"I thought you were dead!" gasped the Cossack in dismay.
There was no answer. The Count did not appear to hear Schmidt's voice nor
to see his figure. He acted like a man walking in his sleep, and it was by
no means certain to the friend who watched him that his eyes were always
open. As though nothing unusual had happened, the Count calmly undressed
himself and got into bed. Three minutes later he was sound asleep and
breathing regularly.
For a long time Johann Schmidt stood transfixed with wonder in his place
at the open window. At last it dawned upon him that his friend had not
been really dead, but had fallen into some sort of fit in the course of
his lonely meditations, from which he had been awakened by the Cossack's
terrific swearing. Why the latter had seemed to be invisible and inaudible
to him, was a matter which Schmidt did not attempt to solve. It was clear
that the Count was alive, and sleeping like other people. Schmidt
hesitated some time as to what he should do. It was possible that his
friend might wake again, and find himself desperately ill. He had been so
evidently unlike himself, that Schmidt had feared he would become a raving
maniac in the night, and had entered the house at his heels, seating
himself upon the stairs just outside the door to wait for events, with the
odd fidelity and forethought characteristic of him. The Count's cry had
warned him that all was not right and he had entered the room, as has been
seen.
He determined to wait some time longer, to see whether anything would
happen. Meanwhile, he thrust Akulina's letter into his pocket, reflecting
that as it was a forgery it would be best that the Count should not have
it, lest he should be again misled by the contents. He sat down and
waited.
Nothing happened. The clocks chimed the quarters up to one in the morning,
a quarter-past, half-past--Schmidt was growing sleepy. The Count breathed
regularly and lay in his bed without moving. Then, at last, the Cossack
rose, looked at his friend once more, blew out the lamp, felt his way to
the door and left the room. As he walked home through the quiet streets he
swore that he would take vengeance upon Akulina, by producing the letter
and reading it in her husband's presence, and before the assembled
establishment, before the Count made his appearance. It was indeed not
probable that he would come at all, considering all that he had suffered,
though Schmidt knew that he generally came on Thursday morning, evidently
weary and exhausted, but unconscious of the delusion which had possessed
him during the previous day. Possibly, he was subject to a similar fit
every Wednesday night, and had kept the fact a secret. Schmidt had always
wondered what happened to him at the moment when he suddenly forgot his
imaginary fortune and returned to his everyday senses.
The morning dawned at last, and it was Thursday. As there was no necessity
for liberating the Count from arrest to-day, Akulina roused her husband
with the lark, gave him his coffee promptly and sent him off to open the
shop and catch the early customer. Before the shutters had been up more
than a quarter of an hour, and while Fischelowitz was still sniffing the
fresh morning air, Johann Schmidt appeared. His step was brisk, his brow
was dark and his boots creaked ominously. With a very brief salutation he
passed into the back shop, slipped off his coat and set to work with the
determination of a man who feels that he must do something active as a
momentary relief to his feelings.
Next came Vjera, paler than ever, with great black rings under her tired
eyes, broken with the fatigues and anxieties of the previous day, but
determined to double her work, if that were possible, in order to make up
for the money she had borrowed of Schmidt and, through him, of Dumnoff. As
she dropped her shawl, Fischelowitz caught sight of the back of her head,
and broke into a laugh.
"Why, Vjera!" he cried. "What have you done? You have made yourself look
perfectly ridiculous!"
The poor girl turned scarlet, and busied herself at her table without
answering. Her fingers trembled as she tried to handle her glass tube. The
Cossack, whose anger had not been diluted by being left to boil all night,
dropped his swivel knife and went up to Fischelowitz with a look in his
face so extremely disagreeable that the tobacconist drew back a little,
not knowing what to expect.
"I will tell you something," said Schmidt, savagely. "You will have to
change your manners if you expect any of us to work for you."
"What do you mean?" stammered Fischelowitz, in whom nature had omitted to
implant the gift of physical courage, except in such measure as saved him
from the humiliation of being afraid of his wife.
