Better Dead , livre ebook

The Floating Press - M. Barrie J.

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

53 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

Scottish-born author and playwright J. M. Barrie first established himself in the public eye as a writer of children's books and humorous plays. According to historians of Barrie's life and work, Better Dead is one of his earliest pieces. It combines sly humor with a compelling plot with elements of mystery and romance.

Sujets

Romance

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juin 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776538072
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.

Extrait

BETTER DEAD
* * *
J. M. BARRIE

*
Better Dead From an 1896 edition Epub ISBN 978-1-77653-807-2 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77653-808-9 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. 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
*
Introduction Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Endnotes
*
TO
FREDERICK GREENWOOD
Introduction
*
This is the only American edition of my books produced with mysanction, and I have special reasons for thanking Messrs. Scribner forits publication; they let it be seen, by this edition, what are mybooks, for I know not how many volumes purporting to be by me, are incirculation in America which are no books of mine. I have seen severalof these, bearing such titles as "Two of Them," "An Auld Licht Manse,""A Tillyloss Scandal," and some of them announce themselves as author'seditions, or published by arrangement with the author. They consist ofscraps collected and published without my knowledge, and I entirelydisown them. I have written no books save those that appear in thisedition.
I am asked to write a few lines on the front page of each of thesevolumes, to say something, as I take it, about how they came intobeing. Well, they were written mainly to please one woman who is nowdead, but as I am writing a little book about my mother I shall say nomore of her here.
Many of the chapters in "Auld Licht Idylls" first appeared in adifferent form in the St. James's Gazette , and there is little doubtthat they would never have appeared anywhere but for the encouragementgiven to me by the editor of that paper. It was pressure from him thatinduced me to write a second "Idyll" and a third after I thought thefirst completed the picture, he set me thinking seriously of thesepeople, and though he knew nothing of them himself, may be said to haveled me back to them. It seems odd, and yet I am not the first nor thefiftieth who has left Thrums at sunrise to seek the life-work that wasall the time awaiting him at home. And we seldom sally forth a secondtime. I had always meant to be a novelist, but London, I thought, wasthe quarry.
For long I had an uneasy feeling that no one save the editor read mycontributions, for I was leading a lonely life in London, and notanother editor could I find in the land willing to print the Scotchdialect. The magazines, Scotch and English, would have nothing to sayto me—I think I tried them all with "The Courting of T'nowhead'sBell," but it never found shelter until it got within book-covers. Intime, however, I found another paper, the British Weekly , with aneditor as bold as my first (or shall we say he suffered from the sameinfirmity?). He revived my drooping hopes, and I was again able toturn to the only kind of literary work I now seemed to have muchinterest in. He let me sign my articles, which was a big step for meand led to my having requests for work from elsewhere, but always theinvitations said "not Scotch—the public will not read dialect." Bythis time I had put together from these two sources and from mydrawerful of rejected stories this book of "Auld Licht Idylls," and inits collected form it again went the rounds. I offered it to certainfirms as a gift, but they would not have it even at that. And then, ona day came actually an offer for it from Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton.For this, and for many another kindness, I had the editor of the British Weekly to thank. Thus the book was published at last, and asfor Messrs. Hodder and Stoughton I simply dare not say what a generousfirm I found them, lest it send too many aspirants to their doors.But, indeed, I have had the pleasantest relations with all mypublishers.
