By Steen Steensen Blicher
The nineteenth Century Danish author, Steen Steensen Blicher merits to face alonngside the good writers of global literature, from Boccaccio to Manupassant, and this option of his paintings will make a gaggle of his most vital tales to be had within the English-speaking global. those display not just the author himself however the nation and tradition which shaped him within the early years of the nineteenth Century. even supposing the subject material is deeply and virtually that of Denmark, his account of human relationships is undying and he deploys the genuine storyteller's artwork.
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Additional resources for Diary of a Parish Clerk: and Other Stories
What is the matter with me? What have I done? Oh, I don't know what I'm writing -1 fear I may have gone out of my mind. Thiele, March 5th, 1713 Let me recall those sweet moments. Let me truly consider how blissful I was; not until now do I begin to awaken as if from an intoxication... The master returned from the hunt, and Jens had remained in the forest to dig out a hound that was stuck in a fox-hole. I knew very well that he would not come home before daylight, so I thought I would go and sleep in my old bedchamber.
14th, 1711 His Excellency has arrived at last, and with the greatest imaginable pomp and circumstance: two footmen with tall hats trimmed with silver came running into the courtyard half a mile ahead. They posted themselves with their long gaily coloured staves on either side of the great door. Her ladyship wriggled in at one door and out of the other; never before have I seen her so agile. Miss Sophie stood in the best parlour, 18 THE D I A R Y OF A P A R I S H C L E R K AND OTHER STORIES gazing alternatively at the mirror and out of the window.
Heavens, what a commotion there was! His lordship ran around with his gun like a madman, threatening to shoot Jens, but Jens was already on his horse and far away. The young lady was locked up in the corner-room so that the master shouldn't lay hands on her. Oh Heavens! What will be the end of it? I tremble every time I hear his voice. My conscience condemns and makes a coward of me. I am so overcome with remorse and fear that love and jealousy have been driven from my heart. Alas! If only I were fifteen leagues under the ground!