Our house at Nikolski, so long cold and deserted, came to life again;
but the thing which did not come to life was our old existence. Mamma
was there no longer, and henceforth we were alone, we two alone with
each other. But not only was solitude no longer to us what it had once
been, but we found it a burden and constraint. The winter passed all the
more drearily for me from my being out of health, and it was not until
some time after the birth of my second son that I recovered my strength.
My relations with my husband continued cold and friendly, as at St.
Petersburg; but here in the country there was not a floor, not a wall,
not a piece of furniture, which did not remind me of what he had been
to me, and what I had lost. There stood between us, as it were, an
offence not forgiven; one would have said that he wished to punish me
for something, and that he was pretending to himself to be unconscious
of it. How could I ask forgiveness without knowing for what fault? He
only punished me by no longer entirely giving himself up to me, by no
longer surrendering to me his whole soul; but to no one, and under no
circumstances, was his soul surrendered, any more than if he had none.
It sometimes came into my head that he was only making a pretence of
being what he now was, in order to torment me, and that his feelings
were in reality what they had formerly been, and I tried to provoke him
into letting this be seen; but he invariably eluded all frank
explanation; one would have said that he suspected me of dissimulation,
and dreaded all manifestations of tenderness as attempts to ridicule
him. His looks and his air seemed to say: "I know all, there is nothing
to tell me; all that you would confide to me, I already know; I know
that you talk in one manner and act in another." At first I was hurt by
his apparent fear of being frank with me, but I soon accustomed myself
to the thought that in him this was not so much lack of frankness, as
lack of necessity for frankness.
And on my side, my tongue was no longer capable of telling him
impulsively, as in the old days, that I loved him, of asking him to read
the prayers with me, of calling him to listen to my music when I was
going to play; there seemed to be certain rules of formality tacitly
decreed between us. We lived our own lives; he, with his various
interests and occupations, in which I no longer claimed nor desired a
share; I, with my idle hours, about which he no longer seemed to trouble
himself. As for the children, they were still too young to be in any way
a bond between us.
Spring came. Macha and Sonia returned to the country for the summer; and
as Nikolski was undergoing repairs, we went with them to Pokrovski. The
same old home, the terrace, the out-of-door tea-table, the piano in the
half-lighted room, my own old chamber with its white curtains, and the
girlish dreams which seemed to have been left behind there, forgotten.
In this chamber were two beds; over one, which had been my own, I now
bent nightly to bless my sturdy Kokocha,[H] in the midst of his bedtime
frolics; in the other lay little Vasica,[I] his baby-face rosy with
sleep, under the soft white blankets. After giving the benediction, I
often lingered a long time in this peaceful chamber, and from every
corner of its walls, from every fold of its curtains, came stealing
around me forgotten visions of my youth; childish songs, gay choruses,
floated again to my ears. And what were they now,--these visions? Were
they sounding still, anywhere,--these glad and sweet old songs? All that
I had hardly dared to hope had come true. My vague and confused dreams
had become reality, and it was now my life, so hard, so heavy, so
stripped of joy. And yet here around me were not all things as before?
Was it not the same garden that I saw beneath my window, the same
terrace, the same paths and benches? Far off there, across the ravine,
the songs of the nightingales still seemed to rise out of the ripples of
the little pond, the lilacs bloomed as they used to do, the moon still
stood in white glory over the corner of the house, yet for me all was so
changed, so changed! Macha and I had our old quiet talks, sitting
together as of old in the salon, and we still talked of him. But Macha's
brow was grave, her face was wan, her eyes no longer shone with
contentment and hope, but were full of sad sympathy, and almost
expressed compassion. We no longer went into ecstasies over him, as in
the past; we judged him, now; we no longer marvelled at our great
happiness and wondered how it came to be ours, we no longer had the
impulse to tell all the world what we felt; we whispered in each other's
ear like conspirators; for the hundredth time we asked each other why
all was so sad, so changed. As for him, he was still the same, except
that the line between his brows was deeper, and his temples were more
silvery, and his eyes, watchful, deep, continually turned away from me,
were darkened by a shadow. I, too, was still the same, but I no longer
felt either love or desire to love. No more wish to work, no more
satisfaction with myself. And how far off, how impossible, now appeared
my old religious fervor, my old love for him, my old fulness of life! I
could not, now, even comprehend what in those days was so luminous and
so true: the happiness of living for others. Why for others? when I no
longer wished to live for myself....
I had entirely given up my music during our residence in St. Petersburg,
but now my old piano and my old pieces brought back the love for it.
One day when I was not feeling well, I stayed at home, alone, while
Macha and Sonia went with my husband to see the improvements at
Nikolski. The tea-table was set, I went down-stairs, and, while waiting
for them, seated myself at the piano. I opened the sonata _Quasi una
fantasia_, and began to play. No living creature was to be seen or
heard, the windows were open upon the garden; the familiar notes, so
sad and penetrating, resounded through the room. I concluded the first
part, and unconsciously, simply from old habit, I looked across to the
corner where he used to sit and listen to me. But he was no longer
there, a long-unmoved chair occupied his old place; from the side of the
open window a projecting branch of lilac stood out against the burning
west, the evening air stole quietly in. I leaned my elbows on the piano,
covered my face with both hands, and fell into a fit of musing. I
remained there a long time, mournfully recalling the old days,
irrevocably gone, and timidly looking at the days to come. But
hereafter, it seemed to me, there could be nothing, I could hope
nothing, desire nothing. "Is it possible that I have outlived all that!"
thought I, raising my head with horror, and in order to forget and to
cease thinking, I began to play again, and still the same old _andante_.
"My God!" I said, "pardon me if I am guilty, or give back to my soul
what made its beauty ... or teach me what I ought to do,--how I ought to
live!"
The sound of wheels echoed on the turf and before the door, then I heard
on the terrace steady steps, well-known to me, then all was quiet. But
it was no longer the old feeling which stirred in me at these familiar
footsteps. They came up behind me when I had finished the sonata, and a
hand was laid upon my shoulder.
