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    Iole
    Iole
    Iole
    Ebook162 pages1 hour

    Iole

    By Robert W. (Robert William) Chambers and Arthur C. Becker

    ()

    Read preview
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateOct 1, 2007
    Iole

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      Book preview

      Iole - Robert W. (Robert William) Chambers

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Iole, by Robert W. Chambers

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Iole

      Author: Robert W. Chambers

      Illustrator: Arthur C. Becker

      Release Date: January 25, 2008 [EBook #24426]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IOLE ***

      Produced by Louise Hope, Suzanne Shell and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

      file was produced from images generously made available

      by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

      This text uses utf-8 (unicode) file encoding. If the apostrophes and quotation marks in this paragraph appear as garbage, you may have an incompatible browser or unavailable fonts. First, make sure that the browser’s character set or file encoding is set to Unicode (UTF-8). You may also need to change your browser’s default font.

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      Preface

      Table of Contents

      Iole

      The little things, he continued, delicately perforating the

      atmosphere as though selecting a diatom.

      Copyright, 1905, by

      ROBERT W. CHAMBERS

      Published May, 1905

      TO

      GEORGE HORACE LORIMER

      PREFACE

      oes anybody remember the opera of The Inca , and that heartbreaking episode where the Court Undertaker, in a morbid desire to increase his professional skill, deliberately accomplishes the destruction of his middle-aged relatives in order to inter them for the sake of practise?

      If I recollect, his dismal confession runs something like this:

      "It was in a bleak November

      When I slew them, I remember,

      As I caught them unawares

      Drinking tea in rocking-chairs."

      And so he talked them to death, the subject being What Really is Art? Afterward he was sorry—

      "The squeak of a door,

      The creak of the floor,

      My horrors and fears enhance;

      And I wake with a scream

      As I hear in my dream

      The shrieks of my maiden aunts!"

      Now it is a very dreadful thing to suggest that those highly respectable pseudo-spinsters, the Sister Arts, supposedly cozily immune in their polygamous chastity (for every suitor for favor is popularly expected to be wedded to his particular art)—I repeat, it is very dreadful to suggest that these impeccable old ladies are in danger of being talked to death.

      But the talkers are talking and Art Nouveau rockers are rocking, and the trousers of the prophet are patched with stained glass, and it is a day of dinkiness and of thumbs.

      Let us find comfort in the ancient proverb: Art talked to death shall rise again. Let us also recollect that Dinky is as dinky does; that All is not Shaw that Bernards; that Better Yeates than Clever; that words are so inexpensive that there is no moral crime in robbing Henry to pay James.

      Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers, slab furniture, and woodchuck literature—save only the immortal verse:

      "And there the wooden-chuck doth tread;

      While from the oak trees’ tops

      The red, red squirrel on thy head

      The frequent acorn drops."

      Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope that those cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will continue throughout the ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by the million-tongued clamor in the back yard and below stairs, where thumb and forefinger continue the question demanded by intellectual exhaustion: L’arr! Kesker say l’arr?

      IOLE

      I

       ain’t never knowed no one like him, continued the station-agent reflectively. He made us all look like monkeys, but he was good to us. Ever see a ginuine poet, sir?"

      Years ago one was pointed out to me, replied Briggs.

      Was yours smooth shaved, with large, fat, white fingers? inquired the station-agent.

      If I remember correctly, he was thin, said Briggs, sitting down on his suit-case and gazing apprehensively around at the landscape. There was nothing to see but low, forbidding mountains, and forests, and a railroad track curving into a tunnel.

      The station-agent shoved his hairy hands into the pockets of his overalls, jingled an unseen bunch of keys, and chewed a dry grass stem, ruminating the while in an undertone:

      This poet come here five years ago with all them kids, an’ the fust thing he done was to dress up his girls in boys’ pants. Then he went an’ built a humpy sort o’ house out of stones and boulders. Then he went to work an’ wrote pieces for the papers about jay-birds an’ woodchucks an’ goddesses. He claimed the woods was full of goddesses. That was his way, sir.

      The agent contemplated the railroad track, running his eye along the perspective of polished rails:

      Yes, sir; his name was—and is—Clarence Guilford, an’ I fust seen it signed to a piece in the Uticy Star. An’ next I knowed, folks began to stop off here inquirin’ for Mr. Guilford. ‘Is this here where Guilford, the poet, lives?’ sez they; an’ they come thicker an’ thicker in warm weather. There wasn’t no wagon to take ’em up to Guilford’s, but they didn’t care, an’ they called it a lit’r’y shrine, an’ they hit the pike, women, children, men—’speshil the women, an’ I heard ’em tellin’ how Guilford dressed his kids in pants an’ how Guilford was a famous new lit’r’y poet, an’ they said he was fixin’ to lecture in Uticy.

      The agent gnawed off

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