Quiller-Couch The Blue Pavilions

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-5080-8133-3
Verlag: Dead Dodo Presents Quiller-Couch
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 255 Seiten

Reihe: Arthur Quiller-Couch Collection

Dodo Collections brings you another classic from Arthur Quiller-Couch 'The Blue Pavilions.'


The Blue Pavilions was first published in 1891.


Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch was a Cornish writer, who published under the pen name of Q. He published his Dead Man's Rock (a romance in the vein of Stevenson's Treasure Island) in 1887, and he followed this up with Troy Town (1888) and The Splendid Spur (1889). After some journalistic experience in London, mainly as a contributor to the Speaker, in 1891 he settled at Fowey in Cornwall. He published in 1896 a series of critical articles, Adventures in Criticism, and in 1898 he completed Robert Louis Stevenson's unfinished novel, St Ives. With the exception of the parodies entitled Green Bays: Verses and Parodies (1893), his poetical work is contained in Poems and Ballads (1896). In 1895 he published an anthology from the sixteenth and seventeenth-century English lyrists, The Golden Pomp, followed in 1900 by an equally successful Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900 (1900). He was made a Bard of Gorseth Kernow in 1928, taking the Bardic name Marghak Cough ('Red Knight').


Quiller-Couch was a noted literary critic, publishing editions of some of Shakespeare's plays (in the New Shakespeare, published by Cambridge University Press, with Dover Wilson) and several critical works, including Studies in Literature (1918) and On the Art of Reading (1920). He edited a successor to his verse anthology: Oxford Book of English Prose, which was published in 1923. He left his autobiography, Memories and Opinions, unfinished; it was nevertheless published in 1945.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Quiller-Couch, Arthur