"A happy thought, to play the old sonata!" he said.
I made no answer.
"Have not you had tea?"
I shook my head, without turning towards him, for I did not want him to
see the traces of agitation on my face.
"They will be here presently; the horses were a little unruly, and they
are coming home on foot, by the road," he continued.
"We will wait for them," I said, going out on the terrace, in the hope
that he would follow, but he inquired for the children, and went up to
see them. Once more, his presence, the sound of his voice, so kind, so
honest, dissuaded me from believing that all was lost for me. "What
more is there to desire?" I thought: "he is good and true, he is an
excellent husband, an excellent father, and I do not myself know what is
missing,--what I want."
I went out on the balcony, and sat down under the awning of the terrace,
on the same bench where I was sitting upon the day of our decisive
explanation long ago. The sun was nearly down, dusk was gathering; a
shade of spring softened the pure sky, where one tiny spark was already
gleaming. The light wind had died away, not a leaf or blade of grass
stirred; the perfume of the lilacs and cherry-trees, so powerful that
one might have thought all the air itself was in bloom, came in puffs
over garden and terrace, now faint and now full, making one feel an
impulse to close the eyes, to shut out all sight and sound, to banish
every sensation save that of inhaling this exquisite fragrance. The
dahlias and rose-bushes, yet leafless, stood in still lines in the
newly-dug black mould of their beds, lifting their heads above their
white props. From afar came the intermittent notes of the nightingales,
or the rush of their restless flight from place to place.
It was in vain that I strove to calm myself, I seemed to be waiting and
wishing for something.
Sergius came from up-stairs, and sat down beside me.
"I believe it is going to rain," he said, "they will get wet."
"Yes," I replied; and we were both silent.
In the meantime, the cloud, without any wind, had crept slowly and
stealthily above our heads; nature was yet more perfectly tranquil,
sweet, and still: suddenly one drop fell, and, so to speak, rebounded,
upon the linen of the awning, another rolled, a growing ball of dust,
along the path; then, with a sound like deadened hail, came the heavy
dash of rain, gathering force every moment. At once, as if by concert,
frogs and nightingales were silent; but the light plash of the fountain
was still heard beneath the beating of the rain, and far off in the
distance some little bird, no doubt safe and dry under a sheltering
bough, chirped in monotonous rhythm his two recurring notes. Sergius
rose to go into the house.
"Where are you going?" said I, stopping him. "It is so delightful here!"
"I must send an umbrella and some overshoes."
"It is not necessary, this will be over directly."
He assented, and we remained standing together by the balustrade of the
balcony. I put my hand on the wet slippery rail, and leaned forward into
the rain, the cool drops falling lightly on my hair and neck. The cloud,
brightening and thinning, scattered in shining spray above us, the
regular beat of the shower was succeeded by the sound of heavy drops
falling more and more rarely from the sky or from the trees. The frogs
resumed their croaking, the nightingales shook their wings and began
again to respond to each other from behind the glistening shrubs, now on
one side, now on another. All was serene again before us.
"How good it is to live!" he said, leaning over the balustrade and
passing his hand over my wet hair.
This simple caress acted on me like a reproach, and I longed to let my
tears flow.
"What more can a man need?" continued he. "I am at this moment so
content, that I feel nothing wanting, and I am completely happy!"
("You did not speak so to me when to hear it would have made my
happiness," I thought. "However great yours was, then, you used to say
that you wished for more of it, still more. And now you are calm and
content, when my soul is full of inexpressible repentance and
unsatisfied tears!")
"To me, too, life is good," said I, "and it is precisely because it is
so good to me, that I am sad. I feel so detached, so incomplete; I am
always wanting some other thing, and yet everything here is so good, so
tranquil! Can it be possible that for you no sorrow ever seems mingled
with your pleasure in life?--as if, for instance, you were feeling
regret for something in the past?"
He drew away the hand resting on my head, and was silent for a moment.
"Yes, that has been the case with me, formerly, particularly in the
spring," he said, as if searching his memory. "Yes, I also have spent
whole nights in longings and fears,--and what beautiful nights they
were!... But then all was before me, and now all is behind; now I am
content with what is, and that to me is perfection," he concluded, with
such easy frankness of manner, that, painful as it was to hear, I was
convinced that it was the truth.
"Then you desire nothing more?" I questioned.
"Nothing impossible," he replied, divining my thought. "How wet you have
made your head," he went on, caressing me like a child, and passing his
hand again over my hair; "you are jealous of the leaves and grass which
the rain was falling on; you would like to be the grass and the leaves
and the rain; while I--I enjoy simply seeing them, as I do seeing
whatever is good, young, happy."
"And you regret nothing in the past?" I persisted, with the dull weight
on my heart growing heavier and heavier.
He seemed to muse for a moment, keeping silent. I saw that he wished to
answer honestly.
"No!" he said, at length, briefly.
"That is not true! that is not true!" I cried, turning and facing him,
with my eyes fixed upon his. "You do not regret the past?"
"No!" he repeated. "I bless it, but I do not regret it."
"And you would not wish to go back to it?"
He turned away, looking out over the garden.
"I no more wish that than I would wish to have wings. It cannot be."
"And you would not re-make this past? And you reproach neither yourself,
nor me?"
"Never! all has been for the best."
"Listen!" said I, seizing his hand to force him to turn towards me.
"Listen! Why did you never tell me what you wished from me, that I might
have lived exactly as you desired? Why did you give me a liberty which
I knew not how to use? why did you cease to teach me? If you had wished
it, if you had cared to guide me differently, nothing, nothing would
have happened," I went on, in a voice which more and more energetically
expressed anger and reproach, with none of the former love.
"What is it that would not have happened?" said he with surprise,
turning towards me. "There has been nothing. All is well, very well," he
repeated smiling.
"Can it be possible," I thought, that he does not understand me? "or,
worse still, that he will not understand me?" and my tears began to
fall.
