V.
“You had better go to bed, Signora,” said Giulietta, pityingly; “you haven’t even undressed.”
“I was not sleepy,” replied Caterina, simply.
“Will you breakfast?”
“No.”
“At least, I may bring you your coffee?”
“Bring me the coffee.”
The tears had ceased to flow, but her eyes burned painfully. She passed into her dressing-room and began to bathe them with cold water. She dipped her whole head into the basin, and felt refreshed. When Giulietta entered with the coffee she found her still bathing her head.
“The maid has come from Casa Sanna. The poor gentleman wandered all night; this morning, saving your presence, he spat blood again. The maid says it is a heartrending sight. Madonna mia, how did this dreadful thing happen?”
Caterina raised her cold, severe eyes, and looked at her. Giulietta, who was intimidated, held her peace.
In the kitchen, she announced to the man-servant, the coachman, and the cook that “the Signora was a woman in a thousand. You will see with what courage she will bear her misfortune.”
“What can she do?” quoth the man-servant. “If Signor Sanna were well, she could have gone to stay with him....”
“Sst!” the cook silenced him. “The Signora is not a woman of that kind. I know her well, for I have seen a great deal of her. She wouldn’t do it.”
“I say there is no chance of the master’s returning,” added the cook later. “My! that Donna Lucia is a clever woman.”
Caterina busied herself in her room, putting away the few things that were lying about, such as her bonnet and shawl; opening and shutting the wardrobes, reviewing the linen shelves, counting their contents, as if she thought of cataloguing them. She stopped to think every now and then, as if she were verifying the numbers. This long and minute examination took some time. All her husband’s things were there, and in one corner stood his gun and cartridge-box. The room was in order. She passed into the morning-room, where on the previous evening she had read that letter. The drawers of her husband’s bureau were open, and the key was in one of them; she inspected them, paper on paper, letter on letter. They were business papers, contracts, donations, leases, bills, letters from friends, letters that she, Caterina, had written to him during his absence: all the Exhibition documents were there, reports and communications. She patiently turned all these pages, and read them all, holding the drawer on her knee, leaning her elbow against the bureau, with her forehead resting on her hand. She was conscious of feeling stunned, of a void in her head and a buzzing in her ears. But that passed, and she soon recovered the lucidity of her mind. When she had finished reading, she tied up all the letters with string, made separate packets of the business papers, and wrote the date and name on each in her round, legible hand. It did not tremble while she wrote, and when she had finished her arduous task she wiped the pen on the pen-wiper and shut down the cover of the inkstand. At the bottom of the big drawer she found another bundle, containing ten pages of stamped paper, forming her marriage contract. She read them all, but replaced them without writing on them. She closed the drawers, and added the key to the bunch that she kept in her pocket.
“It is midday,” said Giulietta. “Will you breakfast, or will you wear yourself to rags?”
She ventured on the brusque, affectionate familiarity that is peculiar to Neapolitan servants when there is trouble in a house.
“Bring me another cup of coffee.”
“At least dip a rusk in it; you mustn’t starve.”
Caterina seated herself in the armchair, waiting for Giulietta to bring her the cup of coffee. She sat without thinking, counting the roses on the carpet, and observing that one turned to the left and the other to the right. She drank her coffee and then went over to her little writing-table, where she kept her own letters. They were already classified, with the order which was characteristic of her. There were letters from her aunt, from Giuditta, from her teachers, and from Andrea. The bulkiest packet was the one labelled “Lucia.” This packet smelled of musk; she untied and with calm attentiveness read those transparent, crossed, and closely written pages, one by one. They took her so long to read that her face began to show signs of fatigue. She locked the writing-table and added the key to the others in her pocket. Lucia’s letters had remained in her lap; she lifted up her dress like an apron, knelt down before the fireplace, and there burned the letters, page by page. The thin paper made a quick, short-lived flame, that left behind it a white evanescent ash, and a more pungent odour of musk, blended with that of burnt sealing-wax. She watched the pyre, still kneeling. When it was consumed, she rose to her feet, mechanically flicking the dust off her dress at the knees. The iron safe stood next to the mantelpiece. Andrea had left it and his bureau unlocked, with the keys in them. She opened it and inspected its contents. Andrea had taken with him a hundred thousand francs in coupons payable to bearer, and in shares of the National Bank. He had left the settlements of his inheritance, Caterina’s marriage contract, and a bundle of other bonds. In one corner were the cases containing Caterina’s jewels. She counted the money, classified the gems, and wrote a list of both on a scrap of paper, which she left in the bureau, took some small change and a ten-franc-note, and locked the safe. A new impulse caused her to spring to her feet again. She passed into an adjoining room, and from thence into the drawing-room, whose windows she threw wide open. The splendid December day broke in with its deep blue sky, its glare of light and its soft air. Caterina had nothing to do in the drawing-room, but in passing she stopped near a window to gracefully arrange the folds of a curtain, moved the Murano glasses from one table to another, and went a few steps away from them to judge of the effect. When she had inspected everything, in the bright light that lit up pearl-grey brocaded hangings into which were woven coral-coloured flowers, the crystals, the statues, the bric-à-brac, she closed the windows, fastened the shutters, and left the drawing-room and the yellow room behind her in darkness.
When she reached the dining-room, Giulietta hastened to meet her, thinking that her mistress would eat something. But Caterina was only looking at the high sideboards, making mental calculations.
“How many glasses are missing from the Baccarat service, Giulietta?”
“One large tumbler and a wineglass.”
“That’s right; and this set of Bohemian glass?”
“Only one; Monzu knocked it down with his elbow.”
“I see. I think there is a fork with a crooked prong.”
“Yes, Signorina.”
“Well, you can go; I know you have some ironing to do to-day.”
