and amiable to Caterina during their courtship. At first, it had been
a marriage of convenience; the young man wanted a wife, her fortune
suited him, and the orphan girl had to be married. Andrea was a very
good match for her; the engaged pair got on capitally together.
Andrea’s vigorous, often violent temperament, was well balanced by
Caterina’s calm and gentle nature. He neither wrote letters nor offered
flowers, nor paid more than two or three visits during the week, while
they were engaged, but Caterina had not missed these demonstrations
of love. Love she read in Andrea’s honest, merry eyes, when they met
hers. She had admired him from the first, for the herculean comeliness
of his fine physique, and the grace of a gentlemanlike athlete, with
which he wore either morning or evening attire. And immediately she
had begun to love him, because she had found him good and honest and
just. The strong man, who could be a very child, in whom she divined a
feminine delicacy, won her heart. As usual, from timidity and the habit
of reserve, her emotion was self-contained. Later on, in her married
life, she had always been shy and retiring with her husband, neither
expressing her love for him by well-turned phrases or poetic imagery.
But perhaps he knew it, for from morning till night she busied herself
in the house, and with the food, forestalling his wishes, preparing a
cool sitting-room for him in the summer, and a warm bedroom in winter.
The viands he preferred his wife carefully dressed, ever placid and
smiling. No, she had never found words to tell him the happiness that
flooded her heart when he raised her in his strong arms, kissed her
throat, and called her “Nini”; but every day her gratitude proved
it to him, and her constant thought and care for him. She did not
tell him that when he went shooting and left her alone for days, she
wearied after him, and longed for his return.... On his return, he was
so happy and so pleasantly tired, that she had never spoken of those
solitary hours to him. If they separated for eight or ten days, she
wrote to him every day, just a line about household matters, or the
people who had called.... There was no flourish about her letters;
they began with _Caro Andrea_, and ended with _la tua affezionatissima
moglie, Caterina_. She murmured inwardly against her own timidity, and
often felt that she was very stupid. That poor Galimberti had once
said to her: “Spaccapietra, you are entirely wanting in imagination.”
Then she had taken heart when it occurred to her that Andrea must
know how well she loved him; if she said nothing, her every act spoke
for her. Luckily Andrea was of a frank, open disposition; he did not
like affected grimaces, he did not make melting speeches; his was a
well-conditioned love that could exist without his perpetually asking
her during the honeymoon, “Do you love me?” Besides, she knew of no
other answer than “Yes.” Again Lucia appeared on the scene; Lucia,
more beautiful than herself, nervous, suffering, fantastic. Lucia
and Andrea stood together in the foreground of her life. Oh! how she
could recall her trouble, through their disputes and their reciprocal
dislike. Her heart had been torn between love for Andrea, to whom Lucia
was odious, and love for Lucia, who held Andrea in contempt. She could
neither venture to coerce them, nor could she divide herself in two.
She loved them both, each in a different fashion. When they had begun
to know each other, and their antipathy had turned to a more cordial
sentiment, then there had been thanksgiving in her heart, that the
miracle she prayed for with all her might had come to pass. She had not
told either of them how much her love for them had grown since they had
deigned to be friends; but during the whole year she had tried to prove
her gratitude to them. She passed her life between them, for them, ever
devising a way to make their life pleasant; tending and caring for
them, body and soul, thinking of naught but the two persons in whom
her life was centred. Thus had Caterina Lieti lived and had her being,
thus it was that her whole existence appeared to her like a series of
events, of which she was a spectator on that winter night. Her memory
was as clear and definite as the facts it recalled. With calm patience,
staring into the darkness the better to discern them, she searched
for other memories; if perchance she had overlooked any incident of a
different nature, anything singular, exceptional, like all that she had
already recalled. Was there nothing, really nothing? Twice she repeated
this question to herself, but she found nothing. Her conscience had
been calm, equal, unvaried; it had known two constant and active
loves--Andrea, Lucia.
* * * * *
Well, now all was clear to her. The science of life had come to her in
a flash, sweeping faith and innocence from her heart. Her intellect
opened wide to the cruel lesson, applied as by a blow from a hammer.
She felt like another woman, one suddenly aged and become more capable,
a woman of cool, clear judgment, searching eye, and an implacable
conscience. She no longer discovered in herself either indulgence,
pity, kindness, nor illusions; in their stead she found the inflexible
justice that could weigh men and things.
Now she understood it all. Lucia’s personality encroached on the life
around her; Lucia the Protagonist, Lucia the Sovereign. The personality
rose, clearly defined against her horizon, as if in harsh relief,
without any softening or veiling of the contours, without any optical
illusion, cruel in its truth. In vain Caterina closed her dazzled eyes
not to see this truth, it filtered through her lids, like the sun. The
gigantic figure attracted all the others, fascinated them, bewitched
them, seized them, absorbed them, and down below there only remained
certain pitiful, shrunken shades, that vaguely struggled and despaired
within a grey mist. Lucia reigned, beautiful and cruel, not bending
her eyes on those who wrung their hands, nor hearing their groans,
her eyes half closed so that she might not see, her ears unheeding;
contemplating herself, adoring herself, making an idol of herself.
Surely this was a monstrous creature, a spirit ruined in infancy, an
ever-swelling egoism that assumed the fair cruel features of fantasy.
At bottom, the heart was cold, arid, and incapable of enthusiasm;
its surface was coated with a prodigious imagination that magnified
at will every sensation and impression. Within, a total absence of
sentiment; without, every form of sentimentalism. Within, indifference
to every human being; without, the delirium of noble Utopian theories,
fluctuating aspirations round a vague ideal. Within, a harsh spongy
pumice-stone, that nothing can soften, that is never moved; without,
the sweetness of a voice and the tenderness of words. And artifice, so
deeply rooted in the soul as to mock nature, artifice so complete, so
perfect that by night, alone with herself, she could persuade herself
that she was really unhappy and really in love: artifice that had
become one with disposition, temperament, blood and nerves, until she
had acquired the profound conviction of her own goodness, her own
virtue, and her own excellence.
The vision became more and more distinct, cynically revealing the
falseness of its character, and the lie that was incrusted in its
every line. To have the fantasy of error, the fantasy of sentiment,
the fantasy of love, the fantasy of friendship, the fantasy of sorrow;
never anything but blinding, corroding fantasy, put forward in the
guise of all that is sweet and wholesome. To weave fancies on God, the
Madonna, the affections, on everything; to barter the realities of
life for the unreality of a dream; to be master of the fantasy that
endows the eye with seductive charm, the voice with voluptuous melody,
the smile with fascination that makes the kiss irresistible; to feed
one’s nerves on the torments of others, bringing about the enacting
of the drama that is artificial for oneself, and terribly earnest for
everybody else. That was Lucia.
