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A Prisoner in Fairyland von Blackwood, Algernon (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 26.10.2017
  • Verlag: Sheba Blake Publishing
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A Prisoner in Fairyland

A curious, unusual, puzzling type of book. The story of the awakening of a London financier who, after long years spent in the amassing of a fortune, reverts to his early dream of becoming a great philanthropist. Algernon Henry Blackwood, CBE (14 March 1869 - 10 December 1951) was an English short story writer and novelist, one of the most prolific writers of ghost stories in the history of the genre. He was also a journalist and a broadcasting narrator. S. T. Joshi has stated that 'his work is more consistently meritorious than any weird writer's except Dunsany's' and that his short story collection Incredible Adventures (1914) 'may be the premier weird collection of this or any other century.' As part of our mission to publish great works of literary fiction and nonfiction, Sheba Blake Publishing has begun its publishing empire with some of the most popular and beloved classic eBooks and Paperbacks. We are extremely dedicated to bringing to the forefront the amazing works of long dead and truly talented authors. Sheba Blake Publishing has created its collection of numerous classic eBooks and Paperbacks, specifically dedicated to bringing back in eBook and Paperback form works of worthy authors. Included in our current and forthcoming list of some 450 titles includes A Christmas Carol, A Journey to the Center of the Earth, A Martian Odyssey, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Cinderella and the list continues. The process to convert and distribute our eBook and Paperback titles can be quite time consuming, but the work is beyond worth the effort, with us having some of the most colorful and delightful covers you have seen in a while. We also hope to eventually add print books to our beautiful catalogue. Our works are made available to the reading public in the form of eBooks compatible with all currently available eBook platforms, distributed both directly from Sheba Blake Publishing's website and through various eBook resellers including iBookstore, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and many more. Sheba Blake Publishing is like our second child, it's very dear to us and we want more than anything to see it succeed and send it off into the world like the proud mama's we are! Sheba Blake Publishing is slowly becoming a beautiful reality to all readers. We greatly appreciate ANY and ALL support that has been given to us, and we love all of those dreaming readers who continue to purchase our titles and help us grow.

Produktinformationen

    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: none
    Seitenzahl: 280
    Erscheinungsdatum: 26.10.2017
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781387268641
    Verlag: Sheba Blake Publishing
    Größe: 397 kBytes
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A Prisoner in Fairyland

CHAPTER I

Man is his own star; and the soul that can Render an honest and a perfect man Commands all light, all influence, all fate, Nothing to him falls early, or too late. Our acts our angels are, or good or ill,

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

Minks--Herbert Montmorency--was now something more than secretary, even than private secretary: he was confidential-private-secretary, adviser, friend; and this, more because he was a safe receptacle for his employer's enthusiasms than because his advice or judgment had any exceptional value. So many men need an audience. Herbert Minks was a fine audience, attentive, delicately responsive, sympathetic, understanding, and above all--silent. He did not leak. Also, his applause was wise without being noisy. Another rare quality he possessed was that he was honest as the sun. To prevaricate, even by gesture, or by saying nothing, which is the commonest form of untruth, was impossible to his transparent nature. He might hedge, but he could never lie. And he was 'friend,' so far as this was possible between employer and employed, because a pleasant relationship of years' standing had established a bond of mutual respect under conditions of business intimacy which often tend to destroy it.

Just now he was very important into the bargain, for he had a secret from his wife that he meant to divulge only at the proper moment. He had known it himself but a few hours. The leap from being secretary in one of Henry Rogers's companies to being that prominent gentleman's confidential private secretary was, of course, a very big one. He hugged it secretly at first alone. On the journey back from the City to the suburb where he lived, Minks made a sonnet on it. For his emotions invariably sought the safety valve of verse. It was a wiser safety valve for high spirits than horse-racing or betting on the football results, because he always stood to win, and never to lose. Occasionally he sold these bits of joy for half a guinea, his wife pasting the results neatly in a big press album from which he often read aloud on Sunday nights when the children were in bed. They were signed 'Montmorency Minks'; and bore evidence of occasional pencil corrections on the margin with a view to publication later in a volume. And sometimes there were little lyrical fragments too, in a wild, original metre, influenced by Shelley and yet entirely his own. These had special pages to themselves at the end of the big book. But usually he preferred the sonnet form; it was more sober, more dignified. And just now the bumping of the Tube train shaped his emotion into something that began with

Success that poisons many a baser mind With thoughts of self, may lift--

but stopped there because, when he changed into another train, the jerkier movement altered the rhythm into something more lyrical, and he got somewhat confused between the two and ended by losing both.

He walked up the hill towards his tiny villa, hugging his secret and anticipating with endless detail how he would break it to his wife. He felt very proud and very happy. The half-mile trudge seemed like a few yards.

He was a slim, rather insignificant figure of a man, neatly dressed, the City clerk stamped plainly over all his person. He envied his employer's burly six-foot stature, but comforted himself always with the thought that he possessed in its place a certain delicacy that was more becoming to a man of letters whom an adverse fate prevented from being a regular minor poet. There was that touch of melancholy in his fastidious appearance that suggested the atmosphere of frustrated dreams. Only the firmness of his character and judgment decreed against the luxury of longish hair; and he prided himself upon remembering that although a poet at heart, he was outwardly a City clerk and, as a strong man, must permit no foolish compromise.

His face

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