Giulietta went away quite comforted. If the Signora had time and inclination to take such minute interest in the house, it was a sign that she had made up her mind to bear her trouble. And if men were such wretches, what was the good of taking it to heart? The master used to be good, but he had quite changed of late. Giulietta, standing before a table heaped up with rough-dried linen, sprinkled it with the water she took up out of a basin in the hollow of her hand. Caterina passing slowly by her, stopped for a moment.
“Be careful of the shirts, Giulietta; last week there were two scorched.”
“That was because I overheated the irons; I will be careful to-day.”
Caterina entered the kitchen. Monzu, who was carrying on an animated conversation with the man-servant, became suddenly silent. She cast a cool glance of inspection round her, the look of the mistress, severe and just.
“Monzu, tell your kitchen-boy to scour the corners well. It is no good cleaning just in the middle of the floor.”
“I have told that boy about it so often, but Signora mia, he’s good for nothing. I’ll give him a scolding when he comes to-day.”
“Are your accounts made up, Monzu?”
“We were to settle on Monday, the day after to-morrow.”
“Let us settle to-day instead.”
He drew out the large account-book in its red leather binding, and placed it on the corner of the table, where his mistress added it up. He had sufficient money in hand for another week.
“Am I to provide for the Signora only?”
“Do not provide for me; I shall not be dining at home. Think of the servants.”
The cook cast a triumphant glance after her, as turning quickly she went away; he knew that the Signora was a woman of spirit, and was not going to give way....
Caterina went back to her room and looked at her watch. It was about three, she had barely time to dress. She chose her black cashmere gown and her fur. Slowly, bestowing on her toilet the utmost care, she changed from head to foot. She had already wound her hair in a great knot, and fastened it with a light tortoiseshell comb. She looked at herself in the glass: she was rather pale, with two red lines under her eyes; but for that she looked much as usual. She put her handkerchief and purse in her pocket, and while she was drawing on her black gloves she called Giulietta.
“Order the carriage,” she said.
She waited in her room for the carriage to be announced. Had she forgotten anything? No, nothing. The house was in order from top to bottom; there was nothing lying about, nothing out of place; everything was locked up and the keys were on the ring. She had not overlooked anything. She felt in her pocket for an object that she needed, and found it there; nothing had been omitted. She waited without impatience; she had plenty of time, having, as usual, dressed early. When Giulietta returned, she rose and let her put her wraps on her. Passing before her she said:
“Giulietta, I am going to Centurano on business.”
“But there is no one at Centurano, except Matteo!”
“He will do. You can keep house here.”
“May I not come?”
“I shall only stay one night at Centurano.”
“Then you will return to-morrow?”
“Of course. Arrivederci, Giulietta.”
“The Madonna be with you, Signorina; never fear, all will be right here.”
She accompanied her as far as the stairs. Caterina went away without looking back, with rhythmic step, and veil drawn down over her eyes.
“The Madonna be with you, and give you a good journey and a speedy return.”
“Good-bye, Giulietta.”
The latter went, however, to look after her mistress from the window of the anteroom that overlooked the courtyard. Caterina entered her carriage without turning to look behind her, and said to the coachman:
“To the station.”
In the Via di Foria she met Giovanna Casacalenda, in a daumont, with her husband. Giovanna sat, upright and beautiful, with the black brim of her Rubens hat shading her proud, voluptuous eyes: the Commendatore Gabrielli wore the look of composure that became his age, his beard correctly trimmed to a fringe, his oblique glance from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and the twitch of the lips that denoted a tendency to apoplexy. Husband and wife neither spoke to nor looked at each other. Behind them followed a smart, high equipage, with spider-like wheels, driven by Roberto Gentile, in his showy, cavalry uniform. He drove close to the daumont, while Giovanna assumed unconsciousness, and her husband maintained his grave, assured demeanour. Giovanna smiled and waved her hand to Caterina, the husband raised his hat. It was evident that her friends had not yet heard anything.
There was only a pair of German fellow-travellers in the first-class carriage, occupied by the solitary little lady who was so neatly gloved and wrapped in furs. Whether they were husband and wife, brother and sister, uncle and niece, or father and daughter, it was impossible to decide, so red were they of face, light of hair, indefinite as to age, and alike in all respects. They were laden with shawls, rugs, bags, and Baedekers; they gabbled continually, glancing furtively betimes at the little lady, who, seated in a corner, gazed at the Neapolitan twilight landscape. When they arrived at Caserta, the youthful lady crossed the carriage, and bending in salutation, descended: the two travellers uttered a sigh of relief.
“Raise the hood, and drive to Centurano,” she said to the driver of a fly. Only once, in passing the Palazzo Reale, solemn, silent, and closed, pale with the solitude that had once more fallen upon it, she leant forward to contemplate it, a stretch of park, and far, far away a white line that was the waterfall, through the arch of the great gate. But she drew herself back immediately, and did not look out again through the rest of the drive. The short winter twilight deepened; a fresh breeze blew over the ploughed fields and the bare trees.
The villas of Centurano were nearly all closed, except two or three that were inhabited by their owners all the year round. Little lights shone in the dwellings of the tenantry. Matteo, who was leaning against the portico quietly smoking his pipe, did not at first recognise his mistress until she had paid the driver. After the latter had wished her “una santa notte” (a holy good-night), he turned and drove away.
“O Signorina.... O Signorina....” stammered Matteo, in confusion, hiding his pipe behind his back.
“Good evening, Matteo; is it open up there?”
“I have the key here, Signora.”
“Can one pass a night here?”
“Certainly, Signora; it is always ready—beds made, floors swept.”
Taking an oil-lamp from his room on the ground-floor, he led the way upstairs, jingling his keys as he went.
“And the Signore, will he be here soon?”
“No, the Signore is not coming. I can manage without him.”
“I wanted to show him how fit Fox and Diana are. They are getting so fat, from having nothing to do.”
“I will tell him to-morrow.”
“Shall you stay here to-night, Signorina?”
“Just for one night. I must find some important documents, and I had no one I could send.”
