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Tales and Novels, Vol. V by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales and Novels, Vol. V




"Then, my dear sir, where is the necessity of your going?"

"My health--my health--the physicians say I cannot live in England."

Mr. Walsingham, who had but little faith in physicians, laughed, and
exclaimed, "But, my dear sir, when you see so many men alive in England
at this instant, why should you believe in the impossibility of your
living even in this pestiferous country?"

Mr. Palmer half smiled, felt for his snuff-box, and then replied, "I am
sure I should like to live in England, if my health would let me; but,"
continued he, his face growing longer, and taking the hypochondriac cast
as he pronounced the word, "_but, _Mr. Walsingham, you don't consider
that my health is really--really--"

"Really very good, I see," interrupted Mr. Walsingham, "and I am
heartily glad to see it."

"Sir! sir! you do not see it, I assure you. I have a great opinion of
your judgment, but as you are not a physician--"

"And because I have not taken out my diploma, you think I can neither
see nor understand," interrupted Mr. Walsingham. "But, nevertheless,
give me leave to feel your pulse."

"Do you really understand a pulse?" said Mr. Palmer, baring his wrist,
and sighing.

"As good a pulse as ever man had," pronounced Mr. Walsingham.

"You don't say so? why the physicians tell me--"

"Never mind what they tell you--if they told you the _truth_, they'd
tell you they want fees."

Mrs. Beaumont, quite startled by the tremendously loud voice in which
Mr. Walsingham pronounced the word _truth_, rose, and rang the bell for
her carriage.

"Mr. Palmer," said she, "I am afraid we must run away, for I dread the
night air for invalids."

"My good madam, I am at your orders," answered Mr. Palmer, buttoning
himself up to the chin.

"Mrs. Beaumont, surely you don't think this gentleman an invalid?" said
Mr. Walsingham.

"I only wish he would not think himself such," replied Mrs. Beaumont.

"Ah! my dear friends," said Mr. Palmer, "I really am, I certainly am a
sad--sad--"

"Hypochondriac," said Mr. Walsingham. "Pardon me--you are indeed, and
every body is afraid to tell you so but myself."

Mrs. Beaumont anxiously looked out of the window to see if her carriage
was come to the door.

"Hypochondriac! not in the least, my dear sir," said Mr. Palmer. "If
you were to hear what Dr. ---- and Dr. ---- say of my case, and your
own Dr. Wheeler here, who has a great reputation too--shall I tell you
what he says?"

In a low voice, Mr. Palmer, holding Mr. Walsingham by the button,
proceeded to recapitulate some of Dr. Wheeler's prognostics; and at
every pause, Mr. Walsingham turned impatiently, so as almost to twist
off the detaining button, repeating, in the words of the king of Prussia
to his physician, "_C'est un ane! C'est un ane! C'est un ane!_"--"Pshaw!
I don't understand French," cried Mr. Palmer, angrily. His warmth
obliged him to think of unbuttoning his coat, which operation (after
stretching his neckcloth to remove an uneasy feeling in his throat) he
was commencing, when Mrs. Beaumont graciously stopped his hand.

"The carriage is at the door, my dear sir:--instead of unbuttoning your
coat, had not you better put this cambric handkerchief round your throat
before we go into the cold air?"

Mr. Palmer put it on, as if in defiance of Mr. Walsingham, and followed
Mrs. Beaumont, who led him off in triumph. Before he reached the
carriage-door, however, his anger had spent its harmless force; and
stopping to shake hands with him, Mr. Palmer said, "My good Mr.
Walsingham, I am obliged to you. I am sure you wish me well, and I thank
you for speaking so freely; I love honest friends--but as to my being a
hypochondriac, believe me, you are mistaken!"

"And as to Dr. Wheeler," said Mrs. Beaumont, as she drew up the glass of
the carriage, and as they drove from the door, "Dr. Wheeler certainly
does not deserve to be called _un ane,_ for he is a man of whose medical
judgment I have the highest opinion. Though I am sure I am very candid
to acknowledge it in the present case, when his opinion is so much
against my wishes, and all our wishes, and must, I fear, deprive us so
soon of the company of our dear Mr. Palmer."

"Why, yes, I must go, I must go to Jamaica," said Mr. Palmer in a more
determined tone than he had yet spoken on the subject.

