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    Daisy Miller
    Daisy Miller
    Daisy Miller
    Ebook85 pages1 hour

    Daisy Miller

    By Henry James

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    Henry James was born in the United States, in New York City, on April 15, 1843 and is considered an American writer, though he spent most of his life in England and, a year before his death in London on February 28, 1916, became a British citizen. He is regarded as one of the key literary figures of the 19th century, writing mainly narrative fiction. He influenced many other writers, most notably Edith Wharton.

    James was the son of Henry James, Sr., a well-known intellectual of his day, and the brother of William James. Henry is known especially for the novels in which he portrays Americans encountering Europeans. His style of writing, often verbose and indirect, especially in his later years, can make him difficult to read. Often, too, he writes from the point of view of the characters within a tale, exploring issues related to consciousness and perception. James contributed significantly to literary criticism, especially in his later years when his works were republished with extensive introductions by James. He insisted that writers be allowed the greatest freedom in their writing, and that narrative fiction be true to life, giving readers a view of life that is recognizable. He felt that the only way to judge whether a novel is good or bad is by whether the author is good or bad.

    His imaginative use of point of view, interior monologue, and narrators who were not necessarily reliable, brought depth and interest to his fiction. The Aspern Papers is one of his most notable short novels, along with The Turn of the Screw. In addition to fiction he published articles, books of travel, autobiography, biography, criticism, and plays. Among his masterpieces are Daisy Miller (1879), The Portrait of a Lady (1881), The Bostonians (1886), What Maisie Knew (1897), The Wings of the Dove (1902), and The Golden Bowl (1916), available in this series, Classics Condensed by Cowley.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateFeb 9, 2016
    ISBN9781491789544
    Author

    Henry James

    Henry James was born in New York in 1843, the younger brother of the philosopher William James, and was educated in Europe and America. He left Harvard Law School in 1863, after a year's attendance, to concentrate on writing, and from 1869 he began to make prolonged visits to Europe, eventually settling in England in 1876. His literary output was both prodigious and of the highest quality: more than ten outstanding novels including his masterpiece, The Portrait of a Lady; countless novellas and short stories; as well as innumerable essays, letters, and other pieces of critical prose. Known by contemporary fellow novelists as 'the Master', James died in Kensington, London, in 1916.

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      Book preview

      Daisy Miller - Henry James

      Copyright © 2016 Joseph Cowley.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

      This book meets the requirements for ESL students reading at level 4 of the Ladder word series.

      This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

      iUniverse

      1663 Liberty Drive

      Bloomington, IN 47403

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      1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

      Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

      Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

      Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

      ISBN: 978-1-4917-8953-7 (sc)

      ISBN: 978-1-4917-8954-4 (e)

      iUniverse rev. date: 02/04/2016

      CONTENTS

      Part I

      Part II

      For Bernice

      PART I

      A t the little town of Vevey, in Switzerland, there is a particularly comfortable hotel. There are, indeed, many hotels, for tourists are the business of the place which, as many travelers will remember, is upon the edge of a remarkably blue lake. The shore of the lake presents many establishments of this order, from the grand hotel of the newest fashion, with a chalk-white front, a hundred balconies, and a dozen flags flying from its roof, to the little Swiss pension of an older time, with its name inscribed in German-looking lettering upon a pink or yellow wall and a run-down summer-house in the garden. One of the hotels is distinguished from many of its newer neighbors by an air both of luxury and of maturity.

      In this region, in the month of June, American travelers are extremely numerous; it may be said, indeed, that Vevey assumes at this period some of the characteristics of an American watering place. There are sights and sounds which evoke an echo of Newport and Saratoga. There is a going here and there of stylish young girls, soft sound of their dresses, a rattle of dance music in the morning hours, a sound of high-pitched voices at all times.

      You receive an impression of these things at the excellent inn of the Trois Couronnes and are taken in fancy to the Ocean House or to Congress Hall. But at the Trois Couronnes, it must be added, there are other features that are much at odds with these suggestions: neat German waiters, who look like secretaries of a legation; Russian princesses sitting in the garden; little Polish boys walking about, held by the hand, with their governors; a view of the sunny crest of the Dent du Midi, and the striking towers of the Castle of Chillon.

      One hardly knows whether it was the sameness or the differences that were uppermost in the mind of a young American who, two or three years ago, sat in the garden of the Trois Couronnes looking idly about him at some of the graceful objects mentioned.

      It was a beautiful summer morning, and in whatever fashion the young American looked at things, they must have seemed to him charming. His name was Winterbourne, and he had come from Geneva the day before by the little steamer to see his aunt, who was staying at the hotel—Geneva having been for a long time where he lived. But his aunt had a headache—she had almost always a headache—and now she was shut up in her room, smelling camphor, so that he was at liberty to wander.

      He was some seven-and-twenty years of age; when his friends spoke of him, they usually said he was at Geneva studying. When his enemies spoke of him, they said—but, after all, he had no enemies; he was an extremely likeable fellow, liked by all. When certain persons spoke of him they said that the reason of his spending so much time at Geneva was that he was extremely devoted to a lady who lived there—a foreign lady—a person older than himself.

      Very few Americans—indeed, possibly none—had ever seen this lady, about whom some odd stories were told. But Winterbourne had an old attachment for the little metropolis of Calvinism; he had been to school there as a boy, and he had afterward gone to college there—which had led to his forming a great many youthful friendships, many of which he had kept over the years.

      After knocking at his aunt’s door and learning that she was not feeling well, he took a walk about the town, and then came in to his breakfast. He had now finished, but was drinking a small cup of coffee that had been served to him on a little table in the garden by one of the waiters.

      At last he finished his coffee and lit a cigarette. Presently a small boy came walking along the path—a child of nine or ten, small for his years, with an aged expression, a pale complexion, and sharp little features. He was dressed in short pants, with red stockings which displayed little thin legs; he also wore a bright red tie. He carried a long stick, the sharp point which he stuck into everything he approached—the flowerbeds, the garden benches.

      In front of Winterbourne he paused, looking at him with a pair of bright, penetrating little eyes, and asked in a sharp little voice, a voice immature yet, somehow, not young, Will you give me a lump of sugar?

      Winterbourne glanced at the small table on which his cup rested and saw that several pieces of sugar remained.

      Yes, you may take one, he answered; but I don’t think sugar is good for little boys.

      This little boy stepped forward and carefully selected three of the desired pieces, two of which he buried in the pocket of his short pants, and putting the other as quickly in his mouth. He stuck his stick into Winterbourne’s bench and tried to crack the lump of

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