That smiling and weeping monster, with the moving tears, the enchanting
voice, the bewitching flexibility and poetry of diction, that profound
and feminine egoism, had absorbed all that surrounded her.... Caterina
had pitied and loved her, Galimberti had loved and pitied her, Alberto
had loved her, Andrea had loved her. She had stood in their midst and
had drawn all the love out of them. At the languor of her countenance,
all had languished; in her mystic prostration, all had suffered; her
mock passion had burned deep into their flesh. Her egoism had battened
on sacrifice and abnegation: yet they who loved her, loved her more
and more. Whoever had approached her had been taken. Those whom she
took never regained their freedom. Their souls blended with her
soul, they thought her thoughts, dreamed her dreams, shuddered with
her thrills; their bodies clung to her irrevocably, without hope of
deliverance, receiving from her their health and their disease. And for
the aggrandisement of this potent egoism, its glory and its triumph,
Caterina beheld the misery of those who had surrounded Lucia: the fate
of Galimberti, who was dying in a madhouse; the misery of his starving,
despairing mother and sister; the lugubrious and dishonoured agony of
Alberto, the husband she had abandoned; the dishonour of her father
and her name; the ruin of Andrea, who left home, wife, and country to
live a life of despair with Lucia; and the last most innocent victim,
Caterina herself, bereft by Lucia of her all.
All these wrongs were irreparable. Horrible was the agony of the dying,
who cried for Lucia and loved her; horrible the life of the survivors,
who hated, cursed, and loved her. Irreparable the past, irreparable
the present. Lucia towered above the ruins, enthroned, audacious,
triumphant, formidable, casting on the earth the shadow of her inhuman
egoism, obscuring the sky with it.
* * * * *
The dawn rose livid and frozen. Caterina was still there, stiffened
in her chair, pressing the wedding ring that had been returned to her
between her icy fingers. She uttered a cry of terror when, in the grey
morning light, she saw the white bed, so smooth and cold; a cry so
terrible that it did not sound human. She opened her arms and threw
herself down on the spot where Andrea had slept--and wept upon that
tomb.
V.
“You had better go to bed, Signora,” said Giulietta, pityingly; “you
haven’t even undressed.”
“I was not sleepy,” replied Caterina, simply.
“Will you breakfast?”
“No.”
“At least, I may bring you your coffee?”
“Bring me the coffee.”
The tears had ceased to flow, but her eyes burned painfully. She
passed into her dressing-room and began to bathe them with cold water.
She dipped her whole head into the basin, and felt refreshed. When
Giulietta entered with the coffee she found her still bathing her head.
“The maid has come from Casa Sanna. The poor gentleman wandered all
night; this morning, saving your presence, he spat blood again. The
maid says it is a heartrending sight. Madonna _mia_, how did this
dreadful thing happen?”
Caterina raised her cold, severe eyes, and looked at her. Giulietta,
who was intimidated, held her peace.
In the kitchen, she announced to the man-servant, the coachman, and the
cook that “the Signora was a woman in a thousand. You will see with
what courage she will bear her misfortune.”
“What can she do?” quoth the man-servant. “If Signor Sanna were well,
she could have gone to stay with him....”
“Sst!” the cook silenced him. “The Signora is not a woman of that kind.
I know her well, for I have seen a great deal of her. She wouldn’t do
it.”
“I say there is no chance of the master’s returning,” added the cook
later. “My! that Donna Lucia is a clever woman.”
Caterina busied herself in her room, putting away the few things that
were lying about, such as her bonnet and shawl; opening and shutting
the wardrobes, reviewing the linen shelves, counting their contents,
as if she thought of cataloguing them. She stopped to think every now
and then, as if she were verifying the numbers. This long and minute
examination took some time. All her husband’s things were there, and
in one corner stood his gun and cartridge-box. The room was in order.
She passed into the morning-room, where on the previous evening she had
read that letter. The drawers of her husband’s bureau were open, and
the key was in one of them; she inspected them, paper on paper, letter
on letter. They were business papers, contracts, donations, leases,
bills, letters from friends, letters that she, Caterina, had written
to him during his absence: all the Exhibition documents were there,
reports and communications. She patiently turned all these pages,
and read them all, holding the drawer on her knee, leaning her elbow
against the bureau, with her forehead resting on her hand. She was
conscious of feeling stunned, of a void in her head and a buzzing in
her ears. But that passed, and she soon recovered the lucidity of her
mind. When she had finished reading, she tied up all the letters with
string, made separate packets of the business papers, and wrote the
date and name on each in her round, legible hand. It did not tremble
while she wrote, and when she had finished her arduous task she wiped
the pen on the pen-wiper and shut down the cover of the inkstand. At
the bottom of the big drawer she found another bundle, containing ten
pages of stamped paper, forming her marriage contract. She read them
all, but replaced them without writing on them. She closed the drawers,
and added the key to the bunch that she kept in her pocket.
“It is midday,” said Giulietta. “Will you breakfast, or will you wear
yourself to rags?”
She ventured on the brusque, affectionate familiarity that is peculiar
to Neapolitan servants when there is trouble in a house.
“Bring me another cup of coffee.”
“At least dip a rusk in it; you mustn’t starve.”
Caterina seated herself in the armchair, waiting for Giulietta to
bring her the cup of coffee. She sat without thinking, counting the
roses on the carpet, and observing that one turned to the left and
the other to the right. She drank her coffee and then went over to
her little writing-table, where she kept her own letters. They were
already classified, with the order which was characteristic of her.
There were letters from her aunt, from Giuditta, from her teachers,
and from Andrea. The bulkiest packet was the one labelled “Lucia.”
This packet smelled of musk; she untied and with calm attentiveness
read those transparent, crossed, and closely written pages, one by
one. They took her so long to read that her face began to show signs
of fatigue. She locked the writing-table and added the key to the
others in her pocket. Lucia’s letters had remained in her lap; she
lifted up her dress like an apron, knelt down before the fireplace, and
there burned the letters, page by page. The thin paper made a quick,
short-lived flame, that left behind it a white evanescent ash, and a
more pungent odour of musk, blended with that of burnt sealing-wax. She
watched the pyre, still kneeling. When it was consumed, she rose to her
feet, mechanically flicking the dust off her dress at the knees. The
iron safe stood next to the mantelpiece. Andrea had left it and his
bureau unlocked, with the keys in them. She opened it and inspected
its contents. Andrea had taken with him a hundred thousand francs in
coupons payable to bearer, and in shares of the National Bank. He had
left the settlements of his inheritance, Caterina’s marriage contract,
and a bundle of other bonds. In one corner were the cases containing
Caterina’s jewels. She counted the money, classified the gems, and
wrote a list of both on a scrap of paper, which she left in the bureau,
took some small change and a ten-franc-note, and locked the safe. A
new impulse caused her to spring to her feet again. She passed into an
adjoining room, and from thence into the drawing-room, whose windows
she threw wide open. The splendid December day broke in with its deep
blue sky, its glare of light and its soft air. Caterina had nothing to
do in the drawing-room, but in passing she stopped near a window to
gracefully arrange the folds of a curtain, moved the Murano glasses
from one table to another, and went a few steps away from them to
judge of the effect. When she had inspected everything, in the bright
light that lit up pearl-grey brocaded hangings into which were woven
coral-coloured flowers, the crystals, the statues, the bric-à-brac, she
closed the windows, fastened the shutters, and left the drawing-room
and the yellow room behind her in darkness.
When she reached the dining-room, Giulietta hastened to meet her,
thinking that her mistress would eat something. But Caterina was only
looking at the high sideboards, making mental calculations.
“How many glasses are missing from the _Baccarat_ service, Giulietta?”
“One large tumbler and a wineglass.”
“That’s right; and this set of Bohemian glass?”
“Only one; Monzu knocked it down with his elbow.”
