Lost trumpet
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268
THE LOST TRUMPET
caught and painted in a something that was not a
colour, but the ghost of cobalt. The curved block
lettering on the mouthpiece of the Lost Trumpet
winked up at us, rune-like, and I handed on the
instrument, and Aslaug Simonssen, the next to receive
it, bent her gaze on the runes, young and unintelli¬
gent. “God’s man ?”
Marrot’s voice was as cool and acid as ever.
“Then undoubtedly it’s meant for you, Huebsch,
seeing you’re the only Jew here—and an Ancient
Unorthodox one to boot.”
“No such thing.” It was Quaritch’s voice from
his seat beside the table. “God’s Man—obvious
enough.”
“Not obvious at all, Mr. Quaritch,” said Pelagueya.
“Instead, dreadfully dim. So enlighten us.”
“Pleased, Princess. God’s Man—who hasn’t
heard of all the ideal nationals as God’s Englishman,
God’s German, God’s Spaniard—maybe even God’s
American, though I can hardly believe that. God’s
Man is the synthesis of the lot.” He regarded us with
young, jeering eyes. “So which of you is going to
blow the thing ? And I shouldn’t think women are
excluded. . . . Like me to toss up for you ?”
Huebsch, reclaiming the Trumpet from Aslaug
Simonssen, considered the Englishman hugely,
benevolently, and shook his head.
“Guess you’re taking a fragment too much on
yourself, young man. I’ll stage-manage whatever
trifle of drama we decide on for our entertainment.”
He turned, a portentous bull-god, archaic and
THE LOST TRUMPET
caught and painted in a something that was not a
colour, but the ghost of cobalt. The curved block
lettering on the mouthpiece of the Lost Trumpet
winked up at us, rune-like, and I handed on the
instrument, and Aslaug Simonssen, the next to receive
it, bent her gaze on the runes, young and unintelli¬
gent. “God’s man ?”
Marrot’s voice was as cool and acid as ever.
“Then undoubtedly it’s meant for you, Huebsch,
seeing you’re the only Jew here—and an Ancient
Unorthodox one to boot.”
“No such thing.” It was Quaritch’s voice from
his seat beside the table. “God’s Man—obvious
enough.”
“Not obvious at all, Mr. Quaritch,” said Pelagueya.
“Instead, dreadfully dim. So enlighten us.”
“Pleased, Princess. God’s Man—who hasn’t
heard of all the ideal nationals as God’s Englishman,
God’s German, God’s Spaniard—maybe even God’s
American, though I can hardly believe that. God’s
Man is the synthesis of the lot.” He regarded us with
young, jeering eyes. “So which of you is going to
blow the thing ? And I shouldn’t think women are
excluded. . . . Like me to toss up for you ?”
Huebsch, reclaiming the Trumpet from Aslaug
Simonssen, considered the Englishman hugely,
benevolently, and shook his head.
“Guess you’re taking a fragment too much on
yourself, young man. I’ll stage-manage whatever
trifle of drama we decide on for our entertainment.”
He turned, a portentous bull-god, archaic and
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| The books of Lewis Grassic Gibbon > Lost trumpet > (268) |
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| Permanent URL | https://digital.nls.uk/205192961 |
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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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