Strictly Business (eBook)

More Stories of the Four Million

O. Henry (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2018
562 Seiten
Seltzer Books (Verlag)
978-1-4553-3351-6 (ISBN)

Infos

According to Wikipedia: 'O. Henry was the pen name of American writer William Sydney Porter (September 11, 1862 - June 5, 1910). O. Henry short stories are known for wit, wordplay, warm characterization and clever twist endings.... Most of O. Henry's stories are set in his own time, the early years of the 20th century. Many take place in New York City, and deal for the most part with ordinary people: clerks, policemen, waitresses. Fundamentally a product of his time, O. Henry's work provides one of the best English examples of catching the entire flavor of an age. Whether roaming the cattle-lands of Texas, exploring the art of the 'gentle grafter,' or investigating the tensions of class and wealth in turn-of-the-century New York, O. Henry had an inimitable hand for isolating some element of society and describing it with an incredible economy and grace of language. Some of his best and least-known work resides in the collection Cabbages and Kings, a series of stories which each explore some individual aspect of life in a paralytically sleepy Central American town while each advancing some aspect of the larger plot and relating back one to another in a complex structure which slowly explicates its own background even as it painstakingly erects a town which is one of the most detailed literary creations of the period. The Four Million is another collection of stories. It opens with a reference to Ward McAllister's 'assertion that there were only 'Four Hundred' people in New York City who were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen-the census taker-and his larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories of the 'Four Million.'' To O. Henry, everyone in New York counted. He had an obvious affection for the city, which he called 'Bagdad-on-the-Subway,'

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According to Wikipedia: "e;O. Henry was the pen name of American writer William Sydney Porter (September 11, 1862 - June 5, 1910). O. Henry short stories are known for wit, wordplay, warm characterization and clever twist endings.... Most of O. Henry's stories are set in his own time, the early years of the 20th century. Many take place in New York City, and deal for the most part with ordinary people: clerks, policemen, waitresses. Fundamentally a product of his time, O. Henry's work provides one of the best English examples of catching the entire flavor of an age. Whether roaming the cattle-lands of Texas, exploring the art of the "e;gentle grafter,"e; or investigating the tensions of class and wealth in turn-of-the-century New York, O. Henry had an inimitable hand for isolating some element of society and describing it with an incredible economy and grace of language. Some of his best and least-known work resides in the collection Cabbages and Kings, a series of stories which each explore some individual aspect of life in a paralytically sleepy Central American town while each advancing some aspect of the larger plot and relating back one to another in a complex structure which slowly explicates its own background even as it painstakingly erects a town which is one of the most detailed literary creations of the period. The Four Million is another collection of stories. It opens with a reference to Ward McAllister's "e;assertion that there were only 'Four Hundred' people in New York City who were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen-the census taker-and his larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories of the 'Four Million.'"e; To O. Henry, everyone in New York counted. He had an obvious affection for the city, which he called "e;Bagdad-on-the-Subway,"e;

Textauszug

"Go to your room for a while," I heard him say.  "I will remain and  talk with him.  His mind?  No, I think not--only a portion of the  brain.  Yes, I am sure he will recover.  Go to your room and leave  me with him."

 

The lady disappeared.  The man in dark clothes also went outside,  still manicuring himself in a thoughtful way.  I think he waited  in the hall.

 

"I would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,"  said the gentleman who remained.

 

"Very well, if you care to," I replied, "and will excuse me if I take  it comfortably; I am rather tired."  I stretched myself upon a couch  by a window and lit a cigar.  He drew a chair nearby.

 

"Let us speak to the point," he said, soothingly.  "Your name is not  Pinkhammer."

 

"I know that as well as you do," I said, coolly.  "But a man  must have a name of some sort.  I can assure you that I do not  extravagantly admire the name of Pinkhammer.  But when one  christens one's self suddenly, the fine names do not seem to  suggest themselves.  But, suppose it had been Scheringhausen  or Scroggins!  I think I did very well with Pinkhammer."

 

"Your name," said the other man, seriously, "is Elwyn C. Bellford.   You are one of the first lawyers in Denver.  You are suffering from  an attack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity.   The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and,  perhaps, a life too bare of natural recreation and pleasures.  The  lady who has just left the room is your wife."

