Ourika : This Is to Be Alone, This, This, Is Solitude! E-Book

Lord Byron

• Herausgeber: lord byron
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Ourika is a delightful tale set in France during the French Revolution. George Gordon Byron (1788–1824), commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was an English poet and a leading figure in the Romantic movement.Ourika, was published in 1823, de Duras' novel represents a number of firsts: the first novel set in Europe to have a black heroine; the first French literary work narrated by a black female; and the first serious attempt by a white author to express the feelings of a black character.The story is based on a true account of a Senegalese girl rescued from slavery and raised by an aristocratic French family.When Ourika overhears a conversation that makes her aware of her race and the prejudices it produces, her reality is shattered. This revelation causes her to become ill and no longer able to enjoy the lifestyle to which she is accustomed. Her struggle to reject living as a French woman and to exist as a black woman causes her to choose an "invisible" subsistence by removing mirrors and by wearing gloves to cover her hands and dresses to hide her neck and arms. This enchanting story will be enjoyed by all. Lillian Lewis

Leseprobe

Ourika

This Is to Be Alone, This, This, Is Solitude!

By Lord Byron

OURIKA This is to be alone, this, this, is solitude!

INTRODUCTION

I had come from the town of Montpellier a few months before, and I was practicing medicine inParis when, one morning, I was summoned to a convent in the Faubourg Saint Jacques on theLeft Bank, to visit a young nun who was ill. The emperor Napoleon had recently allowed a fewof these convents to reopen: the one where I was going was devoted to the education of younggirls and belonged to the Ursuline order. The revolution had destroyed part of the building. Thecloister had one side without walls as the ancient church adjacent to it had been destroyed; theonly remnants were a few arches. A nun let me in this cloister, and we walked on largeflagstones which provided a path in the galleries. I realized these were tombs because they wereall marked by inscriptions which had been, for the most part, blurred by the abrasion of time. Afew of these stones had been broken during the revolution: the nun pointed them out to me,saying that they had not yet had time to repair them. I had never been inside a convent before:

this spectacle was a novelty for me. From the cloister we went into the garden, where the nuntold me they had carried the sister who was ill: indeed, I could see her at the end of a long pathshaded by a bower. She was seated, and her long black veil covered her entirely. "Here is thedoctor," said the nun as she left. I came forward with some apprehension; the sight of thesetombs had wrung my heart, and I thought I was to behold yet another victim of the cloisters. Theprejudices of my youth had awakened, and my interest in the woman whom I had come to visitwas doubled by the misfortune that I attributed to her.

She turned toward me, and I was strangely surprised when I saw a Negress. My surprise becamegreater because of the politeness with which she greeted me and the kinds of expressions sheused. "You are visiting a person who is quite ill," she said to me, "now I want to get well; but Idid not always wish it so, and this perhaps is what did me so much damage." I asked her a fewquestions about her illness. "I feel," she said, "a constant oppression, I cannot sleep, and I havean unrelenting fever." Her appearance only confirmed this sad description of her state of health:she was excessively thin, her large and shiny eyes, her brilliant white teeth were the only light inher face. Her soul was still alive, but her body was destroyed, and she showed all the marks of along and acute grief. Touched beyond words, I decided to do everything that was possible to saveher. I began by mentioning the necessity to calm her imagination, to think of other things, toavoid painful feelings. "I am happy," she said, "I have never felt such serenity." Her tone ofvoice was sincere; this soft voice could not deceive; but my surprise increased at every moment.

"You haven't always thought so," I told her, "and you bear the trace of a very long lasting grief."

"It is true," she said, "My heart found peace quite late, but now I am happy." "Well, if this is thecase," I went on, "it is the past that we must cure; let us hope that we shall overcome it: but Icannot cure this past without knowing what it is." "Alas," she answered, "this is foolishness!"