作者：Mary Shelley
出版社：Delphi Classics (Parts Edition)
格式: AZW3, DOCX, EPUB, MOBI, PDF, TXT
The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck by Mary Shelley - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)试读：
The Complete Works ofMARY SHELLEYVOLUME 6 OF 18The Fortunes of Perkin WarbeckParts EditionBy Delphi Classics, 2013Version 1COPYRIGHT‘The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck’(in 18 parts)Mary Shelley: Parts Edition First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Delphi Classics.© Delphi Classics, 2017.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.ISBN: 978 1 78877 388 1Delphi Classicsis an imprint ofDelphi Publishing LtdHastings, East SussexUnited KingdomContact: sales@delphiclassics.comwww.delphiclassics.comMary Shelley: Parts EditionThis eBook is Part 6 of the Delphi Classics edition of Mary Shelley in 18 Parts. It features the unabridged text of The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck from the bestselling edition of the author’s Complete Works. Having established their name as the leading publisher of classic literature and art, Delphi Classics produce publications that are individually crafted with superior formatting, while introducing many rare texts for the first time in digital print. Our Parts Editions feature original annotations and illustrations relating to the life and works of Mary Shelley, as well as individual tables of contents, allowing you to navigate eBooks quickly and easily.Visit here to buy the entire Parts Edition of Mary Shelley or the Complete Works of Mary Shelley in a single eBook.Learn more about our Parts Edition, with free downloads, via this link or browse our most popular Parts here. MARY SHELLEYIN 18 VOLUMESParts Edition ContentsThe Novels1, Frankenstein2, Frankenstein3, Mathilda4, Valperga5, The Last Man6, The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck7, Lodore8, FalknerThe Short Stories9, The Complete Short Stories The Children’s Fiction10, Proserpine11, MidasThe Poems12, The Complete PoemsThe Travel Writing13, History of a Six Weeks’ Tour Through a Part of France, Switzerland, Germany, and Holland14, Rambles in Germany and Italy, in 1840, 1842, and 1843The Non-Fiction15, Notes to the Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe ShelleyAn Adaptation16, Presumption; Or, the Fate of Frankenstein by Richard Brinsley PeakeThe Biographies17, The Life and Letters of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley by Florence A. Thomas Marshall18, Mrs. Shelley by Lucy M. Rossettiwww.delphiclassics.com The Fortunes of Perkin WarbeckThe Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck- A Romance is an historical thnovel. It was first published on June the 7 in 1830 by Henry Colburn and Richard Bentley after three years of Shelley unsuccessfully attempting to sell it. Colburn had published her previous novel The Last Man to little financial benefit and this resulted in him offering Shelley a low price for this work. The novel focuses on the figure of Perkin Warbeck, a pretender to the English throne, who claimed to be Richard Duke of York and the son of the late Edward IV. Richard and his brother Edward V were imprisoned in the Tower of London by Richard III in 1483 after which their fate was never conclusively proven. It is most frequently believed that this imprisonment resulted in their deaths, but there were rumours that the princes had escaped the tower, and in Burgundy in 1490 Perkin Warbeck declared himself to be Richard of York and made a claim to the throne.Shelley does not question the validity of his claim and treats Warbeck as the true Richard of York and chooses to begin the novel at the end of the War of the Roses at the famous Battle of Bosworth. Richard’s wife Lady Gordon is a central character in the text and represents alternative values to those held by Henry VII and Richard. The novel involves a deliberate juxtaposition between the historical genre associated with the masculine, and romance which was deemed to be feminine and therefore culturally and intellectually inferior. Shelley strives to offer a different perspective on the historical novel and a critique of the masculine motives for power.The first edition’s title pageCONTENTSPREFACE.VOLUME I.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.CHAPTER VII.CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER IX.CHAPTER X.CHAPTER XI.CHAPTER XI.CHAPTER XII.CHAPTER XIII.CHAPTER XIV.CHAPTER XV.CHAPTER XVI.CHAPTER XVII.VOLUME II.