Little Windows (eBook)

A Collection of Stories

Stacy Aumonier (Autor)

Rafat Allam (Herausgeber)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025
200 Seiten
Al-Mashreq Ebookstore (Verlag)
978-0-17-546735-8 (ISBN)

Infos

Little Windows is a posthumous collection that encapsulates Stacy Aumonier's mastery in short story writing. Comprising twenty-six diverse tales, this volume offers a panoramic view of early 20th-century life, delving into themes of human nature, societal norms, and the complexities of everyday existence. Aumonier's keen eye for detail and profound understanding of character dynamics make this collection a compelling read for enthusiasts of literary fiction.

Stacy Aumonier was a British writer and stage performer, acclaimed for his short stories that delved into the intricacies of human nature and society. Coming from a family with a rich artistic heritage, he initially pursued painting before turning to writing. Between 1913 and 1928, Aumonier published over 85 short stories, six novels, and several essays. His works were celebrated for their wit, insight, and emotional depth. Notably, Nobel laureate John Galsworthy praised Aumonier as 'one of the best short-story writers of all time.' Despite his untimely death from tuberculosis at the age of 51, Aumonier's literary contributions have left a lasting impact on British literature.

Textauszug

1. The White Flower of a Blameless Life

I have never attended anything more impressive than the funeral of Pierre Curvellier. Autumn in Brittany is always beautiful, and that year it seemed more beautiful than ever. St. Cyr-en-Bois lies at a sharp angle of the Rinse. Sleepy old white buildings with grey stone roofs nestle around the hill capped by the splendid dome of the Sacred Heart. The narrow cobbled streets are steep and winding, and are always crowded with slow-moving and quick-talking people, in blue, and grey and white; pigs and cattle wander indiscriminately, and sometimes you meet an ox-cart. The air has a tang of apples and salt, and burning peat, and the products of people who live by the soil. The woods are turning brown and crimson and golden. Everything goes slowly at St. Cyr-en-Bois.

And up the winding streets the funeral cort�?¨ge of my old friend went very slowly. Everyone walked. The coffin covered by a deep purple pall was carried by priests. Acolytes carried the Sacred Image. Censers swung, and the priests chanted in unison. Madame Curvellier, tall, distinguished, and in deepest mourning, leant, on the arm of her handsome son, Léon. The procession must have been a quarter of a mile in length. The men stood bareheaded, the women wept, and making the sign of the cross, exclaimed:

"God be merciful to our wise man."

All around one heard the muttered words of love and praise.

"Mother of God, but he was a good man. When my little Jeanne was sick, he sat all night applying lotions... "

"He loved the poor. Who is there to take his place?"

"They say he lent that rascal Couperin the money to rebuild his house, which he had burnt down in a drunken orgy."

"He forgave the boy who stole his fowls. Five times he forgave him."

"He worketh for the poor, but he never took money from the poor."

At the top of the hill the procession halted. In front of the church a platform had been erected by the side of a catafalque. Deputy Longuet, wearing the ribbon of the Legion of Honour, mounted the platform and prayed. The crowd stood with bowed heads. Then deputy Longuet stood up and addressed them. He was a short, pale-faced man with a square black beard. He spoke in a rich vibrant voice, charged with deep emotion. His voice carried across the square.

"Before committing the body of our friend to the last solemn rites of the holy Church, you have done me the honour to invite me to address you," he began.

"Your request fills me with pride and humility. Pride at the honour you confer on me, humility at my power to carry it out worthily. You called him 'The Wise Man of St. Cyr-en-Bois' and you were right. Today we proclaim him not only the Wise Man of St. Cyr-en-Bois, but one of the wise men of France. Today the whole heart of France bleeds with St. Cyren-Bois. She mourns the loss of one of her most distinguished sons.

"He was my friend for thirty years or more. It is easy for me to extol his virtues, but to pay tribute to the genius of his intellect is a task of which I am not capable. It will take time—perhaps a century—before the full measure of his worth shall be proclaimed. He wrote many books, and many that have not yet been published or adjudged. A lawyer, a scientist, a philosopher, a man of letters, for a time a member of the Senate, his whole life was consecrated to the betterment of his fellow-creatures. The fruits of his intellect are the heritage of us all. His works adorn our libraries, his teachings on ethics remain a standard, the influence of his legislation still colours our actions. He was a member of the Académie, and France does not forget. And France will not forget. His name shall be written in letters of gold upon her scrolls through all posterity. The fragrance of his memory shall survive the living episodes of our time.

