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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In "A Wasted Day," Richard Harding Davis crafts a masterful narrative that explores themes of existential discontent and the fleeting nature of time against the backdrop of a summer's day. Employing a captivating blend of detailed character studies and evocative imagery, Davis immerses readers in the psychological landscape of his protagonists. The story, written in a succinct yet rich prose style characteristic of late 19th-century literature, delves into the lives of individuals grappling with their choices and the undercurrents of societal expectations, making it a poignant reflection on the human condition. Richard Harding Davis was a prominent American author and journalist whose diverse experiences in reporting from war zones and social settings informed much of his literary work. Born in 1864, Davis's exposure to various cultures and conflicts shaped his understanding of humanity and the complexities of individual desires versus societal norms. His vibrant storytelling often bridged journalism and literature, lending an authenticity and immediacy to his fictional narratives. "A Wasted Day" exemplifies his skill in depicting the intricacies of human relationships and the introspective journeys of his characters. This compelling novella is highly recommended for readers who appreciate nuanced psychological exploration and a keen observation of life's transient moments. Davis's incisive observations and elegant prose render "A Wasted Day" not just a story, but a deep meditation on how we choose to spend our time and the realizations that may come too late.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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A Wasted Day
Table of Contents
When its turn came, the private secretary, somewhat apologetically, laid the letter in front of the Wisest Man in Wall Street.
“From Mrs. Austin, probation officer, Court of General Sessions,” he explained. “Wants a letter about Spear. He’s been convicted of theft. Comes up for sentence Tuesday.”
“Spear?” repeated Arnold Thorndike.
“Young fellow, stenographer, used to do your letters last summer going in and out on the train.”
The great man nodded. “I remember. What about him?”
The habitual gloom of the private secretary was lightened by a grin.
“Went on the loose; had with him about five hundred dollars belonging to the firm; he’s with Isaacs & Sons now, shoe people on Sixth Avenue. Met a woman, and woke up without the money. The next morning he offered to make good, but Isaacs called in a policeman. When they looked into it, they found the boy had been drunk. They tried to withdraw the charge, but he’d been committed. Now, the probation officer is trying to get the judge to suspend sentence. A letter from you, sir, would—”
It was evident the mind of the great man was elsewhere. Young men who, drunk or sober, spent the firm’s money on women who disappeared before sunrise did not appeal to him. Another letter submitted that morning had come from his art agent in Europe. In Florence he had discovered the Correggio he had been sent to find. It was undoubtedly genuine, and he asked to be instructed by cable. The price was forty thousand dollars. With one eye closed, and the other keenly regarding the inkstand, Mr. Thorndike decided to pay the price; and with the facility of long practice dismissed the Correggio, and snapped his mind back to the present.
“Spear had a letter from us when he left, didn’t he?” he asked. “What he has developed into, SINCE he left us—” he shrugged his shoulders. The secretary withdrew the letter, and slipped another in its place.
“Homer Firth, the landscape man,” he chanted, “wants permission to use blue flint on the new road, with turf gutters, and to plant silver firs each side. Says it will run to about five thousand dollars a mile.”
“No!” protested the great man firmly, “blue flint makes a country place look like a cemetery. Mine looks too much like a cemetery now. Landscape gardeners!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Their only idea is to insult nature. The place was better the day I bought it, when it was running wild; you could pick flowers all the way to the gates.” Pleased that it should have recurred to him, the great man smiled. “Why, Spear,” he exclaimed, “always took in a bunch of them for his mother. Don’t you remember, we used to see him before breakfast wandering around the grounds picking flowers?” Mr. Thorndike nodded briskly. “I like his taking flowers to his mother.”
“He SAID it was to his mother,” suggested the secretary gloomily.
“Well, he picked the flowers, anyway,” laughed Mr. Thorndike. “He didn’t pick our pockets. And he had the run of the house in those days. As far as we know,” he dictated, “he was satisfactory. Don’t say more than that.”
