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Andrew Lang. In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories
In the Wrong Paradise, and Other Stories
Table of Contents
DEDICATION
PREFACE
THE END OF PHÆACIA
III. THE PROPHECY
IV. AT THE CHIEF’S HOUSE
V. A STRANGER ARRIVES
VI. A BACKSLIDER. A WARNING
VII. FLIGHT
VIII. SAVED!
IN THE WRONG PARADISE. AN OCCIDENTAL APOLOGUE
A CHEAP NIGGER
I
II
III
THE ROMANCE OF THE FIRST RADICAL
A PREHISTORIC APOLOGUE
THE YOUTH OF WHY-WHY
THE MANHOOD OF WHY-WHY
THE LOVES OF VERVA AND WHY-WHY
LA MORT WHY-WHY
A DUCHESS’S SECRET
THE HOUSE OF STRANGE STORIES
IN CASTLE PERILOUS
THE GREAT GLADSTONE MYTH. {283}
MY FRIEND THE BEACH-COMBER
Footnotes:
Отрывок из книги
Andrew Lang
Published by Good Press, 2019
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At her feet, on a stool, reclined a girl who was, I must confess, of singular beauty. Doto had long fair hair, a feature most unusual among these natives. She had blue eyes, and an appearance of singular innocence and frankness. She was, at the moment, embroidering a piece of work intended, as I afterwards learned with deep pain, for the covering of one of their idols, to whose service the benighted young woman was devoted. Often in after days, I saw Doto stooping above her embroidery and deftly interweaving the green and golden threads into the patterns of beasts and flowers. Often my heart went out to this poor child of pagan tribe, and I even pleased myself with the hope that some day, a reclaimed and enlightened character, she might employ her skill in embroidering slippers and braces for a humble vessel. I seemed to see her, a helpmate meet for me, holding Mothers’ Meetings, playing hymn-tunes on the lyre, or the double pipes, the native instruments, and, above all, winning the islanders from their cruel and abominable custom of exposing their infant children on the mountains. How differently have all things been arranged.
But I am wandering from my story. When we reached the group by the fireside, who had at first been unaware of our entrance, the chief’s wife gave a slight start, alarmed doubtless by my appearance. She could never have seen, nor even dreamed of, such a spectacle as I must have presented, haggard, ragged, faint with hunger, and worn with fatigue as I was. The chief motioned to me that I should kneel at his wife’s feet, and kiss her hand, but I merely bowed, not considering this a fit moment to protest otherwise against such sacrilegious mummeries. But the woman—her name I learned later was Ocyale—did not take my attitude in bad part. The startled expression of her face changed to a look of pity, and, with a movement of her hand, she directed Doto to bring a large golden cup from the table at the upper end of the room. Into this cup she ladled some dark liquid from a bowl which was placed on a small three-legged stand, or dumb waiter, close to her side. Next she spilt a little of the wine on the polished floor, with an appearance of gravity which I did not understand. It appears that this spilling of wine is a drink offering to their idols. She then offered me the cup, which I was about to taste, when I perceived that the liquor was indubitably alcoholic!
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