"This would have happened,--that, not having made me guilty towards you,
you would not have punished me by your indifference, your contempt," I
broke out. "What would _not_ have happened is seeing myself, with no
fault on my own part, suddenly robbed by you of all that was dear to
me."
"What are you saying, my darling?" he exclaimed, as if he had not
understood my words.
"No, let me finish! You have robbed me of your confidence, your love,
even of your esteem, and this because I ceased to believe that you still
loved me after what had taken place! No," I went on, checking him again
as he was about to interrupt me, "for once I must speak out all that has
been torturing me so long! Was I to blame because I did not know life,
and because you left me to find it out for myself?... And am I to blame
that now,--when at last I comprehend, of myself, what is necessary in
life; now, when for more than a year I have been making a struggle to
return to you,--you constantly repulse me, constantly pretend not to
know what I want? and things are so arranged that there is never
anything for you to reproach yourself with, while I am left to be
miserable and guilty? Yes, you would cast me back again into that life
which must make wretchedness for me and for you!"
"And how am I doing that?" he asked, with sincere surprise and alarm.
"Did not you tell me yesterday,--yes, you tell me so perpetually,--that
the life here does not suit me, and that we must go to St. Petersburg
again for the winter? Instead of supporting me," I continued, "you avoid
all frankness with me, any talk that is sweet, and real. And then if I
fall, you will reproach me with it, or you will make light of it!"
"Stop, stop," he said severely and coldly; "what you are saying is not
right. It only shows that you are badly disposed towards me, that you do
not...."
"That I do not love you! say it! say it, then!" I exclaimed, blind with
my tears. I sat down on the bench, and covered my face with my
handkerchief.
"That is the way he understands me!" I thought, trying to control my
choking sobs. "It is all over with our old love!" said the voice in my
heart. He did not come near me, and made no attempt to console me. He
was wounded by what I had said. His voice was calm and dry, as he began:
"I do not know what you have to reproach me with, except that I do not
love you as I used to do!"
"As you used to love me!..." I murmured under my handkerchief, drenching
it with bitter tears.
"And for that, time and ourselves are equally guilty. For each period
there is one suitable phase of love...."
He was silent.
"And shall I tell you the whole truth, since you desire frankness? Just
as, during that first year of our acquaintance, I spent night after
night without sleep, thinking of you and building up my own love, until
it grew to fill all my heart, so in St. Petersburg and while we were
abroad I spent fearful nights in striving to break down and destroy this
love which was my torment. I could not destroy it, but I did at least
destroy the element which had tormented me; I became tranquil, and yet I
continued to love you,--but it was with another love."
"And you call _that_ love, when it was nothing but a punishment!" I
replied. "Why did you let me live in the world, if it appeared to you
so pernicious that because of it you would cease to love me?"
"It was not the world, my dear, that was the guilty one."
"Why did you not use your power? Why did you not strangle me? Murder me?
That would have been better for me to-day than to have lost all that
made my happiness,--it would have been better for me, and at least there
would not have been the shame!"
I began to sob again, and I covered my face.
Just at that moment Macha and Sonia, wet and merry, ran up on the
terrace, laughing and talking; but at the sight of us their voices were
hushed, and they hurried into the house.
We remained where we were, for a long time, silent; after they were
gone, I sobbed on until my tears were exhausted and I felt somewhat
calmer. I looked at him. He was sitting with his head resting on his
hand, and appeared to wish to say something to me in response to my
glance, but he only gave a heavy sigh and put his head down again.
I went to him and drew his hand away. He turned then, and looked at me
thoughtfully.
"Yes," he said, as if pursuing his own thoughts, "for all of us, and
particularly for you women, it is necessary that we should ourselves
lift to our own lips the cup of the vanities of life, before we can
taste life itself; no one believes the experience of others. You had
not, at that time, dipped very deep into the science of those entrancing
and seducing vanities. Therefore I allowed you to plunge for a moment; I
had no right to forbid it, simply because my own hour for it was long
since over."
"Why did you let me live among these vanities, if you loved me?"
"Because you would not--nay, more, you could not--have believed me about
them; it was necessary for you to learn for yourself; and you have
learned."
"You reasoned a great deal," said I. "That was because you loved me so
little."
We were silent again.
"What you have just said to me is hard, but it is the truth," he
resumed, after a while, rising abruptly, and beginning to walk about the
terrace; "yes, it is the truth! I have been to blame," he went on,
stopping before me.... "Either I ought not to have let myself love you
at all, or I ought to have loved you more simply--yes!"
"Sergius, let us forget everything," said I, timidly.
"No, what is gone never comes again, there can be no turning back ..."
his voice softened as he spoke.
"It has already come again," said I, laying my hand on his shoulder.
He took the hand in his, and pressed it.
"No, I was not telling the truth, when I pretended not to regret the
past; no, I do regret your past love; I bitterly mourn over it,--this
love, which can no longer exist. Who is to blame? I do not know. Love
there may even yet be, but not the same; its place is still there, but
darkened and desolated; it is without savor and without strength; the
remembrance has not vanished, nor the gratitude, but...."
"Do not speak so," I interrupted. "Let it come to life again, let it be
what it was.... Might that be?" I asked, looking into his face. His eyes
were serene, quiet, and met mine without their old deep look.
Even as I asked the question I felt the answer, felt that my wish was no
longer possible to realize. He smiled; it seemed to me an old man's
smile, gentle and full of peace.
"How young you still are, and how old I am already!" he said. "Why
delude ourselves?" he added, still with the same smile.
I remained near him, silent, and feeling my soul grow more and more
tranquil.
"Do not let us try to repeat life," he went on, "nor to lie to
ourselves. But it is something, to have no longer, God willing, either
disquiet or distress. We have nothing to seek for. We have already
found, already shared, happiness enough. All we have to do now is to
open the way,--you see to whom...." he said, pointing out little Vania,
in his nurse's arms, at the terrace door. "That is necessary, dear
love," he concluded, bending over me and dropping a kiss on my hair.
