Lost trumpet
(85)
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THE LOST TRUMPET 85
me vile and had not moved as I left her table and
house ? . . . I shook off the memory. What did it
matter to the middle-aged dragoman-employee
haunted by the chirping of the grasshopper of
futility ? This little man was my master, awaiting
explanations. “I should have secured the permis¬
sion of Mr. Huebsch or yourself before I made such
a lengthy absence.”
“Permission !” He snorted and stared at me con¬
temptuously. “Good God! Need w# be slavish as
well ?”
With that he disappeared back into his tent.
Oppressed and weary though I was I turned to
dress with a wry smile. I had made a faux pas. In
the ideal world of Mr. Marrot employees periodically
insulted their employers and lectured them on the
materialist concept of history . . .
The morning was unaware of all concepts
economic or religious ever fathered by men on
nature. Far in the dunness of the sands a bird was
crying, and there was a dimness-shielded flapping
of wings. Dawn came liquid, a soft flow and froth
across the still, pale lands. The house of Gault
stood black against it, then changed into a fairy
tower of beaten gold with its crazy arches and mount¬
ings the battlements of a fairy palace. Across the
neglected fields of Selim Hanna came flowing the
light, spun in spume amidst the impedimenta of
our encampment, shimmered and surged and over¬
flowed the banks of the disreputable canal, poured
in a mounting tide westwards upon the village of
me vile and had not moved as I left her table and
house ? . . . I shook off the memory. What did it
matter to the middle-aged dragoman-employee
haunted by the chirping of the grasshopper of
futility ? This little man was my master, awaiting
explanations. “I should have secured the permis¬
sion of Mr. Huebsch or yourself before I made such
a lengthy absence.”
“Permission !” He snorted and stared at me con¬
temptuously. “Good God! Need w# be slavish as
well ?”
With that he disappeared back into his tent.
Oppressed and weary though I was I turned to
dress with a wry smile. I had made a faux pas. In
the ideal world of Mr. Marrot employees periodically
insulted their employers and lectured them on the
materialist concept of history . . .
The morning was unaware of all concepts
economic or religious ever fathered by men on
nature. Far in the dunness of the sands a bird was
crying, and there was a dimness-shielded flapping
of wings. Dawn came liquid, a soft flow and froth
across the still, pale lands. The house of Gault
stood black against it, then changed into a fairy
tower of beaten gold with its crazy arches and mount¬
ings the battlements of a fairy palace. Across the
neglected fields of Selim Hanna came flowing the
light, spun in spume amidst the impedimenta of
our encampment, shimmered and surged and over¬
flowed the banks of the disreputable canal, poured
in a mounting tide westwards upon the village of
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| The books of Lewis Grassic Gibbon > Lost trumpet > (85) |
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| Permanent URL | https://digital.nls.uk/205190582 |
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| Description | J. Leslie Mitchell. |
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| Shelfmark | Vts.143.j.8 |
| Attribution and copyright: |
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More information
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| Description | Sixteen books written by Lewis Grassic Gibbon (1901-1935), regarded as the most important Scottish prose writer of the early 20th century. All were published in the last seven years of his life, mostly under his real name, James Leslie Mitchell. They include two works of science fiction, non-fiction works on exploration, short stories set in Egypt, a novel about Spartacus, and the classic 'Scots Quair' trilogy which includes 'Sunset Song'. Mitchell's first book 'Hanno, or the future of exploration' (1928) is rare and has never been republished. |
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