Leseproben

CHAPTER I. CAPTAIN JOHN AND CAPTAIN JEMMY
.................. AT NOONDAY, ON THE 11TH of October, 1673, the little seaport of Harwich, beside the mouth of the River Stour, presented a very lively appearance. More than a hundred tall ships, newly returned from the Dutch War, rode at anchor in the haven, their bright masts swaying in the sunshine above the thatched and red-tiled roofs of the town. Tarry sailors in red and grey kersey suits, red caps and flat-heeled shoes jostled in the narrow streets and hung about St. Nicholas’s Churchyard, in front of the Admiralty House, wherein the pursers sat before bags and small piles of money, paying off the crews. Soldiers crowded the tavern doors—men in soiled uniforms of the Admiral’s regiment, the Buffs and the 1st Foot Guards; some with bandaged heads and arms, and the most still yellow after their seasickness, but all intrepidly toasting the chances of Peace and the girls in opposite windows. Above their laughter, and along every street or passage opening on the harbour—from Cock and Pye Quay, from Lambard’s stairs, the Castleport, and half a dozen other landing-stages—came wafted the shouts of captains, pilots, boatswains, caulkers, longshore men; the noise of artillery and stores unlading; the tack-tack of mallets in the dockyard, where Sir Anthony Deane’s new ship the Harwich was rising on the billyways, and whence the blown odours of pitch and hemp and timber, mingling with the landward breeze, drifted all day long into the townsfolk’s nostrils, and filled their very kitchens with the savour of the sea. In the thick of these scents and sounds, and within a cool doorway, before which the shadow of a barber’s pole rested on the cobbles, reclined Captain John Barker—a little wry-necked gentleman, with a prodigious hump between his shoulders, and legs that dangled two inches off the floor. His wig was being curled by an apprentice at the back of the shop, and his natural scalp shone as bare as a billiard-ball; but two patches of brindled grey hair stuck out from his brow above a pair of fierce greenish eyes set about with a complexity of wrinkles. Just now, a coating of lather covered his shrewish underjaw. The dress of this unlovely old gentleman well became his rank as captain of his Majesty’s frigate the Wasp, but went very ill with his figure—being, indeed, a square-cut coat of scarlet, laced with gold, a long-flapped blue waistcoat, black breeches and stockings. Enormous buckles adorned the thick-soled shoes which he drummed impatiently against the legs of his chair. The barber—a round, bustling fellow—stropped his razor and prattled gossip. On a settle to the right a couple of townsmen smoked, listened, and waited their turn with an educated patience. “Changes, indeed, since you left us, Captain John,” the barber began, his razor hovering for the first scrape. “Wait a moment. You were about to take hold of me by the nose. If you do it, I’ll run you through. I thought you’d like to be warned, that’s all. Go on with your chatter.” “Certainly, Captain John—’tis merely a habit—” “Break yourself of it.” “I will, sir. But, as I was saying, the changes will astonish you that have been at sea so long. In the first place, a riding-post started from hence to London and from London hither a-gallop with brazen trumpet and loaded pistols, to keep his Majesty certified every day of the Fleet’s doings, and the Fleet of his Majesty’s wishes; and all Harwich a-tremble half the night under its bedclothes, but consoled to find the King taking so much notice of it. And the old jail moved from St. Austin’s Gate, and a new one building this side of Church Street, where Calamy’s Store used to stand—with a new town-hall, too—” Here, as he paused to scrape the captain’s cheek, one of the two townsmen on the settle—a square man in grey, with a red waistcoat— withdrew the long pipe from his mouth and groaned heavily. “What’s that?” asked the hunchback snappishly. “That, sir, is Mr. Pomphlett,” the barber explained. “He disapproves of the amount spent in decorating the new hall with pillars, rails, balusters, and what not; for the king’s arms, to be carved over the mayor’s seat and richly gilt, are to be a private gift of Mr. Isaac Betts, and the leathern fire-buckets to be hung round the wall—” Mr. Pomphlett emitted another groan, which the barber good-naturedly tried to drown in talk. Captain Barker heard it, however. “There it is again!” “Yes, sir. You see Mr. Pomphlett allows his public spirit to run high. He says—” The little captain jerked round in his chair, escaping a gash by a hair’s-breadth, and addressed the heavy citizen— “Mr. Pomphlett, sir, it was not for the sake of listening to your observations upon public affairs that I came straight off my ship to this shop, but to hear the news.” The barber coughed. Mr. Pomphlett feebly traced a curve in the air with his pipe-stem, and answered sulkily— “I s-said nun-nothing. I f-felt unwell.” “He suffers,” interposed Mr. Pomphlett’s neighbour on the settle, a long-necked man in brown, “from the wind; don’t you, Pomphlett?” Mr. Pomphlett nodded with an aggrieved air, and sucked his pipe. “Death,” continued the man in brown, by way of setting the conversation on its legs again, “has been busy in Harwich, Barker.” “Ah! now we come to business! Barber, who’s dead?” “Alderman Croten, sir.” “Tut-tut. Croten gone?” “Yes, sir; palsy took him at a ripe age. And Abel’s gone, the Town Crier; and old Mistress Pinch’s bad leg carried her from us last Christmas Day, of all days in the year; and young Mr. Eastwell was snatched away by a chain-shot in the affair with the Smyrna fleet; and Mistress Salt—that was daughter of old Sir Jabez Tellworthy, and broke her father’s heart—she’s a widow in straitened circumstances, and living up at the old house again—” “What!“ Captain Barker bounced off his chair like a dried pea from a shovel. “There now! Your honour’s chin is wounded.” “P’sh! give me your towel.” He snatched it from the barber’s arm and mopped away the blood and lather from his jaw. “Mistress Salt a widow? When? How?” “I thought, maybe, your honour would know about it.” “Don’t think. Roderick Salt dead? Tell me this instant, or—” “He was drowned, sir, in a ditch, they tell me, but two months after he sailed with his company of Foot Guards, in the spring of this year. It seems ‘twas a ditch that the Marshal Turenne had the misfortune to forget about—” “My hat—where is it? Quick!” Already Captain Barker had plucked the napkin from his throat, caught up his sword from a chair, and was buckling on the belt in a tremendous hurry. “But your honour forgets the wig, which is but half curled; and your honour’s face shaved on the one side only.” The hunchback’s answer was to snatch his wig from between the apprentice’s tongs, clap it on his head, ram his hat on the top of it, and flounce out at the shop door. The streets were full of folk, but he passed through them at an amazing speed. His natural gait on shipboard was a kind of anapaestic dance—two short steps and a long—and though the crowd interrupted its cadence and coerced him to a quick bobbing motion, as of a bottle in a choppy sea, it hardly affected his pace. Here and there he snapped out a greeting to some ship’s captain or townsman of his acquaintance, or growled testily at a row of soldiers bearing down on him three abreast. His angry green eyes seemed to clear a path before him, in spite of the grins which his hump and shambling legs excited among strangers. In this way he darted along High Street, turned up by the markets, crossed Church Street into West Street, and passed under the great gate by which the London Road left the town. Beyond this gate the road ran through a tall ravelin and out upon a breezy peninsula between the river and the open sea. And here Captain Barker halted and, tugging off hat and wig, wiped his crown with a silk handkerchief. Over the reedy marsh upon his right, where a windmill waved its lazy arms, a score of larks were singing. To his left the gulls mewed across the cliffs and the remoter sandbanks that thrust up their yellow ridges under the ebb-tide. The hum of the little town sounded drowsily behind him. He gazed across the sandbanks upon the blue leagues of sea, and rubbed his fingers softly up and down the unshaven side of his face. “H’m,” he said, and then “p’sh!” and then “p’sh!” again; and, as if this settled it, readjusted his wig and hat and set off down the road faster than ever. A cluster of stunted poplars appeared in the...