Mrs. Beaumont silently rejoiced; and as her son imprudently went on
arguing in favour of his own wishes, she leaned back in the carriage,
and gave herself up to a pleasing reverie, in which she anticipated the
successful completion of all her schemes. Relieved from the apprehension
that Captain Walsingham's arrival might disconcert her projects, she was
now still further re-assured by Mr. Palmer's resolution to sail
immediately. One day more, and she was safe. Let Mr. Palmer but sail
without seeing Captain Walsingham, and this was all Mrs. Beaumont asked
of fortune; the rest her own genius would obtain. She was so absorbed in
thought, that she did not know she was come home, till the carriage
stopped at her door. Sometimes, indeed, her reverie had been interrupted
by Mr. Palmer's praises of the Walsinghams, and by a conversation which
she heard going on about Captain Walsingham's life and adventures: but
Captain Walsingham was safe in London; and whilst he was at that
distance, she could bear to hear his eulogium. Having lamented that she
had been deprived of her dear Amelia all this day, and having arranged
her plan of operations for the morrow, Mrs. Beaumont retired to rest.
And even in dreams her genius invented fresh expedients, wrote notes of
apology, or made speeches of circumvention.




CHAPTER XI.

"And now, as oft in some distempered state,
On one nice trick depends the general fate."--POPE.


That old politician, the cardinal of Lorraine, used to say, that "a lie
believed but for one hour doth many times in a nation produce effects
of seven years' continuance." At this rate what wonderful effects might
our heroine have produced, had she practised in public life, instead of
confining her genius to family politics! The game seemed now in her own
hands. The day, the important day, on which all her accounts with her
son were to be settled; the day when Mr. Palmer's will was to be
signed, the last day he was to stay in England, arrived. Mr. Beaumont's
birthday, his coming of age, was of course hailed with every possible
demonstration of joy. The village bells rang, the tenants were invited
to a dinner and a dance, and an ox was to be roasted whole; and the
preparations for rejoicing were heard all over the house. Mr. Palmer's
benevolent heart was ever ready to take a share in the pleasures of his
fellow-creatures, especially in the festivities of the lower classes.
He appeared this morning in high good humour. Mrs. Beaumont, with a
smile on her lips, yet with a brow of care, was considering how she
could make pleasure subservient to interest, and how she could get
_business_ done in the midst of the amusements of the day. Most
auspiciously did her day of business begin by Mr. Palmer's declaring to
her that his will was actually made; that with the exception of certain
legacies, he had left his whole fortune to her during her life, with
remainder to her son and daughter. "By this arrangement," continued he,
"I trust I shall ultimately serve my good friends the Walsinghams, as I
wish: for though I have not seen as much of that family as I should
have been glad to have done, yet the little I have seen convinces me
that they are worthy people."

"The most worthy people upon earth. You know I have the greatest regard
for them," said Mrs. Beaumont.

"I am really sorry," pursued Mr. Palmer, "that I have not been able to
make acquaintance with Captain Walsingham. Mr. Walsingham told me his
whole history yesterday, and it has prepossessed me much in his favour."

"He is, indeed, a charming, noble-hearted young hero," said Mrs.
Beaumont; "and I regret, as much as you do, that you cannot see him
before you leave England."

"However," continued Mr. Palmer, "as I was saying, the Walsinghams will,
I trust, be the better sooner or later by me; for I think I foresee that
Captain Walsingham, if a certain Spanish lady were out of the question,
would propose for Amelia, and would persuade her to give up this foolish
fancy of hers for that baronet."

Mrs. Beaumont shook her head, as if she believed this could not
possibly be done.

"Well, well, if it can't be, it can't. The girl's inclination must not
be controlled. I don't wonder, however, that you are vexed at missing
such a husband for her as young Walsingham. But, my good madam, we must
make the best of it--let the girl marry her baronet. I have left a
legacy of some thousands to Captain Walsingham, as a token of my esteem
for his character; and I am sure, my dear Mrs. Beaumont, his interests
are in good hands when I leave them in yours. In the mean time, I wish
you, as the representative of my late good friend, Colonel Beaumont, to
enjoy all I have during your life."

Mrs. Beaumont poured forth such a profusion of kind and grateful
expressions, that Mr. Palmer was quite disconcerted. "No more of this,
my dear madam, no more of this. But there was something I was going to
say, that has gone out of my head. Oh, it was, that the Walsinghams
will, I think, stand a good chance of being the better for me in
another way."

"How?"

