The Nihilists

Par : Oscar Wilde
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  • Nombre de pages74
  • FormatePub
  • ISBN978-3-7494-3290-5
  • EAN9783749432905
  • Date de parution11/03/2019
  • Protection num.Digital Watermarking
  • Taille428 Ko
  • Infos supplémentairesepub
  • ÉditeurA PRECISER

Résumé

Large door opening on snowy landscape at back of stage. Peter Sabouroff and Michael. Peter (warming his hands at a stove). Has Vera not come back yet, Michael? Mich. No, Father Peter, not yet; 'tis a good three miles to the post office, and she has to milk the cows besides, and that dun one is a rare plaguey creature for a wench to handle. Peter. Why didn't you go with her, you young fool? she'll never love you unless you are always at her heels; women like to be bothered. Mich.
She says I bother her too much already, Father Peter, and I fear she'll never love me after all. Peter. Tut, tut, boy, why shouldn't she? you're young and wouldn't be ill-favoured either, had God or thy mother given thee another face. Aren't you one of Prince Maraloffski's gamekeepers; and haven't you got a good grass farm, and the best cow in the village? What more does a girl want? Mich. But Vera, Father Peter- Peter.
Vera, my lad, has got too many ideas; I don't think much of ideas myself; I've got on well enough in life without 'em; why shouldn't my children? There's Dmitri! could have stayed here and kept the inn; many a young lad would have jumped at the offer in these hard times; but he, scatter-brained featherhead of a boy, must needs go off to Moscow to study the law! What does he want knowing about the law! let a man do his duty, say I, and no one will trouble him. Mich.
Ay! but Father Peter, they say a good lawyer can break the law as often as he likes, and no one can say him nay.
Large door opening on snowy landscape at back of stage. Peter Sabouroff and Michael. Peter (warming his hands at a stove). Has Vera not come back yet, Michael? Mich. No, Father Peter, not yet; 'tis a good three miles to the post office, and she has to milk the cows besides, and that dun one is a rare plaguey creature for a wench to handle. Peter. Why didn't you go with her, you young fool? she'll never love you unless you are always at her heels; women like to be bothered. Mich.
She says I bother her too much already, Father Peter, and I fear she'll never love me after all. Peter. Tut, tut, boy, why shouldn't she? you're young and wouldn't be ill-favoured either, had God or thy mother given thee another face. Aren't you one of Prince Maraloffski's gamekeepers; and haven't you got a good grass farm, and the best cow in the village? What more does a girl want? Mich. But Vera, Father Peter- Peter.
Vera, my lad, has got too many ideas; I don't think much of ideas myself; I've got on well enough in life without 'em; why shouldn't my children? There's Dmitri! could have stayed here and kept the inn; many a young lad would have jumped at the offer in these hard times; but he, scatter-brained featherhead of a boy, must needs go off to Moscow to study the law! What does he want knowing about the law! let a man do his duty, say I, and no one will trouble him. Mich.
Ay! but Father Peter, they say a good lawyer can break the law as often as he likes, and no one can say him nay.
Oscar Wilde
Oscar Wilde est né à Dublin, en Irlande. Son père est chirurgien, sa mère est poétesse et traductrice d'auteurs français (Dumas et Lamartine). Il fait ses études au Trinity College de Dublin puis à Oxford, en Angleterre. Grâce à son élégance et à sa vivacité d'esprit, il devient vite un auteur très apprécié en Grande-Bretagne, mais aussi en France où il est salué par les milieux littéraires. Ses poésies, ses contes, ses histoires, son roman ("Le Portrait de Dorian Gray") et ses pièces de théâtre - dont l'une "Salomé" est écrite en français, est créée par Sarah Bernhardt - assurent son succès. Il est alors reconnu comme le chef de file de ce que l'on a appelé "le culte esthétique" : extrême raffinement, amour exclusif des belles choses, attitude détachée. Mais sa vie bascule en 1895 ; lorsqu'il est condamné à deux ans de travaux forcés dans une Angleterre victorienne très puritaine. Refusant de fuir, il purge sa peine et sort brisé du bagne. Il est désormais un homme ruiné, exclu de la société. Il finit misérablement sa vie à Paris où il meurt le 30 novembre 1900, à 46 ans d'une méningite. Ses derniers mots, dans une chambre d'hôtel au décor miteux (hôtel d'Alsace, 13, rue des Beaux-Arts à Paris) auraient été : "Ou c'est ce papier peint qui disparaît, ou c'est moi".
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