“I see. I think there is a fork with a crooked prong.”
“Yes, Signorina.”
“Well, you can go; I know you have some ironing to do to-day.”
Giulietta went away quite comforted. If the Signora had time and
inclination to take such minute interest in the house, it was a sign
that she had made up her mind to bear her trouble. And if men were such
wretches, what was the good of taking it to heart? The master used to
be good, but he had quite changed of late. Giulietta, standing before
a table heaped up with rough-dried linen, sprinkled it with the water
she took up out of a basin in the hollow of her hand. Caterina passing
slowly by her, stopped for a moment.
“Be careful of the shirts, Giulietta; last week there were two
scorched.”
“That was because I overheated the irons; I will be careful to-day.”
Caterina entered the kitchen. Monzu, who was carrying on an animated
conversation with the man-servant, became suddenly silent. She cast a
cool glance of inspection round her, the look of the mistress, severe
and just.
“Monzu, tell your kitchen-boy to scour the corners well. It is no good
cleaning just in the middle of the floor.”
“I have told that boy about it so often, but Signora _mia_, he’s good
for nothing. I’ll give him a scolding when he comes to-day.”
“Are your accounts made up, Monzu?”
“We were to settle on Monday, the day after to-morrow.”
“Let us settle to-day instead.”
He drew out the large account-book in its red leather binding, and
placed it on the corner of the table, where his mistress added it up.
He had sufficient money in hand for another week.
“Am I to provide for the Signora only?”
“Do not provide for me; I shall not be dining at home. Think of the
servants.”
The cook cast a triumphant glance after her, as turning quickly she
went away; he knew that the Signora was a woman of spirit, and was not
going to give way....
Caterina went back to her room and looked at her watch. It was about
three, she had barely time to dress. She chose her black cashmere gown
and her fur. Slowly, bestowing on her toilet the utmost care, she
changed from head to foot. She had already wound her hair in a great
knot, and fastened it with a light tortoiseshell comb. She looked at
herself in the glass: she was rather pale, with two red lines under her
eyes; but for that she looked much as usual. She put her handkerchief
and purse in her pocket, and while she was drawing on her black gloves
she called Giulietta.
“Order the carriage,” she said.
She waited in her room for the carriage to be announced. Had she
forgotten anything? No, nothing. The house was in order from top to
bottom; there was nothing lying about, nothing out of place; everything
was locked up and the keys were on the ring. She had not overlooked
anything. She felt in her pocket for an object that she needed,
and found it there; nothing had been omitted. She waited without
impatience; she had plenty of time, having, as usual, dressed early.
When Giulietta returned, she rose and let her put her wraps on her.
Passing before her she said:
“Giulietta, I am going to Centurano on business.”
“But there is no one at Centurano, except Matteo!”
“He will do. You can keep house here.”
“May I not come?”
“I shall only stay one night at Centurano.”
“Then you will return to-morrow?”
“Of course. _Arrivederci_, Giulietta.”
“The Madonna be with you, Signorina; never fear, all will be right
here.”
She accompanied her as far as the stairs. Caterina went away without
looking back, with rhythmic step, and veil drawn down over her eyes.
“The Madonna be with you, and give you a good journey and a speedy
return.”
“Good-bye, Giulietta.”
The latter went, however, to look after her mistress from the window
of the anteroom that overlooked the courtyard. Caterina entered her
carriage without turning to look behind her, and said to the coachman:
“To the station.”
In the Via di Foria she met Giovanna Casacalenda, in a _daumont_,
with her husband. Giovanna sat, upright and beautiful, with the
black brim of her Rubens hat shading her proud, voluptuous eyes: the
Commendatore Gabrielli wore the look of composure that became his
age, his beard correctly trimmed to a fringe, his oblique glance from
behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and the twitch of the lips that
denoted a tendency to apoplexy. Husband and wife neither spoke to nor
looked at each other. Behind them followed a smart, high equipage,
with spider-like wheels, driven by Roberto Gentile, in his showy,
cavalry uniform. He drove close to the _daumont_, while Giovanna
assumed unconsciousness, and her husband maintained his grave, assured
demeanour. Giovanna smiled and waved her hand to Caterina, the husband
raised his hat. It was evident that her friends had not yet heard
anything.
* * * * *
There was only a pair of German fellow-travellers in the first-class
carriage, occupied by the solitary little lady who was so neatly gloved
and wrapped in furs. Whether they were husband and wife, brother and
sister, uncle and niece, or father and daughter, it was impossible to
decide, so red were they of face, light of hair, indefinite as to age,
and alike in all respects. They were laden with shawls, rugs, bags, and
Baedekers; they gabbled continually, glancing furtively betimes at the
little lady, who, seated in a corner, gazed at the Neapolitan twilight
landscape. When they arrived at Caserta, the youthful lady crossed the
carriage, and bending in salutation, descended: the two travellers
uttered a sigh of relief.
“Raise the hood, and drive to Centurano,” she said to the driver of
a fly. Only once, in passing the Palazzo Reale, solemn, silent, and
closed, pale with the solitude that had once more fallen upon it, she
leant forward to contemplate it, a stretch of park, and far, far away
a white line that was the waterfall, through the arch of the great
gate. But she drew herself back immediately, and did not look out again
through the rest of the drive. The short winter twilight deepened; a
fresh breeze blew over the ploughed fields and the bare trees.
The villas of Centurano were nearly all closed, except two or three
that were inhabited by their owners all the year round. Little lights
shone in the dwellings of the tenantry. Matteo, who was leaning against
the portico quietly smoking his pipe, did not at first recognise his
mistress until she had paid the driver. After the latter had wished her
“una santa notte” (a holy good-night), he turned and drove away.
“O Signorina.... O Signorina....” stammered Matteo, in confusion,
hiding his pipe behind his back.
“Good evening, Matteo; is it open up there?”
“I have the key here, Signora.”
“Can one pass a night here?”
“Certainly, Signora; it is always ready--beds made, floors swept.”
Taking an oil-lamp from his room on the ground-floor, he led the way
upstairs, jingling his keys as he went.
“And the Signore, will he be here soon?”
“No, the Signore is not coming. I can manage without him.”
“I wanted to show him how fit Fox and Diana are. They are getting so
fat, from having nothing to do.”
“I will tell him to-morrow.”
“Shall you stay here to-night, Signorina?”
“Just for one night. I must find some important documents, and I had no
one I could send.”
“But about dinner, Signorina? If you don’t mind it, Carmela can toss
you up an omelette and a handful of vermicelli with tomato sauce. Of
course, it’s no food for you, but for once....”
“I have dined at Naples; I don’t want anything.”
Despite Matteo’s care, the upstairs department looked cold, dreary, and
unhabited. She shivered when she entered the drawing-room, where she
had passed so much of her country life.
“No; we’ll soon have a fire burning in the grate.”
While he knelt down and blew the lighted wood she drew off her gloves,
stretched them, and placed them on the table.
“Beg pardon, Signorina, but how is the Signora Donna Lucia?”
“She’s well.”
“All the better, poor young thing; she was always so sickly. And that
husband of hers, who hadn’t a ha’p’orth of health, the Signor Don
Alberto, how is he?”
“He’s ill.”
“The severe weather, eh? But when the Lord calls we must obey.”
“True, Matteo; so the house is in order.”
