stolen one of the reference books.

A. F.

{We have memories of a similar experience and can sympathize with the writer of this article in his vain efforts to capture "the French genius."—En. Spectator.]