A Gentleman's Gentleman E-Book

Francis Hopkinson Smith

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

In "A Gentleman's Gentleman," Francis Hopkinson Smith presents a poignant exploration of the intricate dynamics between social classes through the lens of a devoted servant and his employer. Smith'Äôs literary style is characterized by rich descriptions and a keen psychological insight that captures both the warmth and the underlying tensions of domestic life in the turn-of-the-century American South. This novella not only serves as a charming narrative but also reflects the broader socio-economic shifts of the time, highlighting the ambivalence of service and the complexities of loyalty and personal ambition within a changing societal structure. Francis Hopkinson Smith, an accomplished author, artist, and engineer, drew upon his varied life experiences, including his early career in the construction industry, to craft characters that resonate with authenticity and depth. His lived experiences as a prominent figure in society enable him to deftly navigate the intricate relationships between those of differing social standings. Smith's background imbues the narrative with both a historical context and a personal touch, illuminating the notions of honor and respect that underpin the servant-employer relationship. Readers seeking an insightful reflection on the themes of class, loyalty, and personal agency will find "A Gentleman's Gentleman" both compelling and thought-provoking. Through Smith's masterful storytelling, this novella invites contemplation on the evolving nature of service and identity, making it a noteworthy addition to the canon of American literature.

Leseprobe

Francis Hopkinson Smith

A Gentleman's Gentleman

1909

Published by Good Press, 2019

[email protected]

EAN 4064066162061

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

I

Table of Contents

I had left Sandy MacWhirter crooning over his smouldering wood fire the day Boggs blew in with news of the sale of Mac’s two pictures at the Academy, and his reply to my inquiry regarding his future plans (vaguely connected with a certain girl in a steamer chair), “By the next steamer, my boy,” still rang in my ears, but my surprise was none the less genuine when I looked up from my easel, two months later, at Sonning-on-the-Thames and caught sight of the dear fellow, with Lonnegan by his side, striding down the tow-path in search of me.

“By the Great Horn Spoon!” came the cry. And the next minute his big arms were about my shoulders, his cheery laugh filling the summer air.

Lonnegan’s greeting was equally hearty and spontaneous, but it came with less noise.

“He’s been roaring that way ever since we left London,” said the architect. “Ever since we landed, really,” and he nodded at Mac. “Awfully glad to see you, old man!”

The next moment the three of us were flat on the grass telling our experiences, the silver sheen of the river flashing between the low-branched trees lining the banks.

Lonnegan’s story ran thus:

Mac had disappeared the morning after their arrival; had remained away two weeks, reappearing again with a grin on his face that had frozen stiff and had never relaxed its grip. “You can still see it; turn your head, Mac, and let the gentleman see your smile.” Since that time he had spent his nights writing letters, and his days poring aver the morning’s mail. “Got his pocket full of them now, and is so happy he’s no sort of use to anybody.” Mac now got his innings:

Lonnegan’s airs had been insufferable and his ignorance colossal. What time he could spare from his English tailor—“and you just ought to see his clothes, and especially his checkerboard waistcoats”—had been spent in abusing everything in English art that wasn’t three hundred years old, and going into raptures over Lincoln Cathedral. The more he saw of Lonnegan the more he was convinced that he had missed his calling. He might succeed as a floorwalker in a department store, where his airs and his tailor-made upholstery would impress the hayseeds from the country, but, as for trying to be—The rest was lost in a gurgle of smothered laughter, Lonnegan’s thin, white fingers having by this time closed over the painter’s windpipe.

My turn came now:

I had been at work a month; had my present quarters at the White Hart Inn, within a stone’s throw of where we lay sprawled with our faces to the sun—the loveliest inn, by the way, on the Thames, and that was saying a lot—with hand-polished tables, sleeve and trouser-polished arm-chairs, Chippendale furniture, barmaids, pewter mugs, old and new ale, tough bread, tender mutton, tarts—gooseberry and otherwise; strawberries—two would fill a teacup—and roses! Millions of roses! “Well, you fellows just step up and look at ’em.”