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A Doll's House (English Edition) [Format Kindle]

Henrik Ibsen
4.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (2 commentaires client)

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Chapter 1

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As the landscape changed from brown to green, the army awakened, and began to tremble with eagerness at the noise of rumors. It cast its eyes upon the roads, which were growing from long troughs of liquid mud to proper thoroughfares. A river, amber-tinted in the shadow of its banks, purled at the army's feet; and at night, when the stream had become of a sorrowful blackness, one could see across it the red, eyelike gleam of hostile camp fires set in the low brows of distant hills.

Once a certain tall soldier developed virtues and went resolutely to wash a shirt. He came flying back from a brook waving his garment bannerlike. He was swelled with a tale he had heard from a reliable friend, who had heard it from a truthful cavalryman, who had heard it from his trustworthy brother, one of the orderlies at division headquarters. He adopted the important air of a herald in red and gold.

"We're goin' t' move t' morrah--sure," he said pompously to a group in the company street. "We're goin' 'way up the river, cut across, an' come around in behint 'em."

To his attentive audience he drew a loud and elaborate plan of a very brilliant campaign. When he had finished, the blue-clothed men scattered into small arguing groups between the rows of squat brown huts. A negro teamster who had been dancing upon a cracker box with the hilarious encouragement of two-score soldiers was deserted. He sat mournfully down. Smoke drifted lazily from a multitude of quaint chimneys.

"It's a lie! that's all it is--a thunderin' lie!" said another private loudly. His smooth face was flushed, and his hands were thrust sulkily into his trousers' pockets. He took the matter as an affront to him. "I don't believe the derned old army's ever going to move. We're set. I've got ready to move eight times in the last two weeks, and we ain't moved yet."

The tall soldier felt called upon to defend the truth of a rumor he himself had introduced. He and the loud one came near to fighting over it.

A corporal began to swear before the assemblage. He had just put a costly board floor in his house, he said. During the early spring he had refrained from adding extensively to the comfort of his environment because he had felt that the army might start on the march at any moment. Of late, however, he had been impressed that they were in a sort of eternal camp.

Many of the men engaged in a spirited debate. One outlined in a peculiarly lucid manner all the plans of the commanding general. He was opposed by men who advocated that there were other plans of campaign. They clamored at each other, numbers making futile bids for the popular attention. Meanwhile, the soldier who had fetched the rumor bustled about with much importance. He was continually assailed by questions.

"What's up, Jim?"

"Th' army's goin' t' move."

"Ah, what yeh talkin' about. How yeh know it is?"

"Well, yeh kin b'lieve me er not, jest as yeh like. I don't care a hang."

There was much food for thought in the manner in which he replied. He came near to convincing them by disdaining to produce proofs. They grew much excited over it.

There was a youthful private who listened with eager ears to the words of the tall soldier and to the varied comments of his comrades. After receiving a fill of discussions concerning marches and attacks, he went to his hut and crawled through an intricate hole that served it as a door. He wished to be alone with some new thoughts that had lately come to him.

He lay down on a wide bunk that stretched across the end of the room. In the other end, cracker boxes were made to serve as furniture. They were grouped about the fireplace. A picture from an illustrated weekly was upon the log walls, and three rifles were paralleled on pegs. Equipments hung on handy projections, and some tin dishes lay upon a small pile of firewood. A folded tent was serving as a roof. The sunlight, without, beating upon it, made it glow a light yellow shade. A small window shot an oblique square of whiter light upon the cluttered floor. The smoke from the fire at times neglected the clay chimney and wreathed into the room, and this flimsy chimney of clay and sticks made endless threats to set ablaze the whole establishment.

The youth was in a little trance of astonishment. So they were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and he would be in it. For a time he was obliged to labor to make himself believe. He could not accept with assurance an omen that he was about to mingle in one of those great affairs of the earth.

He had, of course, dreamed of battles all his life--of vague and bloody conflicts that had thrilled him with their sweep and fire. In visions he had seen himself in many struggles. He had imagined peoples secure in the shadow of his eagle-eyed prowess. But awake he had regarded battles as crimson blotches on the pages of the past. He had put them as things of the bygone with his thought-images of heavy crowns and high castles. There was a portion of the world's history which he had regarded as the time of wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and had disappeared forever.

