MARGARETA CELSING
A few days before Christmas the major’s wife started on her journey down
to the Löfsjö district; but it was not till Christmas Eve that she came
to Ekeby. During the whole journey she was ill. Yet, in spite of cold and
fever, people had never seen her in better spirits nor heard her speak
more friendly words.
The Broby clergyman’s daughter, who had been with her in the Älfdal
forests ever since October, sat by her side in the sledge and wished to
hasten the journey; but she could not prevent the old woman from stopping
the horses and calling every wayfarer up to her to ask for news.
“How is it with you all here in Löfsjö?” she asked.
“All is well,” was the answer. “Better times are coming. The mad priest
there at Ekeby and his wife help us all.”
“A good time has come,” answered another. “Sintram is gone. The Ekeby
pensioners are working. The Broby clergyman’s money is found in the Bro
church-tower. There is so much that the glory and power of Ekeby can be
restored with it. There is enough too to get bread for the hungry.”
“Our old dean has waked to new life and strength,” said a third. “Every
Sunday he speaks to us of the coming of the Kingdom of God.”
And the major’s wife drove slowly on, asking every one she met: “How is
it here? Do you not suffer from want here?”
And the fever and the stabbing pain in her breast were assuaged, when
they answered her: “There are two good and rich women here, Marianne
Sinclair and Anna Stjärnhök. They help Gösta Berling to go from house to
house and see that no one is starving. And no more brandy is made now.”
It was as if the major’s wife had sat in the sledge and listened to
a long divine service. She had come to a blessed land. She saw old,
furrowed faces brighten, when they spoke of the time which had come. The
sick forgot their pains to tell of the day of joy.
“We all want to be like the good Captain Lennart,” they said. “We all
want to be good. We want to believe good of every one. We will not injure
any one. It shall hasten the coming of God’s Kingdom.”
She found them all filled with the same spirit. On the larger estates
free dinners were given to those who were in greatest need. All who had
work to be done had it done now.
She had never felt in better health than when she sat there and let the
cold air stream into her aching breast. She could not drive by a single
house without stopping and asking.
“Everything is well,” they all said. “There was great distress, but the
good gentlemen from Ekeby help us. You will be surprised at everything
which has been done there. The mill is almost ready, and the smithy is at
work, and the burned-down house ready for the roof.”
Ah, it would only last a short time! But still it was good to return
to a land where they all helped one another and all wished to do good.
The major’s wife felt that she could now forgive the pensioners, and she
thanked God for it.
“Anna Lisa,” she said, “I feel as if I had already come into the heaven
of the blessed.”
When she at last reached Ekeby, and the pensioners hurried to help her
out of the sledge, they could hardly recognize her, for she was as kind
and gentle as their own young countess. The older ones, who had seen her
as a young girl, whispered to one another: “It is not the major’s wife at
Ekeby; it is Margareta Celsing who has come back.”
Great was the pensioners’ joy to see her come so kind and so free from
all thoughts of revenge; but it was soon changed to grief when they found
how ill she was. She had to be carried immediately into the guest-room in
the wing, and put to bed. But on the threshold she turned and spoke to
them.
“It has been God’s storm,” she said,—“God’s storm. I know now that it has
all been for the best!”
Then the door to the sick-room closed, and they never saw her again.
There is so much to say to one who is dying. The words throng to the lips
when one knows that in the next room lies one whose ears will soon be
closed for always. “Ah, my friend, my friend,” one wants to say, “can you
forgive? Can you believe that I have loved you in spite of everything!
Ah, my friend, thanks for all the joy you have given me!”
That will one say and so much, much more.
But the major’s wife lay in a burning fever, and the voices of the
pensioners could not reach her. Would she never know how they had worked,
how they had taken up her work?
After a little while the pensioners went down to the smithy. There all
work was stopped; but they threw new coal and new ore into the furnace,
and made ready to smelt. They did not call the smith, who had gone home
to celebrate Christmas, but worked themselves at the forge. If the
major’s wife could only live until the hammer got going, it would tell
her their story.
Evening came and then night, while they worked. Several of them thought,
how strange it was that they should again celebrate the night before
Christmas in the smithy.
Kevenhüller, who had been the architect of the mill and the smithy, and
Christian Bergh stood by the forge and attended to the melting iron.
Gösta and Julius were the stokers. Some of the others sat on the anvil
under the raised hammer, and others sat on coal-carts and piles of
pig-iron. Löwenborg was talking to Eberhard, the philosopher, who sat
beside him on the anvil.
“Sintram dies to-night,” he said.
“Why just to-night?” asked Eberhard.
“You know that we made an agreement last year. Now we have done nothing
which has been ungentlemanly, and therefore he has lost.”
“You who believe in such things know very well that we have done a great
deal which has been ungentlemanly. First, we did not help the major’s
wife; second, we began to work; third, it was not quite right that Gösta
Berling did not kill himself, when he had promised.”
