Orchard of Tears

Sax Rohmer

Description

In a marked departure from the genre mysteries that brought him literary fame, Fu Manchu creator Sax Rohmer switches gears and crafts a pastoral idyll in the sophisticated romance novel The Orchard of Tears. Prone to intellectual musings, protagonist Paul Merle spends his days critically analyzing the world around him. Will he ever find room for an affair of the heart?

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775458173
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE ORCHARD OF TEARS
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SAX ROHMER
 
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The Orchard of Tears First published in 1918 ISBN 978-1-77545-817-3 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Part First - At Lower Charleswood I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV Part Second - Flamby in London I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII Part Third - The Key I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII
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TO THE SLAVES OF THE POMEGRANATE, SONS OF ADAM AND DAUGHTERS OF EVE, WHODRINK AT THE FOUNTAIN OF LIFE, THIS CHALICE IS OFFERED AS A LOVING-CUP.
Part First - At Lower Charleswood
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I
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It was high noon of a perfect summer's day. Beneath green sun blinds,upon the terrace overlooking the lawns, Paul Mario, having finished hislunch, lay back against the cushions of a white deck-chair and studiedthe prospect. Sloping turf, rose-gay paths, and lichened brick steps,hollowed with age, zigzagging leisurely down to the fir avenue, carriedthe eye onward again to where the river wound its way through verdantbanks toward the distant town.
A lark wooed the day with sweet music. Higher and ever higher rose thelittle sun-worshipper, pouring out his rapturous hymn to Apollo.Swallows, who but lately had crossed the battlefields of southernEurope, glided around Hatton Towers, describing mystic figures in theair, whilst the high feeble chirping of the younger generation soundedfrom the nests beneath the eaves. Amid the climbing roses bees werebusy, their communal labours an object-lesson for self-seeking man; andalmost at Mario's feet a company of ants swarmed over the yet writhingbody of an unfortunate caterpillar, who had dropped from an apple-treeto fall a prey to that savage natural law of death to the weak. Theharsh voice of a sentinel crow spoke from a neighbouring cornfield, anda cloud of dusky marauders took the air instantly, and before the sharpcrack of the farmer's fowling-piece came to confirm the warning. In thehush of noon the tones of some haymakers at their patriarchal labours ina meadow beyond the stream were clearly audible—and the atmosphereconstantly vibrated with remote booming of guns on the Western front.
Paul Mario was sufficiently distinguished in appearance to have been aperson of no importance. His virile, curling black hair had theraven's-wing sheen betraying remote Italian forebears, and for thatmatter there was in his entire cast of countenance and the poise of hisfine head something statuesquely Roman, Southern, exotic. His large butdeep-set eyes were of so dark a blue as very generally to pass for"black"; and whilst in some moods they were soft and dreamy, in others,notably in moments of enthusiasm, they burnt darkly fierce in his paleolive face. In profile there was a certain resemblance to the Vaticanhead of Julius Caesar, save for the mouth, which had more gentle curves,and which was not unlike that of Dante; but seen full-face, and allowingfor the fact that Paul Mario was clean-shaven, the likeness of featureto the traditional Christ was startling. This resemblance is equallynotable in the face of Shakespeare.
Rather above medium height, well but slightly proportioned, the uneasyspirit of the man ever looking out of those arresting eyes so whollydominated him as to create a false impression of fragility, of a caskettoo frail to confine the burning, eager soul within. His emotions weredynamic, and in his every mannerism there was distinction. The vein offemininity which is found in all creative artists betrayed itself in oneitem of Mario's attire: a white French knot, which slightly overlay thelapels of his well-worn Norfolk jacket.
To the world's caricaturists, when Paul Mario, at the age oftwenty-six, had swept across the literary terrain, storming line afterline, the white knot had proved a boon. Delilah , a lyrical drama,written in French, and first published in Paris, achieved for thisdarling of Minerva a reputation which no man is entitled to expectduring his lifetime. Within twelve months of the date of publication ithad appeared in almost every civilised language, and had been staged inNew York, where it created a furore. Of Madame Caligula , a novel,which followed it, thirty-one editions were subscribed in six days!