“From top to bottom, Signorina _mia_. What you have told me to do, that
I have done. The Signora Donna Lucia’s room is just as she left it.
Would you like to see it?”
“Let’s see it.”
She followed Matteo, who carried a light, into the room. On the
threshold she was arrested by the same shivering sensation.
“Every morning I air the room and let in the sun. Carmela sweeps, I
dust. Look, look, Signorina, there is no dust. Tell the Signore....”
“Yes, I will tell him. Shut the door, Matteo; we will go to mine.”
They went there. When they got inside her teeth began to chatter.
“Shall I light the fire in here, too, Signorina?”
“Yes, light it, and bring me another lamp.”
She took off her furs and threw them on the bed. The room was full of
shadows, which the faint light of the wick of the lamp he held, of the
kind in use among the peasantry, did not dispel. Matteo returned with a
larger lamp. She took her place on the sofa. Matteo remained standing
before her, as if he were ready to make his report.
“Well, what news?” inquired Caterina, seeing that Matteo wished to be
questioned.
“It happened a week ago that the wind was very high, and through the
forgetfulness of Carmela, who had left the windows open, four panes
were broken in the dining-room.”
“Have you had them replaced?”
“Certainly.”
“You will put them on the bill?”
“Don Claudio, the parish priest, called. They want a new roof to the
church, and count on the charity of the faithful. He says that he hopes
that the Signorina, who gives so much away in alms, won’t forget the
church.”
“What did you say?”
“That he must write to you at Naples.”
“That was right. And what else?”
“And then the Mariagrazia’s boy died.”
“That fine child?”
“_Gnorsi_[3]: Mariagrazia has been at death’s door herself, saving your
presence.”
“You will tell Mariagrazia how sorry I am for her. What is she going to
do?”
“She is going to service in Naples, poor woman. Did Pepe Guardino go to
Naples?”
“Yes, he came.”
“Then he must have given you the message about the millstone that
split. Have I told you all? Yes, it seems to me that I have. No; I was
forgetting the best. One day that she was dusting, Carmela found a
paper, with writing, under the clock. She always meant to put it in an
envelope and send it you, Signorina. Then, as I had to go to Naples, I
said, 'I will take it to the Signora myself.’ Shall I go and fetch it?”
“Go,” she said.
A slight expression of fatigue came over her face, the heavy lids
dropped for want of rest. The warmth from the grate had overcome the
sensation of cold. She tried to shake off the torpor. Matteo returned,
carrying a sheet of foreign letter-paper, folded into microscopic
compass.
“As neither Carmela nor I can read, your fate might have been written
here, and we should have been none the wiser.”
She opened the sheet and read it. Its perusal made no visible
impression on her. She put it in her pocket.
“It is a list of certain things that I had forgotten. You can go to
bed, Matteo.”
“There is nothing I can do for you?”
“Nothing else.”
“Don’t be afraid of anything, Signorina. I shall be here below. The
bell rings in my room; if you want anything, ring.”
“I will, if I want anything. But I shall not want anything.”
“What time will you have your coffee in the morning? Carmela knows how
to make coffee.”
“At nine. I shall leave by the twelve o’clock train.”
“The gig at the door at eleven, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want anything else, Signorina?”
“No.”
“Do you want to write?”
“I have nothing to write to any one.”
“I am going to supper; a leaf or two of salad and a scrap of cheese,
and then to bed; but always ready for your Excellency’s service.
Perhaps you’d like your bed warmed?”
“No.”
“It would be no trouble to light a bit of fire in the kitchen.”
“No.”
“Good-night, Signorina; sleep well.”
“Good-night, Matteo.”
He went away with his lamp, closing the door behind him. She heard the
steps dying away in the distance, and the last door close. At that
moment the clock struck half-past eight. She fell back on the sofa, as
pale as though she had fainted.
* * * * *
She waited for two hours without rising from the sofa, in a species
of stupor that made her limbs ache. She heard the quarters ring while
she counted them. The fire in the grate had gradually turned to ashes,
leaving a tepid warmth in the room. She turned her back on the moon.
When the clock struck twelve she rose to her feet. The two hours’
rest had restored her strength. She went to the window, but could not
distinguish anything. Then, without moving the light, she entered the
drawing-room, one window of which overlooked the courtyard. There was
no light in Matteo’s room; he must have been asleep, for two hours
profound silence reigned in the house.
Then she thought the hour had come. She returned to her room, and with
infinite precaution passed out of it again through the drawing-room,
the billiard-room, the dining-room, and the ante-chamber. She shaded
the light with her hand, and as she passed through the room her little
black shadow grew, as it was projected on the wall, to giant stature.
She passed a landing, descended two steps, and entered the kitchen.
She rested the light on a marble table, crossed the kitchen on tiptoe,
placed a chair against the panelling, and unhooked from the wall, where
it hung amid shining saucepans and moulds, a copper brazier, with
brass feet fashioned like cat’s claws. It was heavy, and the weight
of it nearly threw her down. She placed it on the ground near the
hearth; then, stooping over the arched angle where coals were kept, she
noiselessly took up some pieces of coke with the tongs and filled the
brazier with them one by one. She blew the coal off her fingers, but
when she came to raise the brazier she found that it needed the support
of her two hands, and that it was not possible to carry the light at
the same time. She put it down, and carried the light back to her room.
Then, in the dark, she crept back to the kitchen and took the brazier,
setting it down before every door, which she closed behind her. She
crossed the entire length of the house, carrying the burden that bore
her down. She had seen an old newspaper lying in the drawing-room,
picked it up, entered her room, and locked the door. When she saw her
hands in the lamplight she perceived that the coke had soiled them, and
proceeded to wash and dry them carefully. She crossed to the window
with the intention of closing the shutters; the stars shone high and
bright in the night, and the fountain in the street sang its fresh,
eternal melody. She preferred to leave the shutters open, returned to
the fireplace, and burned the letter in which Lucia had craved her
pity--and the love-letter to Andrea that Matteo had found. She mixed
the ashes, as she had done at Naples, so that no trace was left of
anything. She took the fur wrap off the bed and laid it on the sofa.
Was there anything else to be done? Yes; the keys. She took them out of
her pocket and laid them on the mantelshelf, well in sight. That was
all she had to do.
Then she placed a chair under the image of the Madonna by the bedside,
and, kneeling on the carpet, prayed as she used to pray in her
school-days. Her face was buried in her hands; she prayed without
looking at the Madonna. She neither wept nor sobbed, nor even sighed.
It did not transpire whether she repeated her usual prayers or only
told the Virgin her thoughts. It was a long, calm, mute prayer,
unbroken by thrill, start, or shiver. Twice she made the sign of the
cross, glanced for an instant at the Madonna, and rose. Then she put
the chair back in its place. She tore a strip off the newspaper, and
folded it in four. This she placed under the door, thereby effectually
shutting out the draught. With a small roll of paper she closed the
keyhole, from which she had previously withdrawn the key. She tore
another strip and placed it under the window. She stopped up a tiny
hole that let in the rain-water. She placed her head against the
window fastening to feel if there were any draught: no, the two sides
closed so accurately that there was none. She looked round, wondering
if the air could get in anywhere. No. She drew the brazier into the
middle of the room, and, with a strip of paper lighted at the lamp,
set fire to two small pieces of coal. She blew the fire to spread
it. Then she carried the light to the bedside and unlooped the white
curtains, standing a moment absorbed in thought. She turned to look
at the brazier; one coal caught fire from another, and the whole mass
was gradually becoming incandescent. She felt an increasing weight
in her head. Without hesitation she blew out the light, and, drawing
the curtains, lay down on the bed, on the place where she had been
accustomed to sleep.