“I have thought of that too,” answered Löwenborg; “but my opinion is,
that you do not rightly comprehend the matter. To act with the thought of
our own mean advantage was forbidden us; but not to act as love or honor
or our own salvation demanded. I think that Sintram has lost.”
“Perhaps you are right.”
“I tell you that I know it. I have heard his sleigh-bells the whole
evening, but they are not real bells. We shall soon have him here.”
And the little old man sat and stared through the smithy door, which
stood open, out at the bit of blue sky studded with stars which showed
through it.
After a little while he started up.
“Do you see him?” he whispered. “There he comes creeping. Do you not see
him in the doorway?”
“I see nothing,” replied Eberhard. “You are sleepy, that is the whole
story.”
“I saw him so distinctly against the sky. He had on his long wolfskin
coat and fur cap. Now he is over there in the dark, and I cannot see him.
Look, now he is up by the furnace. He is standing close to Christian
Bergh; but Christian seems not to see him. Now he is bending down and is
throwing something into the fire. Oh, how wicked he looks! Take care,
friends, take care!”
As he spoke, a tongue of flame burst out of the furnace, and covered the
smiths and their assistants with cinders and sparks. No one, however, was
injured.
“He wants to be revenged,” whispered Löwenborg.
“You too are mad!” cried Eberhard. “You ought to have had enough of such
things.”
“Do you not see how he is standing there by the prop and grinning at us?
But, verily, I believe that he has unfastened the hammer.”
He started up and dragged Eberhard with him. The second after the hammer
fell thundering down onto the anvil. It was only a clamp which had given
way; but Eberhard and Löwenborg had narrowly escaped death.
“You see that he has no power over us,” said Löwenborg, triumphantly.
“But it is plain that he wants to be revenged.”
And he called Gösta Berling to him.
“Go up to the women, Gösta. Perhaps he will show himself to them too.
They are not so used as I to seeing such things. They may be frightened.
And take care of yourself, Gösta, for he has a special grudge against
you, and perhaps he has power over you on account of that promise.”
Afterwards they heard that Löwenborg had been right, and that Sintram had
died that night. Some said that he had hanged himself in his cell. Others
believed that the servants of justice secretly had him killed, for the
trial seemed to be going well for him, and it would never do to let him
out again among the people in Löfsjö. Still others thought that a dark
visitor had driven up in a black carriage, drawn by black horses, and
had taken him out of prison. And Löwenborg was not the only one who saw
him that night. He was also seen at Fors and in Ulrika Dillner’s dreams.
Many told how he had shown himself to them, until Ulrika Dillner moved
his body to the Bro churchyard. She also had the evil servants sent away
from Fors and introduced there good order. After that it was no longer
haunted.
It is said that before Gösta Berling reached the house, a stranger had
come to the wing and had left a letter for the major’s wife. No one knew
the messenger, but the letter was carried in and laid on the table beside
the sick woman. Soon after she became unexpectedly better; the fever
decreased, the pain abated, and she was able to read the letter.
The old people believe that her improvement depended on the influence
of the powers of darkness. Sintram and his friends would profit by the
reading of that letter.
It was a contract written in blood on black paper. The pensioners would
have recognized it. It was composed on the last Christmas Eve in the
smithy at Ekeby.
And the major’s wife lay there now and read that since she had been a
witch, and had sent pensioners’ souls to hell, she was condemned to lose
Ekeby. That and other similar absurdities she read. She examined the
date and signatures, and found the following note beside Gösta’s name:
“Because the major’s wife has taken advantage of my weakness to tempt
me away from honest work, and to keep me as pensioner at Ekeby, because
she has made me Ebba Dohna’s murderer by betraying to her that I am a
dismissed priest, I sign my name.”
The major’s wife slowly folded the paper and put it in its envelope. Then
she lay still and thought over what she had learned. She understood with
bitter pain that such was the people’s thought of her. She was a witch
and a sorceress to all those whom she had served, to whom she had given
work and bread. This was her reward. They could not believe anything
better of an adulteress.
Her thoughts flew. Wild anger and a longing for revenge flamed up in
her fever-burning brain. She had Anna Lisa, who with Countess Elizabeth
tended her, send a message to Hogfors to the manager and overseer. She
wished to make her will.
Again she lay thinking. Her eyebrows were drawn together, her features
were terribly distorted by suffering.
“You are very ill,” said the countess, softly.
“Yes, more ill than ever before.”
There was silence again, but then the major’s wife spoke in a hard, harsh
voice:—
“It is strange to think that you, too, countess, you whom every one
loves, are an adulteress.”
The young woman started.
“Yes, if not in deed, yet in thoughts and desire, and that makes no
difference. I who lie here feel that it makes no difference.”
“I know it!”
“And yet you are happy now. You may possess him you loved without sin.
That black spectre does not stand between you when you meet. You may
belong to one another before the world, love one another, go side by side
through life.”
“Oh, madame, madame!”