“But about dinner, Signorina? If you don’t mind it, Carmela can toss you up an omelette and a handful of vermicelli with tomato sauce. Of course, it’s no food for you, but for once....”
“I have dined at Naples; I don’t want anything.”
Despite Matteo’s care, the upstairs department looked cold, dreary, and unhabited. She shivered when she entered the drawing-room, where she had passed so much of her country life.
“No; we’ll soon have a fire burning in the grate.”
While he knelt down and blew the lighted wood she drew off her gloves, stretched them, and placed them on the table.
“Beg pardon, Signorina, but how is the Signora Donna Lucia?”
“She’s well.”
“All the better, poor young thing; she was always so sickly. And that husband of hers, who hadn’t a ha’p’orth of health, the Signor Don Alberto, how is he?”
“He’s ill.”
“The severe weather, eh? But when the Lord calls we must obey.”
“True, Matteo; so the house is in order.”
“From top to bottom, Signorina mia. What you have told me to do, that I have done. The Signora Donna Lucia’s room is just as she left it. Would you like to see it?”
“Let’s see it.”
She followed Matteo, who carried a light, into the room. On the threshold she was arrested by the same shivering sensation.
“Every morning I air the room and let in the sun. Carmela sweeps, I dust. Look, look, Signorina, there is no dust. Tell the Signore....”
“Yes, I will tell him. Shut the door, Matteo; we will go to mine.”
They went there. When they got inside her teeth began to chatter.
“Shall I light the fire in here, too, Signorina?”
“Yes, light it, and bring me another lamp.”
She took off her furs and threw them on the bed. The room was full of shadows, which the faint light of the wick of the lamp he held, of the kind in use among the peasantry, did not dispel. Matteo returned with a larger lamp. She took her place on the sofa. Matteo remained standing before her, as if he were ready to make his report.
“Well, what news?” inquired Caterina, seeing that Matteo wished to be questioned.
“It happened a week ago that the wind was very high, and through the forgetfulness of Carmela, who had left the windows open, four panes were broken in the dining-room.”
“Have you had them replaced?”
“Certainly.”
“You will put them on the bill?”
“Don Claudio, the parish priest, called. They want a new roof to the church, and count on the charity of the faithful. He says that he hopes that the Signorina, who gives so much away in alms, won’t forget the church.”
“What did you say?”
“That he must write to you at Naples.”
“That was right. And what else?”
“And then the Mariagrazia’s boy died.”
“That fine child?”
“Gnorsi[3]: Mariagrazia has been at death’s door herself, saving your presence.”
“You will tell Mariagrazia how sorry I am for her. What is she going to do?”
“She is going to service in Naples, poor woman. Did Pepe Guardino go to Naples?”
“Yes, he came.”
“Then he must have given you the message about the millstone that split. Have I told you all? Yes, it seems to me that I have. No; I was forgetting the best. One day that she was dusting, Carmela found a paper, with writing, under the clock. She always meant to put it in an envelope and send it you, Signorina. Then, as I had to go to Naples, I said, 'I will take it to the Signora myself.’ Shall I go and fetch it?”
“Go,” she said.
A slight expression of fatigue came over her face, the heavy lids dropped for want of rest. The warmth from the grate had overcome the sensation of cold. She tried to shake off the torpor. Matteo returned, carrying a sheet of foreign letter-paper, folded into microscopic compass.
“As neither Carmela nor I can read, your fate might have been written here, and we should have been none the wiser.”
She opened the sheet and read it. Its perusal made no visible impression on her. She put it in her pocket.
“It is a list of certain things that I had forgotten. You can go to bed, Matteo.”
“There is nothing I can do for you?”
“Nothing else.”
“Don’t be afraid of anything, Signorina. I shall be here below. The bell rings in my room; if you want anything, ring.”
“I will, if I want anything. But I shall not want anything.”
“What time will you have your coffee in the morning? Carmela knows how to make coffee.”
“At nine. I shall leave by the twelve o’clock train.”
“The gig at the door at eleven, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want anything else, Signorina?”
“No.”
“Do you want to write?”
“I have nothing to write to any one.”
“I am going to supper; a leaf or two of salad and a scrap of cheese, and then to bed; but always ready for your Excellency’s service. Perhaps you’d like your bed warmed?”
“No.”
“It would be no trouble to light a bit of fire in the kitchen.”
“No.”
“Good-night, Signorina; sleep well.”
“Good-night, Matteo.”
He went away with his lamp, closing the door behind him. She heard the steps dying away in the distance, and the last door close. At that moment the clock struck half-past eight. She fell back on the sofa, as pale as though she had fainted.
She waited for two hours without rising from the sofa, in a species of stupor that made her limbs ache. She heard the quarters ring while she counted them. The fire in the grate had gradually turned to ashes, leaving a tepid warmth in the room. She turned her back on the moon. When the clock struck twelve she rose to her feet. The two hours’ rest had restored her strength. She went to the window, but could not distinguish anything. Then, without moving the light, she entered the drawing-room, one window of which overlooked the courtyard. There was no light in Matteo’s room; he must have been asleep, for two hours profound silence reigned in the house.
