Spanish Prisoners of War (from Literature and Life) E-Book

William Dean Howells

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In "Spanish Prisoners of War" from his esteemed collection "Literature and Life," William Dean Howells delves into the profound psychological and social ramifications of war, particularly focusing on the plight of Spanish prisoners during the late 19th century. The narrative intertwines vivid realism with reflective commentary, illustrating how the harsh realities of conflict shape human experiences and interactions. Howells' literary style is characterized by nuanced character development and a keen eye for detail, which fosters an intimate understanding of suffering and resilience amid the brutality of war. Set against the backdrop of the Spanish-American War, this piece serves as both a critique of imperialism and a poignant exploration of humanity in dire circumstances. William Dean Howells, often hailed as the "Dean of American Letters," was instrumental in championing realism in American literature. His extensive experiences as a literary critic, editor, and playwright informed his understanding of societal issues, rendering him an acute observer of the human condition. Howells' own views on morality and social responsibility are echoed in this work, which challenges readers to confront the often-ignored consequences of warfare. I highly recommend "Spanish Prisoners of War" to readers seeking an insightful examination of the complex emotional landscape shaped by conflict. Howells' masterful prose and critical reflections make this work not only a significant literary artifact but also a timeless commentary on the human spirit's endurance, making it indispensable for anyone interested in the interplay between literature and sociopolitical discourse.

Leseprobe

William Dean Howells

Spanish Prisoners of War (from Literature and Life)

 

EAN 8596547340553

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

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III.

IV.

It was an afternoon of the brilliancy known only to an afternoon of the American summer, and the water of the swift Piscataqua River glittered in the sun with a really incomparable brilliancy. But nothing could light up the great monster of a ship, painted the dismal lead-color which our White Squadrons put on with the outbreak of the war, and she lay sullen in the stream with a look of ponderous repose, to which the activities of the coaling-barges at her side, and of the sailors washing her decks, seemed quite unrelated. A long gun forward and a long gun aft threatened the fleet of launches, tugs, dories, and cat-boats which fluttered about her, but the Harvard looked tired and bored, and seemed as if asleep. She had, in fact, finished her mission. The captives whom death had released had been carried out and sunk in the sea; those who survived to a further imprisonment had all been taken to the pretty island a mile farther up in the river, where the tide rushes back and forth through the Narrows like a torrent. Its defiant rapidity has won it there the graphic name of Pull-and-be-Damned; and we could only hope to reach the island by a series of skilful tacks, which should humor both the wind and the tide, both dead against us. Our boatman, one of those shore New Englanders who are born with a knowledge of sailing, was easily master of the art of this, but it took time, and gave me more than the leisure I wanted for trying to see the shore with the strange eyes of the captives who had just looked upon it. It was beautiful, I had to own, even in my quality of exile and prisoner. The meadows and the orchards came down to the water, or, where the wandering line of the land was broken and lifted in black fronts of rock, they crept to the edge of the cliff and peered over it. A summer hotel stretched its verandas along a lovely level; everywhere in clovery hollows and on breezy knolls were gray old farm-houses and summer cottages—like weather-beaten birds’ nests, and like freshly painted marten-boxes; but all of a cold New England neatness which made me homesick for my malodorous Spanish fishing-village, shambling down in stony lanes to the warm tides of my native seas. Here, every place looked as if it had been newly scrubbed with soap and water, and rubbed down with a coarse towel, and was of an antipathetic alertness. The sweet, keen breeze made me shiver, and the northern sky, from which my blinding southern sun was blazing, was as hard as sapphire. I tried to bewilder myself in the ignorance of a Catalonian or Asturian fisherman, and to wonder with his darkened mind why it should all or any of it have been, and why I should have escaped from the iron hell in which I had fought no quarrel of my own to fall into the hands of strangers, and to be haled over seas to these alien shores for a captivity of unknown term. But I need not have been at so much pains; the intelligence (I do not wish to boast) of an American author would have sufficed; for if there is anything more grotesque than another in war it is its monstrous inconsequence. If we had a grief with the Spanish government, and if it was so mortal we must do murder for it, we might have sent a joint committee of the House and Senate, and, with the improved means of assassination which modern science has put at our command, killed off the Spanish cabinet, and even the queen-mother and the little king. This would have been consequent, logical, and in a sort reasonable; but to butcher and capture a lot of wretched Spanish peasants and fishermen, hapless conscripts to whom personally and nationally we were as so many men in the moon, was that melancholy and humiliating necessity of war which makes it homicide in which there is not even the saving grace of hate, or the excuse of hot blood.