Bramah / Gautier / Hornung Big Book of Best Short Stories - Volume 9

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-96724-814-2
Verlag: Tacet Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 9, 1071 Seiten

Reihe: Big Book of Best Short Stories

This book contains70 short storiesfrom 10 classic, prize-winning and noteworthy authors. The stories were carefully selected by the criticAugust Nemo, in a collection that will please theliterature lovers. For more exciting titles, be sure to check out our 7 Best Short Stories and Essential Novelists collections. This book contains: - John Galsworthy:The First and Last A Stoic The Apple Tree The Juryman Indian Summer of a Forsyte The Hedonist Buttercup Night - Théophile Gautier:Clarimonde The Mummy's Foot One Of Cleopatra's Night Omphale: A Rococo Story King Candaules Arria Marcella The Romance of a Mummy - Paul Heyse:The Dead Lake Doomed Beatrice Beginning, and End L'Arrabiata! Count Ernest's Home Blind - Selma Lagerlöf:The Holy Night The Emperor's Vision The Wise Men's Well Bethlehem's Children The Flight Into Egypt In Nazareth In The Temple - Thomas Burke:The Chink and the Child The Father of Yoto Gracie Goodnight The Paw The Cue Beryl, the Croucher and the Rest of England The Sign of the Lamp - E. Nesbit:The Ebony Frame John Charrington's Wedding Uncle Abraham's Romance The Mystery Of The Semi-Detached From The Dead Man-Size In Marble The Mass For The Dead - Arthur Morrison:That Brute Simmos A Poor Stick Behind the Shade To Bow Bridges A Conversation All That Messuage Three Hounds - Stacy Aumonier:A Source of Irritation Where Was Wych Street? Burney's Laugh The Chinese Philosopher and the European War Cricket George 'Solemn-Looking Blokes'

John Galsworthy (14 August 1867 31 January 1933) was an English novelist and playwright. Notable works include The Forsyte Saga (19061921) and its sequels, A Modern Comedy and End of the Chapter. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1932. *** Théophile Gautier, byname le bon Théo, (born August 31, 1811, Tarbes, Francedied October 23, 1872, Neuilly-sur-Seine), poet, novelist, critic, and journalist. *** Paul Heyse (15 March 1830 2 April 1914) was a distinguished German writer and translator. A member of two important literary societies, the Tunnel über der Spree in Berlin and Die Krokodile in Munich, he wrote novels, poetry, 177 short stories, and about sixty dramas. The sum of Heyse's many and varied productions made him a dominant figure among German men of letters. *** Selma Lagerlöf, in full Selma Ottiliana Lovisa Lagerlöf, (born Nov. 20, 1858, Mårbacka, Swedendied March 16, 1940, Mårbacka), novelist who in 1909 became the first woman and also the first Swedish writer to win the Nobel Prize for Literature *** Thomas Burke (29 November 1886 22 September 1945) was a British author. He was born in Eltham, London (back then still part of Kent). His first successful publication was Limehouse Nights (1916), a collection of stories centred on life in the poverty-stricken Limehouse district of London. Many of Burke's books feature the Chinese character Quong Lee as narrator. *** E. Nesbit, in full Edith Nesbit, (born August 15, 1858, London, Englanddied May 4, 1924, New Romney, Kent), British children's author, novelist, and poet. *** Arthur Morrison (1 November 1863 4 December 1945) was an English writer and journalist known for his realistic novels and stories about working-class life in London's East End, and for his detective stories, featuring the detective Martin Hewitt. He also collected Japanese art and published several works on the subject. He left a large collection of paintings and other works of art to the British Museum after his death in 1945. *** Stacy Aumonier was a British writer. Between 1913 and 1928, he wrote more than 85 short stories, 6 novels, a volume of character studies and a volume of 15 essays.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Bramah, Ernest

Gautier, Théophile

Hornung, E. W.