"Well, may you weep, my friends! Well may France weep! ... and then when our hearts are filled to overflowing we will turn to God and rejoice. Rejoice that in our time so great and good a man should live; rejoice that France still sends forth into the world noble spirits like Pierre Curvellier to work for her eternal good. If I speak of his work in faltering terms, hesitating for the right expression, it is only because it is not yet adjudged. I may say too little or too much. But when I speak of the man himself, his character and life, I have no misgiving. I may say too little, but I cannot say too much. His life was crystal-clear, ennobled by a great simplicity. His mind was an open book for anyone to read. At an early age God granted him the greatest boon He can give to man—a good wife. A loving husband, an affectionate father, a loyal citizen, he was one of those men of whom it may be truly said that no breath of scandal ever marred the serene nobility of his name. He stood for all that was best and purest in this town, for all that was best and purest in France. For the vile he had compassion, for the poor charity, for the ignorant knowledge, and for everyone—help and comfort. His great intellect was an instrument used by him for the advancement of his moral precepts.

"Holding high office in the town he served the poor with equal consideration to the rich. Blessed with a home life of irreproachable purity and beauty, he set it before men without any ostentation, a place of comfort and welcome to all, a living example to those less fortunate. Of him no evil word was spoken, no envy, hatred, or malice engendered. He made no enemies. He lost no friends.

"And so he passes on. Supreme in the councils of his country, courageous in her adversities, steeped in her erudition, tolerant of her faults, we commit his body reverently to the sacred dust of St. Cyr-en-Bois, where he was born and where he spent the great energies of his life, confident that his spirit rides on in triumph to the glory of his country, to the glory of God."

Deputy Longuet bowed, and a low murmur of approval rippled across the square. The procession continued its way to the church. As the librarian of the Municipal Library and an intimate friend of Monsieur Curvellier, many of the townspeople knew me, and came forward to press my hand and to mutter a word of sympathy.

"It is an hour of desolation for St. Cyr-en-Bois," said one.

Old Gabriel Fabre, who had closed his épicerie establishment for the day as a token of respect, gripped my hand.

"The deputy spoke well," he said. "Sublime... sublime. As he said, 'not one word of scandal.' A pure life... a perfect life. God rest his soul."

I was a secessionist from the Roman Church, but I had no intention on that account to omit any respect which I could pay to the memory of my old friend. Nevertheless, in the congestion which occurred by the church doors, a sudden mood came to me to escape from all the ceremony for a time and to enjoy a few moments' solitary reflection. I wandered on into the cemetery and listened to the deep notes of the organ. The leaden sky was reflected in the dim waters of the Rinse. Nature appeared to be attuning itself to the melancholy hour. I leant against the wall beneath the cypress tree and my heart was heavy within me. Not a word of scandal!... How blessed is the rain which falls, and the wind which blows the yellowing leaves away and time which purifies the brown hills against the coming of another spring, another cycle of birth and life and death again. In the mausoleums of history, you may read the records of great men inscribed in deathless marble. Loaded with honours and dignity they go to their rest "without a breath of scandal." Their lives are still to be read like an open book. The purity of their domestic state, the love of their children, the cleanliness, and honour, and chastity of their actions. And yet—was there ever a garden, however fair, where the weeds did not grow?...

I remember when he first came to St. Cyr-en-Bois, the young notary, with a large brass plate in the little street off the market-place. His coming attracted little attention. He was already married to his tall, graceful wife, and they had two young babies. The peasants and tradespeople of our province have no great love for lawyers. They fear them and avoid them as much as possible. They admired the erect figure of Monsieur Curvellier, his charm of manner, his classic distinguished features with the penetrating eyes. But perhaps his whole bearing savoured too much of the actor. It was foreign to them. They preferred snuffly old Boyson, who robbed them but did it with a certain amount of bluntness which they mistook for candour. It was the skill with which he handled the case of the widow La Roche against the depredations of an overbearing landlord that first drew public attention to him. And then after that a remarkable fact was discovered concerning him. He had a genius for forgetting to send in an account to a poor client.

I was one of the first people to make his acquaintance, for the library was almost the first place he visited, and he remained an indefatigable patron till the end of his days. I was immediately impressed by the restless energy of the man. He absorbed books as greedily as a cocotte will absorb scandal or petits-fours. He appeared to have read everything and yet to thirst for more. He was particularly interested in science and metaphysics, but he did not despise history, or fiction, even the work of modern writers.

"I want to know everything, Monsieur Barzac," he said to me one day. "Everything there is to know, and then I want to co-ordinate it."

He invited me to his house and we became great friends. The ménage of Monsieur and Madame Curvellier was a model of what a home should be.

Madame Curvellier was a charming hostess, devoted to her husband and the two children. The house...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 14.6.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: British Literature • Character Dynamics • Cultural Commentary • Early 20th Century • emotional depth • Everyday life • fiction anthology • Human nature • Literary Craftsmanship • literary fiction • narrative diversity • NARRATIVE STYLE • posthumous collection • psychological insight • Short Stories • societal norms • Stacy Aumonier • Storytelling • Thematic Exploration • William Heinemann
• ISBN-10: 0-17-546735-8 / 0175467358
• ISBN-13: 978-0-17-546735-8 / 9780175467358