Adams / Jókai / Bower Big Book of Best Short Stories - Volume 12

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-3-96799-133-8
Verlag: Tacet Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 12, 900 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: - Mór Jókai:Thirteen at Table. The Celestial Slingers. The Bad Old Times. The Hostile Skulls. Love And The Little Dog. The Justice Of Soliman A Turkish Story. The Compulsory DiversionAn Old Baron's Yarn. - Andy Adams:Drifting North. Siegerman's Per Cent. 'Bad Medicine'. A Winter Round-Up. A College Vagabond. The Double Trail. Rangering. - B. M. Bower:The Lonesome Trail. First Aid To Cupid. When The Cook Fell Ill. The Lamb. The Spirit of the Range. The Reveler. The Unheavenly Twins - Richard Middleton:The Ghost Ship. A Drama of Youth. The New Boy. On the Brighton Road. A Tragedy in Little. Sheperd's Boy. The Passing of Edward. - Pierre Louÿs:Woman and Puppy. The New Pleasure. Byblis. Leda. Immortal Love. The Artist Triumphant. The Hill Of Horsel. - Hugh Walpole:The Whistle. The Silver Mask The Staircase. A carnation for an old man. Tarnhelm Mr. Oddy. Seashore Macabre. - Henry Handel Richardson:The End of a Childhood. The Bathe. Succedaneum. Mary Christina. 'And Women Must Weep'. Sister Ann. The Coat. - Gertrude Stein:Ada. Miss furr and Miss Skeen. France. Americans. Italians. A Sweet Tail. In the Grass. - E. Phillips Oppenheim:The Noxious Gift. Traske and the Bracelet. The Atruscan Silver mine. The Defeat of Rundermere. The End of John DykesBurglar. A Woman Intervenes. The Regeneration of Jacobs. - Arthur Wuiller-Couch:I Saw Three Ships. The Haunted Dragoon. A Blue Pantomime. The Two Householders. The Disenchantment of 'Lizabeth. The Laird's Luck. Captain Dick and Captain Jacka.

Richard Barham Middleton was an English poet and author, who is remembered mostly for his short ghost stories, in particular The Ghost Ship. Pierre Louÿs was a French poet and writer, most renowned for lesbian and classical themes in some of his writings. He is known as a writer who sought to 'express pagan sensuality with stylistic perfection'. He was made first a Chevalier and then an Officer of the Légion d'honneur for his contributions to French literature. Sir Hugh Seymour Walpole was an English novelist. He was the son of an Anglican clergyman, intended for a career in the church but drawn instead to writing. Among those who encouraged him were the authors Henry James and Arnold Bennett. Ethel Florence Lindesay Richardson (3 January 1870 20 March 1946), known by her pen name Henry Handel Richardson, was an Australian author. The Fortunes of Richard Mahony is Richardson's famous trilogy about the slow decline, owing to character flaws and an unnamed brain disease, of a successful Australian physician and businessman and the emotional/financial effect on his family. Gertrude Stein was an American novelist, poet, playwright, and art collector. Born in the Allegheny West neighborhood of Pittsburgh and raised in Oakland, California, Stein moved to Paris in 1903, and made France her home for the remainder of her life. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch was a Cornish writer who published using the pseudonym Q. Although a prolific novelist, he is remembered mainly for the monumental publication The Oxford Book Of English Verse 12501900 and for his literary criticism. Móric Jókay de Ásva (18 February 1825 5 May 1904), outside Hungary also known as Maurus Jokai or Mauritius Jókai, was a Hungarian novelist, dramatist and revolutionary. Jókai's romantic novels became very popular among the elite of Victorian era England; he was often compared to Dickens in the 19th century British press. One of his most famous fans and admirers was Queen Victoria herself. Andy Adams (May 3, 1859 September 26, 1935) was an American writer of western fiction. Bertha Muzzy Sinclair (November 15, 1871 July 23, 1940), best known by her pseudonym B. M. Bower, was an American author who wrote novels, fictional short stories, and screenplays about the American Old West.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Adams, Andy

Jókai, Mór

Bower, B. M.