"I mean what I say," answered the Cossack. "And if there is anything I
hate, it is to repeat what I have said before hitting a man." His fists
were clenched already, and one of them looked as though it were on the
point of making a very emphatic gesture. Fischelowitz retired backwards
into the front shop, while Vjera looked on from within, now pale again and
badly frightened.
"Herr Schmidt! Herr Schmidt! Please, please be quiet! It does not matter!"
she cried.
"Then what does matter?" inquired the Cossack over his shoulders, "If
Vjera has cut off her hair," he said, turning again to Fischelowitz, "she
has had a good reason for it. It is none of your business, nor mine
either."
So saying he was about to go back to his work again.
"Upon my word!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "Upon my word! I do not
understand what has got into the fellow."
"You do not understand?" cried Schmidt, facing him again. "I mean that if
you laugh at Vjera I will break most of your bones."
At that moment Akulina's stout figure appeared, entering from the street.
The Cossack stood still, glaring at her, his face growing white and
contracted with anger. He was becoming dangerous, as good-tempered men
will, when roused, especially when they have been brought up among people
who, as a tribe, would rather fight than eat, at any time of day, from
pure love of the thing. Even Akulina, who was not timid, hesitated as she
stood on the threshold.
"What has happened?" she inquired, looking from Schmidt to her husband.
The latter came to her side, if not for protection, as might be
maliciously supposed, at least for company.
"I cannot understand at all," said Fischelowitz, still edging away.
"You understand well enough, I think, and as for you, Frau Fischelowitz, I
have something to talk of with you, too. But we will put it off until
later," he added, as though suddenly changing his mind.
The Count himself had appeared in the doorway behind Akulina. Both she and
her husband stood aside, looking at him curiously.
"Good-morning," he said, gravely taking off his hat and inclining his head
a little. He acted as though quite unconscious of what had happened on the
previous day, and they watched him as he quietly went into the room
beyond, into which the Cossack had retired on seeing him enter.
He hung up his hat in its usual place, nodding to Schmidt, who was
opposite to him. Then, as he turned, he met Vjera's eyes. It was a supreme
moment for her, poor child. Would he remember anything of what had passed
on the previous day? Or had he forgotten all, his debt, her saving of him
and the sacrifice she had made? He looked at her so long and so steadily
that she grew frightened. Then all at once he came close to her, and took
her hand and kissed it as he had done when they had last parted, careless
of Schmidt's presence.
"I have not forgotten, dear Vjera," he whispered in her ear.
Schmidt passed them quickly and again went out, whether from a sense of
delicacy, or because he saw an opportunity of renewing the fight outside,
is not certain. He closed the door of communication behind him.
Vjera looked up into the Count's eyes and the blush that rarely came, the
blush of true happiness, mounted to her face.
"I have not forgotten, dearest," he said again. "There is a veil over
yesterday--I think I must have been ill--but I know what you did for me
and--and--" he hesitated as though seeking an expression.
For a few seconds again the poor girl felt the agony of suspense she knew
so well.
"I do not know what right a man so poor as I has to say such a thing,
Vjera," he continued. "But I love you, dear, and if you will take me, I
will love you all my life, more and more. Will it be harder to be poor
together than each for ourselves, alone?"
Vjera let her head fall upon his shoulder, happy at last. What did his
madness matter now, since the one memory she craved had survived its
destroying influence? He had forgotten his glorious hopes, his imaginary
wealth, his expected friends, but he had not forgotten her, nor his love
for her.
"Thank God!" she sighed, and the happy tears fell from her eyes upon the
breast of his threadbare coat.
"But we must not forget to work, dear," she said, a few moments later.
"No," he answered. "We must not forget to work."
As she sat down to her table he pushed her chair back for her, and put
into her hands her little glass tube, and then he went and took his own
place opposite. For a long time they were left alone, but neither of them
seemed to wonder at it, nor to hear the low, excited tones of many voices
talking rapidly and often together in the shop outside. Whenever their
eyes met, they both smiled, while their fingers did the accustomed
mechanical work.
When Schmidt entered the outer shop for the second time, he found the
tobacconist and his wife conversing in low tones together, in evident fear
of being overheard. He came and stood before them, lowering his voice to
the pitch of theirs, as he spoke.