From his home his youthful eyes had looked upon the war in his own country with distrust. It must be some sort of a play affair. He had long despaired of witnessing a Greeklike struggle. Such would be no more, he had said. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.

He had burned several times to enlist. Tales of great movements shook the land. They might not be distinctly Homeric, but there seemed to be much glory in them. He had read of marches, sieges, conflicts, and he had longed to see it all. His busy mind had drawn for him large pictures extravagant in color, lurid with breathless deeds.

But his mother had discouraged him. She had affected to look with some contempt upon the quality of his war ardor and patriotism. She could calmly seat herself and with no apparent difficulty give him many hundreds of reasons why he was of vastly more importance on the farm than on the field of battle. She had had certain ways of expression that told him that her statements on the subject came from a deep conviction. Moreover, on her side, was his belief that her ethical motive in the argument was impregnable.

At last, however, he had made firm rebellion against this yellow light thrown upon the color of his ambitions. The newspapers, the gossip of the village, his own picturings, had aroused him to an uncheckable degree. They were in truth fighting finely down there. Almost every day the newspapers printed accounts of a decisive victory.

One night, as he lay in bed, the winds had carried to him the clangoring of the church bell as some enthusiast jerked the rope frantically to tell the twisted news of a great battle. This voice of the people rejoicing in the night had made him shiver in a prolonged ecstasy of excitement. Later, he had gone down to his mother's room and had spoken thus: "Ma, I'm going to enlist."

"Henry, don't you be a fool," his mother had replied. She had then covered her face with the quilt. There was an end to the matter for that night.

Nevertheless, the next morning he had gone to a town that was near his mother's farm and had enlisted in a company that was forming there. When he had returned home his mother was milking the brindle cow. Four others stood waiting. "Ma, I've enlisted," he had said to her diffidently. There was a short silence. "The Lord's will be done, Henry," she had finally replied, and had then continued to milk the brindle cow.

When he had stood in the doorway with his soldier's clothes on his back, and with the light of excitement and expectancy in his eyes almost defeating the glow of regret for the home bonds, he had seen two tears leaving their trails on his mother's scarred cheeks.

Still, she had disappointed him by saying nothing whatever about returning with his shield or on it. He had privately primed himself for a beautiful scene. He had prepared certain sentences which he thought could be used with touching effect. But her words destroyed his plans. She had doggedly peeled potatoes and addressed him as follows: "You watch out, Henry, an' take good care of yerself in this here fighting business--you watch out, an' take good care of yerself. Don't go a-thinkin' you can lick the hull rebel army at the start, because yeh can't. Yer jest one little feller amongst a hull lot of others, and yeh've got to keep quiet an' do what they tell yeh. I know how you are, Henry.

"I've knet yeh eight pair of socks, Henry, and I've put in all yer best shirts, because I want my boy to be jest as warm and comf'able as anybody in the army. Whenever they get holes in 'em, I want yeh to send 'em rightaway back to me, so's I kin dern 'em.

"An' allus be careful an' choose yer comp'ny. There's lots of bad men in the army, Henry. The army makes 'em wild, and they like nothing better than the job of leading off a young feller like you, as ain't never been away from home much and has allus had a mother, an' a-learning 'em to drink and swear. Keep clear of them folks, Henry. I don't want yeh to ever do anything, Henry, that yeh would be 'shamed to let me know about. Jest think as if I was a-watchin' yeh. If yeh keep that in yer mind allus, I guess yeh'll come out about right.

"Yeh must allus remember yer father, too, child, an' remember he never drunk a drop of licker in his life, and seldom swore a cross oath.

"I don't know what else to tell yeh, Henry, excepting that yeh must never do no shirking, child, on my account. If so be a time comes when yeh have to be kilt or do a mean thing, why, Henry, don't think of anything 'cept what's right, because there's many a woman has to bear up 'ginst sech things these times, and the Lord 'll take keer of us all.

"Don't forgit about the socks and the shirts, child; and I've put a cup of blackberry jam with yer bundle, because I know yeh like it above all things. Good-by, Henry. Watch out, and be a good boy."

