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The Floating Press - Charles Dickens

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63 pages

English

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Curl up with this heartwarming tale of redemption from the master of the happy ending, Charles Dickens. A great read at Christmas-time or whenever you could use some uplifting lighter fare, The Battle of Life is a fast-paced tale that you'll finish with a smile on your face and renewed faith in the inherent goodness of humanity.

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2009
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775416845
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE BATTLE OF LIFE
A LOVE STORY
* * *
CHARLES DICKENS

*

The Battle of Life A Love Story First published in 1846.
ISBN 978-1-775416-84-5
© 2009 THE FLOATING PRESS.
While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike.
Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I - Part the First Chapter II - Part the Second Chapter III - Part the Third
Chapter I - Part the First
*
Once upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England,it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was foughtupon a long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many awild flower formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet forthe dew, felt its enamelled cup filled high with blood that day,and shrinking dropped. Many an insect deriving its delicate colourfrom harmless leaves and herbs, was stained anew that day by dyingmen, and marked its frightened way with an unnatural track. Thepainted butterfly took blood into the air upon the edges of itswings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground became a quagmire,whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of human feet andhorses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and glimmeredat the sun.
Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the sights the moon beheld uponthat field, when, coming up above the black line of distant rising-ground, softened and blurred at the edge by trees, she rose intothe sky and looked upon the plain, strewn with upturned faces thathad once at mothers' breasts sought mothers' eyes, or slumberedhappily. Heaven keep us from a knowledge of the secrets whisperedafterwards upon the tainted wind that blew across the scene of thatday's work and that night's death and suffering! Many a lonelymoon was bright upon the battle-ground, and many a star keptmournful watch upon it, and many a wind from every quarter of theearth blew over it, before the traces of the fight were worn away.
They lurked and lingered for a long time, but survived in littlethings; for, Nature, far above the evil passions of men, soonrecovered Her serenity, and smiled upon the guilty battle-ground asshe had done before, when it was innocent. The larks sang highabove it; the swallows skimmed and dipped and flitted to and fro;the shadows of the flying clouds pursued each other swiftly, overgrass and corn and turnip-field and wood, and over roof and church-spire in the nestling town among the trees, away into the brightdistance on the borders of the sky and earth, where the red sunsetsfaded. Crops were sown, and grew up, and were gathered in; thestream that had been crimsoned, turned a watermill; men whistled atthe plough; gleaners and haymakers were seen in quiet groups atwork; sheep and oxen pastured; boys whooped and called, in fields,to scare away the birds; smoke rose from cottage chimneys; sabbathbells rang peacefully; old people lived and died; the timidcreatures of the field, the simple flowers of the bush and garden,grew and withered in their destined terms: and all upon the fierceand bloody battle-ground, where thousands upon thousands had beenkilled in the great fight. But, there were deep green patches inthe growing corn at first, that people looked at awfully. Yearafter year they re-appeared; and it was known that underneath thosefertile spots, heaps of men and horses lay buried,indiscriminately, enriching the ground. The husbandmen whoploughed those places, shrunk from the great worms abounding there;and the sheaves they yielded, were, for many a long year, calledthe Battle Sheaves, and set apart; and no one ever knew a BattleSheaf to be among the last load at a Harvest Home. For a longtime, every furrow that was turned, revealed some fragments of thefight. For a long time, there were wounded trees upon the battle-ground; and scraps of hacked and broken fence and wall, wheredeadly struggles had been made; and trampled parts where not a leafor blade would grow. For a long time, no village girl would dressher hair or bosom with the sweetest flower from that field ofdeath: and after many a year had come and gone, the berriesgrowing there, were still believed to leave too deep a stain uponthe hand that plucked them.