"It is no fault of yours that the Count was not found dead in his bed this
morning," he began, fixing his fiery eyes on Akulina.
"What? What? What is this?" asked Fischelowitz excitedly.
"Only this," said the Cossack, displaying the letter he had brought from
the Count's rooms. "Nothing more. Your wife has succeeded very well. He is
quite mad now. I found him last night, helpless, in a sort of fit, stiff
and stark on the floor of his room. And this was in his pocket. Read it,
Herr Fischelowitz. Read it, by all means. I suppose your wife does not
mind your reading the letters she writes."
Fischelowitz took the letter stupidly, turned it over, saw the address,
and took out the folded sheet. Akulina's face expressed a blank amazement
almost comical in its vacuity. For once, she was taken off her guard. Her
husband read the letter over twice and examined the handwriting curiously.
"A joke is a joke, Akulina," he said at last. "But you have carried this
too far. What if the Count had died?"
"I would like to know what I am accused of," said Akulina, "and what all
this is about."
"I suppose you know your own handwriting," observed the Cossack, taking
the letter from the tobacconist's hands and holding it before her eyes.
"And if that is not enough to drive the poor man to the madhouse I do not
know what is. Perhaps you have forgotten all about it? Perhaps you are
mad, too?"
Akulina read the writing in her turn. Then she grew very angry.
"It is an abominable lie!" she exclaimed. "I never had anything to do with
it. I do not know whence this letter comes, and I do not care. I know
nothing about it."
"I suppose no one can prevent your saying so, at least," retorted the
Cossack.
"It is very queer," observed Fischelowitz, suddenly thrusting his hands
into his pockets and beginning to whistle softly as he looked through the
shop window.
"When I tell you that it is not my handwriting, you ought to be
satisfied--" Akulina began.
"And yet none of us are," interrupted the Cossack with a laugh. "Strange,
is it not?"
Dumnoff now came in, and a moment later the insignificant girl, who began
to giggle foolishly as soon as she saw that something was happening which
she could not understand.
"None of us are satisfied," continued Johann Schmidt, taking the letter
from Akulina. "Here, Dumnoff, here Anna Nicolaevna, is this the
Chosjaika's handwriting or not? Let everybody see and judge."
"It is outrageous!" exclaimed Akulina, trying to get possession of the
letter again.
"You see how she tries to get it," laughed the Cossack, savagely. "She
would be glad to tear it to pieces--of course she would."
"I wish you would all go about your business," said Fischelowitz with an
approach to asperity.
Akulina was furious, but she did not know what to do. Everybody began
talking together.
"Of course it is the Barina's handwriting," said Dumnoff confidently. He
supposed it was always safe to follow Schmidt's lead, when he followed any
one.
"Of course it is," chimed in the insignificant Anna.
"You--you minx--you flatter-cat, you little serpent!" cried Akulina,
speaking three languages at once in her excitement. "Go--get along--go to
your work--"
"No, no, stay!" exclaimed the Cossack authoritatively. "Do you know what
this is?" he asked of all present again. "Our good mistress, here, has for
some reason or other been trying to make the Count worse by having sham
letters posted to him from home--"
"It is a lie! A base, abominable lie! Turn the man out, Christian
Gregorovitch! Turn him out, or send for the police."
"Turn him out yourself," answered the tobacconist phlegmatically.
"Posted to him from home," continued the Cossack, "and telling him that
his father and brother are dead and that he has come into property and the
like. What do you think of that?"
"It is a shame," growled Dumnoff, beginning to understand.
The girl laughed foolishly.
"I swear to you," began Akulina, crimson with anger. "I swear to you by
all--"
"Customers, customers!" exclaimed Fischelowitz in a stage whisper. "Quiet,
I tell you!" He made a rush for the other side of the counter, and briskly
assumed his professional smile. The others fell back into the corners.