 

"She is what I would call a fine-looking woman," I said, after a  judicial pause.  "I particularly admire the shade of brown in her  hair."

 

"She is a wife to be proud of.  Since your disappearance, nearly  two weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes.  We learned that  you were in New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman,  a traveling man from Denver.  He said that he had met you in a  hotel here, and that you did not recognize him."

 

"I think I remember the occasion," I said.  "The fellow called me  'Bellford,' if I am not mistaken.  But don't you think it about time,  now, for you to introduce yourself?"

 

"I am Robert Volney--Doctor Volney.  I have been your close friend  for twenty years, and your physician for fifteen.  I came with  Mrs. Bellford to trace you as soon as we got the telegram.  Try,  Elwyn, old man--try to remember!"

 

"What's the use to try?" I asked, with a little frown.  "You say you  are a physician.  Is aphasia curable?  When a man loses his memory  does it return slowly, or suddenly?"

 

"Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as  it went."

 

"Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?" I  asked.

 

"Old friend," said he, "I'll do everything in my power, and wil have  done everything that science can do to cure you."

 

"Very well," said I.  "Then you will consider that I am your patient.   Everything is in confidence now--professional confidence."

 

"Of course," said Doctor Volney.

 

I got up from the couch.  Some one had set a vase of white roses  on the centre table--a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and  fragrant.  I threw them far out of the window, and then laid myself  upon the couch again.

 

"It will be best, Bobby," I said, "to have this cure happen suddenly.   I'm rather tired of it all, anyway.  You may go now and bring Marian  in.  But, oh, Doc," I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin --"good old Doc--it was glorious!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 XIII

 

A MUNICIPAL REPORT

 

   The cities are full of pride,     Challenging each to each--   This from her mountainside,     That from her burthened beach.

 

             R. KIPLING.

 

   Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,   Tennessee!  There are justthree big cities in the United States   that are "story cities"--New York, of course, New Orleans, and,    best of the lot, San Francisco.  --FRANK NORRIS.

 

 East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.   Californians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants  of a State.  They are the Southerners of the West.  Now, Chicagoans  are no less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they  stammer and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building.   But Californians go into detail.

 

Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for  half an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy  underwear.  But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for  conviction, madness comes upon them, and they picture the city of  the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World.  So far, as a  matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary.  But, dear cousins  all (from Adam and Eve descended), it is a rash one who will lay  his finger on the map and say:  "In this town there can be no  romance--what could happen here?"  Yes, it is a bold and a rash  deed to challenge in one sentence history, romance, and Rand  and McNally.

 

   NASHVILLE--A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the    State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the    N. C. & St. L. and the L. & N. railroads.  This city is regarded    as the most important educational centre in the South.

 

 I stepped off the train at 8 P.M.  Having searched the thesaurus in  vain for adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison  in the form of a recipe.

 

Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;  dewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of  honeysuckle 15 parts.  Mix.

 

The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville  drizzle.  It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as  pea-soup; but 'tis enough--'twill serve.

 

I went to a hotel in a tumbril.  It required strong self-suppression  for me to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation  of Sidney Carton.  The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone  era and driven by something dark and emancipated.

 

I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid  it the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure  you).  I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about  its old "marster" or anything that happened "befo' de wah."

 

The hotel was one of the kind described as 'renovated."  That  means $20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights  and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and  a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms  above.  The management was without reproach, the attention full  of exquisite Southern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress  of a snail and as good-humored as Rip Van Winkle.  The food was  worth traveling a thousand miles for.  There is no other hotel in  the world where you can get such chicken livers _en brochette_.

 

At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in  town.  He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied:  "Well,  boss, I don't really reckon there's anything at all doin' after  sundown."

 

Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle  long before.  So that spectacle was denied me.  But I went forth  upon the streets in the drizzle to see what might be there.

 

   It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted    by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum.

 

 As I left the hotel there was a race riot.  Down upon me charged a  company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with--no, I saw with  relief that they were not rifles, but whips.  And I saw dimly a  caravan of black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts,  "Kyar you anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents," I reasoned  that I was merely a "fare" instead of a victim.

 

I walked through long streets, all...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 1.3.2018
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Anthologien
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Klassiker / Moderne Klassiker
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 1-4553-3351-4 / 1455333514
• ISBN-13: 978-1-4553-3351-6 / 9781455333516