It was no longer a lover, it was an old friend who gave the caress.
The perfumed freshness of night was rising, sweeter and stronger, from
the garden; the few sounds audible were solemn and far off, and soon
gave way to deep tranquillity; one by one the stars shone out. I looked
at him, and all at once I became conscious of infinite relief in my
soul; it was as if a moral nerve, whose sensitiveness had caused me keen
suffering had suddenly been removed. Quietly and clearly I comprehended
that the dominant sentiment of this phase of my existence was
irrevocably gone, as was the phase itself, and that not only was its
return impossible, but that it would be to me full of unendurable pain.
There had been enough of this time; and had it indeed been so
good,--this time, which to me had seemed to enclose such joys? And
already it had lasted so long, so long!
"But tea is waiting," he said, gently; and we went together to the
drawing-room.
At the door I met Macha, and the nurse with Vania. I took the child in
my arms, wrapped up the little bare feet, and, holding it close to my
heart, barely touched its lips with a light kiss. Almost asleep as it
was, it moved its little arms, stretched out the crumpled fingers, and
opened its bewildered eyes, as if trying to find or remember something;
all at once its eyes fell on me, a look of intelligence sparkled in
them, and the pink pursed-up lips lengthened in a baby smile. "You are
mine, mine!" thought I, with a delicious thrill running through me, and
as I strained it to my heart I was half afraid of hurting it with my
eager embrace. Over and over I kissed its cold little feet, its breast,
its arms, and head with the scant covering of down. My husband came up
to us, quickly drew the wrapping over the baby's face, then, drawing it
away again:
"Ivan Sergevitch!" he said with finger under the little chin.
But I, in my turn, covered up Ivan Sergevitch. No one should look at
him so long, except myself. I glanced at my husband, his eyes laughed as
they rested on mine, and it was long since I had met his with such happy
joy.
This day ended my romance with my husband. The old love remained, and
the dear remembrance of what could never come back to me; but a new love
for my children and my children's father, began another life and another
way of happiness, up to this hour unending ... for at last I know that
in home, and in the pure joys of home will be found--real happiness!
THE END.
* * * * *
=WAR AND PEACE.= A Historical Novel, by Count Leon Tolstoï,
translated into French by a Russian Lady and from the French by
Clara Bell. _Authorized Edition._ Complete, Three Parts in Box.
Paper, $3.00. Cloth, $5.25. Half calf, $12.00.
=Part I.= =Before Tilsit=, 1805-1807, in two volumes. Paper, $1.00.
Cloth, $1.75 per set.
=" II.= =The Invasion=, 1807-1812 in two volumes. Paper, $1.00. Cloth,
$1.75 per set.
=" III.= =Borodino, The French at Moscow--Epilogue=, 1812-1820, in two
volumes. Paper, $1.00. Cloth, $1.75 per set.
OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.
"A story of Russia in the time of Napoleon's wars. It is a story of the
family rather than of the field, and is charming in its delineations of
quaint Russian customs. It is a novel of absorbing interest, full of
action and with a well managed plot; a book well worth
reading."--_Philadelphia Enquirer._
"The story of 'War and Peace' ranks as the greatest of Slavic historical
novels. It is intensely dramatic in places and the battle scenes are
marvels of picturesque description. At other points the vein is quiet
and philosophical, and the reader is held by the soothing charm that is
in complete contrast with the action and energy of battle."--_Observer,
Utica, N.Y._
"War and Peace is a historical novel and is extremely interesting, not
only in its description of the times of the great invasion eighty years
ago, but in its vivid pictures of life and character in
Russia."--_Journal of Commerce, New York._
"On general principles the historical novel is neither valuable as fact
nor entertaining as fiction. But 'War and Peace' is a striking exception
to this rule. It deals with the most impressive and dramatic period of
European history. It reproduces a living panorama of scene, and actors,
and circumstance idealized into the intense and artistic life of
imaginative composition, and written with a brilliancy of style and
epigrammatic play of thought, a depth of significance, that render the
story one of the most fascinating and absorbing."--_Boston Evening
Traveller._
_Wm. S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=THE COSSACKS.=--A Tale of the Caucasus in 1852, by =Count Leo
Tolstoy=, from the Russian by Eugene Schuyler. One vol. Paper, 50
cts. Cloth binding. $1.00.
* * * * *
"The Cossacks" forms the culmination of the period in which he
photographed with miraculous realism and no definite purpose, detached
pictures of life and studies of the affections, and the period in which
he began to see and suggest the spiritual meaning of and the chain of
ultimate purpose binding together the panorama of human existence. The
book is an idyl of semi-barbarous life and yet the hero begins to
struggle with the problems that puzzled Sergius, that Levin half solved,
and from which Tolstoi himself escapes in a Quaker creed.
Olenin is a young Russian noble whose career has simulated outwardly
that of his companions, but whose soul has been unsatisfied and empty,
driving him finally to break away from his old associations and go for a
campaign in the Caucasus. With that campaign the story does not concern
itself, going on to its conclusion when the young man settles down in a
Cossack village to wait for his promotion. This portion of the book is
inimitable for the slight, almost imperceptible touches through which
Tolstoi has the power, greater than that of any one else, of reproducing
the actual scene he wishes to transcribe. This power can scarcely be
called realism. It might be better characterized as realization. It is
possible in this way to know the exact life of this brave, indolent,
good-tempered, healthful race of half-Russians, half-Circassians, and to
feel the charm they possessed for Olenin. It is a curious fact that the
most civilized natures are most akin to barbarism. The simple directness
of barbaric virtues, the healthy passion and aggressiveness of its vices
make the process of atavism easy to a nature that has risen above the
mere materialism of civilization. The process of this reversion in
Olenin is hastened, of course, by love for a Cossack woman, one of those
clean-minded girls who think no harm in a kiss or caress, but whose
virtue is an absolute and natural thing that admits of no question or
discussion. His love is not of the kind that could mean her dishonor,
and he asks for Marianka's hand in marriage, feeling helplessly and
hopelessly all the while that real union is impossible between
them--that though he can understand her and go down into her
semi-barbarism, she can never know him or appreciate the motives that
impel him to leave a state that she considers higher than her own. The
story ends abruptly and what is called by the professional novel-reader
"unsatisfactorily." Marianka clings in preference to her Cossack lover,
and Olenin feeling despairingly that this rude, simple, barbarous life
can never absorb, can only encyst him, goes rack to his duties at the
front.--_New York World._
* * * * *
THE
EBERS GALLERY
A COLLECTION OF PAINTINGS
ILLUSTRATING THE
ROMANCES OF GEORG EBERS
BY THE FOLLOWING ARTISTS
L. ALMA-TADEMA, W. A. BEER, W. GENTZ, P. GROT-JOHANN,
H. KAULBACH, FERD. KELLER, O. KNILLE, F. SIMM,
LAURA TADEMA, E. TESCHENDORFF, P. THUMANN.