"Why you have seen so much more of them than I have--don't you, my dear
madam, see that Miss Walsingham has made a conquest of your son? I
thought I was remarkably slow at seeing these things, and yet I saw it."

"Miss Walsingham is a prodigious favourite of mine. But you know
Edward is so young, and men don't like, now-a-days, to marry young,"
said Mrs. Beaumont.

"Well, let them manage their affairs their own way," said Mr. Palmer;
"all I wish upon earth is to see them happy, or rather to hear of their
happiness, for I shall not see it you know in Jamaica."

"Alas!" said Mrs. Beaumont, in a most affectionate tone, and with a
sigh that seemed to come from her heart; "alas! that is such a
melancholy thought."

Mr. Palmer ended the conversation by inquiring whom he had best ask to
witness his will. Mrs. Beaumont proposed Captain Lightbody and Dr.
Wheeler. The doctor was luckily in the house, for he had been sent for
this morning, to see her poor Amelia, who had caught cold yesterday, and
had a slight feverish complaint.

This was perfectly true. The anxiety that Amelia had suffered of
late--the fear of being forced or ensnared to marry a man she
disliked--apprehensions about the Spanish incognita, and at last the
certainty that Captain Walsingham would not arrive before Mr. Palmer
should have left England, and that consequently the hopes she had
formed from this benevolent friend's interference were vain--all these
things had overpowered Amelia; she had passed a feverish night, and was
really ill. Mrs. Beaumont at any other time would have been much
alarmed; for, duplicity out of the question, she was a fond mother: but
she now was well contented that her daughter should have a day's
confinement to her room, for the sake of keeping her safe out of the
way. So leaving poor Amelia to her feverish thoughts, we proceed with
the business of the day.

Dr. Wheeler, Captain Lightbody, and Mr. Twigg witnessed the will; it
was executed, and a copy of it deposited with Mrs. Beaumont. This was
one great point gained. The next object was her jointure. She had
employed her convenient tame man[3], Captain Lightbody, humbly to
suggest to her son, that some increase of jointure would be proper; and
she was now in anxiety to know how these hints, and others which had
been made by more remote means, would operate. As she was waiting to
see Mr. Lightbody in her dressing-room, to hear the result of his
_suggestions_, the door opened.

"Well, Lightbody! come in--what success?"

She stopped short, for it was not Captain Lightbody, it was her son.
Without taking any notice of what she said, he advanced towards her, and
presented a deed.

"You will do me the favour, mother, to accept of this addition to your
jointure," said he. "It was always my intention to do this, the moment
it should be in my power; and I had flattered myself that you would not
have thought it necessary to suggest to me what I knew I ought to do, or
to hint to me your wishes by any intermediate person."

Colouring deeply, for it hurt her conscience to be found out, Mrs.
Beaumont was upon the point of disavowing her emissary, but she
recollected that the words which she had used when her son was coming
into the room might have betrayed her. On the other hand, it was not
certain that he had heard them. She hesitated. From the shame of a
disavowal, which would have answered no purpose, but to sink her lower
in her son's opinion, she was, however, saved by his abrupt sincerity.

"Don't say any thing more about it, dear mother," cried he, "but pardon
me the pain I have given you at a time when indeed I wished only to give
pleasure. Promise me, that in future you will let me know your wishes
directly, and from your own lips."

"Undoubtedly--depend upon it, my dearest son. I am quite overpowered.
The fact was, that I could not, however really and urgently necessary it
was to me, bring myself to mention with my own lips what, as a direct
request from me, I knew you could not and would not refuse, however
inconvenient it might be to you to comply. On this account, and on this
account only, I wished you not to know my wants from myself, but from an
intermediate friend."

"Friend!"--Mr. Beaumont could not help repeating with an emphasis
of disdain.

"_Friend_, I only said by courtesy; but I wished you to know my wants
from an intermediate person, that you might not feel yourself in any way
bound, or called upon, and that the refusal might be implied and tacit,
as it were, so that it could lead to no unpleasant feelings between us."

"Ah! my dear mother," said Mr. Beaumont, "I have not your knowledge of
the world, or of human nature; but from all I have heard, seen, and
felt, I am convinced that more unpleasant feelings are created in
families, by these false delicacies, and managements, and hints, and
go-between friends by courtesy, than ever would have been caused by the
parties speaking directly to one another, and telling the plain truth
about their thoughts and wishes. Forgive me if I speak too plainly at
this moment; as we are to live together, I hope, many years, it may
spare us many an unhappy hour."