* * * * *
The bright winter sun shed its light on a room flooded with a light
haze. Behind the white curtains lay a little dead woman. She was
dressed in black, her feet outstretched and close together, her head
resting on the pillows. She looked like a child, smaller than in life.
Her face was of leaden hue. The hair was unruffled, the mouth open
as if in the effort to breathe, the lips violet, the chest slightly
elevated, and the rest of the body sunken in the bed. The glazed eyes
of the little dead woman were wide open, as if in stupefaction at an
incredible spectacle; and round the violet fingers of the leaden-hued
hands there was twisted part of a broken rosary of lapis-lazuli.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] _Gnorsi_, corruption of _Signora si_.
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.
LONDON AND EDINBURGH
* * * * *
Heinemann’s International Library.
EDITORS NOTE.
There is nothing in which the Anglo-Saxon world differs more from the
world of the Continent of Europe than in its fiction. English readers
are accustomed to satisfy their curiosity with English novels, and it
is rarely indeed that we turn aside to learn something of the interior
life of those other countries the exterior scenery of which is often
so familiar to us. We climb the Alps, but are content to know nothing
of the pastoral romances of Switzerland. We steam in and out of the
picturesque fjords of Norway, but never guess what deep speculation
into life and morals is made by the novelists of that sparsely peopled
but richly endowed nation. We stroll across the courts of the Alhambra,
we are listlessly rowed upon Venetian canals and Lombard lakes, we
hasten by night through the roaring factories of Belgium; but we never
pause to inquire whether there is now flourishing a Spanish, an
Italian, a Flemish school of fiction. Of Russian novels we have lately
been taught to become partly aware, but we do not ask ourselves whether
Poland may not possess a Dostoieffsky and Portugal a Tolstoï.
Yet, as a matter of fact, there is no European country that has
not, within the last half-century, felt the dew of revival on the
threshing-floor of its worn-out schools of romance. Everywhere there
has been shown by young men, endowed with a talent for narrative, a
vigorous determination to devote themselves to a vivid and sympathetic
interpretation of nature and of man. In almost every language, too,
this movement has tended to display itself more and more in the
direction of what is reported and less of what is created. Fancy has
seemed to these young novelists a poorer thing than observation; the
world of dreams fainter than the world of men. They have not been
occupied mainly with what might be or what should be, but with what
is, and, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have combined to
produce a series of pictures of existing society in each of their
several countries such as cannot fail to form an archive of documents
invaluable to futurity.
But to us they should be still more valuable. To travel in a foreign
country is but to touch its surface. Under the guidance of a novelist
of genius we penetrate to the secrets of a nation, and talk the very
language of its citizens. We may go to Normandy summer after summer
and know less of the manner of life that proceeds under those gnarled
orchards of apple-blossom than we learn from one tale of Guy de
Maupassant’s. The present series is intended to be a guide to the inner
geography of Europe. It offers to our readers a series of spiritual
Baedekers and Murrays. It will endeavour to keep pace with every truly
characteristic and vigorous expression of the novelist’s art in each of
the principal European countries, presenting what is quite new if it is
also good, side by side with what is old, if it has not hitherto been
presented to our public. That will be selected which gives with most
freshness and variety the different aspects of continental feeling, the
only limits of selection being that a book shall be, on the one hand,
amusing, and, on the other, wholesome.
One difficulty which must be frankly faced is that of subject. Life is
now treated in fiction by every race but our own with singular candour.
The novelists of the Lutheran North are not more fully emancipated
from prejudice in this respect than the novelists of the Catholic
South. Everywhere in Europe a novel is looked upon now as an impersonal
work, from which the writer, as a mere observer, stands aloof, neither
blaming nor applauding. Continental fiction has learned to exclude, in
the main, from among the subjects of its attention, all but those facts
which are of common experience, and thus the novelists have determined
to disdain nothing and to repudiate nothing which is common to
humanity; much is freely discussed, even in the novels of Holland and
of Denmark, which our race is apt to treat with a much more gingerly
discretion. It is not difficult, however, we believe--it is certainly
not impossible--to discard all which may justly give offence, and yet
to offer to an English public as many of the masterpieces of European
fiction as we can ever hope to see included in this library. It will be
the endeavour of the editor to search on all hands and in all languages
for such books as combine the greatest literary value with the most
curious and amusing qualities of manner and matter.
EDMUND GOSSE.
HEINEMANN’S
Scientific Handbooks.
A knowledge of the practical Sciences has now become a necessity to
every educated man. The demands of life are so manifold, however,
that of many things one can acquire but a general and superficial
knowledge. Ahn and Ollendorff have been an easy road to languages for
many a struggling student; Hume and Green have taught us history; but
little has been done, thus far, to explain to the uninitiated the
most important discoveries and practical inventions of the present
day. Is it not important that we should know how the precious metals
can be tested as to their value; how the burning powers of fuel can
be ascertained; what wonderful physical properties the various gases
possess; and to what curious and powerful purposes heat can be adapted?
Ought we not to know more of the practical application and the working
of that almost unfathomable mystery--electricity? Should we not know
how the relations of the Poles to the magnet-needle are tested; how we
can ascertain by special analysis what produce will grow in particular
soils, and what will not, and what artificial means can be used to
improve the produce?
In this Series of “Scientific Handbooks” these and kindred subjects
will be dealt with, and so dealt with as to be intelligible to all who
seek knowledge--to all who take an interest in the scientific problems
and discoveries of the day, and are desirous of following their course.
It is intended to give in a compact form, and in an attractive style,
the progress made in the various departments of Science, to explain
novel processes and methods, and to show how so many wonderful results
have been obtained. The treatment of each subject by thoroughly
competent writers will ensure perfect scientific accuracy; at the same
time, it is not intended for technical students _alone_. Being written
in a popular style, it is hoped that the volumes will also appeal to
that large class of readers who, not being professional men, are yet in
sympathy with the progress of science generally, and take an interest
in it.
The Series will therefore aim to be of general interest, thoroughly
accurate, and quite abreast of current scientific literature, and,
wherever necessary, well illustrated. Anyone who masters the details of
each subject treated will possess no mean knowledge of that subject;
and the student who has gone through one of these volumes will be able
to pursue his studies with greater facility and clearer comprehension
in larger manuals and special treatises.
The first volume will be a Manual on the Art of Assaying Precious
Metals, and will be found valuable not only to the amateur, but to
the assayer, metallurgist, chemist, and miner. The work will be a
desirable addition to the libraries of Mining Companies, engineers,
bankers, and bullion brokers, as well as to experts in the Art of
Assaying.
The second volume of the Series is written by Professor Kimball, and
deals with the physical properties of Gases. He has taken into account
all the most recent works on “the third state of matter,” including
Crooke’s recent researches on “radiant matter.” There is a chapter also
on Avogadro’s law and the Kinetic theory, which chemical as well as
physical students will read with interest.
