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    Unhappy Far-Off Things
    Unhappy Far-Off Things
    Unhappy Far-Off Things
    Ebook49 pages44 minutes

    Unhappy Far-Off Things

    By Lord Dunsany

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    About this ebook

    Lord Dunsany was one of the most influential fantasy authors of the twentieth century. Like J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis he served during the great war. Collected here are thirteen stories of that terrible war. Dunsany saw the horrors of war and he was uniquely qualified to capture the experience in prose. "I have chosen a title that shall show that I make no claim for this book to be "up-to-date." As the first title indicates, I hoped to show, to as many as might to read my words, something of the extent of the wrongs that the people of France had suffered. There is no such need any longer. The tales, so far as they went, I gather together here for the few that seem to read my books in England." —Lord Dunsany
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateAug 24, 2015
    ISBN9781681463445
    Unhappy Far-Off Things
    Author

    Lord Dunsany

    Edward J. M. D. Plunkett, the 18th Baron of Dunsany, was one of the foremost fantasy writers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Lord Dunsany, and particularly his Book of Wonder, is widely recognized as a major influence on many of the best known fantasy writers, including J.R.R. Tolkien, H.P. Lovecraft, and C.S. Lewis. Holding one of the oldest titles in the Irish peerage, Lord Dunsany lived much of his life at Dunsany Castle, one of Ireland’s longest-inhabited homes. He died in 1957, leaving an indelible mark on modern fantasy writing.

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      Book preview

      Unhappy Far-Off Things - Lord Dunsany

      Preface

      I have chosen a title that shall show that I make no claim for this book to be up-to-date. As the first title indicates, I hoped to show, to as many as might to read my words, something of the extent of the wrongs that the people of France had suffered. There is no such need any longer. The tales, so far as they went, I gather together here for the few that seem to read my books in England.

      Dunsany.

      A Dirge Of Victory (Sonnet)

      Lift not thy trumpet, Victory, to the sky,

      Nor through battalions nor by batteries blow,

      But over hollows full of old wire go,

      Where among dregs of war the long-dead lie

      With wasted iron that the guns passed by.

      When they went eastwards like a tide at flow;

      There blow thy trumpet that the dead may know,

      Who waited for thy coming, Victory.

      It is not we that have deserved thy wreath,

      They waited there among the towering weeds.

      The deep mud burned under the thermite’s breath,

      And winter cracked the bones that no man heeds:

      Hundreds of nights flamed by: the seasons passed.

      And thou last come to them at last, at last!

      The Cathedral Of Arras

      On the great steps of Arras Cathedral I saw a procession, in silence, standing still.

      They were in orderly and perfect lines, stirring or swaying slightly: sometimes they bent their heads, sometimes two leaned together, but for the most part they were motionless. It was the time when the fashion is just changing and some were newly all in shining yellow, while others still wore green.

      I went up the steps amongst them, the only human thing, for men and women worship no more in Arras Cathedral, and the trees have come instead; little humble things, all less than four years old, in great numbers thronging the steps processionally, and growing in perfect rows just where step meets step. They have come to Arras with the wind and the rain; which enter the aisles together whenever they will, and go wherever man went; they have such a reverent air, the young limes on the three flights of steps, that you would say they did not know that Arras Cathedral was fallen on evil days, that they did not know they looked on ruin and vast disaster, but thought that these great walls open to stars and sun were the natural and fitting place for the worship of little weeds.

      Behind them the shattered houses of Arras seemed to cluster about the cathedral as, one might fancy easily, hurt and frightened children, so wistful are their gaping windows and old, grey empty gables, so melancholy and puzzled. They are more like a little old people come upon trouble, gazing at their great elder companion and not knowing what to do.

      But the facts of Arras are sadder than a poet’s most tragic fancies. In the western front of Arras Cathedral stand eight pillars rising from the ground; above them stood four more. Of the four upper pillars the two on the left are gone, swept away by shells from the north: and a shell has passed through the neck of one of the two that is left, just as a bullet might go through a daffodil’s stem.

      The left-hand corner of that western wall has been caught from the north, by some tremendous shell which has torn the whole corner down in a mound of stone: and still the walls have stood.

      I went in through the western doorway. All along the nave lay a long heap of white stones, with grass and weeds on the top, and a little trodden path over the grass and

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