Nemo, August

Galsworthy, John

Aumonier, Stacy

Morrison, Arthur

Nesbit, Edith

Thomas,

Burke, Thomas

Lagerlöf, Selma

Heyse, Paul

Leseproben

PAUL JOHANN LUDWIG von Heyse, (born March 15, 1830, Berlin, Prussia [Germany]—died April 2, 1914, Munich, Ger.), German writer and prominent member of the traditionalist Munich school who received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1910. Heyse studied classical and Romance languages and traveled for a year in Italy, supported by a research grant. After completing his studies he became an independent scholar and was called to Munich by Maximilian II of Bavaria. There, with the poet Emanuel Geibel, he became the head of the Munich circle of writers, who sought to preserve traditional artistic values from the encroachments of political radicalism, materialism, and realism. He became a master of the carefully wrought short story, a chief example of which is L’Arrabbiata (1855). He also published novels (Kinder der Welt, 1873; Children of the World) and many unsuccessful plays. Among his best works are his translations of the works of Giacomo Leopardi and other Italian poets. His poems provided the lyrics for many lieder by the composer Hugo Wolf. Heyse, who was given to idealization and who refused to portray the dark side of life, became an embittered opponent of the growing school of Naturalism, and his popularity had greatly decreased by the time he received the Nobel Prize. The Dead Lake
SUMMER WAS AT ITS HEIGHTH, yet in one corner of the Alps an icy cold wind revolted against its dominion, and threatened to change the pouring rain into snow flakes. The air was so gloomy that even a house which stood about a hundred paces from the shore of the lake, could not be distinguished, although it was white-washed and twilight had hardly set in. A fire had been lighted in the kitchen. The landlady was standing by it frying a dish of fish, while with one foot she rocked a cradle which stood beside the hearth. In the tap room, the landlord was lying on a bench by the stove, cursing the flies which would not let him sleep. A barefooted maid of all work sat spinning in a corner, and now and then glanced with a sigh, through the dingy panes at the wild storm which was raging without. A tall strong fellow, the farm servant of the inn, came grumbling into the room: he shook the rain-drops from his clothes, like a dog coming out of the water, and threw a heap of wet fishing nets into a corner. It seemed as if the cloud of discontent and ill-humour which hung over the house, was only kept by this moody silence from bursting into a storm of discord and quarreling. Suddenly the outer door opened, and a stranger's step was heard groping through the dark passage; the landlord did not move, only the maid rose, and opened the door of the room. A man in a travelling suit stood at the entrance, and asked if this was the inn of the dead lake. As the girl answered shortly in the affirmative, he walked in, threw his dripping plaid and travelling pouch on the table, and sat down on the bench apparently exhausted; but he neither removed his hat heavy with rain nor laid down his walking stick, as if intending to start again after a short rest. The maid still stood before him, waiting for his orders, but he seemed to have forgotten the presence of any one in the room but himself, leant his head against the wall, and closed his eyes; so deep silence once more reigned in the hot dark room, only interrupted by the buzzing of the flies, and the listless sighs of the maid. At last the landlady brought in the supper; a little lad who stared at the stranger carried the candle before her. The landlord rose lazily from his bench, yawned and approached the table leaving to his wife the charge of inviting the stranger to partake of their meal. The traveller refused with a silent shake of the head, and the landlady apologized for the meagreness of their fare. Meat, they had none, except a few live ducks and chickens. They could not afford to buy it, for their own use, and now travellers never came that way, for two years ago, a new road had been made on the other side of the mountain, and the post which had formerly passed their inn now drove the other way. If the weather was fine, a tourist, or a painter who wished to sketch the environs of the lake now and then lodged with them; but they did not spend or expect much, neither was the selling of a few fish very profitable. If however the gentleman wished to remain over night, he would not fare badly. The bedrooms were just adjoining, and the beds well aired. They had also a barrel of beer in the cellar, good Tyrolese wine, and their spirits of gentian was celebrated. But all these offers did not tempt the guest; he replied that he would stay for the night, and only wished a jug of fresh water. Then he arose and without casting a single look at the people seated round the