=TWENTY ILLUSTRATIONS=
_WITH DESCRIPTIVE LETTER-PRESS_
_Printed from handsome large new type on plate-paper_
Photographic Reproduction by Friedrich Bruckmann of Munich
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_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=THE BRIDE OF THE NILE=, A ROMANCE, BY =Georg Ebers=, from the German
by CLARA BELL. _Authorized edition_, in two volumes. Price, paper
covers, $1.00, cloth binding, $1.75 per set.
"This romance has much value, apart from its interest as a narrative.
The learned author, who has made the Land of the Nile an object of
special study and research, throws a clear, steady light on one of those
complicated periods of history when nationality seems submerged in the
conflicting interests of sects and factions. The history of Egypt
towards the middle of the seventh century, A. D., forms a sort of
historical whirlpool. The tide of Moslem invasion and the
counter-current of patriotism were temporarily swayed by the
intermingling currents of sectarianism, ecclesiasticism and individual
self-interest.
"All the leading characters are typical of these contending forces, and
also display an unreasoning impulsiveness in both love and hatred,
characteristic of a tropical clime.
"The Egyptian heathen, the Egyptian Christian, the Greek Christian, the
Moslem and Ethiopian show the feelings peculiar to their political
conditions by word and act, thus making their relationship to one
another very distinct, and though not an historical study, at least a
study of the probabilities of that epoch. It is also a reliable picture
of the manners, customs and civilization of a period less generally
known than those remote, and consequently more attractive periods of the
building of the pyramids, and of the Pharoahs.
"The portrayal of individual character and arrangement of incidents are
necessarily secondary to the higher aims of this entertaining and
instructive romance. It is only towards the end of the second volume
that the significance of the title becomes apparent. The 'Bride' was a
Greek Christian doomed by the superstitious authorities to be drowned in
the Nile as a sacrifice to appease the anger of the creative powers,
supposed to be withholding the usual overflow of its waters. She escaped
her watery fate, and her rival, an unprincipled heiress, became a
voluntary sacrifice through vanity and despair. This author has already
won much renown by previous romances founded on interesting epochs of
Egyptian history."--_Daily Alta, California._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=THE MARTYR OF GOLGOTHA=, by =Enrique Perez Escrich=, from the Spanish
by Adèle Josephine Godoy, in two volumes. Price, paper covers,
$1.00. Cloth binding, $1.75.
"There must always be some difference of opinion concerning the right of
the romancer to treat of sacred events and to introduce sacred
personages into his story. Some hold that any attempt to embody an idea
of our Saviour's character, experiences, sayings and teachings in the
form of fiction must have the effect of lowering our imaginative ideal,
and rendering trivial and common-place that which in the real Gospel is
spontaneous, inspired and sublime. But to others an historical novel
like the 'Martyr of Golgotha' comes like a revelation, opening fresh
vistas of thought, filling out blanks and making clear what had hitherto
been vague and unsatisfactory, quickening insight and sympathy, and
actually heightening the conception of divine traits. The author gives
also a wide survey of the general history of the epoch and shows the
various shaping causes which were influencing the rise and development
of the new religion in Palestine. There is, indeed, an astonishing
vitality and movement throughout the work, and, elaborate though the
plot is, with all varieties and all contrasts of people and conditions,
with constant shiftings of the scene, the story yet moves, and moves the
interest of the reader too, along the rapid current of events towards
the powerful culmination. The writer uses the Catholic traditions, and
in many points interprets the story in a way which differs altogether
from that familiar to Protestants: for example, making Mary Magdalen the
same Mary who was the sister of Lazarus and Martha, and who sat
listening at the Saviour's feet. But in general, although there is a
free use made of Catholic legends and traditions, their effort is
natural and pleasing. The romance shows a degree of a southern fervor
which is foreign to English habit, but the flowery, poetic
style--although it at first repels the reader--is so individual, so much
a part of the author, that it is soon accepted as the naive expression
of a mind kindled and carried away by its subject. Spanish literature
has of late given us a variety of novels and romances, all of which are
in their way so good that we must believe that there is a new generation
of writers in Spain who are discarding the worn-out forms and
traditions, and are putting fresh life and energy into works which will
give pleasure to the whole world of readers."--_Philadelphia American_,
March 5, 1887.
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=THE KING'S TREASURE HOUSE.=--A Romance of Ancient Egypt, by =Wilhelm
Walloth=, from the German by Mary J. Safford, in one vol. Paper, 50
cts. Cloth, 90 cts.
"It deals, in the main, with the cruel bondage of the Israelites in
Egypt, and is remarkably varied in incident and impressive in dramatic
power. The interest is uncommonly exciting, and is sustained with great
skill to the very end. A fine poetic feeling pervades the narrative, and
the descriptive portions of the book often glow with picturesque
splendor. The work is also very attractive in the cleverness and the
vividness with which the manners and people of ancient Egypt are
depicted, showing in this aspect careful thought and study. The story
may take a foremost rank in the long line of German romances which have
aimed at reproducing the life of antiquity."--_Boston Saturday Evening
Gazette, May 23, 1886._
=THE CHALDEAN MAGICIAN.=--An Adventure in Ancient Rome, by =Ernst
Eckstein=, from the German by Mary J. Safford. One vol. Paper, 25
cts. Cloth, 50 cts.