Two gentlemen in black entered the shop. The one was a stout,
angry-looking person of middle age, very dark, and very full about the
lower part of the face, which was not concealed by the closely cut black
beard. His companion was a diminutive little man, very thin and very
spruce, not less than fifty years old. His face was entirely shaved and
was deeply marked with lines and furrows. A pair of piercing grey eyes
looked through big gold-rimmed spectacles. As he took off his hat, a few
thin, sandy-coloured locks fluttered a little and then settled themselves
upon the smooth surface of his cranium, like autumn leaves falling upon a
marble statue in a garden.
"Herr Fischelowitz?" inquired the larger of the two customers, touching
his hat but not removing it.
"At your service," answered the tobacconist. "Cigarettes?" he inquired.
"Strong? Light? Kir, Samson, Dubec?"
"I am the new Russian Consul," said the stranger. "This gentleman is just
arrived from Petersburg and has business with you."
"My name is Konstantin Grabofsky, and I am a lawyer," observed the little
man very sharply.
Fischelowitz bowed till his nose almost came into collision with the
counter. The others in the shop held their peace and opened their eyes.
"And I am told that Count Boris Michaelovitch Skariatine is here,"
continued the lawyer.
"Oh--the mad Count!" exclaimed Akulina with an angry laugh, and coming
forward. "Yes, we can tell you all about him."
"I am sorry," said Grabofsky, "to hear you call him mad, since my business
is with him, Barina, and not with you." His tone was, if possible, more
incisive than before.
"Of course, we know that he is not a Count at all," said Akulina, somewhat
annoyed by his sharpness.
"Do you? Then you are singularly mistaken. I shall be obliged if you will
inform Count Skariatine that Konstantin Grabofsky desires the honour of an
interview with him."
"Go and call him, Akulina," said Fischelowitz, "since the gentleman wishes
to see him."
"Go yourself," retorted his wife.
"Go together, and be quick about it!" said the Consul, who was tired of
waiting.
"And please to say that I wait his convenience," added the lawyer.
Dumnoff moved to Schmidt's side and whispered into his ear.
"Do you think they have come about the Gigerl?" he inquired anxiously. "Do
you think they will arrest us again?"
"Durak!" laughed the Cossack. "How can two Russian gentlemen arrest you in
Munich? This is something connected with the Count's friends. It is my
belief that they have come at last. See--here he is."
The Count now entered from the back shop, calm and collected, as though
not expecting anything extraordinary. The Russian Consul took off his hat
and bowed with great politeness and the Count returned the salutation with
equal civility. Fischelowitz and Akulina stood in the background anxiously
watching events.
The lawyer also bowed and then, turning his face to the light, held his
hand out.
"You have not forgotten me, Count Skariatine?" he said, in a tone of
inquiry.
The Count stared hard at him as he took the proffered hand. Gradually, his
face underwent a change. His forehead contracted, his eyes closed a
little, his eyebrows rose, and an expression of quiet disdain settled
about the lines of his mouth.
"I know you very well," he answered. "You are Doctor Konstantin Grabofsky,
my father's lawyer. Do you come from him to renew the offer you made when
we parted?"
"I have no offer to make," said the little man. "Will you do me the honour
to indicate some place where we may be alone together for a moment?"
"I have no objection to that," replied the Count. "We can go into the
street."
They passed out together, leaving the establishment of Christian
Fischelowitz in a condition of great astonishment. The tobacconist hastily
produced his best cigarettes and entreated the Consul to try one, making
signs to the other occupants of the shop to return to their occupations in
the inner room.
"How long have you known Count Skariatine?" inquired the Consul,
carelessly, when he was alone with Fischelowitz.
"Six or seven years," answered the latter.
"I suppose you know his story? Your wife was good enough to inform us of
that fact, though Doctor Grabofsky has reason to doubt the value of her
information."
"We only know that he calls himself a Count." Fischelowitz held the
authorities of his native country in holy awe, and was almost frightened
out of his senses at being thus questioned by the Consul.
