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- Herausgeber: Zenith Crescent Moon Press
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
🖤 Step into the haunting world of Edith Nesbit's The Ebony Frame, a chilling Gothic short story that explores themes of love, destiny, and the supernatural. The tale follows a man who inherits a mysterious house and discovers an enchanting portrait of a woman in an intricately carved ebony frame. As he becomes captivated by the portrait, he is drawn into a dark and otherworldly romance 🌌. ✨ With its atmospheric setting, eerie twists, and emotional depth, The Ebony Frame is a masterful blend of Gothic suspense and supernatural intrigue. Nesbit's storytelling captures the essence of Victorian ghost stories while weaving a tale of passion and tragedy 📖. 🌟 First published in 1893, this story remains a classic of Gothic literature, perfect for fans of haunting mysteries and timeless supernatural fiction 🔮. 🎁 Don't miss this spellbinding tale—immerse yourself in the eerie beauty of The Ebony Frame today! 🕯️
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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The Ebony Frame
Edith Nesbit
About E. Nesbit
Edith Nesbit (1858–1924), known professionally as E. Nesbit, was a British author and poet, best remembered for her imaginative and influential contributions to children's literature. She is considered one of the first modern writers of children's fantasy.
Nesbit's most famous works include The Railway Children, Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Carpet, and The Story of the Amulet. Her stories are known for blending magical adventures with realistic settings and relatable characters.
A pioneer in her genre, Nesbit introduced a naturalistic style and a sense of humor that greatly influenced later authors, including C.S. Lewis and J.K. Rowling. Her approach to fantasy—placing magical events in everyday life—was groundbreaking for its time.
In addition to her literary work, E. Nesbit was an active socialist and co-founder of the Fabian Society, advocating for social reform and equality. Her legacy endures as one of the most beloved voices in English children's literature.
To be rich is a luxurious sensation, the more so when you have plumbed the depths of hard-up-ness as a Fleet Street hack, a picker-up of unconsidered pars, a reporter, an unappreciated journalist; all callings utterly inconsistent with one's family feeling and one's direct descent from the Dukes of Picardy.
When my Aunt Dorcas died and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in Chelsea, I felt that life had nothing left to offer except immediate possession of the legacy. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had hitherto regarded as my life's light, became less luminous. I was not engaged to Mildred, but I lodged with her mother, and I sang duets with Mildred and gave her gloves when it would run to it, which was seldom. She was a dear, good girl, and I meant to marry her some day. It is very nice to feel that a good little woman is thinking of you? it helps you in your work? and it is pleasant to know she will say "Yes," when you say, "Will you?"
But my legacy almost put Mildred out of my head, especially as she was staying with friends in the country.
Before the gloss was off my new mourning, I was seated in my aunt's armchair in front of the fire in the drawing-room of my own house. My own house! It was grand, but rather lonely. I did think of Mildred just then.
The room was comfortably furnished with rosewood and damask. On the walls hung a few fairly good oil paintings, but the space above the mantelpiece was disfigured by an exceedingly bad print, "The Trial of Lord William Russell," framed in a dark frame. I got up to look at it. I had visited my aunt with dutiful regularity, but I never remembered seeing this frame before. It was not intended for a print, but for an oil-painting. It was of fine ebony, beautifully and curiously carved. I looked at it with growing interest, and when my aunt's housemaid? I had retained her modest staff of servants? came in with the lamp, I asked her how long the print had been there.
"Mistress only bought it two days before she was took ill," she said; "but the frame? she didn't want to buy a new one? so she got this out of the attic. There's lots of curious old things there, sir."
"Had my aunt had this frame long?"
"Oh, yes, sir. It must have come long before I did, and I've been here seven years come Christmas. There was a picture in it. That's upstairs too? but it's that black and ugly it might as well be a chimney-back."
I felt a desire to see this picture. What if it were some priceless old master, in which my aunt's eyes had only seen rubbish?
Directly after breakfast next morning, I paid a visit to the attic.
It was crammed with old furniture enough to stock a curiosity shop. All the house was furnished solidly in the Mid-Victorian style, and in this room everything not in keeping with the drawing-room suite ideal was stowed away. Tables of papier-mache and mother-of-pearl, straight-backed chairs with twisted feet and faded needle-work cushions, fire-screens of gilded carving and beaded banners, oak bureaux with brass handles, a little worktable with its faded, moth-eaten, silk flutings hanging in disconsolate shreds; on these, and the dust that covered them, blazed the full daylight as I pulled up the blinds. I promised myself a good time in re-enshrining these household gods in my parlour, and promoting the Victorian suite to the attic. But at present my business was to find the picture as "black as the chimney back"; and presently, behind a heap of fenders and boxes, I found it.