“How can you dare to stay with him?” cried the old woman, with increasing
violence. “Repent, repent in time! Go home to your father and mother,
before they come and curse you. Do you dare to consider Gösta Berling
your husband? Leave him! I shall give him Ekeby. I shall give him power
and glory. Do you dare to share that with him? Do you dare to accept
happiness and honor? I did not dare to. Do you remember what happened to
me? Do you remember the Christmas dinner at Ekeby? Do you remember the
cell in the bailiff’s house?”
“Oh, madame, we sinners go here side by side without happiness. I am here
to see that no joy shall find a home by our hearth. Do you think I do not
long for my home? Oh, bitterly do I long for the protection and support
of home; but I shall never again enjoy them. Here I shall live in fear
and trembling, knowing that everything I do leads to sin and sorrow,
knowing that if I help one, I ruin another. Too weak and foolish for the
life here, and yet forced to live it, bound by an everlasting penance.”
“With such thoughts we deceive our hearts,” cried the major’s wife; “but
it is weakness. You will not leave him, that is the only reason.”
Before the countess could answer, Gösta Berling came into the room.
“Come here, Gösta,” said the major’s wife instantly, and her voice grew
still sharper and harder. “Come here, you whom everybody praises. You
shall now hear what has happened to your old friend whom you allowed to
wander about the country, despised and forsaken.
“I will first tell you what happened last spring, when I came home to my
mother, for you ought to know the end of that story.
“In March I reached the iron-works in the Älfdal forest, Gösta. Little
better than a beggar I looked. They told me that my mother was in the
dairy. So I went there, and stood for a long while silent at the door.
There were long shelves round about the room, and on them stood shining
copper pans filled with milk. And my mother, who was over ninety years
old, took down pan after pan and skimmed off the cream. She was active
enough, the old woman; but I saw well enough how hard it was for her to
straighten up her back to reach the pans. I did not know if she had seen
me; but after a while she spoke to me in a curious, shrill voice.
“‘So everything has happened to you as I wished,’ she said. I wanted to
speak and to ask her to forgive me, but it was a waste of trouble. She
did not hear a word of it,—she was stone-deaf. But after a while she
spoke again: ‘You can come and help me,’ she said.
“Then I went in and skimmed the milk. I took the pans in order, and
put everything in its place, and skimmed just deep enough, and she was
pleased. She had never been able to trust any of the maids to skim the
milk; but I knew of old how she liked to have it.
“‘Now you can take charge of this work,’ she said. And then I knew that
she had forgiven me.
“And afterwards all at once it seemed as if she could not work any more.
She sat in her arm-chair and slept almost all day. She died two weeks
before Christmas. I should have liked to have come before, Gösta, but I
could not leave her.”
She stopped. She began to find breathing difficult; but she made an
effort and went on:—
“It is true, Gösta, that I wished to keep you near me at Ekeby. There is
something about you which makes every one rejoice to be with you. If you
had shown a wish to be a settled man, I would have given you much power.
I always hoped that you would find a good wife. First, I thought that it
would be Marianne Sinclair, for I saw that she loved you already, when
you lived as wood-cutter in the wood. Then I thought that it would be
Ebba Dohna, and one day I drove over to Borg and told her that if she
would have you for husband, I would leave you Ekeby in my will. If I did
wrong in that, you must forgive me.”
Gösta was kneeling by the bed with his face hidden in the blankets, and
was moaning bitterly.
“Tell me, Gösta, how you mean to live? How shall you support your wife?
Tell me that. You know that I have always wished you well.” And Gösta
answered her smiling, while his heart almost burst with pain.
“In the old days, when I tried to be a laborer here at Ekeby, you gave
me a cottage to live in, and it is still mine. This autumn I have put
it quite in order. Löwenborg has helped me, and we have whitewashed the
ceilings and hung the walls with paper and painted them. The inner little
room Löwenborg calls the countess’s boudoir, and he has gone through all
the farm-houses round about for furniture, which has come there from
manor-house auctions. He has bought them, so that there we have now
high-backed arm-chairs and chests of drawers with shining mountings. But
in the outer big room stands the young wife’s weaving-loom and my lathe.
Household utensils and all kinds of things are there, and there Löwenborg
and I have already sat many evenings and talked of how the young countess
and I will have it in the cottage. But my wife did not know it till now.
We wanted to tell her when we should leave Ekeby.”
“Go on, Gösta.”
“Löwenborg was always saying that a maid was needed in the house. ‘In the
summer it is lovely here in the birch grove,’ he used to say; ‘but in
winter it will be too lonely for the young wife. You will have to have a
maid, Gösta.’
“And I agreed with him, but I did not know how I could afford to keep
one. Then he came one day and carried down his music, and his table with
the painted keyboard, and put it in the cottage. ‘It is you, Löwenborg,
who are going to be the maid,’ I said to him. He answered that he would
be needed. Did I mean the young countess to cook the food, and to carry
wood and water? No, I had not meant her to do anything at all, as long
as I had a pair of arms to work with. But he still thought that it would
be best if there were two of us, so that she might sit the whole day on
her sofa and embroider. I could never know how much waiting upon such a
little woman needed, he said.”