In the third volume Dr. Thurston treats, in a popular way, on “Heat as
a Form of Energy”; and his book will be found a capital introduction to
the more exhaustive works of Maxwell, Carnot, Tyndall, and others.
On account of the requirements of the subject, a large number of
wood-cuts have been made for the first volume, and the following
volumes will also be fully illustrated wherever the subject is
susceptible of it.
The first three volumes are now ready. Others will follow, written,
like these, by thoroughly competent writers in their own departments;
and each volume will be complete in itself.
HEINEMANN’S SCIENTIFIC HANDBOOKS.
I.
MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES.
By WALTER LEE BROWN, B.Sc.
Revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged, with a chapter on THE
ASSAYING OF FUEL, &c., by A. B. GRIFFITHS, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S.
In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 7s. 6d.
_Colliery Guardian._--“A delightful and fascinating book.”
_Financial World._--“The most complete and practical manual on
everything which concerns assaying of all which have come before us.”
_North British Economist._--“With this book the amateur may become
an expert. Bankers and Bullion Brokers are equally likely to find it
useful.”
II.
THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES.
By ARTHUR L. KIMBALL, of the Johns Hopkins University.
In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 5s.
CONTENTS.
Introduction. Diffusion and Occlusion.
Pressure and Buoyancy. Thermodynamics of Gases.
Elasticity and Expansion with Avogadro’s Law and the Kinetic
heat. Theory.
Gases and Vapours. Geissler Tubes and Radiant Matter.
Air-Pumps and High Vacua. Conclusion.
_Chemical News._--“The man of culture who wishes for a general and
accurate acquaintance with the physical properties of gases, will find
in Mr. Kimball’s work just what he requires.”
_Iron._--“We can highly recommend this little book.”
_Manchester Guardian._--“Mr. Kimball has the too rare merit of
describing first the facts, and then the hypotheses invented to limn
them together.”
III.
HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY.
By Professor R. H. THURSTON, of Cornell University.
In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 5s.
CONTENTS.
The Philosophers’ Ideas of Air and Gas Engines, their Work and
Heat. their Promise.
The Science of Thermodynamics. The Development of the Steam Engine.
Heat Transfer and the World’s Summary and Conclusion.
Industries.
OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN’S ANNOUNCEMENTS
AND
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
_The Books mentioned in this List can be obtained_ to order _by
any Bookseller if not in stock, or will be sent by the Publisher
post free on receipt of price_.
MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN’S LIST.
_Now Ready._
THE CURE OF CONSUMPTION.
8vo, Wrapper, 1s.; or Limp Cloth, 1s. 6d.
COMMUNICATIONS ON A REMEDY
FOR
TUBERCULOSIS.
By PROFESSOR ROBERT KOCH, BERLIN.
_Authorised Translation._
From _The Times_, leading article, November 17, 1890:--“It has
been acknowledged, at any time during the last year or two, that
the discovery of a cure for tuberculosis was not only possible but
even likely; and that which is now announced comes with the highest
recommendations and from the most trustworthy source.”
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, 6s.
THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN.
BY HENRIK JÆGER.
_TRANSLATED BY CLARA BELL._
WITH THE VERSE DONE INTO ENGLISH FROM THE NORWEGIAN ORIGINAL
BY EDMUND GOSSE.
_St. James’s Gazette._--“Admirably translated. Deserves a cordial and
emphatic welcome.”
_Guardian._--“Ibsen’s dramas at present enjoy a considerable vogue, and
their admirers will rejoice to find full descriptions and criticisms in
Mr. Jæger’s book.”
_Academy._--“We welcome it heartily. An unqualified boon to the many
English students of Ibsen.”
THREE NEW PLAYS.
_Now ready._
In One Volume, Small 4to,
HEDDA GABLER:
_A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS_.
BY HENRIK IBSEN.
TRANSLATED BY EDMUND GOSSE.
In One Volume, Small 4to,
THE
FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT:
_A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS_.
BY COUNT LYON TOLSTOI.
TRANSLATED BY E. J. DILLON.
_In Preparation._
In One Volume, Small 4to,
MAHOMET:
_A DRAMA_.
BY HALL CAINE.
_In the Press._
In 8vo,
THE SALON OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
_LETTERS AND JOURNALS._
With Drawings and Studies by the youthful Artist.
_In the Press._
In Two Volumes, Demy 8vo,
DE QUINCEY MEMORIALS.
_IN LETTERS AND OTHER RECORDS HERE FIRST PUBLISHED, WITH
COMMUNICATIONS FROM COLERIDGE, THE WORDSWORTHS, MRS. HANNAH MORE,
PROFESSOR WILSON, AND OTHERS OF NOTE._
Edited, with Introduction, Notes, and Narrative,
BY ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E.
These volumes include letters to De Quincey from his mother whilst
he was still at school, from his sisters Jane and Mary, his brothers
Henry and Richard, and his guardian, the Rev. Samuel Hall. Letters also
from the Marquis of Sligo, Professor Wilson, Sir W. Hamilton, “Cyril
Thornton,” Hannah More, the Brontës, Coleridge, Professor T. P. Nichol,
the Wordsworths, and many others, add to the value of the book, and
with De Quincey’s own letters, throw new light on many points in his
career, and present confirmation by documentary evidence of the truth
of some of his statements regarding the most extraordinary incidents in
his early career, some of which have been doubted at various times.
The work will be handsomely printed, in two volumes, and will be
illustrated by various portraits of De Quincey and members of the De
Quincey family.
_Early in 1891._
In two Volumes, Crown 8vo,
THE POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
VOLUME I.
ADDITIONAL SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS.
_WITH ESSAYS, CRITICAL, HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, PHILOSOPHICAL,
IMAGINATIVE, AND HUMOROUS._
VOLUME II.
CONVERSATION AND COLERIDGE.
_WITH OTHER ESSAYS._
Recovered from the Author’s Original MSS., and Edited by
ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E., &c.
In announcing a collection of unpublished writings of De Quincey, the
publisher believes he is presenting to the public an essential addition
to every library, as without these volumes the editions of De Quincey’s
works now before the public will be incomplete. The additional
_Suspiria_ alone would justify this claim for it, some of them being
absolutely necessary to complete the significance of the _Suspiria_
already published. In addition to this there are other essays, on
history, speculation, criticism, and theology, which will attract and
appeal to a varied class of readers. A collection of notes under the
heading _Brevia_ are added, which will give the reader closer access
to De Quincey in his private life and thoughts than anything that has
hitherto been published. By means of these notes the reader is, as it
were, introduced to the opium-eater when he was communing with himself
by means of his pen.
_In the Press._
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE.
I.
PICTURES OF TRAVEL.
TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, M.A., F.R.L.S., _
President of the Gypsy Lore Society, &c. &c._
A want has long been felt and often expressed by different writers for
a complete English edition of Heine’s works. That this has never been
done is the more remarkable, because HEINE is, next to GOETHE, the most
universally popular author in Germany, and one who, although he termed
himself an unlicked Teutonic savage, wrote in a style and manner which
have made him a leading favourite in all countries.
The first volume will be the REISEBILDER, or PICTURES OF TRAVEL,
probably the most brilliant and entertaining, while at the same time
the most instructive or thought-inspiring work of its kind ever
written; to be followed by II., FLORENTINE NIGHTS, SCHNABELEWOPSKI, and
THE RABBI OF BACHARACH; and III., THE BOOK OF SONGS. Other volumes will
be announced later.