Then she thought the hour had come. She returned to her room, and with infinite precaution passed out of it again through the drawing-room, the billiard-room, the dining-room, and the ante-chamber. She shaded the light with her hand, and as she passed through the room her little black shadow grew, as it was projected on the wall, to giant stature. She passed a landing, descended two steps, and entered the kitchen. She rested the light on a marble table, crossed the kitchen on tiptoe, placed a chair against the panelling, and unhooked from the wall, where it hung amid shining saucepans and moulds, a copper brazier, with brass feet fashioned like cat’s claws. It was heavy, and the weight of it nearly threw her down. She placed it on the ground near the hearth; then, stooping over the arched angle where coals were kept, she noiselessly took up some pieces of coke with the tongs and filled the brazier with them one by one. She blew the coal off her fingers, but when she came to raise the brazier she found that it needed the support of her two hands, and that it was not possible to carry the light at the same time. She put it down, and carried the light back to her room. Then, in the dark, she crept back to the kitchen and took the brazier, setting it down before every door, which she closed behind her. She crossed the entire length of the house, carrying the burden that bore her down. She had seen an old newspaper lying in the drawing-room, picked it up, entered her room, and locked the door. When she saw her hands in the lamplight she perceived that the coke had soiled them, and proceeded to wash and dry them carefully. She crossed to the window with the intention of closing the shutters; the stars shone high and bright in the night, and the fountain in the street sang its fresh, eternal melody. She preferred to leave the shutters open, returned to the fireplace, and burned the letter in which Lucia had craved her pity—and the love-letter to Andrea that Matteo had found. She mixed the ashes, as she had done at Naples, so that no trace was left of anything. She took the fur wrap off the bed and laid it on the sofa. Was there anything else to be done? Yes; the keys. She took them out of her pocket and laid them on the mantelshelf, well in sight. That was all she had to do.
Then she placed a chair under the image of the Madonna by the bedside, and, kneeling on the carpet, prayed as she used to pray in her school-days. Her face was buried in her hands; she prayed without looking at the Madonna. She neither wept nor sobbed, nor even sighed. It did not transpire whether she repeated her usual prayers or only told the Virgin her thoughts. It was a long, calm, mute prayer, unbroken by thrill, start, or shiver. Twice she made the sign of the cross, glanced for an instant at the Madonna, and rose. Then she put the chair back in its place. She tore a strip off the newspaper, and folded it in four. This she placed under the door, thereby effectually shutting out the draught. With a small roll of paper she closed the keyhole, from which she had previously withdrawn the key. She tore another strip and placed it under the window. She stopped up a tiny hole that let in the rain-water. She placed her head against the window fastening to feel if there were any draught: no, the two sides closed so accurately that there was none. She looked round, wondering if the air could get in anywhere. No. She drew the brazier into the middle of the room, and, with a strip of paper lighted at the lamp, set fire to two small pieces of coal. She blew the fire to spread it. Then she carried the light to the bedside and unlooped the white curtains, standing a moment absorbed in thought. She turned to look at the brazier; one coal caught fire from another, and the whole mass was gradually becoming incandescent. She felt an increasing weight in her head. Without hesitation she blew out the light, and, drawing the curtains, lay down on the bed, on the place where she had been accustomed to sleep.
The bright winter sun shed its light on a room flooded with a light haze. Behind the white curtains lay a little dead woman. She was dressed in black, her feet outstretched and close together, her head resting on the pillows. She looked like a child, smaller than in life. Her face was of leaden hue. The hair was unruffled, the mouth open as if in the effort to breathe, the lips violet, the chest slightly elevated, and the rest of the body sunken in the bed. The glazed eyes of the little dead woman were wide open, as if in stupefaction at an incredible spectacle; and round the violet fingers of the leaden-hued hands there was twisted part of a broken rosary of lapis-lazuli.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Gnorsi, corruption of Signora si.
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Heinemann’s International Library.
EDITORS NOTE.
There is nothing in which the Anglo-Saxon world differs more from the world of the Continent of Europe than in its fiction. English readers are accustomed to satisfy their curiosity with English novels, and it is rarely indeed that we turn aside to learn something of the interior life of those other countries the exterior scenery of which is often so familiar to us. We climb the Alps, but are content to know nothing of the pastoral romances of Switzerland. We steam in and out of the picturesque fjords of Norway, but never guess what deep speculation into life and morals is made by the novelists of that sparsely peopled but richly endowed nation. We stroll across the courts of the Alhambra, we are listlessly rowed upon Venetian canals and Lombard lakes, we hasten by night through the roaring factories of Belgium; but we never pause to inquire whether there is now flourishing a Spanish, an Italian, a Flemish school of fiction. Of Russian novels we have lately been taught to become partly aware, but we do not ask ourselves whether Poland may not possess a Dostoieffsky and Portugal a Tolstoï.
Yet, as a matter of fact, there is no European country that has not, within the last half-century, felt the dew of revival on the threshing-floor of its worn-out schools of romance. Everywhere there has been shown by young men, endowed with a talent for narrative, a vigorous determination to devote themselves to a vivid and sympathetic interpretation of nature and of man. In almost every language, too, this movement has tended to display itself more and more in the direction of what is reported and less of what is created. Fancy has seemed to these young novelists a poorer thing than observation; the world of dreams fainter than the world of men. They have not been occupied mainly with what might be or what should be, but with what is, and, in spite of all their shortcomings, they have combined to produce a series of pictures of existing society in each of their several countries such as cannot fail to form an archive of documents invaluable to futurity.
But to us they should be still more valuable. To travel in a foreign country is but to touch its surface. Under the guidance of a novelist of genius we penetrate to the secrets of a nation, and talk the very language of its citizens. We may go to Normandy summer after summer and know less of the manner of life that proceeds under those gnarled orchards of apple-blossom than we learn from one tale of Guy de Maupassant’s. The present series is intended to be a guide to the inner geography of Europe. It offers to our readers a series of spiritual Baedekers and Murrays. It will endeavour to keep pace with every truly characteristic and vigorous expression of the novelist’s art in each of the principal European countries, presenting what is quite new if it is also good, side by side with what is old, if it has not hitherto been presented to our public. That will be selected which gives with most freshness and variety the different aspects of continental feeling, the only limits of selection being that a book shall be, on the one hand, amusing, and, on the other, wholesome.