"He is quite at liberty to do so," answered the latter with a laugh. "The
story is simple enough," he continued, "and there is no reason why you
should not know it. The late Count Skariatine had two sons, of whom the
present Count was the younger. Ten years ago, when barely twenty, he
quarrelled with his father and elder brother, and they parted in anger. I
must say that he seems to have acted hastily, though the old gentleman's
views of life were eccentric, to say the least of it. For some reason or
other, the elder brother never married. I have heard it said that he was
crippled in childhood. Be that as it may, he was vindictive and spiteful
by nature, and prevented the quarrel from being forgotten. The younger
brother left the house with the clothes on his back, and steadily refused
to accept the small allowance offered him, and which was his by right. And
now the father and the eldest son are dead--they died suddenly of the
smallpox--and Doctor Grabofsky has come to inform the Count that he is the
heir. There you have the story in a nutshell."
"Then it is all true, after all!" cried Fischelowitz. "We all thought--"
"Thinking, when one knows nothing, is a dangerous and useless pastime,"
observed the Consul. "I will take a box of these cigarettes with me. They
are good."
"Thank you most obediently, Milostivy Gosudar!" exclaimed Fischelowitz,
bowing low. "I trust that the Gospodin Consul will honour me with his
patronage. I have a great variety of tobaccos, Kir, Basma, Samson, Dubec
Imperial, Swary--"
While Fischelowitz was recommending the productions of his Celebrated
Manufactory to the Consul, Grabofsky and the Count were walking together
up and down the smooth pavement outside.
"A great change has taken place in your family," Grabofsky was saying.
"Had anything less extraordinary occurred, I should have written to you
instead of coming in person. Your brother is dead, Count Skariatine."
"Dead!" exclaimed the Count, who had no recollection of the letter
abstracted from his pocket by the Cossack. It had reached him after the
weekly attack had begun, and the memory of it was gone with that of so
many other occurrences.
"Dead," repeated the lawyer sharply, as though he would have made a nail
of the word to drive it into the coffin.
"And how many children has he left?" inquired the Count.
"He died unmarried."
"So that I--"
"You are the lawful heir."
"Unless my father marries again." The colour rose in the Count's lean
cheeks.
"That is impossible."
"Why?"
"Because he is dead, too."
"Then--"
"You are Count Skariatine, and I have the honour to offer you my services
at this important juncture."
The Count breathed hard. The shock, overtaking him when he was in his
normal condition, was tremendous. The colour came and went rapidly in his
features, and he caught his breath, leaning heavily upon the little
lawyer, who watched his face with some anxiety. Akulina's remark about the
Count's madness had made him more careful than he would otherwise have
been in his manner of breaking the news.
"I am not well," said the Count in a low voice. "To-day is Wednesday--I am
never well on Wednesdays."
"To-day is Thursday," answered Grabofsky.
"Thursday? Thursday--" the Count reeled, and would have fallen, but for
the support of the nervous little man's wiry arm.
Then, in the space of a second, took place that strange phenomenon of the
intelligence which is as yet so imperfectly understood. It is called the
"Transfer" in the jargon of the half-developed science which deals with
suggestion and the like. Its effects are strange, sudden and complete,
often observed, never understood, but chronicled in hundreds of cases and
analysed in every seat of physiological learning in Europe. In the
twinkling of an eye, a part or the whole of the intelligence, or of the
sensations, is reversed in action, and this with a logical precision of
which no description can give any idea. It is universally considered as
the first step in the direction of recovery.
The action of the Count's mind was "transferred," therefore, since the
word is consecrated by usage. Fortunately for him, the transfer coincided
with a material change in his fortunes. Had this not been the case it
would have had the effect of making him mad through the whole week, and
sane only from Tuesday evening until the midnight of Wednesday. As it was,
the result was of a contrary nature. Being now in reality restored to
wealth and dignity, he was able to understand and appreciate the reality
during six days, becoming again, in imagination, a cigarette-maker upon
the seventh, a harmless delusion which already shows signs of
disappearing, and from which the principal authorities confidently assert
that he will soon be quite free.
He passed but one moment in a state of semi-consciousness. Then he raised
his head, and stood erect, and to the great surprise of Grabofsky, showed
no further surprise at the news he had just received.
