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Overview
A two day's struggle over the treacherous trails in a well-intentioned
but short-winded "flivver", and a ride of two more on a hired mount of
unamiable temper, had disposed young Medford, of the American School of
Archaeology at Athens, to wonder why his queer English friend, Henry
Almodham, had chosen to live in the desert.
Now he understood.
He was leaning against the roof parapet of the old building, half
Christian fortress, half Arab palace, which had been Almodham's pretext;
or one of them. Below, in an inner court, a little wind, rising as the
sun sank, sent through a knot of palms the rain-like rattle so cooling to
the pilgrims of the desert. An ancient fig tree, enormous, exuberant,
writhed over a whitewashed well-head, sucking life from what appeared to
be the only source of moisture within the walls. Beyond these, on every
side, stretched away the mystery of the sands, all golden with promise,
all livid with menace, as the sun alternately touched or abandoned them.
Young Medford, somewhat weary after his journey from the coast, and awed
by his first intimate sense of the omnipresence of the desert, shivered
and drew back. Undoubtedly, for a scholar and a misogynist, it was a
wonderful refuge; but one would have to be, incurably, both.
"Let's take a look at the house," Medford said to himself, as if speedy
contact with man's handiwork were necessary to his reassurance.
The house, he already knew, was empty save for the quick cosmopolitan
man-servant, who spoke a sort of palimpsest Cockney lined with
Mediterranean tongues and desert dialects--English, Italian or Greek,
which was he?--and two or three burnoused underlings who, having carried
Medford's bags to his room, had relieved the palace of their gliding
presences. Mr. Almodham, the servant told him, was away; suddenly
summoned by a friendly chief to visit some unexplored ruins to the south,
he had ridden off at dawn, too hurriedly to write, but leaving messages
of excuse and regret. That evening late he might be back, or next
morning. Meanwhile Mr. Medford was to make himself at home.
Almodham, as young Medford knew, was always making these archaeological
explorations; they had been his ostensible reason for settling in that
remote place, and his desultory search had already resulted in the
discovery of several early Christian ruins of great interest.
Medford was glad that his host had not stood on ceremony, and rather
relieved, on the whole, to have the next few hours to himself. He had had
a malarial fever the previous summer, and in spite of his cork helmet he
had probably caught a touch of the sun; he felt curiously, helplessly
tired, yet deeply content.
And what a place it was to rest in! The silence, the remoteness, the
illimitable air! And in the heart of the wilderness green leafage, water,
comfort--he had already caught a glimpse of wide wicker chairs under the
palms--a humane and welcoming habitation. Yes, he began to understand
Almodham. To anyone sick of the Western fret and fever the very walls of
this desert fortress exuded peace.
As his foot was on the ladder-like stair leading down from the roof,
Medford saw the man-servant's head rising toward him. It rose slowly and
Medford had time to remark that it was sallow, bald on the top,
diagonally dented with a long white scar, and ringed with thick ash-blond
hair. Hitherto Medford had noticed only the man's face--youngish, but
sallow also--and been chiefly struck by its wearing an odd expression
which could best be defined as surprise.
but short-winded "flivver", and a ride of two more on a hired mount of
unamiable temper, had disposed young Medford, of the American School of
Archaeology at Athens, to wonder why his queer English friend, Henry
Almodham, had chosen to live in the desert.
Now he understood.
He was leaning against the roof parapet of the old building, half
Christian fortress, half Arab palace, which had been Almodham's pretext;
or one of them. Below, in an inner court, a little wind, rising as the
sun sank, sent through a knot of palms the rain-like rattle so cooling to
the pilgrims of the desert. An ancient fig tree, enormous, exuberant,
writhed over a whitewashed well-head, sucking life from what appeared to
be the only source of moisture within the walls. Beyond these, on every
side, stretched away the mystery of the sands, all golden with promise,
all livid with menace, as the sun alternately touched or abandoned them.
Young Medford, somewhat weary after his journey from the coast, and awed
by his first intimate sense of the omnipresence of the desert, shivered
and drew back. Undoubtedly, for a scholar and a misogynist, it was a
wonderful refuge; but one would have to be, incurably, both.
"Let's take a look at the house," Medford said to himself, as if speedy
contact with man's handiwork were necessary to his reassurance.
The house, he already knew, was empty save for the quick cosmopolitan
man-servant, who spoke a sort of palimpsest Cockney lined with
Mediterranean tongues and desert dialects--English, Italian or Greek,
which was he?--and two or three burnoused underlings who, having carried
Medford's bags to his room, had relieved the palace of their gliding
presences. Mr. Almodham, the servant told him, was away; suddenly
summoned by a friendly chief to visit some unexplored ruins to the south,
he had ridden off at dawn, too hurriedly to write, but leaving messages
of excuse and regret. That evening late he might be back, or next
morning. Meanwhile Mr. Medford was to make himself at home.
Almodham, as young Medford knew, was always making these archaeological
explorations; they had been his ostensible reason for settling in that
remote place, and his desultory search had already resulted in the
discovery of several early Christian ruins of great interest.
Medford was glad that his host had not stood on ceremony, and rather
relieved, on the whole, to have the next few hours to himself. He had had
a malarial fever the previous summer, and in spite of his cork helmet he
had probably caught a touch of the sun; he felt curiously, helplessly
tired, yet deeply content.
And what a place it was to rest in! The silence, the remoteness, the
illimitable air! And in the heart of the wilderness green leafage, water,
comfort--he had already caught a glimpse of wide wicker chairs under the
palms--a humane and welcoming habitation. Yes, he began to understand
Almodham. To anyone sick of the Western fret and fever the very walls of
this desert fortress exuded peace.
As his foot was on the ladder-like stair leading down from the roof,
Medford saw the man-servant's head rising toward him. It rose slowly and
Medford had time to remark that it was sallow, bald on the top,
diagonally dented with a long white scar, and ringed with thick ash-blond
hair. Hitherto Medford had noticed only the man's face--youngish, but
sallow also--and been chiefly struck by its wearing an odd expression
which could best be defined as surprise.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940013740655 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | WDS Publishing |
| Publication date: | 01/05/2012 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 31 KB |
About the Author
Born into a prosperous New York family, Edith Wharton (1862-1937) wrote more than 15 novels, including The Age of Innocence, The House of Mirth, Ethan Frome, and other esteemed books. She was distinguished for her work in the First World War and was the first woman to receive a Doctorate of Letters from Yale University. She died in France at the age of 75.
Date of Birth:
January 24, 1862Date of Death:
August 11, 1937Place of Birth:
New York, New YorkPlace of Death:
Saint-Brice-sous-Forêt, FranceEducation:
Educated privately in New York and EuropeFrom the B&N Reads Blog
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