One difficulty which must be frankly faced is that of subject. Life is now treated in fiction by every race but our own with singular candour. The novelists of the Lutheran North are not more fully emancipated from prejudice in this respect than the novelists of the Catholic South. Everywhere in Europe a novel is looked upon now as an impersonal work, from which the writer, as a mere observer, stands aloof, neither blaming nor applauding. Continental fiction has learned to exclude, in the main, from among the subjects of its attention, all but those facts which are of common experience, and thus the novelists have determined to disdain nothing and to repudiate nothing which is common to humanity; much is freely discussed, even in the novels of Holland and of Denmark, which our race is apt to treat with a much more gingerly discretion. It is not difficult, however, we believe—it is certainly not impossible—to discard all which may justly give offence, and yet to offer to an English public as many of the masterpieces of European fiction as we can ever hope to see included in this library. It will be the endeavour of the editor to search on all hands and in all languages for such books as combine the greatest literary value with the most curious and amusing qualities of manner and matter.
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A knowledge of the practical Sciences has now become a necessity to every educated man. The demands of life are so manifold, however, that of many things one can acquire but a general and superficial knowledge. Ahn and Ollendorff have been an easy road to languages for many a struggling student; Hume and Green have taught us history; but little has been done, thus far, to explain to the uninitiated the most important discoveries and practical inventions of the present day. Is it not important that we should know how the precious metals can be tested as to their value; how the burning powers of fuel can be ascertained; what wonderful physical properties the various gases possess; and to what curious and powerful purposes heat can be adapted? Ought we not to know more of the practical application and the working of that almost unfathomable mystery—electricity? Should we not know how the relations of the Poles to the magnet-needle are tested; how we can ascertain by special analysis what produce will grow in particular soils, and what will not, and what artificial means can be used to improve the produce?
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The first volume will be a Manual on the Art of Assaying Precious Metals, and will be found valuable not only to the amateur, but to the assayer, metallurgist, chemist, and miner. The work will be a desirable addition to the libraries of Mining Companies, engineers, bankers, and bullion brokers, as well as to experts in the Art of Assaying.
The second volume of the Series is written by Professor Kimball, and deals with the physical properties of Gases. He has taken into account all the most recent works on “the third state of matter,” including Crooke’s recent researches on “radiant matter.” There is a chapter also on Avogadro’s law and the Kinetic theory, which chemical as well as physical students will read with interest.
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The first three volumes are now ready. Others will follow, written, like these, by thoroughly competent writers in their own departments; and each volume will be complete in itself.
Heinemann’s Scientific Handbooks.
I.
MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES.
By Walter Lee Brown, B.Sc.
Revised, corrected, and considerably enlarged, with a chapter on THE ASSAYING OF FUEL, &c., by A. B. Griffiths, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S.
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Colliery Guardian.—“A delightful and fascinating book.”
Financial World.—“The most complete and practical manual on everything which concerns assaying of all which have come before us.”
North British Economist.—“With this book the amateur may become an expert. Bankers and Bullion Brokers are equally likely to find it useful.”
II.
THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES.
By Arthur L. Kimball,
of the Johns Hopkins University.
In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 5s.
CONTENTS.
| Introduction. | Thermodynamics of Gases. |
| Pressure and Buoyancy. | Avogadro’s Law and the Kinetic Theory. |
| Elasticity and Expansion with heat. | Geissler Tubes and Radiant Matter. |
| Gases and Vapours. | Air-Pumps and High Vacua. |
| Diffusion and Occlusion. | Conclusion. |
Chemical News.—“The man of culture who wishes for a general and accurate acquaintance with the physical properties of gases, will find in Mr. Kimball’s work just what he requires.”
Iron.—“We can highly recommend this little book.”
Manchester Guardian.—“Mr. Kimball has the too rare merit of describing first the facts, and then the hypotheses invented to limn them together.”
III.
HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY.
By Professor R. H. Thurston, of Cornell University.
In One Volume, small crown 8vo. Illustrated, 5s.
CONTENTS.
| The Philosophers’ Ideas of Heat. | Air and Gas Engines, their Work and their Promise. |
| The Science of Thermodynamics. | The Development of the Steam Engine. |
| Heat Transfer and the World’s Industries. | Summary and Conclusion. |
OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION.
Mr. WILLIAM HEINEMANN’S Announcements
AND
New Publications.
The Books mentioned in this List can
be obtained to order by any Bookseller
if not in stock, or will be sent
by the Publisher post free on receipt
of price.
Mr. William Heinemann’s List.
Now Ready.
THE CURE OF CONSUMPTION.
8vo, Wrapper, 1s.; or Limp Cloth, 1s. 6d.
COMMUNICATIONS ON
A REMEDY
FOR
TUBERCULOSIS.
By Professor ROBERT KOCH, Berlin.
Authorised Translation.
From The Times, leading article, November 17, 1890:—“It has been acknowledged, at any time during the last year or two, that the discovery of a cure for tuberculosis was not only possible but even likely; and that which is now announced comes with the highest recommendations and from the most trustworthy source.”
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, 6s.
THE LIFE OF HENRIK IBSEN.
By HENRIK JÆGER.
TRANSLATED BY CLARA BELL.
With the Verse done into English from the Norwegian Original by EDMUND GOSSE.
St. James’s Gazette.—“Admirably translated. Deserves a cordial and emphatic welcome.”
Guardian.—“Ibsen’s dramas at present enjoy a considerable vogue, and their admirers will rejoice to find full descriptions and criticisms in Mr. Jæger’s book.”
Academy.—“We welcome it heartily. An unqualified boon to the many English students of Ibsen.”
THREE NEW PLAYS.
Now ready.
In One Volume, Small 4to,
HEDDA GABLER:
A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS.
By HENRIK IBSEN.
Translated by EDMUND GOSSE.
In One Volume, Small 4to,
THE FRUITS OF ENLIGHTENMENT:
A COMEDY IN FOUR ACTS.
By Count LYON TOLSTOI.
Translated by E. J. DILLON.
In Preparation.
In One Volume, Small 4to,
MAHOMET:
A DRAMA.
By HALL CAINE.
In the Press.
In 8vo,
THE SALON OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF.
LETTERS AND JOURNALS.
With Drawings and Studies by the youthful Artist.
In the Press.