Nemo, August

Middleton, Richard

Louÿs, Pierre

Walpole, Hugh

Richardson, Henry Handel

Ger,

Stein, Gertrude

Oppenheim, E. Phillips

Quiller-Couch, Arthur

Leseproben

Edward Phillips Oppenheim (22 October 1866 – 3 February 1946) was an English novelist, in his lifetime a major and successful writer of genre fiction including thrillers. Edward Phillips Oppenheim was born 22 October 1866 in Leicester, the son of Henrietta Susannah Temperley Budd and Edward John Oppenheim, a leather merchant. He worked in his father's business for almost twenty years. He went to Wyggeston Grammar School. Oppenheim's literary success enabled him to buy a villa in France and a yacht, then a house in Guernsey, though he lost access to this during the Second World War. Afterwards he regained the house, le Vanquiédor in St. Peter Port, and he died there on 3 February 1946 The Noxious Gift
“Look behind—once more,” the woman gasped, stooping a little from the saddle. Even with that slight movement she swayed and almost fell. The man’s hand supported her—he only knew with what an effort. “There is no one in sight,” he muttered, but he did not look. His heart was sick with the accumulated fear of these awful months. They stumbled on again—a weary, heart-sickening procession. The woman’s eyes were half closed, her cheeks were as pale as death, her black hair was powdered with dust, her clothing soiled and worn. She rode a small Mexican pony, itself in the last stage of exhaustion. By her side, on foot, with his left hand locked in the reins, the man staggered along. In her face was the white numbness of despair, the despair which takes no count of living terrors. In his the shadow of an awful fear remained. His eyes were glazed and framed in deep black rims. His mouth was open like a dog’s, his knees trembled as he ran. Once the woman had turned her head, and seeing him had shivered. He reminded her of one of those prairie wolves, into whose carcass the bullet from the last cartridge in his revolver had found its way. If her lips could have borne the effort, she would have smiled at the idea that it was for love of such a man that she had thrown away her life. The terror of this unending chase had eaten the manhood out of him. He had no longer any hope, any courage. He followed only the blind impulse of the hunted animal—to flee. He wore shirt and trousers only, his socks had gone, his feet were bleeding through the gaps in his rent shoes. Yet he had held himself bravely enough once in the great world, before the cup of Iseult had touched his lips. A speck in front—a sombre blur upon the landscape. He saw it and pointed. The effort of stretching out his hand overbalanced him. He fell in a heap upon the rough roadway, and for a moment lay still. Her pony also halted, trembling in every limb, his fore-legs planted outwards, his nose close to the ground. She leaned down towards him. “Gaston,” she cried feebly, “are you hurt?” He rose to his feet, and as he did so she noticed that he kept his head studiously turned away from the direction whence they had come. He shook the dust from his rags of clothing, and he gathered the reins once more into his hands. Of his hurts, if he had received ‘any, he took no more notice than a dumb animal. “Come on,” he gasped. “There is wooded country ahead. We may find shelters Come!” “Look behind,” she directed. “No!” he answered, shivering. “Look behind—I wish it,” she insisted. “It is better to know.” Slowly he turned his head. There was little room for expression left in his face, but she saw the slow dilation of his eyes, the animal drop of his jaw. He stood as one turned to stone, gazing back along the way by which they had come. As the woman understood, she drew one long sigh and slipped from the saddle, mercifully unconscious. The man did not heed her. His eyes were still fixed upon that speck in the distance, a cloud of dust, a man on horseback. Curiously enough, his most poignant feeling was one of relief. It was the end at last then, the end of a chase surely more terrible than any since the days when sin itself was born. She opened her eyes for a moment. “It is he?” she questioned. “It is he,” the man repeated, as one might tell the time to a stranger. She pointed to the revolver in his belt, but he shook his head. She remembered that his cartridges were all gone. “Kill me some other way,” she pleaded. “I could not,” he answered. “I am not strong enough. I have no strength left. We have been very foolish, Christine. We should have waited in the city. There it would have been man to man at least. Now I am broken. I cannot strike a blow. I cannot even kill myself. I cannot kill you. I have no strength left. This flight by night and by day has robbed me of it. It was foolish!” She