The Heir of the McHulishes E-Book

Bret Harte

• Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

In "The Heir of the McHulishes," Bret Harte deftly navigates the rich tapestry of post-Gold Rush America, exploring themes of identity, lineage, and cultural clash through a striking prose style that combines both realism and romanticism. Set against the rugged backdrop of California'Äôs Sierra Nevada, Harte's narrative reveals the complexities of a family's legacy amidst the clash of diverse cultural values and the ruthless march of progress. The blend of humor and pathos is emblematic of Harte'Äôs literary contributions, as he deftly weaves an engaging yarn that is both accessible and layered with social critique. Bret Harte, an influential figure in American literature, is renowned for his vivid depictions of frontier life and the character sketches of his time. His own experiences as a writer and editor during the transformative period of the American West undoubtedly shaped his perspective, infusing his narratives with authenticity and depth. Harte's unique blend of local color and moral complexity draws readers into a world where the past and present collide, revealing the often turbulent nature of human relationships and aspirations. Readers seeking an insightful exploration of American identity and the nuances of heritage will find "The Heir of the McHulishes" a compelling addition to their literary repertoire. Harte's storytelling not only enriches historical understanding but also resonates with timeless questions of belonging and the enduring impact of family. This work is essential for both scholars and enthusiasts of 19th-century American literature.

Leseprobe

Bret Harte

The Heir of the McHulishes

Published by Good Press, 2022

[email protected]

EAN 4064066421533

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

PART I.

PART II.

Part I

Table of Contents

PART I.

Table of Contents

I.

THE consul for the United States of America at the port of St. Kentigern was sitting alone in the settled gloom of his private office. Yet it was only high noon, of a “seasonable” winter’s day, by the face of the clock that hung like a pallid moon on the murky wall opposite to him. What else could be seen of the apartment by the faint light that struggled through the pall of fog outside the lusterless windows presented the ordinary aspect of a business sanctum. There were a shelf of fog-bound admiralty law, one or two colored prints of ocean steamships under full steam, bow on, tremendously foreshortened, and seeming to force themselves through shadowy partitions; there were engravings of Lincoln and Washington, as unsubstantial and shadowy as the dead themselves. Outside, against the window, which was almost level with the street, an occasional procession of black silhouetted figures of men and women, with prayer-books in their hands and gloom on their faces, seemed to be born of the fog, and prematurely to return to it. At which a conviction of sin overcame the consul. He remembered that it was the Sabbath day, and that he had no business to be at the consulate at all.

Unfortunately, with this shameful conviction came the sound of a bell ringing somewhere in the depths of the building, and the shuffling of feet on the outer steps. The light of his fire had evidently been seen, and like a beacon had attracted some wandering and possibly intoxicated mariner with American papers. The consul walked into the hall with a sudden righteous frigidity of manner. It was one thing to be lounging in one’s own office on the Sabbath day, and quite another to be deliberately calling there on business.

He opened the front door, and a middle-aged man entered, accompanying and partly shoving forward a more diffident and younger one. Neither appeared to be a sailor, although both were dressed in that dingy respectability and remoteness of fashion affected by second and third mates when ashore. They were already well in the hall, and making their way toward the private office, when the elder man said, with an air of casual explanation, “Lookin’ for the American consul; I reckon this yer’s the consulate?”

“It is the consulate,” said the official dryly, “and I am the consul; but—”

“That’s all right,” interrupted the stranger, pushing past him, and opening the door of the private office, into which he shoved his companion. “Thar now!” he continued to the diffident youth, pointing to a chair, and quite ignoring the presence of the consul; “thar’s a bit of America. Sit down thar. You ’re under the flag now, and can do as you darn please.” Nevertheless, he looked a little disappointed as he glanced around him, as if he had expected a different environment and possibly a different climate.

“I presume,” said the consul suavely, “you wish to see me on some urgent matter; for you probably know that the consulate is closed on Sunday to ordinary business. I am here myself quite accidentally.”

“Then you don’t live here?” said the visitor disappointedly.

“No.”

“I reckon that’s the reason why we did n’t see no flag a-flyin’ when we was a-huntin’ this place yesterday. We were directed here, but I says to Malcolm, says I, ‘No; it ain’t here, or you’d see the Stars and Stripes afore you’d see anythin’ else.’ But I reckon you float it over your house, eh?”

The consul here explained smilingly that he did not fly a flag over his lodgings, and that except on national holidays it was not customary to display the national ensign on the consulate.

“Then you can’t do here–and you a consul–what any nigger can do in the States, eh? That’s about how it pans out, don’t it? But I did n’t think you’d tumble to it quite so quick, Jack.”

At this mention of his Christian name, the consul turned sharply on the speaker. A closer scrutiny of the face before him ended with a flash of reminiscence. The fog without and within seemed to melt away; he was standing once more on a Western hillside with this man; a hundred miles of sparkling sunshine and crisp, dry air stretching around him, and above a blue and arched sky that roofed the third of a continent with six months’ summer. And then the fog seemed to come back heavier and thicker to his consciousness. He emotionally stretched out his hand to the stranger. But it was the fog and his personal surroundings which now seemed to be unreal.

“Why it’s Harry Custer!” he said with a laugh that, however, ended in a sigh. “I did n’t recognize you in this half light.” He then glanced curiously toward the diffident young man, as if to identify another possible old acquaintance.

“Well, I spotted you from the first,” said Custer, “though I ain’t seen you since we were in Scott’s Camp together. That’s ten years ago. You ’re lookin’ at him,” he continued, following the consul’s wandering eye. “Well, it’s about him that I came to see you. This yer’s a McHulish–a genuine McHulish!”

He paused, as if to give effect to this statement. But the name apparently offered no thrilling suggestion to the consul, who regarded the young man closely for further explanation. He was a fair-faced youth of about twenty years, with pale reddish-brown eyes, dark hair reddish at the roots, and a singular white and pink waxiness of oval cheek, which, however, narrowed suddenly at the angle of the jaw, and fell away with the retreating chin.

“Yes,” continued Custer; “I oughter say the only McHulish. He is the direct heir–and of royal descent! He’s one of them McHulishes whose name in them old history times was enough to whoop up the boys and make ’em paint the town red. A regular campaign boomer—the old McHulish was. Stump speeches and brass-bands war n’t in it with the boys when he was around. They’d go their bottom dollar and last cartridge–if they’d had cartridges in them days—on him. That was the regular McHulish gait. And Malcolm there’s the last of ’em–got the same style of features, too.”

Ludicrous as the situation was, it struck the consul dimly, as through fog and darkness, that the features of the young man were not unfamiliar, and indeed had looked out upon him dimly and vaguely at various times, from various historic canvases. It was the face of complacent fatuity, incompetency, and inconstancy, which had dragged down strength, competency, and constancy to its own idiotic fate and levels,—a face for whose weaknesses valor and beauty had not only sacrificed themselves, but made things equally unpleasant to a great many minor virtues. Nevertheless, the consul, with an amused sense of its ridiculous incongruity to the grim Scottish Sabbath procession in the street, and the fog-bound volumes of admiralty law in the room, smiled affably.

“Of course our young friend has no desire to test the magic of his name here, in these degenerate days.”

“No,” said Custer complacently; “though between you and me, old man, there’s always no tellin’ what might turn up over in this yer monarchy. Things of course are different over our way. But jest now Malcolm will be satisfied to take the title and property to which he’s rightful heir.”