The authors in whose works we immersed ourselves were Darwin, Haeckel, Herbert Spencer, Whewell (“History of the Inductive Sciences”), Carus, Sterne, etc.; and, above all, the book which was a revelation to me, Buckle’s “History of Civilization.” I had already read this book, and several of those just mentioned, before my marriage; and I had brought them in my trunk. Now My Own had also to make their acquaintance. I had the advantage over him that I had read more works on the natural sciences than he had; he had the advantage over me of loving nature more passionately than I did. The magnificence of a beautiful landscape, the sublimity of the sea, and the glory of the glittering firmament inspired in him more than enjoyment and admiration; they inspired him with religious awe. And he had such ability to see what nature has of sweet and mighty fascination, that from it grew that force of description which he put into his books on the Caucasus. The landscapes which formed the background of his novels _Daredjan_ and _Aznaour_ were painted with glowing, brilliant colors, and won the unanimous praise of the critics. In analysis of character, construction of plot, inventiveness, his novels were less successful—it was for this reason that he achieved no abiding place in literature; but in the reproduction of nature he was a past master. The secret of this faculty was that he loved nature. Any love multiplies any power tenfold. As I have already said, we were mutually complementary,—we helped each other upward. He taught me to enjoy nature, I helped him to understand her. At my desire he had to read—read with me—all those works which I had already looked into, and in which I now for the first time thoroughly steeped myself. This grasping of a new truth by two together makes the possession twice as certain, the comprehension twice as clear. A rich life we led there in that far-off peasant cottage, around which at night we often heard the jackals howling. Rich, although our income was the scantest; although our housekeeping was so insignificant that it happened when our only housemaid was ill that we ourselves got the midday meal ready, and once—full of gayety over it—scrubbed the floors ourselves with sand and scrubbing-brush. Rich in happenings and in experiences, although for weeks at a time we saw not a human being and nothing actually happened to us; the source of our happenings was in our books and our hearts. The rarest of all earthly fates was ours: complete, firmly-anchored happiness. XXI OUR LAST DAYS IN THE CAUCASUS The Dedopali’s death · Death of my mother · Prospect of coming home · Translation of “The Tiger’s Skin” · Sojourn in a Mingrelian village · A bit of Georgian history · Queen Tamara