"The 'Chaldean Magician' is a tale of Rome in the days of the Emperor
Diocletian, and is an expose of the so-called magical art of that
period. The love story which runs through it will please the
sentimental, while the pictures given of Roman life and society will
interest the general reader."--_Chicago Evening Journal._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=QUINTUS CLAUDIUS.=--A Romance of Imperial Rome, by =Ernst Eckstein=,
from the German by Clara Bell, in two vols. Paper, $1.00. Cloth,
$1.75.
"We owe to Eckstein the brilliant romance of 'Quintus Claudius,' which
Clara Bell has done well to translate for us, for it is worthy of place
beside the Emperor of Ebers and the Aspasia of Hamerling. It is a story
of Rome in the reign of Domitian, and the most noted characters of the
time figure in its pages, which are a series of picturesque descriptions
of Roman life and manners in the imperial city, and in those luxurious
retreats at Baiae and elsewhere to which the wealthy Romans used to
retreat from the heats of summer. It is full of stirring scenes in the
streets, in the palaces, in the temples, and in the amphitheatre, and
the actors therein represent every phase of Roman character, from the
treacherous and cowardly Domitian and the vile Domitia down to the
secret gatherings of the new sect and their exit from life in the
blood-soaked sands of the arena, where they were torn in pieces by the
beasts of the desert. The life and the manners of all classes at this
period were never painted with a bolder pencil than by Eckstein in this
masterly romance, which displays as much scholarship as
invention."--_Mail and Express, N. Y._
"These neat volumes contain a story first published in German. It is
written in that style which Ebers has cultivated so successfully. The
place is Rome; the time, that of Domitian at the end of the first
century. The very careful study of historical data, is evident from the
notes at the foot of nearly every page. The author attempted the
difficult task of presenting in a single story the whole life of Rome,
the intrigues of that day which compassed the overthrow of Domitian, and
the deep fervor and terrible trials of the Christians in the last of the
general persecutions. The court, the army, the amphitheatre, the
catacombs, the evil and the good of Roman manhood and womanhood--all are
here. And the work is done with power and success. It is a book for
every Christian and for every student, a book of lasting value, bringing
more than one nation under obligation to its author."--_New Jerusalem
Magazine, Boston, Mass._
"_A new Romance of Ancient Times!_ The success of Ernst Eckstein's new
novel, 'Quintus Claudius,' which recently appeared in Vienna, may fairly
be called phenomenal, critics and the public unite in praising the
work."--_Grazer Morgenpost._
"'Quintus Claudius' is a finished work of art, capable of bearing any
analysis, a literary production teeming with instruction and interest,
full of plastic forms, and rich in the most dramatic changes of
mood."--_Pester Lloyd._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=PRUSIAS.=--A Romance of Ancient Rome under the Republic, by =Ernst
Eckstein=, from the German by Clara Bell. Authorized edition. In two
vols. Paper, $1.00. Cloth, $1.75.
"The date of 'Prusias' is the latter half of the first century B. C.
Rome is waging her tedious war with Mithridates. There are also risings
in Spain, and the home army is badly depleted. Prusias comes to Capua as
a learned Armenian, the tutor of a noble pupil in one of the
aristocratic households. Each member of this circle is distinct. Some of
the most splendid traits of human nature develop among these grand
statesmen and their dignified wives, mothers, and daughters. The ideal
Roman maiden is Psyche; but she has a trace of Greek blood and of the
native gentleness. Of a more interesting type is Fannia, who might,
minus her slaves and stola, pass for a modern and saucy New York beauty.
Her wit, spirit, selfishness, and impulsive magnanimity might easily
have been a nineteenth-century evolution. In the family to which Prusias
comes are two sons, one of military leanings, the other a student. Into
the ear of the latter Prusias whispers the real purpose of his coming to
Italy. He is an Armenian and in league with Mithridates for the
reduction of Roman rule. The unity which the Senate has tried to extend
to the freshly-conquered provinces of Italy is a thing of slow growth.
Prusias by his strategy and helped by Mithridates's gold, hopes to
organize slaves and disaffected provincials into a force which will
oblige weakened Rome to make terms, one of which shall be complete
emancipation and equality of every man before the law. His harangues are
in lofty strain, and, save that he never takes the coarse, belligerent
tone of our contemporaries, these speeches might have been made by one
of our own Abolitionists. The one point that Prusias never forgets is
personal dignity and a regal consideration for his friends. But after
all, this son of the gods is befooled by a woman, a sinuous and
transcendently ambitious Roman belle, the second wife of the dull and
trustful prefect of Capua; for this tiny woman had all men in her net
whom she found it useful to have there.
"The daughter of the prefect--hard, homely-featured, and hating the
supple stepmother with an unspeakable hate, tearing her beauty at last
like a tigress and so causing her death--is a repulsive but very strong
figure. The two brothers who range themselves on opposite sides in the
servile war make another unforgettable picture; and the beautiful slave
Brenna, who follows her noble lover into camp, is a spark of light
against the lurid background. The servile movement is combined with the
bold plans of the Thracian Spartacus. He is a good figure and
perpetually surprises us with his keen foresight and disciplinary power.
"The book is stirring, realistic in the even German way, and full of the
fibre and breath of its century." _Boston Ev'g Transcript._
* * * * *
=THE WILL.=--A NOVEL, by =Ernst Eckstein=, from the German by Clara
Bell, in two vols. Paper, $1.00 Cloth, $1.75 per set.
