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The Mystery of Choice ebook

Robert W.chambers

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Wydawca: KtoCzyta.pl
Kategoria: Powieści przygodowe i historyczne
Język: angielski

Opis

This is an excellent collection of horror stories that remind of the dark side of nature and what it hides. The author can impress his readers not only with prose, but also with the atmosphere. This is a story about the murder of a butterfly collector and the haunting spirit of a renegade priest.

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Liczba stron: 288

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Contents

Introduction

Dedication

The Purple Emperor

Pompe Funèbre

The Messenger

The White Shadow

Passeur

The Key to Grief

A Matter of Interest

Envoi

Introduction

Where two fair paths, deep flowered

And leaf-embowered,

Creep East and West across a World concealed,

Which shall he take who journeys far afield?

Canst thou then say, “I go,”

Or “I forego”?

What turns thee East or West, as thistles blow?

Is fair more fair than fair–and dost thou know?

Turn to the West, unblessed

And uncaressed;

Turn to the East, and, seated at the Feast

Thou shalt find Life, or Death from Life released.

And thou who lovest best

A maid dark-tressed,

And passest others by with careless eye,

Canst thou tell why thou choosest? Tell, then; why?

So when thy kiss is given

Or half-forgiven,

Why should she tremble, with her face flame-hot,

Or laugh and whisper, “Love, I tremble not”?

Or when thy hand may catch

A half-drawn latch,

What draws thee from the door, to turn and pass

Through streets unknown, dim, still, and choked with grass?

What! Canst thou not foresee

The Mystery?

Heed! For a Voice commands thy every deed!

And it hath sounded. And thou needs must heed!

R. W. C.

1896.

Dedication

There is a maid, demure as she is wise,

With all of April in her winsome eyes,

And to my tales she listens pensively,

With slender fingers clasped about her knee,

Watching the sparrows on the balcony.

Shy eyes that, lifted up to me,

Free all my heart of vanity;

Clear eyes, that speak all silently,

Sweet as the silence of a nunnery–

Read, for I write my rede for you alone,

Here where the city’s mighty monotone

Deepens the silence to a symphony–

Silence of Saints, and Seers, and Sorcery.

Arms and the Man! A noble theme, I ween!

Alas! I can not sing of these, Eileen–

Only of maids and men and meadow-grass,

Of sea and fields and woodlands, where I pass;

Nothing but these I know, Eileen, alas!

Clear eyes that, lifted up to me,

Free all my soul from vanity;

Gray eyes, that speak all wistfully–

Nothing but these I know, alas!

R. W. C.

April, 1896.

The Purple Emperor

Un souvenir heureux est peut-être, sur terre,

Plus vrai que le bonheur.

A. de Musset.

The Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning out six feet more of waterproof silk, and, as the line hissed through the air far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water like drifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered.

“You see,” he said, “I am right. There is not a trout in Brittany that will rise to a tailed fly.”

“They do in America,” I replied.

“Zut! for America!” observed the Purple Emperor.

“And trout take a tailed fly in England,” I insisted sharply.

“Now do I care what things or people do in England?” demanded the Purple Emperor.

“You don’t care for anything except yourself and your wriggling caterpillars,” I said, more annoyed than I had yet been.

The Purple Emperor sniffed. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features bore that obstinate expression which always irritated me. Perhaps the manner in which he wore his hat intensified the irritation, for the flapping brim rested on both ears, and the two little velvet ribbons which hung from the silver buckle in front wiggled and fluttered with every trivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed nose were out of all keeping with his fat red face. When he met my eye, he chuckled.

“I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan–or Finistère either, for that matter,” he said.

“The Red Admiral knows as much as you do,” I retorted.

“He doesn’t,” replied the Purple Emperor angrily.

“And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as yours,” I added, moving down the stream to a spot directly opposite him.

“It is, is it?” sneered the Purple Emperor. “Well, let me tell you, Monsieur Darrel, in all his collection he hasn’t a specimen, a single specimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura Iris, commonly known as the “Purple Emperor.’”

“Everybody in Brittany knows that,” I said, casting across the sparkling water; “but just because you happen to be the only man who ever captured a “Purple Emperor’ in Morbihan, it doesn’t follow that you are an authority on sea-trout flies. Why do you say that a Breton sea-trout won’t touch a tailed fly?”

“It’s so,” he replied.

This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.

„Mamy usługę, której mógłby pozazdrościć Amazon.”

Robert Drózd

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