Tanith Lee - Yellow And Red

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2024-12-20 0 0 158.55KB 23 页 5.9玖币

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YELLOW AND

RED

Tanith Lee

Tanith Lee began writing at the age of nine. After

school she worked variously as a library assistant,

shop assistant, filing clerk and waitress before

spending a year at art college.

She published three children’s books in the early

1970s, but it was only when DAW Books

published her novel The Birthgrave in 1975, and

thereafter twenty-six other titles, was she able to

become a full-time writer. To date she has

published nearly sixty novels, including such recent

titles as White as Snow, A Bed of Earth and Venus

Preserved, plus nine collections of novellas and short

stories. Her radio plays have been broadcast by the

BBC and she scripted two episodes of the cult TV

series Blake’s 7.

Tanith Lee has twice won the World Fantasy

Award for short fiction, and in 1980 she was

awarded the British Fantasy Society’s August

Derleth Award for her novel Death’s Master.

“I am a great admirer of, amongst others, M.R.

James…,” reveals the author. “His influence on

me, in this story, is perhaps evident only to

myself.”

From the Diary of Gordon Martyce:

9th September 195-: 7:00 p.m.

Coming down to the old house was at first interesting, and

then depressing. The train journey was tedious and slow, and after

the second hour, over and again, I began to wish I had not

undertaken this. But that would be foolish. The house, by the

quirkiness of my Uncle’s will, is now mine. One day I may even

live in it, although for now my job, which I value, and my flat,

which I like, keep me in London. Of course, Lucy is terribly

interested in the idea of an old place in the country. I could see her

eyes, lit by her second gin, gleam with visions of chintz curtains,

china on the mantlepiece, an old, dark, loudly-ticking cloak. But it

is not that sort of house—I knew that even then, never having seen

inside it in my life. As for Lucy, I am never sure. She has stuck to

me for five years, and so I have not quite given up on the notion of

one day having a wife, perhaps a family. Quite a pretty woman,

quite vivacious in her way, which sometimes, I confess, tires me a

little. Well, if it comes to that, she can do what she wants with the

house. It is gloomy enough as it stands.

Beyond the train, the trees were putting on their September

garments, brown and red and yellow, but soon a drizzle began

which blotted up detail. It was raining more earnestly when I

reached the station and got out. I had only one small bag, the

essentials for a stay of a couple of nights. That was good, for there

was no transport of any kind.

I walked to the village, and there was given a cup of tea, the

keys, and a lift the last mile and a half.

Johnson, the agent, let me off on the drive. He had offered to

take me round, but I said this was not necessary. There is a woman,

Mrs Gold, who comes in every day, and I was told, she would have

put things ready for me—I trusted this was true.

The rain eased as I walked along the last curve of the drive.

Presently I saw the house, and recognized it from a photograph I

had observed often enough in my Father’s study. A two-storey

building, with green shutters. Big oaks stood around it that had

done the walls some damage, and introduced damp. I supposed

they could be cut down. Above, was my Grandfather’s

weather-vane, which I had never been able, properly, to make out

in the photograph, but which my Father told me was in the shape

of some Oriental animal deity. Even now, it remained a mystery to

me, between the leaves of the oaks and the moving, leaden sky.

I got up the steps, and opened the front door, and stepped

into the big dark hall. The trees oppress this house, that is certain,

and the old stained glass of the hall windows change the light to

mulberry and spinach. However, I saw through into the sitting

room, and a fire had been laid, and wood put ready. A touch on a

switch reassured me that the electricity still worked. On the table

near the door I found Mrs Gold’s rather poorly spelled note. But

she had done everything one could expect, even to leaving me a

cold supper of ham and salad, apple pie and cheese. She would be

in tomorrow at eleven. I need have no fears.

I looked round. I am not fearful by nature. I always do my

best, and am seldom in a position to dread very much. A childhood

visit to the dentist, perhaps, for an especially painful

filling—something of that apprehension seized me. But it was the

nasty dark light in the hall. My Uncle died in this house not three

months ago. Before him, he had lost his family, his wife and sister,

and two sons. Before them another generation had perished. As

Shakespeare points out, it is common for people to die.

Going through into the sitting room, I have put a match to

the fire. This has improved things. On a sideboard stands a tray

with brandy, whisky and soda. Though it is early for me, I shall

pour myself a small measure. I gather the boiler is at work, and I

can count on a hot bath. I do not want a chill.

10th September: 2:00 p.m.

The house is a mausoleum. Lucy be blowed, I think I shall

sell it. Last night was dreadful. Creaks and groans of woodwork, an

eldritch wind at the windows and down the chimneys. I read until

nearly two a.m. Then at three I was woken by a persistent owl

hooting in the garden trees. I am not a country person. I longed for

my warm city flat and the vague roar of traffic.

However, this morning early I went over the place thoroughly,

from attic to cellar. There are a great many rooms, more than I

should ever want, and the heating would be prohibitive. It is very

old fashioned, those thick, bottle-green and oxblood curtains

favoured by our grandfathers—evidently by mine, and my Uncle

William, too—enormous cliffs of furniture, and endless curios,

some of them I expect very valuable, from the East—Egypt, India

and China. I am not particularly partial to any of this sort of thing.

I find the house uncomfortable, both physically—it is cold and

damp—and aesthetically.

At about eleven thirty, the not very punctual Mrs Gold

arrived. I was not surprised. Women are generally unreliable. I have

learnt this from Lucy. Nevertheless, I commended Mrs Gold on

keeping the house clean, which she has more or less done, and on

the supper left for me yesterday. She is a large woman, constructed

like a figurehead, with severe grey hair. She began, of course, at

once to tell me all about my Uncle, and what she knows of my

Grandfather before him. She is, naturally, as her class nearly always

are, fascinated by details of all the deaths. It was with some

difficulty that I got her to resume her work. Going into the library,

I then took down some boxes of photographs, and began to go

through them, more to pass the time than anything else. The agent

is coming tomorrow, to discuss things, or I would have tried to get

home today.

The photographs, most of which have dates and names

written on the back, are generally displeasing, many the dull,

antique kind where everyone stands like a waxwork, as the

primitive camera performs its task. My grandfather was a

formidable old boy, with bushy whiskers, in several scenes out in

some foreign landscape, clutching his gun, or his spade, for he had

been involved in one or two famous excavations, in the East. Here

he had taken his own photographs, some of which had appeared in

prominent journals of the day. These, obviously, were not among

the general portraits, nor was I especially interested to look them

out. My father had been wont to tell me, at length, how

Grandfather Martyce had taken the very first photograph inside

some remarkable ancient tomb. I had found this, I am afraid,

extremely boring, then, and scarcely less so now. I have, too,

forgotten the location. Lucy has often commented that I am not a

romantic. I am glad to say I am not.

Eventually Mrs Gold finished her ministrations, and I went

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摘要：

YELLOWANDRED TanithLee TanithLeebeganwritingattheageofnine.Afterschoolsheworkedvariouslyasalibraryassistant,shopassistant,filingclerkandwaitressbeforespendingayearatartcollege.Shepublishedthreechildren’sbooksintheearly1970s,butitwasonlywhenDAWBookspublishedhernovelTheBirthgravein1975,andthere...

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Tanith Lee - Yellow And Red

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