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.CHAPTER VII.CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER IX.CHAPTER X.CHAPTER XI.CHAPTER XII.CHAPTER XIII.CHAPTER XIV.CHAPTER XV.CHAPTER XVI.CHAPTER XVII.CHAPTER XIII.VOLUME III.CHAPTER I.CHAPTER II.CHAPTER III.CHAPTER IV.CHAPTER V.CHAPTER VI.CHAPTER VII.CHAPTER VIII.CHAPTER IX.CHAPTER X.CHAPTER XI.CHAPTER XII.CHAPTER XIII.CHAPTER XIV.CHAPTER XV.CHAPTER XVI.CHAPTER XVII.CHAPTER XVIII.CHAPTER XIX.CHAPTER XX.CHAPTER XXI.CONCLUSION. An early editionPerkin Warbeck (1474–1499) was a pretender to the English throne during the reign of King Henry VII of England.J’ai veu filz d’Angleterre, Richard d’Yorc nommé.Que l’on disoit en terre, estinct et consommé.Endurer grant souffrance; et par nobles exploitz.Vivre en bonne esperance, d’estre Roy des Angloys. — Old French Chronicle.PREFACE.The story of Perkin Warbeck was first suggested to me as a subject for historical detail. On studying it, I became aware of the romance which his story contains, while, at the same time, I felt that it would be impossible for any narration, that should be confined to the incorporation of facts related by our old Chronicle to do it justice.It is not singular that I should entertain a belief that Perkin was, in reality, the lost Duke of York. For, in spite of Hume, and the later historians who have followed in his path, no person who has at all studied the subject but arrives at the same conclusion. Records exist in the Tower, some well known, others with which those who have access to those interesting papers are alone acquainted, which put the question almost beyond a doubt.This is not the place for a discussion of the question. The principal thing that I should wish to be impressed on my reader’s mind is, that whether my hero was or was not an impostor, he was believed to be the true man by his contemporaries. The partial pages of Bacon, of Hall, and Holinshed and others of that date, are replete with proofs of this fact. There are some curious letters, written by Sir John Ramsay, Laird of Balmayne, calling himself Lord Bothwell, addressed to Henry the Seventh himself, which, though written by a spy and hireling of that monarch, tend to confirm my belief, and even demonstrate that in his eagerness to get rid of a formidable competitor, Henry did not hesitate to urge midnight assassination. These letters are printed in the Appendix to Pinkerton’s History of Scotland. The verses which form the motto to these volumes, are part of a rythmical Chronicle, written by two subjects of Burgundy, who lived in those days; it is entitled “Recollection des Merveilles, advenues en nostre temps, commencée par très élégant orateur, Messire Georges Chastellan, et continuée par Maistre Jean Molinet.”In addition to the unwilling suffrage of his enemies, we may adduce the acts of his friends and allies. Human nature in its leading features is the same in all ages. James the Fourth of Scotland was a man of great talent and discernment: he was proud; attached, as a Scot, to the prejudices of birth; of punctilious honour. No one can believe that he would have bestowed his near kinswoman, nor have induced the Earl of Huntley to give his daughter in marriage, to one who did not bear evident signs of being of royal blood.The various adventures of this unfortunate Prince in many countries, and his alliance with a beautiful and high-born woman, who proved a faithful, loving wife to him, take away the sting from the ignominy which might attach itself to his fate; and make him, we venture to believe, in spite of the contumely later historians have chosen, in the most arbitrary way, to heap upon him, a fitting object of interest — a hero to ennoble the pages of a humble tale.VOLUME I.CHAPTER I.He seemed breathless, heartless, faint and wan.And all his armour sprinkled was with blood.And soiled with dirty gore, that no man canDiscern the hue thereof. He never stood.But bent his hasty course towards the idle flood. — Spenser. After a long series of civil dissension — after many battles, whose issue involved the fate of thousands — after the destruction of nearly all the English nobility in the contest between the two Roses, the decisive battle of Bosworth Field was fought on the 22d of August, 1415, whose result was to entwine, as it was called, the white and red symbols of rivalship, and to restore peace to this unhappy country.The day had been sunny and warm: as the evening closed in a west wind rose, bringing along troops of fleecy clouds, golden at sunset, and then dun and grey, veiling with pervious network the many stars. Three horsemen at this hour passed through the open country between Hinckley and Welford in Leicestershire. It was broad day when they descended from the elevation on which the former stands, and the villagers crowded to gaze upon the fugitives, and to guess, from the ensigns they bore, to which party they belonged, while the warders from the near castle hastened out to stop them, thus to curry favour with the conqueror; a design wholly baffled. The good steeds of the knights, for such their golden spurs attested them to be, bore them fast and far along the Roman road, which still exists in those parts to shame our modern builders. It was dusk when, turning from the direct route to avoid entering Welford, they reached a ford of the Avon. Hitherto silence had prevailed with the party — for until now their anxiety to fly had solely occupied their thoughts. Their appearance spoke of war, nay, of slaughter. Their cloaks were stained and torn; their armour was disjointed, and parts of it were wanting; yet these losses were so arbitrary, that it was plain that the