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.

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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.

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“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.

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THE
E B E R S G A L L E R Y
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

In loose sheets, in cloth covered box,	$22.50
One Vol., Folio, bound in half morocco, gilt edges, by Alfred Matthews,	40.00
One Vol., Folio, superbly bound in full morocco extra, by Alfred Matthews,	50.00

William S. Gottsberger, Publisher, New York.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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’ 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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“‘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.

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“‘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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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“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.

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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

Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
tÊte-À-tÊte=> tÊte-À-tete {pg 104}

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