Mrs. Beaumont wiped her eyes. Her son found it difficult to go on, and
yet, upon his own principles, it was right to proceed.

"Amelia, ma'am! I find she is ill this morning."

"Yes--poor child!"

"I hope, mother--"

"Since," interrupted Mrs. Beaumont, "my dear son wishes always to hear
from me the plain and direct truth, I must tell him, that, as the
guardian of his sister, I think myself accountable to no one for my
conduct with respect to her; and that I should look upon any
interference as an unkind and unjustifiable doubt of my affection for my
daughter. Rest satisfied with this assurance, that her happiness is, in
all I do, my first object; and as I have told her a thousand times, no
force shall be put on her inclinations."

"I have no more to say, no more to ask," said Mr. Beaumont. "This is a
distinct, positive declaration, in which I will confide, and, in future,
not suffer appearances to alarm me. A mother would not keep the word of
promise to the ear, and break it to the hope."

Mrs. Beaumont, feeling herself change countenance, made an attempt to
blow her nose, and succeeded in hiding her face with her handkerchief.

"With respect to myself," continued Mr. Beaumont, "I should also say,
lest you should be in any doubt concerning my sentiments, that though I
have complied with your request to delay for a few weeks--"

"_That_ you need not repeat, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Beaumont.
"I understand all that perfectly."

"Then at the end of this month I shall--and, I hope, with your entire
approbation, propose for Miss Walsingham."

"Time enough," said Mrs. Beaumont, smiling, and tapping her son
playfully on the shoulder, "time enough to talk of that when the end of
the month comes. How often have I seen young men like you change their
minds, and fall in and out of love in the course of one short month! At
any rate," continued Mrs. Beaumont, "let us pass to the order of the
day; for we have time enough to settle other matters; but the order of
the day--a tiresome one, I confess--is to settle accounts."

"I am ready--"

"So am I."

"Then let us go with the accounts to Mr. Palmer, who is also ready,
I am sure."

"But, before we go," said Mrs. Beaumont, whispering, "let us settle what
is to be said about the debts--_your_ debts you know. I fancy you'll
agree with me, that the less is said about this the better; and that, in
short, the best will be to say nothing."

"Why so, madam? Surely you don't think I mean to conceal my debts from
our friend Mr. Palmer, at the very moment when I profess to tell him all
my affairs, and to settle accounts with him and you, as my guardians!"

"With him? But he has never acted, you know, as one of the guardians;
therefore you are not called upon to settle accounts with him."

"Then why, ma'am, did you urge him to come down from London, to be
present at the settlement of these accounts?"

"As a compliment, and because I wish him to be present, as your
father's friend; but it is by no means essential that he should know
every detail."

"I will do whichever you please, ma'am; I will either settle accounts
with or without him."

"Oh! _with_ him, that is, in his presence, to be sure."

"Then he must know the whole."

"Why so? Your having contracted such debts will alter his opinion of
your prudence and of mine, and may, perhaps, essentially alter--alter--"

"His will? Be it so; that is the worst that can happen. As far as I am
concerned, I would rather a thousand times it were so, than deceive him
into a better opinion of me than I deserve."

"Nobly said! so like yourself, and like every thing I could wish: but,
forgive me, if I did for you, what indeed I would not wish you to do for
yourself. I have already told Mr. Palmer that you had no embarrassments;
therefore, you cannot, and I am sure would not, unsay what I have said."

Mr. Beaumont stood fixed in astonishment.

"But why, mother, did not you tell him the whole?"

"My dear love, delicacy prevented me. He offered to relieve you from any
embarrassments, if you had any; but I, having too much delicacy and
pride to let my son put himself under pecuniary obligations, hastily
answered, that you had no debts; for there was no other reply to be
made, without offending poor Palmer, and hurting his generous feelings,
which I would not do for the universe: and I considered too, that as all
Palmer's fortune will come to us in the end--"

"Well, ma'am," interrupted Mr. Beaumont, impatient of all these glosses
and excuses, "the plain state of the case is, that I cannot contradict
what my mother has said; therefore I will not settle accounts at all
with Mr. Palmer."

"And what excuse _can_ I make to him, after sending for him express
from London?"

"That I must leave to you, mother."