In Two Volumes, Demy 8vo,
De Quincey Memorials.
IN LETTERS AND OTHER RECORDS HERE FIRST PUBLISHED, WITH COMMUNICATIONS FROM COLERIDGE, THE WORDSWORTHS, MRS. HANNAH MORE, PROFESSOR WILSON, AND OTHERS OF NOTE.
Edited, with Introduction, Notes, and Narrative,
By ALEXANDER H. JAPP, LL.D., F.R.S.E.
These volumes include letters to De Quincey from his mother whilst he was still at school, from his sisters Jane and Mary, his brothers Henry and Richard, and his guardian, the Rev. Samuel Hall. Letters also from the Marquis of Sligo, Professor Wilson, Sir W. Hamilton, “Cyril Thornton,” Hannah More, the Brontës, Coleridge, Professor T. P. Nichol, the Wordsworths, and many others, add to the value of the book, and with De Quincey’s own letters, throw new light on many points in his career, and present confirmation by documentary evidence of the truth of some of his statements regarding the most extraordinary incidents in his early career, some of which have been doubted at various times.
The work will be handsomely printed, in two volumes, and will be illustrated by various portraits of De Quincey and members of the De Quincey family.
Early in 1891.
In two Volumes, Crown 8vo,
THE POSTHUMOUS WORKS OF THOMAS DE QUINCEY.
Volume I.
ADDITIONAL SUSPIRIA DE PROFUNDIS.
WITH ESSAYS, CRITICAL, HISTORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, PHILOSOPHICAL, IMAGINATIVE, AND HUMOROUS.
Volume II.
CONVERSATION AND COLERIDGE.
WITH OTHER ESSAYS.
Recovered from the Author’s Original MSS., and Edited by
Alexander H. Japp, LL.D., F.R.S.E., &c.
In announcing a collection of unpublished writings of De Quincey, the publisher believes he is presenting to the public an essential addition to every library, as without these volumes the editions of De Quincey’s works now before the public will be incomplete. The additional Suspiria alone would justify this claim for it, some of them being absolutely necessary to complete the significance of the Suspiria already published. In addition to this there are other essays, on history, speculation, criticism, and theology, which will attract and appeal to a varied class of readers. A collection of notes under the heading Brevia are added, which will give the reader closer access to De Quincey in his private life and thoughts than anything that has hitherto been published. By means of these notes the reader is, as it were, introduced to the opium-eater when he was communing with himself by means of his pen.
In the Press.
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF HEINRICH HEINE.
I.
PICTURES OF TRAVEL.
TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES GODFREY LELAND, M.A., F.R.L.S.,
President of the Gypsy Lore Society, &c. &c.
A want has long been felt and often expressed by different writers for a complete English edition of Heine’s works. That this has never been done is the more remarkable, because Heine is, next to Goethe, the most universally popular author in Germany, and one who, although he termed himself an unlicked Teutonic savage, wrote in a style and manner which have made him a leading favourite in all countries.
The first volume will be the Reisebilder, or Pictures of Travel, probably the most brilliant and entertaining, while at the same time the most instructive or thought-inspiring work of its kind ever written; to be followed by II., Florentine Nights, Schnabelewopski, and The Rabbi of Bacharach; and III., The Book of Songs. Other volumes will be announced later.
Dr. Garnett is preparing a “Life of Heine,” which will be uniform with this edition of Heine’s works.
A Large Paper Edition will be printed, limited to one hundred and fifty copies, numbered, and signed by the translator.
Now Ready.
In Two Volumes 8vo, £3, 13s. 6d.
THE GENESIS OF THE UNITED STATES.
A Narrative of the Movement in England, 1605-1616, which resulted in the Plantation of North America by Englishmen, disclosing the Contest between England and Spain for the Possession of the Soil now occupied by the United States of America; set forth through a series of Historical Manuscripts now first printed, together with a Re-issue of Rare Contemporaneous Tracts, accompanied by Bibliographical Memoranda, Notes, and Brief Biographies.
Collected, Arranged, and Edited
By ALEXANDER BROWN,
Member of the Virginia Historical Society and of the American Historical Association, Fellow of the Royal Historical Society.
With 100 Portraits, Maps, and Plans.
The crucial period of English occupancy of North America was that included between the return of Weymouth to England in July 1605, and closing with the return of Dale to England in July 1616. This period has hitherto been most imperfectly understood, partly because of the misrepresentations made by early authorities who have been followed too implicitly, but chiefly because of the ignorance by later historians, and even by early writers, of the part played by Spain in attempting to thwart the movements of England.
No historical work for many years has attracted such attention as is sure to be given to this. Its peculiar significance consists in the fact that it contains so much important matter never before printed in any language. Mr. Brown’s researches, pursued through many years and at large expense, were rewarded by the discovery, in the secret archives of Spain, of numerous documents throwing light on the contest in Europe for the possession of the American Continent. These documents, with rare tracts of that period (in all 365 papers, of which 294 are now for the first time made public), accompanied by Bibliographical Memoranda, Notes, Maps and Plans, Portraits and Autographs, and a Comprehensive Biographical Index, lend special value and importance to this work.
A prospectus, with specimen pages and full description, will be sent on application. Orders may be sent to Booksellers, or direct to the Publisher.
HEINEMANN’S SCIENTIFIC HANDBOOKS.
Now Ready.
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 7s. 6d.
MANUAL OF ASSAYING GOLD, SILVER, COPPER, AND LEAD ORES.
By WALTER LEE BROWN, B.Sc.
Revised, Corrected, and considerably Enlarged,
WITH A CHAPTER ON THE ASSAYING OF FUEL, ETC.
By A. B. GRIFFITHS, Ph.D., F.R.S. (Edin.), F.C.S.
This work gives full details of the assaying and valuation of ores containing gold, silver, copper, and lead. The assaying of gold and silver bullion, fuels, &c., and full descriptions are given of the necessary apparatus, appliances, and re-agents, the whole being fully illustrated by eighty-seven figures in the text.