"Since the appearance of 'Debit and Credit' we have not seen a German
novel that can rank, in the line struck out by that famous work, with
'The Will,' by Ernst Eckstein. It is a vivid picture of German city
life, and the characters, whether quaint, commonplace, tragical, or a
mixture of all three, are admirably drawn. All the German carefulness is
in Eckstein's work, but there is besides a sparkle and _verve_ entirely
French--and French of the best kind."--_Catholic Mirror, Baltimore._
"The chief value of the book is in its well-drawn and strong pictures of
life in both German cities and villages, and Clara Bell, has, as usual,
proved herself a mistress of the German Tongue."--_Sunday Star,
Providence._
"ERNST ECKSTEIN, hitherto known as a writer of classical romance, now
tries his hand upon a _genre_ story of German life. To our mind, it is
his most successful work."--_Bulletin, San Francisco, Cal._
"The present work is entitled 'The Will,' and is written by Ernst
Eckstein, the author of the striking historical novel, Quintus Claudius.
The name of Clara Bell as the translator from the German is assurance
enough of the excellence of its rendering into English. The plot of the
story is not a novel one, but it is skillfully executed, and the whole
tale is developed with much dramatic power."--_Boston Zion's Herald._
"'THE WILL,' by Eckstein, is the latest and best work of its author. The
scene, the people, the events of the story are new, the plot is
ingenious, and the action rapid and exciting enough to please the most
jaded novel reader. The character of schoolmaster Heinzius would alone
make the reputation of a new writer, and there are other sketches from
life none the less masterly. Ernst Eckstein excels in heroines, of whom
there are several in the book--all clearly defined--contending for the
sympathy of the reader."--_The Journal of Commerce, New York._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=THE ELEVENTH COMMANDMENT.=--A Romance by =Anton Giulio Barrili=, from
the Italian by Clara Bell, in one vol. Paper, 50 cts. Cloth, 90
cts.
* * * * *
"If Italian literature includes any more such unique and charming
stories as this one, it is to be hoped that translators will not fail to
discover them to the American public. The 'Eleventh Commandment' deals
with a variety of topics--the social intrigues necessary to bring about
preferment in political life, a communal order, an adventurous
unconventional heiress, and her acquiescent, good-natured uncle, and
most cleverly are the various elements combined, the whole forming an
excellent and diverting little story. The advent of a modern Eve in the
masculine paradise (?) established at the Convent of San Bruno is
fraught with weighty consequences, not only to the individual members of
the brotherhood, but to the well-being of the community itself. The
narrative of M'lle Adela's adventures is blithely told, and the moral
deducible therefrom for men is that, on occasion, flight is the surest
method of combating temptation."--_Art Interchange, New York._
"Very entertaining is the story of 'The Eleventh Commandment,'
ingeniously conceived and very cleverly executed."--_The Critic, New
York._
* * * * *
=A WHIMSICAL WOOING.=--By =Anton Giulio Barrili=, from the Italian by
Clara Bell, in one vol. Paper, 25 cts. Cloth, 50 cts.
"If 'The Eleventh Commandment,' the previous work of Barrili, was a good
three-act play, 'A Whimsical Wooing' is a sparkling comedietta. It is
one situation, a single catastrophe, yet, like a bit of impressionist
painting of the finer sort, it reveals in a flash all the possibilities
of the scene. The hero, Roberto Fenoglio, a man of wealth, position, and
accomplishments, finds himself at the end of his resources for
entertainment or interest. Hopelessly bored, he abandons himself to the
drift of chance, and finds himself, in no longer space of time than from
midnight to daylight--where and how, the reader will thank us for not
forestalling his pleasure in finding out for himself."--_The Nation, New
York._
"'A Whimsical Wooing' is the richly-expressive title under which 'Clara
Bell' introduces a cleverly-narrated episode by Anton Giulio Barrili to
American readers. It is a sketch of Italian life, at once rich and
strong, but nevertheless discreet in sentiment and graceful in diction.
It is the old story of the fallacy of trusting to a proxy in love
matters."--_Boston Post._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=ERNESTINE.=--A Novel, by =Wilhelmine von Hillern=, from the German by
S. Baring-Gould, in two vols. Paper, 80 cts. Cloth, $1.50.
* * * * *
"'Ernestine' is a work of positive genius. An English critic has likened
the conception of the heroine in her childhood to George Eliot's Maggie
Tulliver, and truly there is a certain resemblance; but there is in the
piece a much stronger suggestion of George Eliot's calm mastery of the
secret springs of human action, and George Eliot's gift of laying bare
the life of a human soul, than of likeness between particular characters
or situations here and those with which we are familiar in George
Eliot's works."--_New York Evening Post._
* * * * *
=THE HOUR WILL COME.=--A Tale of an Alpine Cloister, by =Wilhelmine
von Hillern=, from the German by Clara Bell, in one vol. Paper, 40
cts. Cloth, 75 cts.
"'_The Hour Will Come_' is the title of a translation by Clara Bell from
the German original of Wilhelmine von Hillern, author of that beautiful
romance 'Geier-Wally.' 'The Hour Will Come' is hardly less interesting,
its plot being one of the strongest and most pathetic that could well be
imagined. The time is the Middle Ages, and Frau von Hillern has achieved
a remarkable success in reproducing the rudeness, the picturesqueness
and the sombre coloring of those days. Those who take up 'The Hour Will
Come' will not care to lay it down again until they have read it
through."--_Baltimore Gazette._
* * * * *
=HIGHER THAN THE CHURCH.=--An Art Legend of Ancient Times, by
=Wilhelmine von Hillern=, from the German by Mary J. Safford, in one
vol. Paper, 25 cts. Cloth, 50 cts.
* * * * *
"Mary J. Safford translates acceptably a very charming short story from
the German of Wilhelmine von Hillern. If it was not told by the
sacristan of Breisach, it deserves to have been. It has the full flavor
of old German and English love tales, such as have been crystallized in
the old ballads. The Emperor, the gifted boy, his struggles with the
stupidity of his townsmen, his apparently hopeless love above him; these
form the old delightful scene, set in a Düreresque border. There are
touches here and there which refer to the present. The sixteenth century
tale has a political moral that will appeal to Germans who believe that
Alsatia, once German in heart as well as in tongue, ought to be held by
force to the Fatherland till she forgets her beloved France."--_N. Y.
