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    Iole
    Iole
    Iole
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    Iole

    By Robert W. Chambers

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    About this ebook

    Does 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?
    LanguageEnglish
    Publisheranboco
    Release dateSep 1, 2016
    ISBN9783736411708
    Iole
    Author

    Robert W. Chambers

    Robert William Chambers (1865-1933) was a Brooklyn-born artist and writer best known for producing supernatural, horror and weird tales. He published his first novel, In the Quarter in 1894 but didn’t receive major recognition until 1895 with a collection of short stories called The King in Yellow. Despite entries in other genres, such as romance and historical fiction, Chambers’ most acclaimed works were Gothic in nature. His eerie tales would go on to inspire a generation of writers including H.P. Lovecraft.

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      Book preview

      Iole - Robert W. Chambers

      Table of Contents

      IOLE

      II

      III

      IV

      V

      VI

      VII

      VIII

      IX

      X

      XI

      XII

      XIII

      XIV

      XV

      XVI

      XVII

      The little things, he continued, delicately perforating the

      atmosphere as though selecting a diatom.

      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,

      "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.

      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

      The agent gnawed off the chewed portion of the grass stem, readjusted it, and fixed his eyes on vacancy.

      Three year this went on. Mr. Guilford was makin’ his pile, I guess. He set up a shop an’ hired art bookbinders from York. Then he set up another shop an’ hired some of us ’round here to go an’ make them big, slabby art-chairs. All his shops was called At the sign of somethin’ ’r other. Bales of vellum arrived for to bind little dinky books; art rocking-chairs was shipped out o’ here by the carload. Meanwhile Guilford he done poetry on the side an’ run a magazine; an’ hearin’ the boys was makin’ big money up in that crank community, an’ that the town was boomin’, I was plum fool enough to drop my job here an’ be a art-worker up to Rose-Cross—that’s where the shops was; ’bout three mile back of his house into the woods.

      The agent removed his hands from his overalls and folded his arms grimly.

      Well? inquired Briggs, looking up from his perch on the

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