The Past E-Book

Ellen Glasgow

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Ellen Glasgow's "The Past" intricately weaves the themes of memory and identity within the fabric of Southern society. Set against the backdrop of the early 20th century, Glasgow employs a lyrical prose style that captures the nuances of human emotion and social dynamics. The narrative follows the protagonist, who grapples with her lineage and the indelible marks left by her upbringing, providing readers with a deep exploration of how personal and collective histories shape one'Äôs present. Examining the intersection of past and present, the novel reflects Glasgow's keen insights into the shifting cultural landscapes of the American South and the lingering echoes of its traditions. Ellen Glasgow, a prominent figure in American literature, is celebrated for her incisive portrayals of Southern life and the complexities of gender roles. Born into a Virginia family prominent in the Confederate era, her experiences and societal observations profoundly influenced her work. Glasgow's dedication to portraying the Southern experience truthfully, often through strong female characters, has garnered her a lasting legacy in literary history and provides a rich context for "The Past." Readers seeking a poignant exploration of nostalgia, self-discovery, and the psychological complexities of heritage will find "The Past" a compelling addition to their literary journey. Glasgow'Äôs blend of emotional depth and historical insight resonates with both casual readers and scholars alike, reaffirming her status as a voice of Southern realism. This novel is a testament to the enduring power of one'Äôs history and its profound influence on the trajectory of life.

Leseprobe

Ellen Glasgow

The Past

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4066338073471

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

I had no sooner entered the house than I knew something was wrong. Though I had never been in so splendid a place before--it was one of those big houses just off Fifth Avenue--I had a suspicion from the first that the magnificence covered a secret disturbance. I was always quick to receive impressions, and when the black iron doors swung together behind me, I felt as if I were shut inside a prison.

When I gave my name and explained that I was the new secretary, I was delivered into the charge of an elderly lady's-maid, who looked as if she had been crying. Without speaking a word, though she nodded kindly enough, she led me down the hall, and then up a flight of stairs at the back of the house to a pleasant bedroom in the third storey. There was a great deal of sunshine, and the walls, which were painted a soft yellow, made the room very cheerful. It would be a comfortable place to sit in when I was not working, I thought, while the sad-faced maid stood watching me remove my wraps and hat.

"If you are not tired, Mrs. Vanderbridge would like to dictate a few letters," she said presently, and they were the first words she had spoken.

"I am not a bit tired. Will you take me to her?" One of the reasons, I knew, which had decided Mrs. Vanderbridge to engage me was the remarkable similarity of our handwriting. We were both Southerners, and though she was now famous on two continents for her beauty, I couldn't forget that she had got her early education at the little academy for young ladies in Fredericksburg. This was a bond of sympathy in my thoughts at least, and, heaven knows, I needed to remember it while I followed the maid down the narrow stairs and along the wide hall to the front of the house.

In looking back after a year, I can recall every detail of that first meeting. Though it was barely four o'clock, the electric lamps were turned on in the hall, and I can still see the mellow light that shone over the staircase and lay in pools on the old pink rugs, which were so soft and fine that I felt as if I were walking on flowers. I remember the sound of music from a room somewhere on the first floor, and the scent of lilies and hyacinths that drifted from the conservatory. I remember it all, every note of music, every whiff of fragrance; but most vividly I remember Mrs. Vanderbridge as she looked round, when the door opened, from the wood fire into which she had been gazing. Her eyes caught me first. They were so wonderful that for a moment I couldn't see anything else; then I took in slowly the dark red of her hair, the clear pallor of her skin, and the long, flowing lines of her figure in a tea-gown of blue silk. There was a white bearskin rug under her feet, and while she stood there before the wood fire, she looked as if she had absorbed the beauty and colour of the house as a crystal vase absorbs the light. Only when she spoke to me, and I went nearer, did I detect the heaviness beneath her eyes and the nervous quiver of her mouth, which drooped a little at the corners. Tired and worn as she was, I never saw her afterwards--not even when she was dressed for the opera--look quite so lovely, so much like an exquisite flower, as she did on that first afternoon. When I knew her better, I discovered that she was a changeable beauty; there were days when all the colour seemed to go out of her, and she looked dull and haggard; but at her best no one I've ever seen could compare with her.

She asked me a few questions, and though she was pleasant and kind, I knew that she scarcely listened to my responses. While I sat down at the desk and dipped my pen into the ink, she flung herself on the couch before the fire with a movement which struck me as hopeless. I saw her feet tap the white fur rug, while she plucked nervously at the lace on the end of one of the gold-coloured sofa pillows. For an instant the thought flashed through my mind that she had been taking something--drug of some sort--and that she was suffering now from the effects of it. Then she looked at me steadily, almost as if she were reading my thoughts, and I knew that I was wrong. Her large radiant eyes were as innocent as a child's.

She dictated a few notes-all declining invitations--and then, while I still waited pen in hand, she sat up on the couch with one of her quick movements, and said in a low voice, "I am not dining out to-night, Miss Wrenn. I am not well enough."

"I am sorry for that." It was all I could think of to say, for I did not understand why she should have told me.

"If you don't mind, I should like you to come down to dinner. There will be only Mr. Vanderbridge and myself."

"Of course I will come if you wish it." I couldn't very well refuse to do what she asked me, yet I told myself, while I answered, that if I had known she expected me to make one of the family, I should never, not even at twice the salary, have taken the place. It didn't take me a minute to go over my slender wardrobe in my mind and realize that I had nothing to wear that would look well enough.

"I can see you don't like it," she added after a moment, almost wistfully, "but it won't be often. It is only when we are dining alone."

This, I thought, was even queerer than the request--or command--for I knew from her tone, just as plainly as if she had told me in words, that she did not wish to dine alone with her husband.