: Arnold Bennett
: Buried Alive A Tale of These Days
: Dead Dodo Presents Arnold Bennett
: 9781508026150
: 1
: CHF 0.70
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 232
: DRM
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
Dodo Collections brings you another classic from Arnold Bennett, ''Buried Alive: A Tale of These Days'.'

 

An ingenious satire, 'Buried Alive' is Bennett at his most charming and wittiest. It is the story a renowned but exceedingly shy painter, Priam Farll, who assumes the identity of his dead valet, Henry Leek, as a means of avoiding press attention. The novel was enormously successful as a play, retitled The Great Adventure, and later as the film 'Holy Matrimony.'

 

Enoch Arnold Bennett (always known as Arnold Bennett) was one of the most remarkable literary figures of his time, a product of the English Potteries that he made famous as the Five Towns. Yet he could hardly wait to escape his home town, and he did so by the sheer force of his ambition to succeed as an author. In his time he turned his hand to every kind of writing, but he will be remembered for such novels as The Old Wives' Tale, the Clayhanger trilogy (Clayhanger, Hilda Lessways, and These Twain), and The Card. He also wrote such intriguing self-improvement books as Literary Taste, How To Live on 24 Hours a Day, The Human Machine, etc.

After a local education Bennett finished his education at the University of London and for a time was editor of Woman magazine. After 1900 he devoted himself entirely to writing; dramatic criticism was one of his foremost interests. Bennett is best known, however, for his novels, several of which were written during his residence in France.

 

Bennett's infancy was spent in genteel poverty, which gave way to prosperity as his father succeeded as a solicitor. From this provincial background he became a novelist.



His enduring fame is as a Chronicler of the Potteries towns, the setting and inspiration of some of his most famous and enduring literary work and the place where he grew up.

CHAPTER II: A PAIL


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STICKING OUT OF THE POCKET of Leek’s light overcoat was a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph. Priam Farll was something of a dandy, and like all right-thinking dandies and all tailors, he objected to the suave line of a garment being spoilt by a free utilization of pockets. The overcoat itself, and the suit beneath, were quite good; for, though they were the property of the late Henry Leek, they perfectly fitted Priam Farll and had recently belonged to him, Leek having been accustomed to clothe himself entirely from his master’s wardrobe. The dandy absently drew forth the Telegraph, and the first thing that caught his eye was this: “A beautiful private hotel of the highest class. Luxuriously furnished. Visitor’s comfort studied. Finest position in London. Cuisine a speciality. Quiet. Suitable for persons of superior rank. Bathroom. Electric light. Separate tables. No irritating extras. Single rooms from 2-1/2 guineas, double from 4 guineas weekly. 250 Queen’s Gate.” And below this he saw another piece of news: “Not a boarding-house. A magnificent mansion. Forty bedrooms by Waring. Superb public saloons by Maple. Parisian chef. Separate tables. Four bathrooms. Card-room, billiard-room, vast lounge. Young, cheerful, musical society. Bridge (small). Special sanitation. Finest position in London. No irritating extras. Single rooms from 2-1/2 guineas, double from 4 guineas weekly. Phone 10,073 Western. Trefusis Mansion, W.”

At that moment a hansom cab came ambling down Selwood Terrace.

Impulsively he hailed it.

“‘Ere, guv’nor,” said the cabman, seeing with an expert eye that Priam Farll was unaccustomed to the manipulation of luggage. “Give this ‘ere Hackenschmidt a copper to lend ye a hand. You’re only a light weight.”

A small and emaciated boy, with the historic remains of a cigarette in his mouth, sprang like a monkey up the steps, and, not waiting to be asked, snatched the trunk from Priam’s hands. Priam gave him one of Leek’s sixpences for his feats of strength, and the boy spat generously on the coin, at the same time, by a strange skill, clinging to the cigarette with his lower lip. Then the driver lifted the reins with a noble gesture, and Priam had to be decisive and get into the cab.

“250 Queen’s Gate,” said he.

As, keeping his head to one side to avoid the reins, he gave the direction across the roof of the cab to the attentive cocked ear of the cabman, he felt suddenly that he had regained his nationality, that he was utterly English, in an atmosphere utterly English. The hansom was like home after the wilderness.

He had chosen 250 Queen’s Gate because it appeared the abode of tranquillity and discretion. He felt that he might sink into 250 Queen’s Gate as into a feather bed. The other palace intimidated him. It recalled the terrors of a continental hotel. In his wan