“Go on,” said the major’s wife. “It eases my pain. Did you think that
your young countess would be willing to live in a cottage?”
He wondered at her scornful tone, but continued:
“No, I did not dare to think it; but it would have been so perfect if
she had been willing. It is thirty miles from any doctor. She, who has a
light hand and a tender heart, would have had work enough to tend wounds
and allay fevers. And I thought that everybody in trouble would find the
way to the lady mistress in the forest cottage. There is so much distress
among the poor which kind words and a gentle heart can help.”
“But you yourself, Gösta Berling?”
“I shall have my work at the carpenter’s bench and lathe. I shall
hereafter live my own life. If my wife will not follow me, I cannot help
it. If some one should offer me all the riches of the universe, it would
not tempt me. I want to live my own life. Now I shall be and remain a
poor man among the peasants, and help them with whatever I can. They
need some one to play the polka for them at weddings and at Christmas;
they need some one to write letters to their distant sons,—and that some
one I will be. But I must be poor.”
“It will be a gloomy life for you, Gösta.”
“Oh, no, it would not be if we were but two who kept together. The rich
and happy would come to us as well as the poor. It would be gay enough
in our cottage. Our guests would not care if the food was cooked right
before their eyes, or be shocked that two must eat from the same plate.”
“And what would be the good of it all, Gösta? What praise would you win?”
“Great would be my reward if the poor would remember me for a year or two
after my death. I should have done some good if I had planted a couple of
apple-trees at the house-corners, if I had taught the country fiddlers
some of the old tunes, and if the shepherd children could have learnt a
few good songs to sing in the wood-paths.
“You can believe me, I am the same mad Gösta Berling that I was before.
A country fiddler is all I can be, but that is enough. I have many sins
to atone for. To weep and to repent is not for me. I shall give the poor
pleasure, that is my penance.”
“Gösta,” said the major’s wife, “it is too humble a life for a man with
your powers. I will give you Ekeby.”
“Oh,” he cried in terror, “do not make me rich! Do not put such duties
upon me! Do not part me from the poor!”
“I will give Ekeby to you and the pensioners,” repeated the major’s wife.
“You are a capable man, Gösta, whom the people bless. I say like my
mother, ‘You shall take charge of this work!’”
“No, we could not accept it,—we who have misjudged you and caused you
such pain!”
“I will give you Ekeby, do you hear?”
She spoke bitterly and harshly, without kindness. He was filled with
dismay.
“Do not tempt the old men! It would only make them idlers and drunkards
again. God in Heaven, rich pensioners! What would become of us!”
“I will give you Ekeby, Gösta; but then you must promise to set your wife
free. Such a delicate little woman is not for you. She has had to suffer
too much here in the land of the bear. She is longing for her bright
native country. You shall let her go. That is why I give you Ekeby.”
But then Countess Elizabeth came forward to the major’s wife and knelt by
the bed.
“I do not long any more. He who is my husband has solved the problem, and
found the life I can live. No longer shall I need to go stern and cold
beside him, and remind him of repentance and atonement. Poverty and want
and hard work will do that. The paths which lead to the poor and sick I
can follow without sin. I am no longer afraid of the life here in the
north. But do not make him rich; then I do not dare to stay.”
The major’s wife raised herself in the bed.
“You demand happiness for yourselves,” she cried, and threatened them
with clenched fists,—“happiness and blessing. No, let Ekeby be the
pensioners’, that they may be ruined. Let man and wife be parted, that
they may be ruined! I am a witch, I am a sorceress, I shall incite you to
evil-doing. I shall be what my reputation is.”
She seized the letter and flung it in Gösta’s face. The black paper
fluttered out and fell on the floor. Gösta knew it too well.
“You have sinned against me, Gösta. You have misjudged one who has been
a second mother to you. Do you dare to refuse your punishment? You shall
accept Ekeby, and it shall ruin you, for you are weak. You shall send
home your wife, so that there will be no one to save you. You shall die
with a name as hated as mine. Margareta Celsing’s obituary is that of a
witch. Yours shall be that of a spendthrift and an oppressor of the poor.”
She sank back on the pillows, and all was still. Through the silence rang
a muffled blow, now one and then another. The sledge-hammer had begun its
far-echoing work.
“Listen,” said Gösta Berling, “so sounds Margareta Celsing’s obituary!
That is not a prank of drunken pensioners; that is the song of the
victory of labor, raised in honor of a good, old worker. Do you hear
what the hammer says? ‘Thanks,’ it says; ‘thanks for good work; thanks
for bread, which you have given the poor; thanks for roads, which you
have opened; thanks for districts, which you have cultivated! Thanks for
pleasure, with which you have filled your halls!’—‘Thanks,’ it says,
‘and sleep in peace! Your work shall live and continue. Your house shall
always be a home for happy labor.’—‘Thanks,’ it says, ‘and do not judge
us who have sinned! You who are now starting on the journey to the
regions of peace, think gentle thoughts of us who still live.’”