The miracle of Paul Mario's success was perhaps to be explained by theneutrality of his genius. A passionate, elemental sympathy with allnature, a seeming capacity to hear the language of the flowers, thevoices of the stars and to love and understand the lowliest things thatGod has made, bore him straight to the heart of England as surely as itswept his name into the holy of holies of artistic France, spoke toRussia's sombre soul and temporarily revolutionised the literature ofthe United States. His work belonged to no "school," and its charm wasnot due to "style"; therefore his books lost little in translation, fortrue genius speaks to every man in his own tongue.
Sympathetic atmosphere was as necessary to Paul Mario as pure air to thegeneral. Deliberate ugliness hurt him, and the ugliness which is thehandiwork of God aroused within him a yearning sorrow for poor humanitywho might be of the White Company, were it not for avarice, hate andlust. The war, even in its earlier phases, stirred the ultimate deeps ofhis nature, and knowing himself, since genius cannot be blind, for whathe was, a world power, a spiritual sword, he chafed and fretted inenforced inactivity, striving valiantly to reconcile himself to theugliness of military life. Courted as only poets and actors are courted,he was offered posts and commissions in bewildering variety; but all ofthem he scornfully rejected. The insane injustice of such selectionenraged him.
A severe nervous lesion freed him from the galley-bench of atraining-camp, and sent him on a weary pilgrimage through the militaryhospitals to discharge—and freedom; freedom, which to that ardentnature proved to be irksome. For whilst the very springs of his geniuswere dammed by the agony of a world in travail, he found himself outsidethe mighty theatre, a mere bystander having no part in the rebirth ofhumanity.
II
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Someone was approaching along the path consecrated by a million wearyfeet and still known as the Pilgrim's Way, someone who wore the uglyuniform of a Guards officer (which is a sort of du Maurier survivaldemanding Dundreary whiskers). He seemed to hesitate ere he turnedaside, opened the gate and began to mount those hundred and twenty mossysteps which led up to the terrace.
The newcomer, whose tunic had seen much service, was a man perhaps twoor three years Paul Mario's senior, and already the bleaching hand ofTime had brushed his temples with furtive fingers. He was dark but ofsanguine colouring, now overlaid with a deep tan, wore a short militarymoustache and possessed those humorous grey eyes which seem to detect inall creation hues roseate and pleasing; eyes made for laughter and whichno man other than a good fellow ever owned.
Gaining the terrace and raising his hand to his cap in salute, theofficer smiled, and his smile fulfilled all the promise of the grey eyesand would have brought a ray of sunshine into the deepest and darkestcell of the Bastille itself.
"I believe I am trespassing," he began—then, as Paul Mario rose: "Byall that's gracious and wonderful, it's Paul!"
"Don!" exclaimed the other, and sprang forward in his own impetuousfashion, grasping the newcomer by both shoulders and staring eagerlyinto the suntanned face. "Dear old Don! A thousand welcomes, boy!" Andreleasing his grip on the shoulders, he seized both hands and shook themwith a vigour that was not assumed but was merely an outlet for hisbrimming emotions.
"Some kindly coy dryad of the woods has guided my footsteps to thisblessed spot," declared Don. "The last inn which I passed—observe myselection of the word, passed—known, I believe, as the 'Pig andSomething-or-other,' is fully three sunny miles behind me. From the aridand dusty path below I observed the siphon on your table—"
"And you determined to become a trespasser?" cried Paul Mario joyously,pushing his friend into the cane rest-chair and preparing a drink forhim. "I will build an altar to your dryad, Don; for there is certainlysomething miraculous in your appearance at Hatton Towers."
"When I have suitably reduced my temperature I will explain. But I haveyet to learn what you are doing here. I had always understood thatHatton Towers—"
"My dear fellow, it's mine!" cried Paul excitedly. "My Uncle Jacquesdramatically bequeathed this wonderful place to me, altering his will onthe day that I renounced the pen and entered an officer's trainingcorps. He was a remarkable old bachelor, Don—"
Don raised his hand, checking Paul's speech. "My dear Paul, you cannotpossibly amplify your own description of Sir Jacques, with which youentertained us one evening in a certain top set at Oxford. Do youremember those rooms, Paul?"
"Do I remember them!"
" I do, and I remember your account of the saintly Uncle, for youracquaintance had begun and terminated during a week of the previouslong vacation which you had spent here at Hatton. 'Uncle Jacques,' youinformed us, 'is a delightful survival, bearing a really remarkableresemblance to a camel. Excepting his weakness for classic statuary andstudies in the nude, his life is of Mayflower purity. He made hisfortune on the Baltic Exchange, was knighted owing to a clerical error,and built the appalling church at Mid Hatton.'"
Paul