The Luck of Barry Lyndon by William Makepeace Thackeray (good english books to read TXT) 📕
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The Luck of Barry Lyndon was first published as a serial in Fraser’s Magazine, then later as a complete volume entitled The Memoirs of Barry Lyndon, Esq.—a title Thackeray disliked, but that was selected by his publisher. Thackeray had great difficulty composing the novel, and found himself frequently frustrated in his attempts to get Barry out of yet another jam. Ultimately he was displeased with his work, and considered it one of his lesser novels.
Despite Thackeray’s neglect, Barry Lyndon is a bright satire filled with many genuinely funny moments. Barry is the quintessential unreliable narrator, and through his outrageous boasts and tall tales he becomes not just the target of the satire, but its very agent as well. Fortunately modern critics have viewed Barry Lyndon in a much more favorable light than Thackeray’s contemporaries, and even Thackeray himself: today it’s considered by some critics as one of his finest works.
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- Author: William Makepeace Thackeray
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“And ought to be whipped for his impudence,” said the Captain; “but never fear, Miss Brady, I shall not touch him; your favourite is safe from me.” So saying, he stooped down and picked up the bunch of ribands which had fallen at Nora’s feet, and handing it to her, said in a sarcastic tone, “When ladies make presents to gentlemen, it is time for other gentlemen to retire.”
“Good heavens, Quin!” cried the girl; “he is but a boy.”
“I am a man,” roared I, “and will prove it.”
“And don’t signify any more than my parrot or lapdog. Mayn’t I give a bit of riband to my own cousin?”
“You are perfectly welcome, miss,” continued the Captain, “as many yards as you like.”
“Monster!” exclaimed the dear girl; “your father was a tailor, and you are always thinking of the shop. But I’ll have my revenge, I will! Reddy, will you see me insulted?”
“Indeed, Miss Nora,” says I, “I intend to have his blood as sure as my name’s Redmond.”
“I’ll send for the usher to cane you, little boy,” said the Captain, regaining his self-possession; “but as for you, miss, I have the honour to wish you a good day.”
He took off his hat with much ceremony, made a low conge, and was just walking off, when Mick, my cousin, came up, whose ear had likewise been caught by the scream.
“Hoity-toity! Jack Quin, what’s the matter here?” says Mick; “Nora in tears, Redmond’s ghost here with his sword drawn, and you making a bow?”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Brady,” said the Englishman: “I have had enough of Miss Nora, here, and your Irish ways. I ain’t used to ’em, sir.”
“Well, well! what is it?” said Mick good-humouredly (for he owed Quin a great deal of money as it turned out); “we’ll make you used to our ways, or adopt English ones.”
“It’s not the English way for ladies to have two lovers” (the “Henglish way,” as the captain called it), “and so, Mr. Brady, I’ll thank you to pay me the sum you owe me, and I’ll resign all claims to this young lady. If she has a fancy for schoolboys, let her take ’em, sir.”
“Pooh, pooh! Quin, you are joking,” said Mick.
“I never was more in earnest,” replied the other.
“By Heaven, then, look to yourself!” shouted Mick. “Infamous seducer! infernal deceiver!—you come and wind your toils round this suffering angel here—you win her heart and leave her—and fancy her brother won’t defend her? Draw this minute, you slave! and let me cut the wicked heart out of your body!”
“This is regular assassination,” said Quin, starting back; “there’s two on ’em on me at once. Fagan, you won’t let ’em murder me?”
“ ’Faith!” said Captain Fagan, who seemed mightily amused, “you may settle your own quarrel, Captain Quin;” and coming over to me, whispered, “At him again, you little fellow.”
“As long as Mr. Quin withdraws his claim,” said I, “I, of course, do not interfere.”
“I do, sir—I do,” said Mr. Quin, more and more flustered.
“Then defend yourself like a man, curse you!” cried Mick again. “Mysie, lead this poor victim away—Redmond and Fagan will see fair play between us.”
“Well now—I don’t—give me time—I’m puzzled—I—I don’t know which way to look.”
“Like the donkey betwixt the two bundles of hay,” said Mr. Fagan drily, “and there’s pretty pickings on either side.”
II I Show Myself to Be a Man of SpiritDuring this dispute, my cousin Nora did the only thing that a lady, under such circumstances, could do, and fainted in due form. I was in hot altercation with Mick at the time, or I should have, of course, flown to her assistance, but Captain Fagan (a dry sort of fellow this Fagan was) prevented me, saying, “I advise you to leave the young lady to herself, Master Redmond, and be sure she will come to.” And so indeed, after a while, she did, which has shown me since that Fagan knew the world pretty well, for many’s the lady I’ve seen in after times recover in a similar manner. Quin did not offer to help her, you may be sure, for, in the midst of the diversion, caused by her screaming, the faithless bully stole away.
“Which of us is Captain Quin to engage?” said I to Mick; for it was my first affair, and I was as proud of it as of a suit of laced velvet. “Is it you or I, Cousin Mick, that is to have the honour of chastising this insolent Englishman?” And I held out my hand as I spoke, for my heart melted towards my cousin under the triumph of the moment.
But he rejected the proffered offer of friendship. “You—you!” said he, in a towering passion; “hang you for a meddling brat: your hand is in everybody’s pie. What business had you to come brawling and quarrelling here, with a gentleman who has fifteen hundred a year?”
“Oh,” gasped Nora, from the stone bench, “I shall die: I know I shall. I shall never leave this spot.”
“The Captain’s not gone yet,” whispered Fagan; on which Nora, giving him an indignant look, jumped up and walked towards the house.
“Meanwhile,” Mick continued, “what business have you, you meddling rascal, to interfere with a daughter of this house?”
“Rascal yourself!” roared I: “call me another such name, Mick Brady, and I’ll drive my hanger into your weasand. Recollect, I stood to you when I was eleven years old. I’m your match now, and, by Jove, provoke me, and I’ll beat you like—like your younger brother always did.” That was a home-cut, and I saw Mick turn blue with fury.
“This is a pretty way to recommend yourself to the family,” said Fagan, in a soothing tone.
“The girl’s old enough to
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