"And what reason _can_ I give for thus withdrawing our family-confidence
from such an old friend, and at the very moment when he is doing so much
for us all?"

"That I must leave to you, mother. I withdraw no confidence. I have
pretended none--I will break none."

"Good Heavens! was not all I did and said for _your_ interest?"

"Nothing can be for my interest that is not for my honour, and for
yours, mother. But let us never go over the business again. Now to the
order of the day."

"My dear, dear son," said Mrs. Beaumont, "don't speak so roughly, so
cruelly to me."

Suddenly softened, by seeing the tears standing in his mother's eyes, he
besought her pardon for the bluntness of his manner, and expressed his
entire belief in her affection and zeal for his interests; but, on the
main point, that he would not deceive Mr. Palmer, or directly or
indirectly assert a falsehood, Mr. Beaumont was immoveable. In the midst
of her entreaties a message came from Mr. Palmer, to say that he was
waiting for the accounts, which Mrs. Beaumont wished to settle. "Well,"
said she, much perplexed, "well, come down to him--come, for it is
impossible for me to find any excuse after sending for him from London;
he would think there was something worse than there really is.
Stay--I'll go down first, and sound him; and if it won't do without the
accounts, do you come when I ring the bell; then all I have for it is to
run my chance. Perhaps he may never recollect what passed about your
debts, for the dear good old soul has not the best memory in the world;
and if he should obstinately remember, why, after all, it's only a bit
of false delicacy, and a white lie for a friend and a son, and we can
colour it."

Down went Mrs. Beaumont to sound Mr. Palmer; but though much might be
expected from her address, yet she found it unequal to the task of
convincing this gentleman's plain good sense that it would fatigue him
to see those accounts, which he came so many miles on purpose to settle.
Perceiving him begin to waken to the suspicion that she had some
interest in suppressing the accounts, and hearing him, in an altered
tone, ask, "Madam, is there any mystery in these accounts, that I must
not see them?" she instantly rang the bell, and answered, "Oh, none;
none in the world; only we thought--that is, I feared it might fatigue
you too much, my dear friend, just the day before your journey, and I
was unwilling to lose so many hours of your good company; but since you
are so very kind--here's my son and the papers."




CHAPTER XII.

"A face untaught to feign; a judging eye,
That darts severe upon a rising lie,
And strikes a blush through frontless flattery."


To the settlement of accounts they sat down in due form; and it so
happened, that though this dear good old soul had not the best memory in
the world, yet he had an obstinate recollection of every word Mrs.
Beaumont had said about her son's having no debts or embarrassments. And
great and unmanageable was his astonishment, when the truth came to
light. "It is not," said he, turning to Mr. Beaumont, "that I am
astonished at your having debts; I am sorry for that, to be sure; but
young men are often a little extravagant or so, and I dare
say--particularly as you are so candid and make no excuses about it--I
dare say you will be more prudent in future, and give up the race-horses
as you promise. But--why did not Madam Beaumont tell me the truth? Why
make a mystery, when I wanted nothing but to serve my friends? It was
not using me well--it was not using yourself well. Madam, madam, I am
vexed to the heart, and would not for a thousand pounds--ay, fool as I
am, not for ten thousand pounds, this had happened to me from my good
friend the colonel's widow--a man that would as soon have cut his hand
off. Oh, madam! Madam Beaumont! you have struck me a hard blow at my
time of life. Any thing but this I could have borne; but to have one's
confidence and old friendships shaken at my time of life!"

Mrs. Beaumont was, in her turn, in unfeigned astonishment; for Mr.
Palmer took the matter more seriously, and seemed more hurt by this
discovery of a trifling deviation from truth, than she had foreseen, or
than she could have conceived to be possible, in a case where neither
his interest nor any one of his passions was concerned. It was in vain
that she palliated and explained, and talked of delicacy, and
generosity, and pride, and maternal feelings, and the feelings of a
friend, and all manner of fine and double-refined sentiments; still Mr.
Palmer's sturdy plain sense could not be made to comprehend that a
falsehood is not a falsehood, or that deceiving a friend is using him
well. Her son suffered for her, as his countenance and his painful and
abashed silence plainly showed.