"The fact is," he said, quietly, "I was expecting you yesterday. I had
received a letter from the wife of the steward informing me of the death
of my father and brother. I think your coming to-day must have disturbed
me, as I have some difficulty in recalling the circumstances which
attended our meeting here."
"A passing indisposition," suggested Grabofsky. "Nothing more. The weather
is warm, sultry in fact."
"Yes, it must have been that. And now, we had better communicate the state
of things to Herr Fischelowitz, to whom I consider myself much indebted."
"Our Consul came with me," said the lawyer. "He is in the shop. Perhaps
you did not notice him."
"No--I do not think I did. I am afraid he thought me very careless."
"Not at all, not at all." Grabofsky began to think that there had been
some truth in Akulina's remarks after all, but he kept his opinion to
himself, then and afterwards, a course which was justified by subsequent
events. He and the Count turned towards the shop, and, entering, found
Fischelowitz and the Consul conversing together.
The Count bowed to the latter with much ceremony.
"I fear," he said, "that you must have thought me careless just now. The
suddenness of the news I have received has affected me. Pray accept my
best thanks for your kindness in accompanying Doctor Grabofsky this
morning."
"Do not mention it, Count. I am only too glad to be of service."
"You are very kind. And now, Herr Fischelowitz," he continued, turning to
the tobacconist, "it is my pleasant duty to thank you also. I looked for
these gentlemen yesterday. They have arrived to-day. The change which I
expected would take place has come, and I am about to return to my home.
The memories of poverty and exile can never be pleasant, but I do not
think that I have any just reason to complain. Will it please you, Herr
Fischelowitz, and you, gentlemen, to go into the next room with me? I wish
to take my leave of those who have so long been my companions."
Fischelowitz opened the door of communication and held it back
respectfully for the Count to pass. His ideas were exceedingly confused,
but his instinct told him to make all atonement in his power for his
wife's outbursts of temper. The Count entered first, and the other three
followed him, Grabofsky, the Consul, and Fischelowitz. The little back
shop was very full. To judge from the last accents of Akulina's voice she
had been repaying Johann Schmidt with compound interest, now that the
right was on her side, for the manner in which he had attacked her. As the
Count entered, however, all held their peace, and he began to speak in the
midst of total silence. He stood by the little black table upon which his
lean, stained fingers had manufactured so many hundreds of thousands of
cigarettes.
"Herr Fischelowitz," he began, "I am here to say good-bye to you, to your
good wife, and to my companions. During a number of years you have
afforded me the opportunity of earning an honest living, and I have to
thank you very heartily for the forbearance you have shown me. It is not
your fault if your consideration for me has sometimes taken a passive
rather than an active form. It was not your business to fight my battles.
Give me your hand, Herr Fischelowitz. We part, as we have lived, good
friends. I wish you all possible success."
The tobacconist bowed low as he respectfully shook hands.
"Too much honour," he said.
"Frau Fischelowitz," continued the Count, "you have acted according to
your lights and your beliefs. I bear you no ill-will. I only hope that if
any other poor gentleman should ever take my place you will not make his
position harder than it would naturally be, and I trust that all may be
well with you."
"I never meant it, Herr Graf," said Akulina, awkwardly, as she took his
proffered hand.
He turned to the Cossack.
"Good-bye, Johann Schmidt, good-bye. I shall see you again, before long.
We have always helped each other, my friend. I have much to thank you
for."
"You have helped me, you mean," said the Cossack, in a rather shaky voice.
"No, no--each other, and we will continue to do so, I hope, in a different
way. Good-bye, Dumnoff. You have a better heart than people think."
"Are you not going to take me to Russia, after all?" asked the mujik,
almost humbly.
"Did I say I would? Then you shall go. But not as coachman, Dumnoff. Not
as coachman, I think. Good-bye, Anna Nicolaevna," he said, turning to the
insignificant girl, who was at last too much awed to giggle.
Then he came to Vjera's place. The girl was leaning forward, hiding her
face in her hands, and resting her small, pointed elbows on the table.
"Vjera, dear," he said, bending down to her, "will you come with me, now?"
