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    The Trees of Pride
    The Trees of Pride
    The Trees of Pride
    Ebook90 pages1 hour

    The Trees of Pride

    By G. K. Chesterton

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    G.K. Chesterton was an English writer often referred to as "the prince of paradox."  Chesterton wrote on a variety of different subjects including mystery fiction, religion, and literary critiques.  Chesterton is best known for creating the priest-detective Father Brown and the popular book Orthodoxy.  
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKrill Press
    Release dateFeb 17, 2016
    ISBN9781531210199
    Author

    G. K. Chesterton

    G.K. Chesterton (1874–1936) was an English writer, philosopher and critic known for his creative wordplay. Born in London, Chesterton attended St. Paul’s School before enrolling in the Slade School of Fine Art at University College. His professional writing career began as a freelance critic where he focused on art and literature. He then ventured into fiction with his novels The Napoleon of Notting Hill and The Man Who Was Thursday as well as a series of stories featuring Father Brown.

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      Book preview

      The Trees of Pride - G. K. Chesterton

      THE TREES OF PRIDE

      ..................

      G. K. Chesterton

      YURITA PRESS

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2016 by G. K. Chesterton

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      I. THE TALE OF THE PEACOCK TREES

      II. THE WAGER OF SQUIRE VANE

      III. THE MYSTERY OF THE WELL

      IV. THE CHASE AFTER THE TRUTH

      The Trees of Pride

      By

      G. K. Chesterton

      The Trees of Pride

      Published by Yurita Press

      New York City, NY

      First published circa 1936

      Copyright © Yurita Press, 2015

      All rights reserved

      Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      About YURITA Press

      Yurita Press is a boutique publishing company run by people who are passionate about history’s greatest works. We strive to republish the best books ever written across every conceivable genre and making them easily and cheaply available to readers across the world.

      I. THE TALE OF THE PEACOCK TREES

      ..................

      SQUIRE VANE WAS AN ELDERLY schoolboy of English education and Irish extraction. His English education, at one of the great public schools, had preserved his intellect perfectly and permanently at the stage of boyhood. But his Irish extraction subconsciously upset in him the proper solemnity of an old boy, and sometimes gave him back the brighter outlook of a naughty boy. He had a bodily impatience which played tricks upon him almost against his will, and had already rendered him rather too radiant a failure in civil and diplomatic service. Thus it is true that compromise is the key of British policy, especially as effecting an impartiality among the religions of India; but Vane’s attempt to meet the Moslem halfway by kicking off one boot at the gates of the mosque, was felt not so much to indicate true impartiality as something that could only be called an aggressive indifference. Again, it is true that an English aristocrat can hardly enter fully into the feelings of either party in a quarrel between a Russian Jew and an Orthodox procession carrying relics; but Vane’s idea that the procession might carry the Jew as well, himself a venerable and historic relic, was misunderstood on both sides. In short, he was a man who particularly prided himself on having no nonsense about him; with the result that he was always doing nonsensical things. He seemed to be standing on his head merely to prove that he was hard-headed.

      He had just finished a hearty breakfast, in the society of his daughter, at a table under a tree in his garden by the Cornish coast. For, having a glorious circulation, he insisted on as many outdoor meals as possible, though spring had barely touched the woods and warmed the seas round that southern extremity of England. His daughter Barbara, a good-looking girl with heavy red hair and a face as grave as one of the garden statues, still sat almost motionless as a statue when her father rose. A fine tall figure in light clothes, with his white hair and mustache flying backwards rather fiercely from a face that was good-humored enough, for he carried his very wide Panama hat in his hand, he strode across the terraced garden, down some stone steps flanked with old ornamental urns to a more woodland path fringed with little trees, and so down a zigzag road which descended the craggy Cliff to the shore, where he was to meet a guest arriving by boat. A yacht was already in the blue bay, and he could see a boat pulling toward the little paved pier.

      And yet in that short walk between the green turf and the yellow sands he was destined to find, his hard-headedness provoked into a not unfamiliar phase which the world was inclined to call hot-headedness. The fact was that the Cornish peasantry, who composed his tenantry and domestic establishment, were far from being people with no nonsense about them. There was, alas! a great deal of nonsense about them; with ghosts, witches, and traditions as old as Merlin, they seemed to surround him with a fairy ring of nonsense. But the magic circle had one center: there was one point in which the curving conversation of the rustics always returned. It was a point that always pricked the Squire to exasperation, and even in this short walk he seemed to strike it everywhere. He paused before descending the steps from the lawn to speak to the gardener about potting some foreign shrubs, and the gardener seemed to be gloomily gratified, in every line of his leathery brown visage, at the chance of indicating that he had formed a low opinion of foreign shrubs.

      We wish you’d get rid of what you’ve got here, sir, he observed, digging doggedly. Nothing’ll grow right with them here.

      Shrubs! said the Squire, laughing. You don’t call the peacock trees shrubs, do you? Fine tall trees—you ought to be proud of them.

      Ill weeds grow apace, observed the gardener. Weeds can grow as houses when somebody plants them. Then he added: Him that sowed tares in the Bible, Squire.

      Oh, blast your— began the Squire, and then replaced the more apt and alliterative word Bible by the general word superstition. He was himself a robust rationalist, but he went to church to set his tenants an example. Of what, it would have puzzled him to say.

      A little way along the lower path by the trees he encountered a woodcutter, one Martin, who was more explicit, having more of a grievance. His daughter was at that time seriously ill with a fever recently common on that coast, and the Squire, who was a kind-hearted gentleman, would normally have made allowances for low spirits and loss of temper. But he came near to losing his own again when the peasant persisted in connecting his tragedy with the traditional monomania about the foreign trees.

      If she were well enough I’d move her, said the woodcutter, as we can’t move them, I suppose. I’d just like to get my chopper into them and feel ‘em come crashing down.

      One would think they were dragons, said Vane.

      And that’s about what they look like, replied Martin. Look at ‘em!

      The woodman was naturally a rougher and even wilder figure than the gardener. His face also was brown, and looked like an antique parchment, and it was framed in an outlandish arrangement of raven beard and whiskers, which was really a fashion fifty years ago, but might have been five thousand years old or older. Phoenicians, one felt, trading on those strange shores in the morning of the world, might have combed or curled or braided their blue-black hair into

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