Fifty-One Tales E-Book

Lord Dunsany

• Herausgeber: Jovian Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 82

Beschreibung

Without doubt Lord Dunsany was one of the most influential writers of fantasy fiction in twentieth century. His fiction is an acknowledged influence on entire generations of writers, ranging from H. P. Lovecraft to James Branch Cabell, from Clark Ashton Smith to Lin Carter. Although many of his most famous stories are longer in length, the miniature portraits of Fifty-One Tales (originally published in 1915 and sometimes reprinted under the title The Food of Death) are an ideal introduction to Dunsany. Nowhere is the jewel-like quality of his prose more evident than in the short tales, seminal works which runs the gamut from whimsy to fantasy to social satire.

Leseprobe

FIFTY-ONE TALES

..................

Lord Dunsany

JOVIAN PRESS

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Copyright © 2016 by Lord Dunsany

Interior design by Pronoun

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE ASSIGNATION

CHARON

THE DEATH OF PAN

THE SPHINX AT GIZEH

THE HEN

WIND AND FOG

THE RAFT-BUILDERS

THE WORKMAN

THE GUEST

DEATH AND ODYSSEUS

DEATH AND THE ORANGE

THE PRAYER OF THE FLOWERS

TIME AND THE TRADESMAN

THE LITTLE CITY

THE UNPASTURABLE FIELDS

THE WORM AND THE ANGEL

THE SONGLESS COUNTRY

THE LATEST THING

THE DEMAGOGUE AND THE DEMI-MONDE

THE GIANT POPPY

ROSES

THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN EAR-RINGS

THE DREAM OF KING KARNA-VOOTRA

THE STORM

A MISTAKEN IDENTITY

THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE

ALONE THE IMMORTALS

A MORAL LITTLE TALE

THE RETURN OF SONG

SPRING IN TOWN

HOW THE ENEMY CAME TO THLUNRANA

A LOSING GAME

TAKING UP PICADILLY

AFTER THE FIRE

THE CITY

THE FOOD OF DEATH

THE LONELY IDOL

THE SPHINX IN THEBES (MASSACHUSETTS)

THE REWARD

THE TROUBLE IN LEAFY GREEN STREET

THE MIST

FURROW-MAKER

LOBSTER SALAD

THE RETURN OF THE EXILES

NATURE AND TIME

THE SONG OF THE BLACKBIRD

THE MESSENGERS

THE THREE TALL SONS

COMPROMISE

WHAT WE HAVE COME TO

THE TOMB OF PAN

THE ASSIGNATION

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FAME SINGING IN THE HIGHWAYS, and trifling as she sang, with sordid adventurers, passed the poet by.

And still the poet made for her little chaplets of song, to deck her forehead in the courts of Time: and still she wore instead the worthless garlands, that boisterous citizens flung to her in the ways, made out of perishable things.

And after a while whenever these garlands died the poet came to her with his chaplets of song; and still she laughed at him and wore the worthless wreaths, though they always died at evening.

And one day in his bitterness the poet rebuked her, and said to her: “Lovely Fame, even in the highways and the byways you have not foreborne to laugh and shout and jest with worthless men, and I have toiled for you and dreamed of you and you mock me and pass me by.”

And Fame turned her back on him and walked away, but in departing she looked over her shoulder and smiled at him as she had not smiled before, and, almost speaking in a whisper, said:

“I will meet you in the graveyard at the back of the Workhouse in a hundred years.”

CHARON

..................

Charon leaned forward and rowed. All things were one with his weariness.

It was not with him a matter of years or of centuries, but of wide floods of time, and an old heaviness and a pain in the arms that had become for him part of the scheme that the gods had made and was of a piece with Eternity.

If the gods had even sent him a contrary wind it would have divided all time in his memory into two equal slabs.

So grey were all things always where he was that if any radiance lingered a moment among the dead, on the face of such a queen perhaps as Cleopatra, his eyes could not have perceived it.

