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- Herausgeber: DigiCat
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
In Mary E. Wilkins Freeman's intriguing novella, *The Secret*, readers are drawn into the intricate lives of rural New England characters, often embroiled in the complexities of societal norms and personal desires. The narrative weaves a rich tapestry of psychological depth and emotional resonance, employing Freeman's signature style of realism that highlights the often-overlooked nuances of women's experiences in a patriarchal society. Set against the backdrop of small-town America, the novella explores themes of isolation, longing, and the weight of unspoken truths, ultimately revealing the profound impact of secrets on human relationships. Mary E. Wilkins Freeman was a prominent figure in late 19th-century American literature, celebrated for her poignant depictions of women and their struggles within the constraints of society. Raised in a conservative New England town, Freeman's own experiences likely influenced her interest in the intersection of gender and morality. Her keen observational skills and empathy for her characters allow her to delve deeply into their psyches, crafting narratives that resonate with authenticity and urgency. *The Secret* is highly recommended for readers interested in women's literature, psychological realism, and the complexities of human connection. Freeman's deft storytelling and profound insights make this novella not only a compelling read but also a valuable addition to the canon of American literature, offering timeless reflections on the nature of secrets and the paths they carve in our lives.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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The Secret
Table of Contents
The Secret (Freeman)
Catherine Gould came hurrying into the house at half-past eight. John Greason, the man to whom she was engaged, sat in the south room with her mother and her aunt Sarah. There were a light and a fire in the best parlor, but, since Catherine was not at home when he arrived, John sat down with her mother and aunt. They had all waited for Catherine with a curious impatience. It was not very late when John arrived, only quarter of eight, but Catherine was always there to welcome him, and this night she was not, and for some reason it struck them all as being singular.
“I don't see where Catherine is,” her mother kept saying, uneasily, as they waited.
“Maybe she ran down to the post-office or the store,” suggested Aunt Sarah. Aunt Sarah was knitting some white, fleecy wool into a shawl. She also was perturbed, but nothing ever stopped her knitting. She always kept her hands employed at some little, soft, feminine task like that, and it had become as involuntary with her as breathing. So she knitted on, although she listened for Catherine's step, and frequently glanced at the clock.
When she made her remark about the post-office and the store, John Greason frowned. He was a handsome young man with a square jaw. He had brought a box of candy for Catherine, and it was on his knees as he sat waiting.
“The last mail comes in at five o'clock,” said he. “I went into the store on my way here, and Catherine wasn't there. And I should have met her if she had been on her way home.”
“That is so,” said Catherine's mother. “I don't see where she is. She never goes out without telling where she is going, and she expected you, too.”
“Oh, I dare say she has just run out somewhere,” said John. He tried to speak easily, but failed. In spite of himself, he frowned. He was angry, albeit unwarrantably so. He was an only son and things had always gone his way. His mother and two sisters had always made things go his way. If John had not what he wanted when he wanted it, they would have felt as if something was wrong with the universe. Now it seemed inconceivable to him that Catherine should have gone out when she expected him, and when he always came at exactly quarter of eight. He tried to converse easily about the weather and the village news. He became every moment prouder and angrier and more resolved that nobody should know. If Catherine Gould chose to go out when she knew he was coming, and not tell where she was going, and keep him waiting, nobody should know that he felt it in the least.
Catherine's mother kept looking out of a window. He sat rigidly with his back to one. The curtains were not drawn; outside there was snow on the ground and there was a full moon, so looking out of the windows was like looking into a bright, white world. John would not look. When Catherine's mother looked he grew more and more incensed. He began to consider the advisability of his going home; then at last, just after the clock had struck one for half-past eight, Catherine's mother cried out with joyful relief:
“Here she is!”
“Well, I do wonder where she has been,” said Sarah, also with joyful relief.
John said nothing. His face looked very heavy and sullen. He was also quite pale.
Catherine came in all rosy and glowing with the cold wind. She came in as if there had been nothing unusual whatever about her disappearance. “Oh, it is cold,” said she. “Good-evening, John. Have you been here long?”
“He has been here ever since quarter of eight,” said her mother. “Where have you been, Catherine?”
John said nothing. He glanced with cold inquiry at Catherine from under his heavy lids. Catherine was laughing. She was about to answer, when she caught that look. Then she laughed again and said nothing. She was a very pretty, fairly a beautiful, girl. She was dressed all in red — red hat, red coat, and red gown; there were glints of red in her brown hair. She removed her hat and coat, and, going to a glass which hung between the two front windows, thrust her slender fingers into the puff of brown hair over her forehead and fluffed it out, still laughing. Then she turned and looked at them. Her whole face was dimpling with mischief. She was so beautiful that her mother felt a thrill of worshipful pride in her, and her aunt Sarah also. As for John Greason, he looked at her, and his mouth straightened.
“Why don't you tell where you have been, Catherine?” asked her mother. She tried to make her voice chiding, but it was full of tenderness.
Catherine only laughed.
“Why, Catherine Gould, where have you been?” asked her aunt.
Catherine answered for the first time, but not satisfactorily.
“That is a secret,” said she, and tossed her head and laughed again. She moved towards the door and looked gayly at John, evidently expecting him to rise and follow her into the parlor, but he sat still. “There's a light in the parlor, John,” said she.
Then he questioned her for the first time. “Where have you been?” he asked.