turned her face to the ground with a little sob. “I will hold my breath and die,” she declared. “He shall not see me like this.” The man stared at her dully. What did it matter, the rents in her garments, such trifles in the presence of death. He was a stupid fellow, and he had never gauged the measure of a woman’s vanity. The speck in the distance grew more distinct, the cloud of dust larger. Then there came to the man a last access of strength, a strength wholly artificial, begotten of the terror which lay like ice upon his heart. He plucked at the woman and half helped, half pushed her upon the waiting pony. “He will catch us! He is here at last, Christine,” he jabbered. “We must get to the wood. Perhaps we can hide, and strike him down when he is looking for us. I have a stone in my pocket I picked up. It is sharp—sharp as a knife! If I could get behind him—” The woman shivered, but she suffered herself to be led. The pony staggered on as though every step might be its last. The man ran, breathing like a crazy machine, and with face almost black. And in their hearts they both knew that it was useless. Their pursuer was only cantering his horse, and he was gaining at every stride. Down the wind came the sound of his voice, the voice of the untired man who triumphs. “Gently, my friends, gently! Do you not see that it is I, Mannister, who calls? Why do you hurry so?” Over on his face went the hunted man, nerveless, and stricken with a new fear at the sound of that mocking voice. The pony stopped and swayed—collapsing rather than falling in the rough way. The woman lay there with her face to the earth and her arms stretched out. The man commenced to groan like a stricken animal, or else he too might have been taken for dead. So they lay when their pursuer, on a great bay mare as yet untired, rode up to them. He sat on his horse looking from one to the other. He was a man of something apparently less than middle age, with smooth fair hair and face, which the hand of time seemed to have treated kindly. Only a sudden and very terrible light flashed in his eyes as he looked downward at the woman, a light which lingered, however, but for that single second, and passed away leaving his whole expression nonchalant, almost undisturbed. “Upon my word,” he observed, resting his left hand lightly upon his horse’s flank, “I am distressed to have been the cause of so much suffering. You have been unreasonable, my dear Gaston, to force a lady into undertaking a journey such as this. A few words with you—that was all I asked. Surely it was not worth while to have given me all this trouble, and to have put yourselves to such inconvenience! My dear Christine, I must confess that the state of your wardrobe distresses me!” Her shoulders shook, but she did not look up. “And you too, my dear Gaston,” he continued, sitting still easily upon his horse and lighting a cigarette. “I must confess that it pains me to see you in such guise. We met last—I think that it was at the Cavalry Club, the day young Pennant tried to wear a roll collar with a dress coat. I remember your remarks upon the occasion, scathing but well deserved. You were always our recognized authority upon matters of the person. It grieves me to see you like this, Gaston. Is that indeed a shirt, the remnants of which you are still wearing! And, my dear fellow, pardon me, but your feet and hands—every finger-nail gone, I declare. I am ashamed to ask you, but upon my word—when did you take a bath last?” The man called Gaston staggered to his feet. With the poor remnants of his strength, he threw himself against his persecutor, his nervous, bony fingers locked around the stone which was his only weapon. It was after all but a pitiful effort. The newcomer touched his horse with the spur, and his assailant rolled in the dust. “Get up, my friend,” the former remarked pleasantly, looking downwards. “You and I must have our little conversation together, I suppose. Let us go as far as the wood there. We shall be better alone.” Slowly and painfully the fallen man staggered to his feet. The newcomer withdrew one foot from its stirrup. “Hold on to this,” he directed. “I will ride carefully.” It was barely a hundred yards to the border of the wood, but more than once the man faltered and almost collapsed. When at last they reached their destination, the sudden change from the dazzling sunlight to the cool darkness of the thick trees was too much for him. He groped for a moment like a drunken man, then staggered forward and fell. Mannister stooped down and dragged him to his feet. For a moment he held him at arm’s length, studying him with all the immeasurable contempt of the brave man for a proven coward. Then he placed him on a fallen log with his back to a tree...