He had, of course, been impatient under the ordeal of this speech. It had not been quite what he expected, and he had borne it with an air of irritation. He departed feeling vague relief.

Still, when he had looked back from the gate, he had seen his mother kneeling among the potato parings. Her brown face, upraised, was stained with tears, and her spare form was quivering. He bowed his head and went on, feeling suddenly ashamed of his purposes.

From his home he had gone to the seminary to bid adieu to many schoolmates. They had thronged about him with wonder and admiration. He had felt the gulf now between them and had swelled with calm pride. He and some of his fellows who had donned blue were quite overwhelmed with privileges for all of one afternoon, and it had been a very delicious thing. They had strutted.

A certain light-haired girl had made vivacious fun at his martial spirit, but there was another and darker girl whom he had gazed at steadfastly, and he thought she grew demure and sad at sight of his blue and brass. As he had walked down the path between the rows of oaks, he had turned his head and detected her at a window watching his departure. As he perceived her, she had immediately begun to stare up through the high tree branches at the sky. He had seen a good deal of flurry and haste in her movement as she changed her attitude. He often thought of it.

On the way to Washington his spirit had soared. The regiment was fed and caressed at station after station until the youth had believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish expenditure of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese. As he basked in the smiles of the girls and was patted and complimented by the old men, he had felt growing within him the strength to do mighty deeds of arms.

After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had come months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the belief that real war was a series of death struggles with small time in between for sleep and meals; but since his regiment had come to the field the army had done little but sit still and try to keep warm.

He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas. Greeklike struggles would be no more. Men were better, or more timid. Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.

He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue demonstration. His province was to look out, as far as he could, for his personal comfort. For recreation he could twiddle his thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled and reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed.

The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river bank. They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes shot reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached for this afterward, they usually expressed sorrow, and swore by their gods that the guns had exploded without their permission. The youth, on guard duty one night, conversed across the stream with one of them. He was a slightly ragged man, who spat skillfully between his shoes and possessed a great fund of bland and infantile assurance. The youth liked him personally.

"Yank," the other had informed him, "yer a right dum good feller." This sentiment, floating to him upon the still air, had made him temporarily regret war.

Various veterans had told him tales. Some talked of gray, bewhiskered hordes who were advancing with relentless curses and chewing tobacco with unspeakable valor; tremendous bodies of fierce soldiery who were sweeping along like the Huns. Others spoke of tattered and eternally hungry men who fired despondent powders. "They'll charge through hell's fire an' brimstone t' git a holt on a haversack, an' sech stomachs ain't a-lastin' long," he was told. From the stories, the youth imagined the red, live bones, sticking out through slits in the faded uniforms.

From AudioFile

Eerie music sets the scene of the Alaskan wilderness. Hagon's rendition of London's anthropomorphic story of a wolf/dog is geared toward a younger audience. His voice contains that sense of intimacy and emphasis that characterizes the act of reading to the young. The reading is smooth and clear although there are times when regional accents (some overdone) get a little mixed up. The abridgment makes a good introduction to the author, and the well-chosen musical interludes throughout don't interfere with the story. S.B.S. (c)AudioFile, Portland, Maine

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 317 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 167 pages
  • Utilisation simultanée de l'appareil : Illimité
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B0084A5LBG
  • Synthèse vocale : Activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Non activé
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 4.0 étoiles sur 5  Voir tous les commentaires (2 commentaires client)
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°6.100 des titres gratuits dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 gratuits dans la Boutique Kindle)

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Commentaires client les plus utiles
5.0 étoiles sur 5 un classique 10 février 2014
Par Escat
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
un bon classique d'un niveau très accessible par tous, se lit avec facilité et grand plaisir, à partager avec les plus jeunes
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3.0 étoiles sur 5 Entertaining 25 mars 2013
Par Mars
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
Une pièce courte et divertissante avec une réflexion sur la société patriarcale dans un anglais très simple.se lit très vite
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Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Amazon.com: 4.3 étoiles sur 5  124 commentaires
10 internautes sur 12 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 To the Tune of I Will Survive 1 août 2009
Par Stacy Saunders Hartog - Publié sur Amazon.com
At first Nora was afraid, she was petrified,

kept thinking she could never live without Torvald by her side

and then he finds out about the money she borrowed to save his life

and he says she is a liar and the cause of all his strife!