"And does not even my son say any thing for me? Is this friendly?" said
she, unable to enter into his feelings, and thinking that the part of a
friend was to make apologies, right or wrong.--Mr. Palmer shook hands
with Mr. Beaumont, and, without uttering a syllable, they understood one
another perfectly. Mr. Beaumont left the room; and Mrs. Beaumont burst
into tears. Mr. Palmer, with great good-nature, tried to assuage that
shame and compunction which he imagined that she felt. He observed,
that, to be sure, she must feel mortified and vexed with herself, but
that he was persuaded nothing but some mistaken notion of delicacy could
have led her to do what her principles must condemn. Immediately she
said all that she saw would please Mr. Palmer; and following the lead
of his mind, she at last confirmed him in the opinion, that this was an
accidental not an habitual deviation from truth. His confidence in her
was broken, but not utterly destroyed.

"As to the debt," resumed Mr. Palmer, "do not let that give you a
moment's concern; I will put that out of the question in a few minutes.
My share in the cargo of the Anne, which I see is just safely arrived
in the Downs, will more than pay this debt. Your son shall enter upon
his estate unencumbered. No, no--don't thank me; I won't cheat you of
your thanks; it is your son must thank me for this. I do it on his
account. I like the young man. There is an ingenuousness, an honourable
frankness about him, that I love. Instead of his bond for the money, I
shall ask his promise never to have any thing more to do with
race-horses or Newmarket; and his promise I shall think as good as if
it were his bond. Now I am not throwing money away; I'm not doing an
idle ostentatious thing, but one that may, and I hope will, be
essentially useful. For, look you here, my good--look here, Mrs.
Beaumont: a youth who finds himself encumbered with debt on coming to
his estate is apt to think of freeing himself by marrying a fortune
instead of a woman; now instead of freeing a man, this fetters him for
life: and what sort of a friend must that be, who, if he could prevent
it, would let this be done for a few thousand pounds? So I'll go before
I take another pinch of snuff, and draw him an order upon the cargo of
the Anne, lest I should forget it in the hurry of packing and taking
leave, and all those uncomfortable things."

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He might be almost 90 years old in real terms, but Christopher Robin and his bear of very little brain are set to make a literary comeback after the estate of AA Milne agreed to authorise the first-ever official sequel to the much-loved children's books.

Return to the Hundred Acre Wood by author David Benedictus picks up from the poignant ending of Milne's last Pooh book, The House at Pooh Corner, in which Christopher Robin is growing up and heading away to school. "Pooh, promise you won't forget about me, ever. Not even when I'm a hundred," he tells the bear, and they leave together.

The estates of Milne and EH Shepard, who provided the simple but enduring illustrations for the books, said they had been searching for a sequel that would do justice to the original stories for "a good many years".

Although Disney has franchised the characters in a number of films, there has not previously been an authorised literary sequel to Milne's books, Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner, first published in 1926 and 1928. Milne wrote the books for his son Christopher Robin, naming Pooh after his teddy bear.

The sequel, to be published by Egmont Publishing in Britain and Penguin imprint Dutton Children's Books in the US, is due out on 5 October, illustrated by Mark Burgess. Benedictus, who is familiar with the world of Winnie the Pooh after adapting and producing audio versions of the books starring Judi Dench, Stephen Fry and Jane Horrocks, did not reveal any more details, but promised that the book would both "complement and maintain Milne's idea that whatever happens, a little boy and his bear will always be playing".

Michael Brown, chairman of Pooh Properties, which manages the affairs of the Milne and Shepard estates, said the sequel would capture "the spirit and quality" of the original books.

Benedictus said all Milne's well-loved characters, from Tigger to Eeyore, would be making an appearance in his sequel, which features 10 stories and around 150 illustrations. The stories retain their original 1920s setting.

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Review: The Error World: An Affair with Stamps by Simon Garfield

One might say that Margarete Buber-Neumann had a charmed life, had it not been so horrible. She was fortunate - if that is the word - to be sent to a Soviet labour camp in 1939, during a momentary lull in the mass shooting of prisoners. Handed over to the Nazis in 1940, she was similarly lucky to be released from an SS concentration camp in 1945, just days before the remaining prisoners were forced on evacuation marches ending in death. It is a measure of the dismal times she lived through that such events marked her as fortunate, and it is a testament to her skill as a writer that this thoughtful, humane memoir (published in English in 1949) became an international bestseller. From the very first page we are with her, scurrying through Moscow surrounded by images of Stalin. We accompany her throughout the gruelling years ahead, encountering a host of characters, good and bad, and share in her dogged attempt to make sense of the madness of totalitarianism. This revised text is the definitive edition.

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