Gösta ceased, but the sledge-hammer went on speaking. All the voices
which had ever spoken kindly to the major’s wife were mingled with the
ring of the hammer. Gradually her features relaxed, as if the shadow of
death had fallen over her.
Anna Lisa came in and announced that the gentlemen from Hogfors had come.
The major’s wife let them go. She would not make any will.
“Oh, Gösta Berling, man of many deeds,” she said, “so you have conquered
once more. Bend down and let me bless you!”
The fever returned with redoubled strength. The death-rattle began. The
body toiled through dreary suffering; but the spirit soon knew nothing of
it. It began to gaze into the heaven which is opened for the dying.
So an hour passed, and the short death-struggle was over. She lay there
so peaceful and beautiful that those about her were deeply moved.
“My dear old mistress,” said Gösta, “so have I seen you once before. Now
has Margareta Celsing come back to life. Now she will never again yield
to the major’s wife at Ekeby.”
* * * * *
When the pensioners came in from the forge, they were met by the news of
Margareta Celsing’s death.
“Did she hear the hammer?” they asked.
She had done so, and they could be satisfied.
They heard, too, that she had meant to give Ekeby to them; but that
the will had never been drawn. That they considered a great honor, and
rejoiced over it as long as they lived. But no one ever heard them lament
over the riches they had lost.
It is also said that on that Christmas night Gösta Berling stood by his
young wife’s side and made his last speech to the pensioners. He was
grieved at their fate when they now must all leave Ekeby. The ailments
of old age awaited them. The old and worn-out find a cold welcome.
And so he spoke to them. Once more he called them old gods and knights
who had risen up to bring pleasure into the land of iron. But he lamented
that the pleasure garden where the butterfly-winged pleasure roves is
filled with destructive caterpillars, and that its fruits are withered.
Well he knew that pleasure was a good to the children of the earth, and
it must exist. But, like a heavy riddle, the question always lay upon the
world, how a man could be both gay and good. The easiest thing and yet
the hardest, he called it. Hitherto they had not been able to solve the
problem. Now he wanted to believe that they had learned it, that they
had all learned it during that year of joy and sorrow, of happiness and
despair.
* * * * *
You dear old people! In the old days you gave me precious gifts. But what
have I given you?
Perhaps it may gladden you that your names sound again in connection
with the dear old places? May all the brightness which belonged to your
life fall again over the tracts where you have lived! Borg still stands;
Björne still stands; Ekeby still lies by lake Löfven, surrounded by falls
and lake, by park and smiling meadows; and when one stands on the broad
terraces, legends swarm about one like the bees of summer.
But, speaking of bees, let me tell one more old story. The little Ruster,
who went as a drummer at the head of the Swedish army, when in 1813 it
marched into Germany, could never weary of telling stories of that
wonderful land in the south. The people there were as tall as church
towers, the swallows were as big as eagles, the bees as geese.
“Well, but the bee-hives?”
“The bee-hives were like our ordinary bee-hives.”
“How did the bees get in?”
“Well, that they had to look out for,” said the little Ruster.
Dear reader, must I say the same? The giant bees of fancy have now
swarmed about us for a year and a day; but how they are going to come
into the bee-hive of fact, that they really must find out for themselves.
THE END
FOOTNOTES
[1] A Swedish game of cards.
[2] Terms used in weaving.
[3] In the country, in Sweden, they wash twice a year, in spring and
autumn.
Historical Romances.
=THE KING’S HENCHMAN.= A Chronicle of the Sixteenth Century. Brought to
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Governor-in-Chief of His Majesty’s Province of Massachusetts Bay. By
GEORGE R. R. RIVERS. With frontispiece. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
=IN BUFF AND BLUE.= Being Certain Portions from the Diary of Richard
Hilton, Gentleman of Haslet’s Regiment of Delaware Foot, in our Ever
Glorious War of Independence. By GEORGE BRYDGES RODNEY. 16mo. Cloth,
extra, gilt top, $1.25.
=HASSAN, A FELLAH.= A Romance of Palestine. By HENRY GILLMAN. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00.
The author of this powerful romance lived in Palestine for over five
years, and during his residence there had unusual and peculiar advantages
for seeing and knowing the people and the country. He has selected the
present time for the story, but has drawn freely from all the rich
treasures of the past for ornament. The portions connected with the
“Thar,” or blood-feud between the Syrian villages, and the insurrection
in Crete are not only of uncommon interest and power, but are also
intensely dramatic.
A biblical, patriarchal, pastoral spirit pervades it. Indeed, the
whole book is saturated with the author’s reverence for the Holy
Land, its legends, traditions, glory, misery,—its romance, in a
word, and its one supreme glory, the impress of the Chosen of God
and of the Master who walked among them.—_The Independent._
Mr. Gillman has certainly opened up a new field of fiction. The
book is a marvel of power, acute insight, and clever manipulation
of thoroughly grounded truths. The story is as much of a giant in
fiction as its hero is among men.—_Boston Herald._
The book is one that seems destined to take hold of the popular
heart as strongly as did “Ben Hur” or “Quo Vadis,” nor is it
less worthy of such popularity than either of those named.—_Art
Interchange._
It is romance of the strongest type. Many pages fairly glow with
color, as the author in his enthusiasm portrays the natural
beauties of the Holy Land.—_Public Opinion._
The hero of “Hassan, a Fellah.” will be a revelation even to
those who carry their ethnological studies beyond the realm of
fiction.—_N. Y. Times._
=“QUO VADIS.”= A Narrative of the Time of Nero. By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.
Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. Library Edition. With map
and photogravure plates. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $2.00.
Popular Edition. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
_Of intense interest to the whole Christian
civilization._—Chicago Tribune.
With him we view, appalled, Rome, grand and awful, in her last
throes. The picture of the giant Ursus struggling with the wild
animal is one that will always hold place with such literary
triumphs as that of the chariot race in “Ben Hur.”—_Boston
Courier._
Mr. Curtin’s English is so limpid and fluent that one
finds it difficult to realize that he is reading a
translation.—_Philadelphia Church Standard._
=“QUO VADIS.”= ILLUSTRATED HOLIDAY EDITION. With maps and plans of
Ancient Rome, and twenty-seven photogravure plates from pictures by
Howard Pyle, Edmund H. Garrett, E. Van Muyden, and other artists. 2 vols.
8vo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, in box, $6.00.
Half crushed Levant morocco, extra, gilt top, $12.00.
=WITH FIRE AND SWORD.= An Historical Novel of Poland and Russia. By
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. With
portrait of the author, plates, and map. Library Editions. Crown 8vo.
Cloth, $2.00.
Popular Edition. 12mo. Cloth. $1.00.
_The only modern romance with which it can be compared for fire,
sprightliness, rapidity of action, swift changes, and absorbing
interest is “The Three Musketeers” of Dumas._—New York Tribune.
“With Fire and Sword” is the first of a trilogy of historical romances
of Poland, Russia, and Sweden. Their publication has been received
throughout the United States by readers and critics as an event in
literature. Action in the field has never before been described in any
language so briefly, so vividly, and with such a marvellous expression of
energy. The famous character of Zagloba has been described as “a curious
and fascinating combination of Falstaff and Ulysses.” Charles Dudley
Warner, in “Harper’s Magazine,” affirms that the Polish author has in
Zagloba _given a new creation to literature_.
=THE DELUGE.= An Historical Novel of Poland, Sweden, and Russia. By
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. A
sequel to “With Fire and Sword.” With a map of the country at the period
in which the events of “The Deluge” and “With Fire and Sword” take place.
Library Edition. 2 vols. Crown 8vo. Cloth, $3.00.
Popular Edition. 2 vols. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
_It even surpasses in interest and power the same author’s
romance, “With Fire and Sword.” … The whole story swarms with
brilliant pictures of war, and with personal episodes of battle
and adventure._—New York Tribune.
Marvellous in its grand descriptions.—_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
One of the direct anointed line of the kings of
story-telling.—_Literary World._
_A really great novelist_ … To match this story one must turn to
the masterpieces of Scott and Dumas.—_Philadelphia Press._
=PAN MICHAEL.= An Historical Novel of Poland, Russia, and the Ukraine.
By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ. Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin. A
sequel to “With Fire and Sword” and “The Deluge.” Library Edition. Crown
8vo. Cloth, $2.00.
Popular Edition. 12mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
This work completes the great Polish trilogy. The period of the story is
1668-1674, and the principal historical event is the Turkish invasion of
1672. Pan Michael, a favorite character in the preceding stories, and
the incomparable Zagloba figure throughout the novel. The most important
historical character introduced is Sobieski, who was elected king in 1674.
_No word less than “Excelsior” will justly describe the
achievement of the trilogy of novels of which “Pan Michael” is
the last._—Baltimore American.
There is no falling off in interest in this third and last book
of the series; again Sienkiewicz looms as one of the great novel
writers of the world.—_The Nation._
From the artistic standpoint, to have created the character of
Zagloba was a feat comparable with Shakespeare’s creation of
Falstaff and Goethe’s creation of Mephistopheles.—_The Dial._
=ANDRONIKE.= The Heroine of the Greek Revolution. Translated from the
Greek of STEPHANOS THEODONUS XENOS by Edwin A. Grosvenor, Professor of
European History in Amherst College, and author of “Constantinople.”
12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
Modern Greece may be proud of having given the world an historical
romance like this. Viewed merely as a story, it is a work of absorbing
interest in its plot and execution. At the same time, no other book,
whether description, travels, or pure romance, offers so faithful
and complete a picture of Greek life to-day. The reader follows the
vicissitudes of hero and heroine with rapt attention, and all the time
seems breathing Greek air under a Greek sky and living among the Greeks.
A book well worth reading, because it is a story of thrilling
interest and it presents the best description of a memorable
conflict for national liberty.—_Detroit Tribune._
A book which is drama and action from one end to the other.