It was strange that the dead nowadays were coming in such numbers. They were coming in thousands where they used to come in fifties. It was neither Charon’s duty nor his wont to ponder in his grey soul why these things might be. Charon leaned forward and rowed.

Then no one came for a while. It was not usual for the gods to send no one down from Earth for such a space. But the gods knew best.

Then one man came alone. And the little shade sat shivering on a lonely bench and the great boat pushed off. Only one passenger: the gods knew best. And great and weary Charon rowed on and on beside the little, silent, shivering ghost.

And the sound of the river was like a mighty sigh that Grief in the beginning had sighed among her sisters, and that could not die like the echoes of human sorrow failing on earthly hills, but was as old as time and the pain in Charon’s arms.

Then the boat from the slow, grey river loomed up to the coast of

Dis and the little, silent shade still shivering stepped ashore, and

Charon turned the boat to go wearily back to the world. Then the

little shadow spoke, that had been a man.

“I am the last,” he said.

No one had ever made Charon smile before, no one before had ever made him weep.

THE DEATH OF PAN

..................

WHEN THE TRAVELLERS FROM LONDON entered Arcady they lamented one to another the death of Pan.

And anon they saw him lying stiff and still.

Horned Pan was still and the dew was on his fur; he had not the look of a live animal. And then they said, “It is true that Pan is dead.”

And, standing melancholy by that huge prone body, they looked for long at memorable Pan.

And evening came and a small star appeared.

And presently from a hamlet of some Arcadian valley, with a sound of idle song, Arcadian maidens came.

And, when they saw there, suddenly in the twilight, that old recumbent god, they stopped in their running and whispered among themselves. “How silly he looks,” they said, and thereat they laughed a little.

And at the sound of their laughter Pan leaped up and the gravel flew from his hooves.

And, for as long as the travellers stood and listened, the crags and the hill-tops of Arcady rang with the sounds of pursuit.

THE SPHINX AT GIZEH

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I saw the other day the Sphinx’s painted face.

She had painted her face in order to ogle Time.

And he has spared no other painted face in all the world but hers.

Delilah was younger than she, and Delilah is dust. Time hath loved nothing but this worthless painted face.

I do not care that she is ugly, nor that she has painted her face, so that she only lure his secret from Time.

Time dallies like a fool at her feet when he should be smiting cities.

Time never wearies of her silly smile.

There are temples all about her that he has forgotten to spoil.

I saw an old man go by, and Time never touched him.

Time that has carried away the seven gates of Thebes!

She has tried to bind him with ropes of eternal sand, she had hoped to oppress him with the Pyramids.

He lies there in the sand with his foolish hair all spread about her paws.

If she ever finds his secret we will put out his eyes, so that he shall find no more our beautiful things—there are lovely gates in Florence that I fear he will carry away.

We have tried to bind him with song and with old customs, but they only held him for a little while, and he has always smitten us and mocked us.

When he is blind he shall dance to us and make sport.

Great clumsy time shall stumble and dance, who liked to kill little children, and can hurt even the daisies no longer.

Then shall our children laugh at him who slew Babylon’s winged bulls, and smote great numbers of the gods and fairies—when he is shorn of his hours and his years.

We will shut him up in the Pyramid of Cheops, in the great chamber where the sarcophagus is. Thence we will lead him out when we give our feasts. He shall ripen our corn for us and do menial work.

We will kiss they painted face, O Sphinx, if thou wilt betray to us Time.

And yet I fear that in his ultimate anguish he may take hold blindly of the world and the moon, and slowly pull down upon him the House of Man.

THE HEN

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ALL ALONG THE FARMYARD GABLES the swallows sat a-row, twittering uneasily to one another, telling of many things, but thinking only of Summer and the South, for Autumn was afoot and the North wind waiting.

And suddenly one day they were all quite gone. And everyone spoke of the swallows and the South.

“I think I shall go South myself next year,” said a hen.

And the year wore on and the swallows came again, and the year wore on and they sat again on the gables, and all the poultry discussed the departure of the hen.