table, and silently eating their supper, or taking any notice of the little boy of ten, although the child made the most friendly advances, and gazed admiringly at his gold watch guard, which sparkled faintly in the dim light. The maid servant took another candle from the cornice of the stove, and showed him the way to the next room, where she filled his jug with fresh water, and then left him to his own thoughts. The landlord sent an oath after him. "Just their usual luck," he grumbled, if any guest ever came to them, it was always some idle vagrant who ordered nothing, and finally took his leave without paying for his bed, often disappearing in company with the bedclothes. His wife replied that it was just those folks, who regaled themselves on all that larder and cellar could supply, and tried to ingratiate themselves with the landlord. This gentleman was ill in mind or body, as he neither ate nor drank. At this moment the stranger again entered the room, and asked if he could have a boat, as he wished to fish on the lake by torchlight, as soon as the rain had ceased.—The landlady secretly poked her husband in the side, as if to say "Now, you see! he is not right in the head; don't contradict him for heaven's sake." The landlord who was fully aware of the advantage to be gained by this singular demand, answered in his surly manner, that the gentleman could have both his boats, though it was not the fashion in these parts to fish at night, but if it amused him he was welcome to do so. The farm servant would prepare the torch immediately—so saying, he made a sign to the tall fellow who was still occupied in picking his fish bones, and opened the door for his guest. The rain had not ceased and the water was dashing and gushing from the gutters. The stranger seemed insensible to any outward discomfort; he hastily walked towards the shore, and by the light of the lantern which the farm servant had brought with him, he examined the two boats, as if he wished to make sure which of them was the safest. They were both fastened under a shed, where different fishing implements were lying under some benches. Then sending back the farm servant under some pretext or other, he sought on the shore of the lake for a couple of heavy stones, which he placed in the largest of the two boats.—He drew a deep breath, and stood for a moment with his eyes fixed on the dark water, which as far as one could see by the light of the lantern was furrowed by the drizzling rain. The wind had ceased for a moment, the surf foamed, and dashed round the keel of the small boats; from the house, one could hear the monotonous sing song of the landlady who was lulling her baby to sleep. Even this sounded melancholy, reminding more of the cares of motherhood than of its joys, and heightened the dismal impression made by the forsaken aspect of this corner of the world. The stranger was just returning to the house, when he heard on the road coming from the south, along which he had also travelled that morning, the cracking of a whip and the crashing and creaking of wheels which were drawn heavily up the hill through the deep and sloughy ruts. Shortly afterwards a lightly covered carriage stopped before the inn. Lights were brought to the door, a female voice asked questions which the landlady answered in her most amiable tones; then two women got out of the carriage and carefully carried something wrapped up in cloaks into the house. The farm servant helped the coachman to bring his horses under shelter. A few minutes later every thing had relapsed into the former silence. It had all passed like a vision before the stranger, neither awakening his curiosity, nor, still less, his interest. He once more looked up at the dense clouds to see if there was any chance of their dispersing, and then entered the house where lights were now shining in the room opposite the tap room, and shadows were flitting to-and-fro behind the curtains. He gave back the lantern to the man, and some orders about baits and fishing hooks which he would require in the morning, and retired to his room. There he lighted the candle, and placed it in a bent candlestick, which stood on the rickety table.—Then he threw open a casement to let out the stuffy and damp air, and for a while looked out on the splashing and spirting gutter in which a cork was restlessly dancing. Further off no object could be discerned; the inky darkness of the cloudy sky hid everything from view. The wind howled in a ravine near the lake, like some caged beast of prey, and the trees near the house groaned under the weight of the gushing rain. It was an unfavourable moment for standing near an open window but the stranger seemed to be listening intently to the dismal sound of the storm which raged without. Only when the wind drove the rain straight into his face, he moved away, and paced up and down between the bare walls of the little room,...