Altogether a most fascinating work.—_New York Home Journal._
=I AM THE KING.= Being the Account of some Happenings in the Life of
Godfrey de Bersac, Crusader Knight. By SHEPPARD STEVENS. 16mo. Cloth,
$1.25.
This is a romantic story of the days of Saladin and Richard Cœur de Leon.
Its author has wrought into it much of the color of the home-life of the
period and many of the quaint superstitions and folk-lore. The scene of
the story is in part laid in England and in part in the Holy Land.
=THE HEAD OF A HUNDRED.= Being an Account of Certain Passages in the Life
of Humphrey Huntoon, Esq., sometyme an Officer in the Colony of Virginia.
Edited by MAUD WILDER GOODWIN, author of “The Colonial Cavalier.” 16mo.
Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25.
It is as sweet and pure a piece of fiction as we have read for
many a day, breathing, as it does, the same noble air, the lofty
tone, and the wholesome sentiment of “Lorna Doone.”—_The Bookman._
=WHITE APRONS.= A Romance of Bacon’s Rebellion, Virginia, 1676. By MAUD
WILDER GOODWIN. 16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25.
A beautiful little story, sweet and inspiring, not less clever
than true.—_New York Times._
A charming story… Its fidelity to the conditions prevailing in
the Virginia colony at the time is carefully sustained.—_The
Review of Reviews._
=A WOMAN OF SHAWMUT.= A Romance of Colonial Times. Boston, 1640. By
EDMUND JANES CARPENTER. With twelve charming full-page illustrations and
numerous chapter headings from pen-and-ink drawings by F. T. Merrill.
16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, with cameo design, $1.25.
=CINQ-MARS=; or, A Conspiracy under Louis XIII. By Count ALFRED DE VIGNY.
Translated by William Hazlitt. With thirteen exquisite full-page etchings
by Gaujean from designs by A. Dawant, and numerous smaller illustrations
(head and tail pieces) in the text. 2 vols. 8vo. Cloth, gilt top, $6.00.
It is one of the masterpieces of French romantic fiction, … and
a book to be always read and remembered.—_New York Mail and
Express._
=THE PRINCESS OF CLEVES.= An Historical Romance of the Court of Henry II.
By MADAME DE LA FAYETTE. With preface by Anatole France. Translated by
Thomas Sergeant Perry. Most exquisitely illustrated with four full page
etchings and eight etched vignettes by Jules Garnier, also a portrait
of the author engraved by Lamotte. The letterpress choicely printed on
handmade paper at the University Press, Cambridge. 2 vols. 16mo. Cloth,
extra, gilt top, $3.75.
Madame de la Fayette was the first to introduce naturalness into
fiction,—the first to draw human beings and real feelings; and
thereby she earned a place among the true classics.—_Preface by
Anatole France._
=THE MASTER MOSAIC WORKERS (_Les Maitres Mosaïstes_).= Translated from
the French of GEORGE SAND by Charlotte C. Johnston. With a portrait of
Titian, etched by W. H. W. Bicknell. 16mo. Cloth, extra, gilt top, $1.25.
A story of Venice in the time of Titian and Tintoretto, who figure
prominently in the work. The mosaic work executed in the restoration of
the basilica of St. Mark is fully described, and George Sand has followed
very closely the facts as given by Vasari regarding the brothers Zuccati
and Bartolomeo Bozza. The story is one of exquisite beauty and great
power.
“The Master Mosaic Workers” is _one of the most delightful of
historical novels_, and gives a vivid picture of the life in
Venice at the time when Titian, Tintoretto, and Giorgione were in
their zenith, and when the famous mosaics which still adorn St.
Mark’s were being made.—_Literary World._
=THE PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF DAVID=; or, Three Years in the Holy City.
Being a Series of Letters of Adina, a Jewess of Alexandria, supposed to
be sojourning in Jerusalem in the days of Herod, addressed to her father,
a wealthy Jew in Egypt, and relating, as if by an eye-witness, all the
scenes and wonderful incidents in the life of Jesus of Nazareth, from his
Baptism in Jordan to his Crucifixion on Calvary. By Rev. J. H. INGRAHAM.
12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
New Illustrated Edition. With twenty-six engravings by Victor A. Searles.
12mo. $2.00.
Popular Edition. 16mo. Cloth, 50 cents.
These editions contain the author’s latest revisions, he having availed
himself of hints and suggestions contained in numerous private letters
from eminent and learned men of various denominations, who have pointed
out errors and suggested alterations and improvements.
=THE PILLAR OF FIRE=; or, Israel in Bondage. Being an Account of
the Wonderful Scenes in the Life of the Son of Pharaoh’s Daughter
(Moses), together with Picturesque Sketches of the Hebrews under their
Taskmasters. By Rev. J. H. INGRAHAM. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
New Illustrated Edition. With twenty-one engravings by Victor A. Searles.
12mo. $2.00.
