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The Marne - ebook
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Data wydania:
9 marca 2020
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The Marne - ebook
American writer Edith Wharton is known for her novels of manners set in old New York; yet much of her adult life was spent in France. She lived in Paris throughout World War I and was heavily involved in refugee work. She was a hugely successful writer and the first woman ever to win the Pulitzer Prize for her novel „The Age of Innocence”. In this 1918 novella, we are introduced to the story of 15-year-old Troy Belknap who is from a wealthy family in New York but yearns to serve in the area of France along the Marne River where critical World War I battles took place, known as The Marne. Wharton takes the reader on a dizzying journey down the line between Troy’s rose-colored, heroic ambitions, the grim realities of the war, and the often hollow and ugly attitudes of Americans at home.
| Kategoria: | Classic Literature |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8200-767-1 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,6 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
I
Ever since the age of six Troy Belknap of New York had embarked for Europe every June on the fastest steamer of one or another of the most expensive lines.
With his family he had descended at the dock from a large noiseless motor, had kissed his father good-bye, turned back to shake hands with the chauffeur (a particular friend), and trotted up the gang-plank behind his mother’s maid, while one welcoming steward captured Mrs. Belknap’s bag, and another led away her miniature French bull-dog–also a particular friend of Troy’s.
From that hour all had been delight. For six golden days Troy had ranged the decks, splashed in the blue salt water brimming his huge porcelain tub, lunched and dined with the grown-ups in the Ritz restaurant, and swaggered about in front of the children who had never crossed before, and didn’t know the stewards, or the purser, or the captain’s cat, or on which deck you might exercise your dog, or how to induce the officer on the watch to let you scramble up for a minute to the bridge. Then, when these joys began to pall, he had lost himself in others deeper and dearer. Another of his cronies, the library steward, had unlocked the book-case doors for him, and, buried for hours in the depths of a huge library armchair (there weren’t any to compare with it on land), he had ranged through the length and breadth of several literatures.
These six days of bliss would have been too soon over if they had not been the mere prelude to intenser sensations. On the seventh morning–generally at Cherbourg–Troy Belknap followed his mother, and his mother’s maid, and the French bull, up the gang-plank and into another large noiseless motor, with another chauffeur (French, this one) to whom he was also deeply attached, and who sat grinning and cap-touching at the wheel. And then–in a few minutes, so swiftly and smilingly was the way of Mrs. Belknap smoothed–the noiseless motor was off, and they were rushing eastward through the orchards of Normandy.
The little boy’s happiness would have been complete if there had been more time to give to the beautiful things that flew past them: thatched villages with square-towered churches in hollows of the deep green country, or grey shining towns above rivers on which cathedrals seemed to be moored like ships; miles and miles of field and hedge and park falling away from high terraced houses, and little embroidered stone manors reflected in reed-grown moats under ancient trees.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
Ever since the age of six Troy Belknap of New York had embarked for Europe every June on the fastest steamer of one or another of the most expensive lines.
With his family he had descended at the dock from a large noiseless motor, had kissed his father good-bye, turned back to shake hands with the chauffeur (a particular friend), and trotted up the gang-plank behind his mother’s maid, while one welcoming steward captured Mrs. Belknap’s bag, and another led away her miniature French bull-dog–also a particular friend of Troy’s.
From that hour all had been delight. For six golden days Troy had ranged the decks, splashed in the blue salt water brimming his huge porcelain tub, lunched and dined with the grown-ups in the Ritz restaurant, and swaggered about in front of the children who had never crossed before, and didn’t know the stewards, or the purser, or the captain’s cat, or on which deck you might exercise your dog, or how to induce the officer on the watch to let you scramble up for a minute to the bridge. Then, when these joys began to pall, he had lost himself in others deeper and dearer. Another of his cronies, the library steward, had unlocked the book-case doors for him, and, buried for hours in the depths of a huge library armchair (there weren’t any to compare with it on land), he had ranged through the length and breadth of several literatures.
These six days of bliss would have been too soon over if they had not been the mere prelude to intenser sensations. On the seventh morning–generally at Cherbourg–Troy Belknap followed his mother, and his mother’s maid, and the French bull, up the gang-plank and into another large noiseless motor, with another chauffeur (French, this one) to whom he was also deeply attached, and who sat grinning and cap-touching at the wheel. And then–in a few minutes, so swiftly and smilingly was the way of Mrs. Belknap smoothed–the noiseless motor was off, and they were rushing eastward through the orchards of Normandy.
The little boy’s happiness would have been complete if there had been more time to give to the beautiful things that flew past them: thatched villages with square-towered churches in hollows of the deep green country, or grey shining towns above rivers on which cathedrals seemed to be moored like ships; miles and miles of field and hedge and park falling away from high terraced houses, and little embroidered stone manors reflected in reed-grown moats under ancient trees.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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