Mary Barton E-Book

Elizabeth Gaskell

• Herausgeber: Elizabeth Gaskell
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Mary Barton is the first novel by English author Elizabeth Gaskell, published in 1848. The story is set in Manchester between 1830 and 1840 and is responsible for the difficulties faced by the lower classes of Victorian England. We're in Manchester around 1840, dramatic period social conflicts and deep lacerations. Among the textile workers in struggle stands out the figure of John Barton, dragged by events to the bottom of a dark slash, and next to him, an extraordinary romantic note in a passionate novel of realism, daughter Mary, contested between two men at the Centre of a love affair that is interwoven with the social drama and turns and wraps , prompting a painful conflict between Mary and her father. Mary Barton, in what is considered the first English realist novel, knows how to combine romance with absolute spontaneity and sense of dramatic realism of life ...

Leseprobe

Mary Barton

by

Elizabeth Gaskell

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A Mysterious Disappearance.

A Manchester Tea-Party.

John Bartons Great Trouble.

Old Alice’s History.

The Mill on Fire-Jem Wilson to the Rescue.

Poverty and Death.

Jem Wilson’s Repulse.

Margaret’s Debut as a Public Singer.

Barton’s London Experiences.

Return of the Prodigal.

Mr. Carson’s Intentions Revealed.

Old Alice’s Bairn,

A Traveller’s Tales.

Jem’s Interview with Poor Esther.

A Violent Meeting Between the Rivals.

Meeting Between Masters and Workmen.

Barton’s Night-Errand,

Murder.

Jem Wilson Arrested on Suspicion,

Mary’s Dream — And the Awakening.

Esther’s Motive in Seeking Mary.

Mary’s Efforts to Prove an Alibi.

The Sub-Poena.

With the Dying.

Mrs. Wilson’s Determination.

The Journey to Liverpool.

In the Liverpool Docks.

“John Cropper,” Ahoy!

A True Bill Against Jem.

Job Legh’s Deception.

How Mary Passed the Night.

The Trial and Verdict —“Not Guilty.”

Requiescat in Pace.

The Return Home.

“Forgive Us Our Trespasses.”

Jem’s Interview with Mr. Duncombe.

Details Connected with the Murder.

Conclusion.

I. A Mysterious Disappearance.

“Oh! ‘t is hard, ‘t is hard to be working

The whole of the live-long day,

When all the neighbours about one

Are off to their jaunts and play.

“There’s Richard he carries his baby,

And Mary takes little Jane,

And lovingly they’ll be wandering

Through fields and briery lane.”

— MANCHESTER SONG.

There are some fields near Manchester, well known to the inhabitants as “Green Heys Fields,” through which runs a public footpath to a little village about two miles distant. In spite of these fields being flat, and low, nay, in spite of the want of wood (the great and usual recommendation of level tracts of land), there is a charm about them which strikes even the inhabitant of a mountainous district, who sees and feels the effect of contrast in these commonplace but thoroughly rural fields, with the busy, bustling manufacturing town he left but half-an-hour ago. Here and there an old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings, speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc., which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch: and here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the lowing of cattle, the milkmaid’s call, the clatter and cackle of poultry in the farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions, a crowded halting place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond, reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of those old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above, overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads. The porch of this farmhouse is covered by a rose-tree; and the little garden surrounding it is crowded with a medley of old-fashioned herbs and flowers, planted long ago, when the garden was the only druggist’s shop within reach, and allowed to grow in scrambling and wild luxuriance — roses, lavender, sage, balm (for tea), rosemary, pinks and wallflowers, onions and jessamine, in most republican and indiscriminate order. This farmhouse and garden are within a hundred yards of the stile of which I spoke, leading from the large pasture field into a smaller one, divided by a hedge of hawthorn and blackthorn; and near this stile, on the further side, there runs a tale that primroses may often be found, and occasionally the blue sweet violet on the grassy hedge bank.

I do not know whether it was on a holiday granted by the masters, or a holiday seized in right of Nature and her beautiful spring time by the workmen, but one afternoon (now ten or a dozen years ago) these fields were much thronged. It was an early May evening — the April of the poets; for heavy showers had fallen all the morning, and the round, soft, white clouds which were blown by a west wind over the dark blue sky, were sometimes varied by one blacker and more threatening. The softness of the day tempted forth the young green leaves, which almost visibly fluttered into life; and the willows, which that morning had had only a brown reflection in the water below, were now of that tender grey-green which blends so delicately with the spring harmony of colours.

Groups of merry and somewhat loud-talking girls, whose ages might range from twelve to twenty, came by with a buoyant step. They were most of them factory girls, and wore the usual out-of-doors dress of that particular class of maidens; namely, a shawl, which at midday or in fine weather was allowed to be merely a shawl, but towards evening, if the day was chilly, became a sort of Spanish mantilla or Scotch plaid, and was brought over the head and hung loosely down, or was pinned under the chin in no unpicturesque fashion.

Their faces were not remarkable for beauty; indeed, they were below the average, with one or two exceptions; they had dark hair, neatly and classically arranged, dark eyes, but sallow complexions and irregular features. The only thing to strike a passer-by was an acuteness and intelligence of countenance, which has often been noticed in a manufacturing population.

There were also numbers of boys, or rather young men, rambling among these fields, ready to bandy jokes with any one, and particularly ready to enter into conversation with the girls, who, however, held themselves aloof, not in a shy, but rather in an independent way, assuming an indifferent manner to the noisy wit or obstreperous compliments of the lads. Here and there came a sober, quiet couple, either whispering lovers, or husband and wife, as the case might be; and if the latter, they were seldom unencumbered by an infant, carried for the most part by the father, while occasionally even three or four little toddlers had been carried or dragged thus far, in order that the whole family might enjoy the delicious May afternoon together.

Some time in the course of that afternoon, two working men met with friendly greeting at the stile so often named. One was a thorough specimen of a Manchester man; born of factory workers, and himself bred up in youth, and living in manhood, among the mills. He was below the middle size and slightly made; there was almost a stunted look about him; and his wan, colourless face gave you the idea, that in his childhood he had suffered from the scanty living consequent upon bad times and improvident habits. His features were strongly marked, though not irregular, and their expression was extreme earnestness; resolute either for good or evil, a sort of latent stern enthusiasm. At the time of which I write, the good predominated over the bad in the countenance, and he was one from whom a stranger would have asked a favour with tolerable faith that it would be granted. He was accompanied by his wife, who might, without exaggeration, have been called a lovely woman, although now her face was swollen with crying, and often hidden behind her apron. She had the fresh beauty of the agricultural districts; and somewhat of the deficiency of sense in her countenance, which is likewise characteristic of the rural inhabitants in comparison with the natives of the manufacturing towns. She was far advanced in pregnancy, which perhaps occasioned the overpowering and hysterical nature of her grief. The friend whom they met was more handsome and less sensible-looking than the man I have just described; he seemed hearty and hopeful, and although his age was greater, yet there was far more of youth’s buoyancy in his appearance. He was tenderly carrying a baby in arms, while his wife, a delicate, fragile-looking woman, limping in her gait, bore another of the same age; little, feeble twins, inheriting the frail appearance of their mother.