Dr. Garnett is preparing a “Life of Heine,” which will be uniform with
this edition of Heine’s works.
_A Large Paper Edition will be printed, limited to
one hundred and fifty copies, numbered, and signed
by the translator._
_Now Ready._
In Two Volumes 8vo, £3, 13s. 6d.
THE GENESIS OF THE UNITED STATES.
A narrative of the movement in England, 1605-1616, which resulted
in the plantation of North America by Englishmen, disclosing the
contest between England and Spain for the possession of the soil
now occupied by the United States of America; set forth through
a series of historical manuscripts now first printed, together
with a re-issue of rare contemporaneous tracts, accompanied by
bibliographical memoranda, notes, and brief biographies.
COLLECTED, ARRANGED, AND EDITED BY ALEXANDER BROWN,
Member of the Virginia Historical Society and of the American
Historical Association, Fellow of the Royal Historical Society.
_With 100 Portraits, Maps, and Plans._
The crucial period of English occupancy of North America was that
included between the return of Weymouth to England in July 1605, and
closing with the return of Dale to England in July 1616. This period
has hitherto been most imperfectly understood, partly because of the
misrepresentations made by early authorities who have been followed too
implicitly, but chiefly because of the ignorance by later historians,
and even by early writers, of the part played by Spain in attempting to
thwart the movements of England.
No historical work for many years has attracted such attention as is
sure to be given to this. Its peculiar significance consists in the
fact that it contains so much important matter never before printed in
any language. Mr. Brown’s researches, pursued through many years and at
large expense, were rewarded by the discovery, in the secret archives
of Spain, of numerous documents throwing light on the contest in Europe
for the possession of the American Continent. These documents, with
rare tracts of that period (in all 365 papers, of which 294 are now for
the first time made public), accompanied by Bibliographical Memoranda,
Notes, Maps and Plans, Portraits and Autographs, and a Comprehensive
Biographical Index, lend special value and importance to this work.
A prospectus, with specimen pages and full description, will be sent
on application. Orders may be sent to Booksellers, or direct to the
Publisher.
HEINEMANN’S SCIENTIFIC HANDBOOKS.
_Now Ready._
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 7s. 6d.
MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES.
BY WALTER LEE BROWN, B.SC.
REVISED, CORRECTED, AND CONSIDERABLY ENLARGED,
WITH A CHAPTER ON THE ASSAYING OF FUEL, ETC.
BY A. B. GRIFFITHS, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S.
This work gives full details of the assaying and valuation of ores
containing gold, silver, copper, and lead. The assaying of gold and
silver bullion, fuels, &c., and full descriptions are given of the
necessary apparatus, appliances, and re-agents, the whole being fully
illustrated by eighty-seven figures in the text.
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s.
THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES.
BY ARTHUR L. KIMBALL, OF THE JOHNS HOPKINS UNIVERSITY.
CONTENTS.
Introduction. Diffusion and Occlusion.
Pressure and Buoyancy. Thermodynamics of Gases.
Elasticity and Expansion with Avogadro’s Land and the Kinetic
heat. Theory.
Gases and Vapours. Geissler Tubes and Radiant Matter.
Air-Pumps and High Vacua. Conclusion.
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s.
HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY.
BY PROFESSOR R. H. THURSTON, OF CORNELL UNIVERSITY.
CONTENTS.
The Philosophers’ Ideas of Heat. Air and Gas Engines, their Work and
their Promise.
The Science of Thermodynamics. The Development of the Steam Engine.
Heat Transfer and the World’s Summary and Conclusion.
Industries.
_In preparation._
In One Volume, Demy 8vo,
DENMARK:
ITS HISTORY, TOPOGRAPHY, LANGUAGE, LITERATURE,
FINE ARTS, SOCIAL LIFE, AND FINANCE.
EDITED BY H. WEITEMEYER.
With a Coloured Map.
_Dedicated, by Permission, to H.R.H. The Princess of Wales._
In One Volume, 8vo.
THE COMING TERROR.
ESSAYS.
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN.
In One Volume, Crown 8vo.
GIRLS AND WOMEN.
BY E. CHESTER.
A NEW NOVEL
BY OUIDA.
A NEW NOVEL
BY FLORENCE WARDEN.
A NEW NOVEL
BY HANNAH LYNCH.
HEINEMANN’S INTERNATIONAL LIBRARY.
EDITED BY EDMUND GOSSE.
Each Volume will have an Introduction
specially written by the Editor.
_Just Published._
WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT.
A TALE OF THE EARLY CHRISTIANS.
BY COUNT LYON TOLSTOI.
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY E. J. DILLON, Ph.D.
_Glasgow Herald._--“Mr. Gosse gives a brief biographical sketch of
Tolstoi, and an interesting estimate of his literary productions.”
_Scotsman._--“It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the
simplicity and force with which the work is unfolded; no one who reads
the book will dispute its author’s greatness.”
_Liverpool Mercury._--“Marked by all the old power of the great Russian
novelist.”
_Manchester Guardian._--“Readable and well translated; full of high and
noble feeling.”
_In the Press._
FANTASY.
BY MATILDE SERAO.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN
BY HENRY HARLAND AND PAUL SYLVESTER.
FROTH.
BY A. P. VALDÈS.
TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY CLARA BELL.
THE COMMANDER’S DAUGHTERS.
BY JONAS LIE.
TRANSLATED BY A. L. BRAKSTAD.
THE CHIEF JUSTICE.
By KARL EMIL FRANZOS.
Author of “For the Right,” &c.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN BY MILES CORBET.
_Manchester Guardian._--“Simple, forcible, and intensely tragic. It is
a very powerful study, singularly grand in its simplicity.”
_Sunday Times._--“A series of dramatic scenes welded together with a
never-failing interest and skill.”
IN GOD’S WAY.
By BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN BY ELIZABETH CARMICHAEL.
With Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.; or Paper Covers, 2s. 6d.
_Athenæum._--“Without doubt the most important, and the most
interesting work published during the twelve months.... There are
descriptions which certainly belong to the best and cleverest things
our literature has ever produced. Amongst the many characters, the
doctor’s wife is unquestionably the first. It would be difficult
to find anything more tender, soft, and refined than this charming
personage.”
_Saturday Review._--“The English reader could desire no better
introduction to contemporary foreign fiction than this notable novel.”
_Speaker._--“'In God’s Way’ is really a notable book, showing the
author’s deep insight into character, giving evidence that his hand has
lost none of its cunning in the delineation of Scandinavian character,
and proving, too, how the widespread spirit of criticism is affecting
Northern Europe as elsewhere.”
PIERRE AND JEAN.
By GUY DE MAUPASSANT.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY CLARA BELL.
With Introduction by EDMUND GOSSE.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.; or Paper Covers, 2s. 6d.
_Pall Mall Gazette._--“So fine and faultless, so perfectly balanced,
so steadily progressive, so clear and simple and satisfying. It is
admirable from beginning to end.”
_Athenæum._--“Ranks amongst the best gems of modern French fiction.”