=THE THRONE OF DAVID=, from the Consecration of the Shepherd of
Bethlehem to the Rebellion of Prince Absalom. Being an Illustration of
the Splendor, Power, and Dominion of the Reign of the Shepherd, Poet,
Warrior, King, and Prophet, Ancestor and Type of Jesus; in a Series of
Letters addressed by an Assyrian Ambassador to his Lord and King on the
Throne of Nineveh. By Rev. J. H. INGRAHAM. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00.
New Illustrated Edition. With twenty-one engravings by Victor A. Searles.
12mo. $2.00.
=BULWER’S HISTORICAL ROMANCES.=
Comprising:—
=Devereux.= 2 vols.
=The Last Days of Pompeii.= 1 vol.
=Rienzi, the Last of the Roman Tribunes.= 2 vols.
=The Last of the Barons.= 2 vols.
=Leila and Calderon, Pausanias the Spartan.= 1 vol.
=Harold, the Last of the Saxon Kings.= 2 vols.
12mo. With frontispiece by Edmund H. Garrett. Per volume, plain cloth,
$1.25; decorated cloth, gilt top, $1.50.
_Any story can be supplied separately._
The new library edition of Bulwer’s works is one of exceeding
beauty, the size, type, paper, and binding of the volumes making
them “a delight to the eye and to the touch.”—_The Watchman._
The Historical Romances of Alexandre Dumas.
Little, Brown, & Company’s New Library Edition of these important
historical novels comprises the only complete translations into English,
and has been accepted as the standard edition of this famous novelist in
both the United States and England. Much matter hitherto omitted will be
found only in this edition. The books are illustrated with portraits of
notable historical personages, and are printed in handsome, clear type.
The set comprises sixty volumes, 12mo, with nearly one hundred etchings,
photogravures, etc., by French and American artists. Decorated cloth,
gilt top, $1.50 per volume; plain cloth, gilt top, $1.25 per volume.
Half calf, extra, or half morocco, $3.00 per volume.
_Any story supplied separately in cloth._
Decorated Plain
cloth. cloth.
HISTORICAL AND REGENCY ROMANCES. Ten Volumes.
=The Two Dianas.= 3 vols. $4.50 $3.75
=The Page of the Duke of Savoy.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=The Chevalier d’Harmental.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
⁂ Sometimes called “The Conspirators.”
=The Regent’s Daughter.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=The Black Tulip.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=Olympe de Clèves.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
THE VALOIS ROMANCES. Six Volumes.
=Marguerite de Valois.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=La Dame de Monsoreau.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
⁂ Also known under the name of “Chicot the
Jester.”
=The Forty-Five.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
⁂ Sometimes called “The Forty-Five Guardsmen.”
THE D’ARTAGNAN ROMANCES. Ten Volumes.
=The Three Musketeers.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=Twenty Years After.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=Vicomte de Bragelonne.= 6 vols. 9.00 7.50
⁂ Portions of this powerful romance have
sometimes been issued separately under the
titles of “Ten Years Later,” “Bragelonne,”
“Louise de la Vallière,” and “The Iron Mask.”
All three stories are included in the above,
unabridged and according to the author’s own
arrangement.
THE MARIE ANTOINETTE ROMANCES. Twelve Volumes.
=Memoirs of a Physician.= 3 vols. 4.50 3.75
=The Queen’s Necklace.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=Ange Pitou.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
⁂ Sometimes called “Taking the Bastile.”
=Comtesse de Charny.= 4 vols. 6.00 5.00
⁂ Published according to the author’s own
arrangement. It has been issued as two
separate stories,—“Comtesse de Charny” and
“Andrée de Taverney.”
=Chevalier de Maison Rouge.= 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
THE NAPOLEON ROMANCES. Six Volumes.
=The Companions of Jehu.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=The Whites and the Blues.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
⁂ This story has also been issued under the
title of “The First Republic.”
=The She-Wolves of Machecoul= and =The Corsican
Brothers.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
⁂ “The She-Wolves of Machecoul” has also been
issued under the title of “The Last Vendée.”
DUMAS ROMANCES, NEW SERIES. I. Six Volumes.
=Ascanio.= A Romance of François I. and Benvenuto
Cellini. 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=The War of Women.= A Romance of the Fronde.
2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=Black.= The Story of a Dog. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=Tales of the Caucasus.= Comprising “The Ball of
Snow” and “Sultanetta.” 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
DUMAS ROMANCES, NEW SERIES. II. Six Volumes.
=Agénor de Mauléon.= 2 vols. 3.00 2.50
=The Brigand.= A Romance of the Reign of Don Carlos.
To which is added =Blanche de Beaulieu=. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=The Horoscope.= A Romance of the Reign of François
II. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=Sylvandire.= A Romance of the Reign of Louis XIV.
1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=Monsieur de Chauvelin’s Will= and =The Woman with the
Velvet Necklace=. 1 vol. 1.50 1.25
=The Count of Monte Cristo.= 4 vols. 6.00 5.00
LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers, 254 Washington Street, Boston.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Story of Gösta Berling, by Selma Lagerlöf