pieces had been hacked from their fastenings. The helm of the foremost was deprived of its crest; another wore the bonnet of a common soldier, which ill accorded with the rest of his accoutrements; while the third, bareheaded, his hair falling on his shoulders, lank and matted from heat and exercise, gave more visible tokens of the haste of flight. As the night grew darker, one of them, and then another, seemed willing to relax somewhat in their endeavours: one alone continued, with unmitigated energy, to keep his horse at the same pace they had all maintained during the broad light of day.When they reached the ford, the silence was broken by the hindmost horseman; he spoke in a petulant voice, saying:—”Another half mile at this pace, and poor Floeur-de-Luce founders; if you will not slacken your speed, here we part, my friends. God save you till we meet again!”“Evil betide the hour that separates us, brother!” said the second fugitive, reining in; “Our cause, our peril, our fate shall be the same. You, my good lord, will consult your own safety.”The third cavalier had already entered the stream: he made a dead halt while his friends spoke, and then replied:—”Let us name some rendezvous where, if we escape, we may again meet. I go on an errand of life and death; my success is doubtful, my danger certain. If I succeed in evading it, where shall I rejoin you?”“Though the event of this day has been fatal to the king,” answered the other, “our fortunes are not decided. I propose taking refuge in some sanctuary, till we perceive how far the Earl of Richmond is inclined to mercy.”“I knew the Earl when a mere youth, Sir Humphrey Stafford,” said the foremost rider, “and heard more of him when I visited Brittanny, at the time of King Louis’s death, two years ago. When mercy knocks at his heart, suspicion and avarice give her a rough reception. We must fly beyond sea, unless we can make further stand. More of this when we meet again. Where shall that be?”“I have many friends near Colchester,” replied the elder Stafford, “and St. Mary boasts an asylum there which a crowned head would not dare violate. Thence, if all else fail, we can pass with ease to the Low Countries.”“In sanctuary at Colchester — I will not fail you. God bless and preserve you the while!”The noble, as he said these words, put spurs to his horse, and without looking back crossed the stream, and turning on the skirts of a copse was soon out of sight of his companions. He rode all night, cheering his steed with hand and voice; looking angrily at the early dawning east, which soon cast from her cloudless brow the dimness of night. Yet the morning air was grateful to his heated cheeks. It was a perfect summer’s morn. The wheat, golden from ripeness, swayed gracefully to the light breeze; the slender oats shook their small bells in the air with ceaseless motion; the birds twittering, alighted from the full-leaved trees, scattering dew-drops from the branches. With the earliest dawn the Cavalier entered a forest, traversing its depths with the hesitation of one unacquainted with the country, and looked frequently at the sky, to be directed by the position of the glowing east. A path more worn than the one he had hitherto followed now presented itself, leading into the heart of the wood. He hesitated for a few seconds, and then, with a word of cheer to his horse, pursued his way into the embowering thicket. After a short space the path narrowed, the meeting branches of the trees impeded him, and the sudden angle it made from the course he wished to follow served to perplex him still further; but as he vented his impatience by hearty Catholic exclamations, a little tinkling bell spoke of a chapel near, and of the early rising of the priest to perform the matin service at its altar. The horse of the fugitive, a noble war-steed, had long flagged; and hunger gnawed at the rider’s own heart, for he had not tasted food since the morning of the previous day. These sounds, therefore, heard in so fearless a seclusion, bore with them pleasant tidings of refreshment and repose. He crossed himself in thankfulness; then throwing himself from his horse (and such change was soothing to his stiffened limbs), he led him through the opening glade to where a humble chapel and a near adjoining hut stood in the bosom of the thicket, emblems of peace and security.The Cavalier tied his horse to a tree, and entered the chapel. A venerable priest was reading the matin service; one old woman composed his congregation, and she was diligently employed telling her beads. The bright rays of the newly risen sun streamed through the eastern window, casting the chequered shadow of its lattice work on the opposite wall. The chapel was small and rustic; but it was kept exquisitely clean: the sacred appurtenances of the altar also were richer than was usual, and each shrine was decked with clusters of flowers, chiefly composed of white roses. No high praise, indeed, was due to the rude picture of the Virgin of the Annunciation, or of the announcing Angel, a representation of whom formed the altar-piece; but