The Seasons in their course, however, though they passed as lightlyas the summer clouds themselves, obliterated, in the lapse of time,even these remains of the old conflict; and wore away suchlegendary traces of it as the neighbouring people carried in theirminds, until they dwindled into old wives' tales, dimly rememberedround the winter fire, and waning every year. Where the wildflowers and berries had so long remained upon the stem untouched,gardens arose, and houses were built, and children played atbattles on the turf. The wounded trees had long ago made Christmaslogs, and blazed and roared away. The deep green patches were nogreener now than the memory of those who lay in dust below. Theploughshare still turned up from time to time some rusty bits ofmetal, but it was hard to say what use they had ever served, andthose who found them wondered and disputed. An old dintedcorselet, and a helmet, had been hanging in the church so long,that the same weak half-blind old man who tried in vain to makethem out above the whitewashed arch, had marvelled at them as ababy. If the host slain upon the field, could have been for amoment reanimated in the forms in which they fell, each upon thespot that was the bed of his untimely death, gashed and ghastlysoldiers would have stared in, hundreds deep, at household door andwindow; and would have risen on the hearths of quiet homes; andwould have been the garnered store of barns and granaries; andwould have started up between the cradled infant and its nurse; andwould have floated with the stream, and whirled round on the mill,and crowded the orchard, and burdened the meadow, and piled therickyard high with dying men. So altered was the battle-ground,where thousands upon thousands had been killed in the great fight.
Nowhere more altered, perhaps, about a hundred years ago, than inone little orchard attached to an old stone house with ahoneysuckle porch; where, on a bright autumn morning, there weresounds of music and laughter, and where two girls danced merrilytogether on the grass, while some half-dozen peasant women standingon ladders, gathering the apples from the trees, stopped in theirwork to look down, and share their enjoyment. It was a pleasant,lively, natural scene; a beautiful day, a retired spot; and the twogirls, quite unconstrained and careless, danced in the freedom andgaiety of their hearts.
If there were no such thing as display in the world, my privateopinion is, and I hope you agree with me, that we might get on agreat deal better than we do, and might be infinitely moreagreeable company than we are. It was charming to see how thesegirls danced. They had no spectators but the apple-pickers on theladders. They were very glad to please them, but they danced toplease themselves (or at least you would have supposed so); and youcould no more help admiring, than they could help dancing. Howthey did dance!
Not like opera-dancers. Not at all. And not like Madame Anybody'sfinished pupils. Not the least. It was not quadrille dancing, norminuet dancing, nor even country-dance dancing. It was neither inthe old style, nor the new style, nor the French style, nor theEnglish style: though it may have been, by accident, a trifle inthe Spanish style, which is a free and joyous one, I am told,deriving a delightful air of off-hand inspiration, from thechirping little castanets. As they danced among the orchard trees,and down the groves of stems and back again, and twirled each otherlightly round and round, the influence of their airy motion seemedto spread and spread, in the sun-lighted scene, like an expandingcircle in the water. Their streaming hair and fluttering skirts,the elastic grass beneath their feet, the boughs that rustled inthe morning air - the flashing leaves, the speckled shadows on thesoft green ground - the balmy wind that swept along the landscape,glad to turn the distant windmill, cheerily - everything betweenthe two girls, and the man and team at plough upon the ridge ofland, where they showed against the sky as if they were the lastthings in the world - seemed dancing too.
At last, the younger of the dancing sisters, out of breath, andlaughing gaily, threw herself upon a bench to rest. The otherleaned against a tree hard by. The music, a wandering harp andfiddle, left off with a flourish, as if it boasted of itsfreshness; though the truth is, it had gone at such a pace, andworked itself to such a pitch of competition with the dancing, thatit never could have held on, half a minute longer. The apple-pickers on the ladders raised a hum and murmur of applause, andthen, in keeping with the sound, bestirred themselves to work againlike bees.
The more actively, perhaps, because an elderly gentleman, who wasno other than Doctor Jeddler himself - it was Doctor Jeddler'shouse and orchard, you should know, and these were Doctor Jeddler'sdaughters - came bustling out to see what was the matter, and whothe deuce played music on his property, before breakfast. For hewas a great philosopher, Doctor Jeddler, and not very musical.
'Music and dancing TO-DAY!' said the Doctor, stopping short, andspeaking to himself. 'I thought they dreaded to-day. But it's aworld of contradictions. Why, Grace, why, Marion!' he added,aloud, 'is the world more mad than usual this morning?'
'Make some allowance for it, father, if it be,' replied his youngerdaughter, Marion