The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers (best ereader for pdf and epub .txt) 📕
Description
The King in Yellow is a fascinating, almost two-faced work. The first half consists of five legendary weird tales, loosely tied together by a fictional play—the eponymous King in Yellow—that drives those who read it mad. Celebrated by authors like H. P. Lovecraft and Lin Carter, these stories are classic tales of madness, despair, and strange happenings.
With the fifth tale the reader finds a sort of palate-cleansing collection of short prose-poems leading into the last four stories, which take a sharp turn away from the weird and into the romantic. The concluding tales are set in the Parisian art world.
In modern times The King in Yellow enjoys a reputation largely due to the strength of its first half of macabre tales, but by no means does that make the second half less enjoyable. Both halves are written in a quick, light prose style that demonstrates why Chambers was a best-seller in his day.
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- Author: Robert W. Chambers
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They climbed down at the Rue Gay Lussac.
“I always stop here,” observed Clifford, “I like the walk through the Luxembourg.”
“By the way,” said Hastings, “how can I call on you when I don’t know where you live?”
“Why, I live opposite you.”
“What—the studio in the garden where the almond trees are and the blackbirds—”
“Exactly,” said Clifford. “I’m with my friend Elliott.”
Hastings thought of the description of the two American artists which he had heard from Miss Susie Byng, and looked blank.
Clifford continued, “Perhaps you had better let me know when you think of coming so—so that I will be sure to—to be there,” he ended rather lamely.
“I shouldn’t care to meet any of your model friends there,” said Hastings, smiling. “You know—my ideas are rather straitlaced—I suppose you would say, Puritanical. I shouldn’t enjoy it and wouldn’t know how to behave.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Clifford, but added with great cordiality—“I’m sure we’ll be friends although you may not approve of me and my set, but you will like Severn and Selby because—because, well, they are like yourself, old chap.”
After a moment he continued, “There is something I want to speak about. You see, when I introduced you, last week, in the Luxembourg, to Valentine—”
“Not a word!” cried Hastings, smiling; “you must not tell me a word of her!”
“Why—”
“No—not a word!” he said gaily. “I insist—promise me upon your honour you will not speak of her until I give you permission; promise!”
“I promise,” said Clifford, amazed.
“She is a charming girl—we had such a delightful chat after you left, and I thank you for presenting me, but not another word about her until I give you permission.”
“Oh,” murmured Clifford.
“Remember your promise,” he smiled, as he turned into his gateway.
Clifford strolled across the street and, traversing the ivy-covered alley, entered his garden.
He felt for his studio key, muttering, “I wonder—I wonder—but of course he doesn’t!”
He entered the hallway, and fitting the key into the door, stood staring at the two cards tacked over the panels.
“Why the devil doesn’t he want me to speak of her?”
He opened the door, and, discouraging the caresses of two brindle bulldogs, sank down on the sofa.
Elliott sat smoking and sketching with a piece of charcoal by the window.
“Hello,” he said without looking around.
Clifford gazed absently at the back of his head, murmuring, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid that man is too innocent. I say, Elliott,” he said, at last, “Hastings—you know the chap that old Tabby Byram came around here to tell us about—the day you had to hide Colette in the armoire—”
“Yes, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing. He’s a brick.”
“Yes,” said Elliott, without enthusiasm.
“Don’t you think so?” demanded Clifford.
“Why yes, but he is going to have a tough time when some of his illusions are dispelled.”
“More shame to those who dispel ’em!”
“Yes—wait until he comes to pay his call on us, unexpectedly, of course—”
Clifford looked virtuous and lighted a cigar.
“I was just going to say,” he observed, “that I have asked him not to come without letting us know, so I can postpone any orgy you may have intended—”
“Ah!” cried Elliott indignantly, “I suppose you put it to him in that way.”
“Not exactly,” grinned Clifford. Then more seriously, “I don’t want anything to occur here to bother him. He’s a brick, and it’s a pity we can’t be more like him.”
“I am,” observed Elliott complacently, “only living with you—”
“Listen!” cried the other. “I have managed to put my foot in it in great style. Do you know what I’ve done? Well—the first time I met him in the street—or rather, it was in the Luxembourg, I introduced him to Valentine!”
“Did he object?”
“Believe me,” said Clifford, solemnly, “this rustic Hastings has no more idea that Valentine is—is—in fact is Valentine, than he has that he himself is a beautiful example of moral decency in a Quarter where morals are as rare as elephants. I heard enough in a conversation between that blackguard Loffat and the little immoral eruption, Bowles, to open my eyes. I tell you Hastings is a trump! He’s a healthy, clean-minded young fellow, bred in a small country village, brought up with the idea that saloons are way-stations to hell—and as for women—”
“Well?” demanded Elliott.
“Well,” said Clifford, “his idea of the dangerous woman is probably a painted Jezabel.”
“Probably,” replied the other.
“He’s a trump!” said Clifford, “and if he swears the world is as good and pure as his own heart, I’ll swear he’s right.”
Elliott rubbed his charcoal on his file to get a point and turned to his sketch saying, “He will never hear any pessimism from Richard Osborne E.”
“He’s a lesson to me,” said Clifford. Then he unfolded a small perfumed note, written on rose-coloured paper, which had been lying on the table before him.
He read it, smiled, whistled a bar or two from “Miss Helyett,” and sat down to answer it on his best cream-laid notepaper. When it was written and sealed, he picked up his stick and marched up and down the studio two or three times, whistling.
“Going out?” inquired the other, without turning.
“Yes,” he said, but lingered a moment over Elliott’s shoulder, watching him pick out the lights in his sketch with a bit of bread.
“Tomorrow is Sunday,” he observed after a moment’s silence.
“Well?” inquired Elliott.
“Have you seen Colette?”
“No, I will tonight. She and Rowden and Jacqueline are coming to Boulant’s. I suppose you and Cécile will be there?”
“Well, no,” replied Clifford. “Cécile dines at home tonight, and I—I had an idea of going to Mignon’s.”
Elliott looked at him with disapproval.
“You can make all the arrangements for La Roche without me,” he continued, avoiding Elliott’s eyes.
“What are you up to now?”
“Nothing,” protested Clifford.
“Don’t tell me,” replied his chum, with scorn; “fellows don’t rush off to Mignon’s when the set dine at Boulant’s. Who is it now?—but no, I won’t ask that—what’s the use!” Then he lifted
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