"Better Dead" is, by my wish, no longer on sale in Great Britain, and Ishould have preferred not to see it here, for it is in no way worthy ofthe beautiful clothes Messrs. Scribner have given it. Weighted with"An Edinburgh Eleven" it would rest very comfortably in the mill dam,but the publishers have reasons for its inclusion; among them, Isuspect, is a well-grounded fear that if I once began to hack and hew,I should not stop until I had reduced the edition to two volumes. Thisjuvenile effort is a field of prickles into which none may be advisedto penetrate—I made the attempt lately in cold blood and came backshuddering, but I had read enough to have the profoundest reason fordeclining to tell what the book is about. And yet I have a sentimentalinterest in "Better Dead," for it was my first—published when I hadsmall hope of getting any one to accept the Scotch—and there was aweek when I loved to carry it in my pocket and did not think it deadweight. Once I almost saw it find a purchaser. She was a pretty girland it lay on a bookstall, and she read some pages and smiled, and thenretired, and came back and began another chapter. Several times shedid this, and I stood in the background trembling with hope and fear.At last she went away without the book, but I am still of opinion that,had it been just a little bit better, she would have bought it.
Chapter I
*
When Andrew Riach went to London, his intention was to become privatesecretary to a member of the Cabinet. If time permitted, he proposedwriting for the Press.
"It might be better if you and Clarrie understood each other," theminister said.
It was their last night together. They faced each other in themanse-parlour at Wheens, whose low, peeled ceiling had threatened Mr.Eassie at his desk every time he looked up with his pen in his mouthuntil his wife died, when he ceased to notice things. The one pictureon the walls, an engraving of a boy in velveteen, astride a tree,entitled "Boyhood of Bunyan," had started life with him. The horsehairchairs were not torn, and you did not require to know the sofa beforeyou sat down on it, that day thirty years before, when a chubbyminister and his lady walked to the manse between two cart-loads offurniture, trying not to look elated.
Clarrie rose to go, when she heard her name. The love-light was in hereyes, but Andrew did not open the door for her, for he was a Scotchgraduate. Besides, she might one day be his wife.
The minister's toddy-ladle clinked against his tumbler, but Andrew didnot speak. Clarrie was the girl he generally adored.
"As for Clarrie," he said at last, "she puts me in an awkward position.How do I know that I love her?"
"You have known each other a long time," said the minister.
His guest was cleaning his pipe with a hair-pin, that his quick eye haddetected on the carpet.
"And she is devoted to you," continued Mr. Eassie.
The young man nodded.
"What I fear," he said, "is that we have known each other too long.Perhaps my feeling for Clarrie is only brotherly—"
"Hers for you, Andrew, is more than sisterly."
"Admitted. But consider, Mr. Eassie, she has only seen the world insoirées. Every girl has her day-dreams, and Clarrie has perhaps made adream of me. She is impulsive, given to idealisation, and hopelesslyillogical."
The minister moved uneasily in his chair.
"I have reasoned out her present relation to me," the young man wenton, "and, the more you reduce it to the usual formulae, the moreillogical it becomes. Clarrie could possibly describe me, but defineme—never. What is our prospect of happiness in these circumstances?"
"But love—" began Mr. Eassie.
"Love!" exclaimed Andrew. "Is there such a thing? Reduce it tosyllogistic form, and how does it look in Barbara?"
For the moment there was almost some expression in his face, and hesuffered from a determination of words to the mouth.
"Love and logic," Mr. Eassie interposed, "are hardly kindred studies."
"Is love a study at all?" asked Andrew, bitterly. "It is but the trailof idleness. But all idleness is folly; therefore, love is folly."
Mr. Eassie was not so keen a logician as his guest, but he had age fora major premiss. He was easy-going rather than a coward; a preacherwho, in the pulpit, looked difficulties genially in the face, andpassed them by.
Riach had a very long neck. He was twenty-five years of age, fair, andsomewhat heavily built, with a face as inexpressive as book-covers.
A native of Wheens and an orphan, he had been brought up by his uncle,who was a weaver and read Herodotus in the original. The uncle starvedhimself to buy books and talk about them, until one day he got a goodmeal, and died of it. Then Andrew apprenticed himself to a tailor.
When his time was out, he walked fifty miles to Aberdeen University,and got a bursary. He had been there a month, when his professor saidgood-naturedly—
"Don't you think, Mr. Riach, you would get on better if you took yourhands out of your pockets?"
"No, sir, I don't think so," replied Andrew, in all honesty.
When told that he must apologise, he did not see it, but was willing toargue the matter out.
Next year he matriculated at Edinburgh, sharing one room with twoothers; studying through the night, and getting their bed when theyrose. He was a failure in the classics, because they left you whereyou were, but in his third year he woke the logic class-room, andfrightened the professor of moral philosophy.
He was nearly rusticated for praying at a debating society for adivinity professor who was in the chair.
"O Lord!" he cried, fervently, "open his eyes, guide his totteringfootsteps, and lead him from the paths of folly into those that arelovely and of good report, for lo! his days are numbered, and thesickle has been sharp