He says she's low, and a disgrace,

that he no longer loves her, but outside he'll show a happy face,

and when the lender then decides that blackmail he will not pursue,

that Tovald turns to little Nora and says, "My Darling, I love you!"

But she says, "No!"

"Now I will go!" She turns around then and walks out and slams the door...

8 internautes sur 10 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 This book was way before it's time - Ibsen was a genius! 23 mars 2001
Par Hilde Bygdevoll - Publié sur Amazon.com
The Norwegian author Henrik Ibsen wrote an insightful play about marriage and the role of women in Ibsens time (19th century Europe). I am sure that "A dolls house" must have been a shock to the European society when Ibsen first published this book. He criticised the system that demoted women to mere property and this must have been an outrageous statement in a society where women didn't even have the right to vote!

The author himself said that this play was about human rights, not women's rights. While I believe this to be true, I still have no problems understanding why the female rights groups says that "A dolls house" is about women's rights. Whilst this play was written over a hundred years ago, many of the issues about women discussed in "A dolls house" are still applicable today. I think Nora is a *great* role model for a woman of the new millennium!

If you, like me, had to read this as a part of your college literature requirements, give it another try!

It is a wonderful book.
5 internautes sur 6 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Appearances, Appearances, Appearances 8 décembre 2010
Par jonc1001 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Format Kindle
To put it simply, a solid play. A Doll's House was overall a relatively enjoyable read. Despite its minimal length, the play certainly makes bold statements on the society that we live in. The play follows Nora Helmer, as she is torn apart by the threat of her greatest secret being revealed to her husband. However, through her anxiety of this impending revelation, we see one of the most radical changes in character in all of literature. As the play progresses, Nora transforms, from a childlike, immature woman bounded by society's chains, to an independent, liberated woman free to pursue her own self development and fulfillment. And, looking past the simple plot of the play, many of us can see ourselves in her character. How often do we find ourselves holding back from our greatest potential, to accommodate to what society expects of us? And, is it right to chase this hedonistic life? Is one's duty to one's self above all, or are there greater priorities?
Another societal theme is presented through the play: keeping up appearances. Regardless of what is felt on the inside, doing what is expected on the outside. This can be related to by most people. And it is through this that the Doll's House has enormous appeal. I found myself placing myself in Nora's shoes, and wondering what decisions I would make if I were forced to. This is actually something of an enjoyable experience--through reading this play we can learn not only about society, but about ourselves. And this is why I would recommend the play to a friend.
2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 "Millions of women have done so." 9 juin 2013
Par Richard Subber - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Format Kindle
This is Ibsen's stark, unforgiving play about men and women, with a dreadful undercurrent of desperation. Torvald Helmer offers only bland, devastating condescension to Nora, whose despair grows ever more public as she realizes that she has drowned herself in the domestic dead-end of being Torvald's "doll-wife."
If you ache, like me, to bash Torvald and comfort Nora as you experience the pervasive and thinly veiled brutality in the Helmer household, then you, like me, must realize how much you wish it could be unimaginable in any way....but in vain...
Nora tells her husband that she had hoped he would take the blame for her transgression, and the disdainful Torvald rebukes her: "...one doesn't sacrifice one's honor for love's sake."
Nora replies with quiet thunder: "Millions of women have done so."
Enfin, we understand how Nora could be too hurt to cry, and too happy to remain in a doll's house....
Read more on my blog: Barley Literate by Rick
2 internautes sur 2 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 A work of Early Feminism 27 août 2009
Par Beth Kristen Nehme - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format:Format Kindle|Achat vérifié
In this play by Ibsen a victorian wife discovers that she has lost respect for her husband and no longer loves him. She loses respect for him because she discover's that he loves her only as a 'doll' and not as an equal. Nora's husband fails to recognize a sacrifice that she has made for his benefit and condemns her. When chance causes the crisis to pass he is willing to forgive and forget, but she can't forgive his reaction - which clearly demonstrates how little love and respect he has for her.
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