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s.
THE PHYSICAL PROPERTIES OF GASES.
By ARTHUR L. KIMBALL, Of the Johns Hopkins University.
CONTENTS.
| Introduction. | Diffusion and Occlusion. |
| Pressure and Buoyancy. | Thermodynamics of Gases. |
| Elasticity and Expansion with heat. | Avogadro’s Land and the Kinetic Theory. |
| Gases and Vapours. | Geissler Tubes and Radiant Matter. |
| Air-Pumps and High Vacua. | Conclusion. |
In One Volume, Crown 8vo, Illustrated, 5s.
HEAT AS A FORM OF ENERGY.
By Professor R. H. THURSTON,
Of Cornell University.
CONTENTS.
| The Philosophers’ Ideas of Heat. | Air and Gas Engines, their Work and their Promise. |
| The Science of Thermodynamics. | The Development of the Steam Engine. |
| Heat Transfer and the World’s Industries. | Summary and Conclusion. |
In preparation.
In One Volume, Demy 8vo,
DENMARK:
ITS HISTORY, TOPOGRAPHY, LANGUAGE, LITERATURE, FINE ARTS, SOCIAL LIFE, AND FINANCE.
Edited by H. WEITEMEYER.
With a Coloured Map.
Dedicated, by Permission, to H.R.H. The Princess of Wales.
In One Volume, 8vo.
THE COMING TERROR.
ESSAYS.
By ROBERT BUCHANAN.
In One Volume, Crown 8vo.
GIRLS AND WOMEN.
By E. CHESTER.
A NEW NOVEL
By OUIDA.
A NEW NOVEL
By FLORENCE WARDEN.
A NEW NOVEL
By HANNAH LYNCH.
Heinemann’s International Library.
Edited by EDMUND GOSSE.
Each Volume will have an Introduction specially written by the Editor.
Just Published.
WORK WHILE YE HAVE THE LIGHT.
A TALE OF THE EARLY CHRISTIANS.
By COUNT LYON TOLSTOI.
Translated from the Russian by E. J. Dillon, Ph.D.
Glasgow Herald.—“Mr. Gosse gives a brief biographical sketch of Tolstoi, and an interesting estimate of his literary productions.”
Scotsman.—“It is impossible to convey any adequate idea of the simplicity and force with which the work is unfolded; no one who reads the book will dispute its author’s greatness.”
Liverpool Mercury.—“Marked by all the old power of the great Russian novelist.”
Manchester Guardian.—“Readable and well translated; full of high and noble feeling.”
In the Press.
FANTASY.
By MATILDE SERAO.
Translated from the Italian by Henry Harland and Paul Sylvester.
FROTH.
By A. P. VALDÈS.
Translated from the Spanish by CLARA BELL.
THE COMMANDER’S DAUGHTERS.
By JONAS LIE.
Translated by A. L. BRAKSTAD.
THE CHIEF JUSTICE.
By Karl Emil Franzos.
Author of “For the Right,” &c.
Translated from the German by Miles Corbet.
Manchester Guardian.—“Simple, forcible, and intensely tragic. It is a very powerful study, singularly grand in its simplicity.”
Sunday Times.—“A series of dramatic scenes welded together with a never-failing interest and skill.”
IN GOD’S WAY.
By Björnstjerne Björnson.
Translated from the Norwegian by Elizabeth Carmichael.
With Introduction by Edmund Gosse.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.; or Paper Covers, 2s. 6d.
Athenæum.—“Without doubt the most important, and the most interesting work published during the twelve months.... There are descriptions which certainly belong to the best and cleverest things our literature has ever produced. Amongst the many characters, the doctor’s wife is unquestionably the first. It would be difficult to find anything more tender, soft, and refined than this charming personage.”
Saturday Review.—“The English reader could desire no better introduction to contemporary foreign fiction than this notable novel.”
Speaker.—“'In God’s Way’ is really a notable book, showing the author’s deep insight into character, giving evidence that his hand has lost none of its cunning in the delineation of Scandinavian character, and proving, too, how the widespread spirit of criticism is affecting Northern Europe as elsewhere.”
PIERRE AND JEAN.
By Guy de Maupassant.
Translated from the French by Clara Bell.
With Introduction by Edmund Gosse.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.; or Paper Covers, 2s. 6d.
Pall Mall Gazette.—“So fine and faultless, so perfectly balanced, so steadily progressive, so clear and simple and satisfying. It is admirable from beginning to end.”
Athenæum.—“Ranks amongst the best gems of modern French fiction.”
The Books of which the titles follow
this have been published during
the present year.
THE GENTLE ART OF MAKING ENEMIES
As pleasingly exemplified in many instances, wherein the serious ones of this earth, carefully exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to indiscretions and unseemliness, while overcome by an undue sense of right. By J. M’Neil Whistler. In One Volume, pott 4to, 10s. 6d.
Punch, June 21.—“The book in itself, in its binding, print, and arrangement, is a work of art.”
Punch, June 28.—“A work of rare humour, a thing of beauty and a joy for now and ever.”
THE PASSION PLAY AT OBERAMMERGAU, 1890.
By F. W. Farrar, D.D., F.R.S.,
Archdeacon and Canon of Westminster, &c. &c.
In One Volume, small 4to, 2s. 6d.
Spectator.—“Among the many accounts that have been written this year of 'The Passion Play,’ one of the most picturesque, the most interesting, and the most reasonable, is this sketch of Archdeacon Farrar’s.... This little book will be read with delight by those who have, and by those who have not, visited Oberammergau.”
THE GARDEN’S STORY; or,
Pleasures and Trials of an Amateur Gardener.
By G. H. Ellwanger.
With an Introduction by the Rev. C. Wolley Dod.
In One Volume, 12mo, with Illustrations, 5s.