Times._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=ASPASIA.=-A Romance, by =Robert Hamerling=, from the German by Mary J.
Safford, in two vols. Paper, $1.00. Cloth, $1.75.
"We have read his work conscientiously, and, we confess, with profit.
Never have we had so clear an insight into the manners, thoughts, and
feelings of the ancient Greeks. No study has made us so familiar with
the age of Pericles. We recognize throughout that the author is master
of the period of which he treats. Moreover, looking back upon the work
from the end to the beginning, we clearly perceive in it a complete
unity of purpose not at all evident during the reading."
"Hamerling's Aspasia, herself the most beautiful woman in all Hellas, is
the apostle of beauty and of joyousness, the implacable enemy of all
that is stern and harsh in life. Unfortunately, morality is stern, and
had no place among Aspasia's doctrines. This ugly fact, Landor has
thrust as far into the background as possible. Hamerling obtrudes it. He
does not moralize, he neither condemns nor praises; but like a fate,
silent, passionless, and resistless, he carries the story along, allows
the sunshine for a time to silver the turbid stream, the butterflies and
gnats to flutter above it in rainbow tints, and then remorselessly draws
over the landscape gray twilight. He but follows the course of history;
yet the absolute pitilessness with which he does it is almost
terrible."--_Extracts from Review in Yale Literary Magazine._
"No more beautiful chapter can be found in any book of this age than
that in which Pericles and Aspasia are described as visiting the poet
Sophocles in the garden on the bank of the Cephissus."--_Utica Morning
Herald._
"It is one of the great excellencies of this romance, this lofty song of
the genius of the Greeks, that it is composed with perfect artistic
symmetry in the treatment of the different parts, and from the first
word to the last is thoroughly harmonious in tone and coloring.
Therefore, in 'Aspasia,' we are given a book, which could only proceed
from the union of an artistic nature and a thoughtful mind--a book that
does not depict fiery passions in dramatic conflict, but with dignified
composure, leads the conflict therein described to the final
catastrophe."--_Allgemeine Zeitung._ (Augsburg).
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
=ELIZABETH=; OR THE EXILES OF SIBERIA.--From the French of =Mme.
Sophie Cottin=, one vol. Paper, 25 cents. Cloth, 50 cents.
"A new edition of the English translation of that famous old story
'Elizabeth; or the Exiles of Siberia,' which used to be the standard
French reader in private schools, where many a tender-hearted
school-girl cried not only over the hard task of rendering the difficult
French phrases into her own tongue, but also over the misfortunes of
this generous-souled heroine. There are few French tales so full of deep
pure feeling as this, by Mme. Sophie Cottin (born 1773, died 1807), and
although it seems almost too well known to create a fresh sensation, it
will always be one of the few books that mothers can safely place into
the hands of their young daughters, knowing at the time that the perusal
of them will not only amuse but waken tender and generous feelings in
the young heart, that perhaps needed a story like this to make them
spring into life."--_Albany Times._
* * * * *
=ELIANE.=--A Novel, by =Mme. Augustus Craven=, from the French by Lady
Georgiana Fullerton, in one vol. Paper, 50 cents. Cloth, 90 cents.
"It is not only pure, but is, we believe, a trustworthy description of
the dignified French life of which it is a picture. 'Eliane' is one of
the very best novels we have read for one or two seasons past"--_The
American Literary Churchman, Baltimore._
"'Eliane' is interesting not only because it is such a record of the
best kind of French life and manners as could only have been written by
a person thoroughly at home in the subject, but also because of the
delicate drawing of character which it contains."--_London Sat. Review._
* * * * *
=RANTHORPE.=--A Novel, by =George Henry Lewes=, in one vol. Paper, 40
cents. Cloth, 75 cents.
"There is a good deal of wisdom in it that is not without its
use."--_Popular Science Monthly._
"'Ranthorpe' is a reprint of a novel written in 1842, by George Henry
Lewes, the well-known husband of George Eliot. It belongs to the
psychological class, and is keenly introspective throughout. The style
is well adapted to the work, displaying the versatility of a mind whose
natural bent was towards metaphysics and the exact sciences."--_Montreal
Star._
_William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York._
* * * * *
GEORG EBERS'
ROMANCES & BIOGRAPHIES
COMPRISING:
_AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS_,
TWO VOLUMES
_THE BRIDE OF THE NILE_,
TWO VOLUMES
_THE BURGOMASTER'S WIFE_,
ONE VOLUME
_SERAPIS_,
ONE VOLUME
_THE EMPEROR_,
TWO VOLUMES
_UARDA_,
TWO VOLUMES
_HOMO SUM_,
ONE VOLUME
_THE SISTERS_,
ONE VOLUME
_A QUESTION_,
ONE VOLUME
_A WORD, ONLY A WORD_,
ONE VOLUME
_LORENZ ALMA-TADEMA_,
ONE VOLUME
_RICHARD LEPSIUS_,
ONE VOLUME
ROMANCES, 14 volumes, cloth, in case, $11.00
" and BIOGRAPHIES, 16 volumes, cloth, in case, 13.00
" " " " half calf extra, in case, 32.00
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Peasants attached to the household, and not to the soil.
[B] Russian cart, consisting of a flat frame-work of bark, between four
wheels.
[C] This expression, peculiar to Russia, corresponds to what in
Catholic countries is called: Making a preparatory retreat.
[D] In the Greek Church the staroste acts as church-warden, collector
of alms, _etc._
[E] Screen, upon which are the images.
[F] Strong Russian phrase, to express great poverty.
[G] Justice of the peace, of the district.
[H] Diminutive of Nicolas.
[I] Yvan.
* * * * *
Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber:
tête-à-tête=> tête-à-tete {pg 104}