She looked up, suddenly, and her face was very white and drawn, and wet
with tears.
"Oh no, no!" she said in a low voice. "How can I ever be worthy of you,
since it is really true?"
But the Count put his arm round the poor little shell-maker's waist, and
made her stand beside him in the midst of them all.
"Gentlemen," he said, in his calmly dignified manner, "let me present to
you the Countess Skariatine. She will bear that name to-morrow. I owe you
a confession before leaving you, in her honour and to my humiliation. I
had contracted a debt of honour, and I had nothing wherewith to pay it.
There was but an hour left--an hour, and then my life and my honour would
have been gone together."
Vjera looked up into his face with a pitiful entreaty, but he would go on.
"She saved me, gentlemen," he continued. "She cut off her beautiful hair
from her head, and sold it for me. But that is not the reason why she is
to be my wife. There is a better reason than that. I love her, gentlemen,
with all my heart and soul, and she has told me that she loves me."
He felt her weight upon him, and, looking down, he saw that she had
fainted in his arms, with a look of joy upon her poor wan face which none
there had ever seen in the face of man or woman.
And so love conquered.
The End.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
MR. CRAWFORD'S LAST NOVEL.
KATHARINE LAUDERDALE.
TWO VOLUMES. CLOTH. $2.00.
The first of a series of novels dealing with New York life.
PRESS COMMENTS.
"Mr. Crawford at his best is a great novelist, and in _Katharine
Lauderdale_ we have him at his best."--_Boston Daily Advertiser._
"A most admirable novel, excellent in style, flashing with humor, and full
of the ripest and wisest reflections upon men and women."--_The
Westminster Gazette._
"It is the first time, we think, in American fiction that any such breadth
of view has shown itself in the study of our social framework."--_Life._
"Admirable in its simple pathos, its enforced humor, and, above all, in
its truths to human nature.... There is not a tedious page or paragraph in
it."--_Punch._
"It need scarcely be said that the story is skilfully and picturesquely
written, portraying sharply individual characters in well-defined
surroundings."--_New York Commercial Advertiser._
"_Katharine Lauderdale_ is a tale of New York, and is up to the highest
level of his work. In some respects it will probably be regarded as his
best. None of his works, with the exception of _Mr. Isaacs_, show so
clearly his skill as a literary artist."--_San Francisco Evening
Bulletin._
"The book shows the inventive power, the ingenuity of plot, the subtle
analysis of character, the skilfulness in presenting shifting scenes, the
patient working-out of details, the aptitude of deduction, and vividness
of description which characterize the Saracinesca romances."--_New York
Home Journal._
"Nowhere has the author shown more admirable understanding and command of
the novel-writer's art.... Whoever wants an original and fascinating book
can be commended to this one."--_Philadelphia Evening Telegraph._
_IN PRESS._
A Sequel to "KATHARINE LAUDERDALE,"
THE RALSTONS.
MACMILLAN & CO.,
66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
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UNIFORM EDITION OF
F. MARION CRAWFORD'S NOVELS.
12mo, Cloth. Price, ONE DOLLAR EACH.
MARION DARCHE.
A STORY WITHOUT COMMENT.
PIETRO GHISLERI.
CHILDREN OF THE KING.
DON ORSINO. A Sequel to "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario."
THE THREE FATES.
THE WITCH OF PRAGUE.
KHALED.
A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE.
SANT' ILARIO. A Sequel to "Saracinesca."
GREIFENSTEIN.
WITH THE IMMORTALS.
TO LEEWARD.
A ROMAN SINGER.
AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN.
PAUL PATOFF.
MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX.
SARACINESCA.
A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.
ZOROASTER.
DR. CLAUDIUS.
MR. ISAACS.
MACMILLAN & CO., PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.
2. Typographic errors corrected in original:
p. 30 hear to heard ("heard the chink")
p. 129 Schimdt to Schmidt ("cried Schmidt in a tone of decision")
p. 243 Fischelowizt to Fischelowitz ("Herr Fischelowitz")
End of Project Gutenberg's A Cigarette-Maker's Romance, by F. Marion Crawford