Scotsman.—“Deserves every recommendation that a pleasant-looking page can give it; for it deals with a charming subject in a charming manner. Mr. Ellwanger talks delightfully, with instruction but without pedantry, of the flowers, the insects, and the birds.... It will give pleasure to every reader who takes the smallest interest in flowers, and ought to find many readers.”
New Works of Fiction.
THE BONDMAN. A New Saga.
By Hall Caine.
Fourth Edition (Twelfth Thousand).
In One Volume. Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
Mr. Gladstone.—“The 'Bondman’ is a work of which I recognise the freshness, vigour, and sustained interest no lese than its integrity of aim.”
Count Tolstoi.—“A book I have read with deep interest.”
Standard.—“Its argument is grand, and it is sustained with a power that is almost marvellous.”
IN THE VALLEY. A Novel.
By Harold Frederic,
Author of “The Lawton Girl,” “Seth’s Brother’s Wife,” &c. &c.
In Three Volumes. Crown 8vo, with Illustrations.
Athenæum.—“A romantic story book, graphic and exciting, not merely in the central picture itself, but also in its weird surroundings. This is a novel deserving to be read.”
Manchester Examiner.—“Certain to win the reader’s admiration. 'In the Valley’ is a novel that deserves to live.”
Scotsman.—“A work of real ability; it stands apart from the common crowd of three-volume novels.”
A MARKED MAN: Some Episodes in his Life.
By Ada Cambridge,
Author of “Two Years’ Time,” “A Mere Chance,” &c. &c.
In Three Volumes, crown 8vo.
Morning Post.—“A depth of feeling, a knowledge of the human heart, and an amount of tact that one rarely finds. Should take a prominent place among the novels of the season.”
Illustrated London News.—“The moral tone of this story, rightly considered, is pure and noble, though it deals with the problem of an unhappy marriage.”
Pall Mall Gazette.—“Contains one of the best written stories of a mésalliance that is to be found in modern fiction.”
THE MOMENT AFTER: A Tale of the Unseen.
By Robert Buchanan.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 10s. 6d.
Athenæum.—“Should be read—in daylight.”
Observer.—“A clever tour de force.”
Guardian.—“Particularly impressive, graphic, and powerful.”
Bristol Mercury.—“Written with the same poetic feeling and power which have given a rare charm to Mr. Buchanan’s previous prose writings.”
COME FORTH!
By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps and Herbert D. Ward.
In One Volume, imperial 16mo, 7s. 6d.
Scotsman.—“'Come Forth!’ is the story of the raising of Lazarus, amplified into a dramatic love-story.... It has a simple, forthright dramatic interest such as is seldom attained except in purely imaginative fiction.”
THE MASTER OF THE MAGICIANS.
By Elizabeth Stuart Phelps and Herbert D. Ward.
In One Volume, imperial 16mo, 7s. 6d.
The Athenæum.—“A success in Biblical fiction.”
THE DOMINANT SEVENTH: A Musical Story.
By Kate Elizabeth Clark.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 5s.
Speaker.—“A very romantic story.”
A VERY STRANGE FAMILY: A Novel.
By F. W. Robinson,
Author of “Grandmother’s Money,” “Lazarus in London,” &c. &c.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 3s. 6d.
Glasgow Herald.—“An ingeniously-devised plot, of which the interest is kept up to the very last page. A judicious blending of humour and pathos further helps to make the book delightful reading from start to finish.”
HAUNTINGS: Fantastic Stories.
By Vernon Lee,
Author of “Baldwin,” “Miss Brown,” &c. &c.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s.
Pall Mall Gazette.—“Well imagined, cleverly constructed, powerfully executed. 'Dionea’ is a fine and impressive idea, and 'Oke of Okehurst’ a masterly story.”
PASSION THE PLAYTHING. A Novel.
By R. Murray Gilchrist.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s.
Athenæum.—“This well-written story must be read to be appreciated.”
Yorkshire Post.—“A book to lay hold of the reader.”
THE LABOUR MOVEMENT IN AMERICA.
By Richard T. Ely, Ph.D.,
Associate in Political Economy, Johns Hopkins University.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 5s.
Weekly Despatch.—“There is much to interest and instruct.”
Saturday Review.—“Both interesting and valuable.”
England.—“Full of information and thought.”
National Reformer.—“Chapter iii. deals with the growth and present condition of labour organisations in America ... this forms a most valuable page of history.”
ARABIC AUTHORS: A Manual of Arabian History and Literature.
By F.F. Arbuthnot, M.R.A.S.,
Author of “Early Ideas,” “Persian Portraits,” &c.
In One Volume 8vo, 10s.
Manchester Examiner.—“The whole work has been carefully indexed, and will prove a handbook of the highest value to the student who wishes to gain a better acquaintance with Arabian letters.”
IDLE MUSINGS: Essays in Social Mosaic.
By E. Conder Gray,
Author of “Wise Words and Loving Deeds,” &c. &c.
In One Volume, crown 8vo, 6s.
Saturday Review.—“Light, brief, and bright are the 'essays in social mosaic.’ Mr. Gray ranges like a butterfly from high themes to trivial with a good deal of dexterity and a profusion of illustrations.”
Graphic.—“Pleasantly written, will serve admirably to wile away an idle half-hour or two.”
IVY AND PASSION FLOWER: Poems.
By Gerard Bendall,
Author of “Estelle,” &c. &c.
12mo, 3s. 6d.
Scotsman.—“Will be read with pleasure.”
Woman.—“There is a delicacy of touch and simplicity about the poems which is very attractive.”
Musical World.—“The poems are delicate specimens of art, graceful and polished.”
VERSES.
By Gertrude Hall.
12mo, 3s. 6d.
Musical World.—“Interesting volume of verse.”
Woman.—“Very sweet and musical.”
Manchester Guardian.—“Will be welcome to every lover of poetry who takes it up.”
London: WM. HEINEMANN, 21, Bedford Street, W.C.
Telegraphic Address—Sunlocks, London.
December 1890.