_The Books of which the titles follow this have
been published during the present year._
THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES
As pleasingly exemplified in many instances, wherein
the serious ones of this earth, carefully exasperated,
have been prettily spurred on to indiscretions and
unseemliness, while overcome by an undue sense of right.
By J. M’NEIL WHISTLER.
In One Volume, pott 4to, 10s. 6d.
_Punch_, _June 21_.--“The book in itself, in its binding, print, and
arrangement, is a work of art.”
_Punch_, _June 28_.--“A work of rare humour, a thing of beauty and a
joy for now and ever.”
THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1890.
By F. W. FARRAR, D.D., F.R.S.,
Archdeacon and Canon of Westminster, &c. &c.
In One Volume, small 4to, 2s. 6d.
_Spectator._--“Among the many accounts that have been written this
year of 'The Passion Play,’ one of the most picturesque, the most
interesting, and the most reasonable, is this sketch of Archdeacon
Farrar’s.... This little book will be read with delight by those who
have, and by those who have not, visited Oberammergau.”
THE GARDEN’S STORY;
or, Pleasures and Trials of an Amateur Gardener.
By G. H. ELLWANGER.
With an Introduction by the Rev. C. WOLLEY DOD.
In One Volume, 12mo, with Illustrations, 5s.
_Scotsman._--“Deserves every recommendation that a pleasant-looking
page can give it; for it deals with a charming subject in a charming
manner. Mr. Ellwanger talks delightfully, with instruction but without
pedantry, of the flowers, the insects, and the birds.... It will give
pleasure to every reader who takes the smallest interest in flowers,
and ought to find many readers.”
NEW WORKS OF FICTION.
THE BONDMAN. A New Saga.
By HALL CAINE.
Fourth Edition (Twelfth Thousand).
In One Volume. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
_Mr. Gladstone._--“The 'Bondman’ is a work of which I recognise the
freshness, vigour, and sustained interest no lese than its integrity of
aim.”
_Count Tolstoi._--“A book I have read with deep interest.”
_Standard._--“Its argument is grand, and it is sustained with a power
that is almost marvellous.”
IN THE VALLEY. A Novel.
By HAROLD FREDERIC,
Author of “The Lawton Girl,” “Seth’s Brother’s Wife,” &c. &c.
In Three Volumes. Crown 8vo, with Illustrations.
_Athenæum._--“A romantic story book, graphic and exciting, not merely
in the central picture itself, but also in its weird surroundings. This
is a novel deserving to be read.”
_Manchester Examiner._--“Certain to win the reader’s admiration. 'In
the Valley’ is a novel that deserves to live.”
_Scotsman._--“A work of real ability; it stands apart from the common
crowd of three-volume novels.”
A MARKED MAN: Some Episodes in his Life.
By ADA CAMBRIDGE,
Author of “Two Years’ Time,” “A Mere Chance,” &c. &c.
In Three Volumes, crown 8vo.
_Morning Post._--“A depth of feeling, a knowledge of the human heart,
and an amount of tact that one rarely finds. Should take a prominent
place among the novels of the season.”
_Illustrated London News._--“The moral tone of this story, rightly
considered, is pure and noble, though it deals with the problem of an
unhappy marriage.”
_Pall Mall Gazette._--“Contains one of the best written stories of a
_mésalliance_ that is to be found in modern fiction.”
THE MOMENT AFTER: A Tale of the Unseen.
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 10s. 6d.
_Athenæum._--“Should be read--in daylight.”
_Observer._--“A clever _tour de force_.”
_Guardian._--“Particularly impressive, graphic, and powerful.”
_Bristol Mercury._--“Written with the same poetic feeling and power
which have given a rare charm to Mr. Buchanan’s previous prose
writings.”
COME FORTH!
By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS and HERBERT D. WARD.
In One Volume, imperial 16mo, 7s. 6d.
_Scotsman._--“'Come Forth!’ is the story of the raising of Lazarus,
amplified into a dramatic love-story.... It has a simple, forthright
dramatic interest such as is seldom attained except in purely
imaginative fiction.”
THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS.
By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS and HERBERT D. WARD.
In One Volume, imperial 16mo, 7s. 6d.
_The Athenæum._--“A success in Biblical fiction.”
THE DOMINANT SEVENTH: A Musical Story.
By KATE ELIZABETH CLARK.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 5s.
_Speaker._--“A very romantic story.”
A VERY STRANGE FAMILY: A Novel.
By F. W. ROBINSON,
Author of “Grandmother’s Money,” “Lazarus in London,” &c. &c.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
_Glasgow Herald._--“An ingeniously-devised plot, of which the interest
is kept up to the very last page. A judicious blending of humour and
pathos further helps to make the book delightful reading from start to
finish.”
HAUNTINGS: Fantastic Stories.
By VERNON LEE,
Author of “Baldwin,” “Miss Brown,” &c. &c.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s.
_Pall Mall Gazette._--“Well imagined, cleverly constructed, powerfully
executed. 'Dionea’ is a fine and impressive idea, and 'Oke of Okehurst’
a masterly story.”
PASSION THE PLAYTHING. A Novel.
By R. MURRAY GILCHRIST.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s.
_Athenæum._--“This well-written story must be read to be appreciated.”
_Yorkshire Post._--“A book to lay hold of the reader.”
THE LABOUR MOVEMENT IN AMERICA.
By RICHARD T. ELY, Ph.D.,
Associate in Political Economy, Johns Hopkins University.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 5s.
_Weekly Despatch._--“There is much to interest and instruct.”
_Saturday Review._--“Both interesting and valuable.”
_England._--“Full of information and thought.”
_National Reformer._--“Chapter iii. deals with the growth and present
condition of labour organisations in America ... this forms a most
valuable page of history.”
ARABIC AUTHORS: A Manual of Arabian History and Literature.
By F.F. ARBUTHNOT, M.R.A.S.,
Author of “Early Ideas,” “Persian Portraits,” &c.
In One Volume 8vo, 10s.
_Manchester Examiner._--“The whole work has been carefully indexed, and
will prove a handbook of the highest value to the student who wishes to
gain a better acquaintance with Arabian letters.”
IDLE MUSINGS: Essays in Social Mosaic.
By E. CONDER GRAY,
Author of “Wise Words and Loving Deeds,” &c. &c.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s.
_Saturday Review._--“Light, brief, and bright are the 'essays in social
mosaic.’ Mr. Gray ranges like a butterfly from high themes to trivial
with a good deal of dexterity and a profusion of illustrations.”
_Graphic._--“Pleasantly written, will serve admirably to wile away
an idle half-hour or two.” IVY AND PASSION FLOWER: Poems. By GERARD
BENDALL, Author of “Estelle,” &c. &c. 12mo, 3s. 6d.
_Scotsman._--“Will be read with pleasure.”
_Woman._--“There is a delicacy of touch and simplicity about the poems
which is very attractive.”
_Musical World._--“The poems are delicate specimens of art, graceful
and polished.”
VERSES.
By GERTRUDE HALL.
12mo, 3s. 6d.
_Musical World._--“Interesting volume of verse.”
_Woman._--“Very sweet and musical.”
_Manchester Guardian._--“Will be welcome to every lover of poetry who
takes it up.”
* * * * *
LONDON: WM. HEINEMANN, 21, BEDFORD STREET, W.C.
TELEGRAPHIC ADDRESS--SUNLOCKS, LONDON.
_December 1890._