in barbaric England, in those days, piety stood in place of taste, and that which represented. Our Lady received honour, however, unworthy it might be of the inspiress of Raphael or Correggio. The cavalier took his disornamented casque from his head, placed it on the ground, and knelt reverentially on the bare earth. He had lately escaped from battle and slaughter, and he surely thought that he had especial motive for thanks-giving; so that if his lips uttered a mere soldier’s “Ave,” still it had the merit of fervour and sincerity.Had he been less occupied by his own feelings, he might have remarked the many glances the priest cast on him, who dishonoured his learning and piety by frequent mistakes of language, as his thoughts wandered from his breviary, to observe with deep attention his unexpected visitor. At length the service ended: the old dame rose from her knees, and satisfied her curiosity which she had excited by many a look askance, by a full and long gaze on the cavalier. His hewn armour, torn cloak, and, unseemly for the sacred spot, the dread stains on his garments and hands were all minutely scanned. Nor did his personal appearance escape remark. His stature was tall, his person well knit, shewing him to be a man of about thirty years of age. His features were finely moulded, his grey eyes full of fire, his step had the dignity of rank, and his look expressed chivalrous courage and frankness. The good woman had not been long engaged in surveying the stranger, when her pastor beckoned her to retire, and himself advanced, replying to the soldier’s salute with a benedicite, and then hastily enquiring if he came from the field.“Even so, Father,” said the Cavalier; “I come from the field of the bloody harvest. Has any intelligence of it travelled hither so speedily? If so, I must have wandered from the right road, and am not so far on my journey as I hoped.”“I have only heard that a battle was expected,” said the priest, “and your appearance tells me that it is over. The fortunes, nay, perhaps the life, of a dear friend are involved in its issue, and I fear that it is adverse — for you fly from pursuit, and methinks, though stained with dust and blood, that emblem on your breast is the White Rose.”The warrior looked on the old man, whose dignity and language were at variance with his lowly destination; he looked partly in wonder, and partly to assure himself of his questioner’s sincerity. “You are weary, Sir Knight,” added the Monk, whose experienced eyes had glanced to the golden spurs of his visitant; “come to my hermitage, there to partake of such refreshment as I can bestow. When your repast is ended, I will, by confidence on my part, merit yours.”This invitation was that of worldy courtesy, rather than the rustic welcome of a recluse monk. The Cavalier thanked him cordially, adding, that he must first provide food and water for his horse, and that afterwards he would gratefully accept his host’s invitation. The old man entered with the spirit of a soldier into his guest’s anxiety for his steed, and assisted in purveying to its wants, ingratiating himself meanwhile with its master, by discovering and praising scientifically its points of beauty. The poor animal shewed tokens of over fatigue, yet still he did not refuse his food, and the Cavalier marked with joy that his eye grew brighter and his knees firmer after feeding.They then entered the cottage, and the soldier’s eye was attracted from more sacred emblems by a sword which was suspended over a picture of the Virgin:—”You belong to our Chivalry!” he exclaimed, while his countenance lighted up with joyful recognition.“Now I belong to the holy order whose badge I wear,” the Monk replied, pointing to his Benedictine dress. “In former days I followed a brave leader to the field, and, in his service, incurred such guilt, as I now try to expiate by fasting and prayer.”The Monk’s features were convulsed by agitation as he spoke, then crossing his arms on his breast, he was absorbed in thought for a few moments, after which he raised his head and resumed the calm and even serene look that characterized him. “Sir Knight,” said he, motioning to the table now spread for the repast, “I have but poor fare to offer, but a soldier will not disdain its meagreness. My wine I may praise, as being the produce of a generous vintage; I have kept it sealed, to open it on occasions like the present, and rejoice that your strength will be recruited by it.”Bread, fruits, cheese, and a flagon of the wine, which merited the giver’s eulogium, composed the fugitive’s breakfast, whose fatigue required cordial and repose. As he was occupied by his repast, his host eyed him with evident agitation, eager yet fearful to question him on the subject of the battle. At length he again asked, “You come from the field on which the forces of the King and of the Earl of Richmond met?”“I do.”“You fought for the White Rose, and you fly?”“I fought for the White Rose till it was struck to the ground. The king has fallen with his chief nobility around him. Few Yorkists试读结束[说明：试读内容隐藏了图片]