The Darts of Cupid: Stories
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
When Edith Templeton’s stories began appearing in The New Yorker in the late 1950s, she quickly became a favorite of the magazine’s discerning readers. Her finely honed writing, honestly drawn heroines, and distinctive themes secured her reputation.
The Dart’s of Cupid collects seven of Templeton’s stories for the first time and reintroduces one of the truly great writers of the twentieth century. In settings ranging from a decrepit Bohemian castle between the wars to London during World War II to the Italian Riviera in the 1990s, the heroines of these stories often find themselves confronting unfathomable passsions and perplexing actions by others, but they seldom feel regret.
fanciful. Men fumbling about with boats and nets, sliver of sea, rocks, that kind of stuff. Bright sun, hot-looking aerial perspective, the figures bending or stretching, all stock-in-trade but very slick. "Next to this picture, another picture. Same size, same place, same harbor, same figures doing their stuff. But sea in turmoil, sky stormy, gloom and menace. Now, how do you like that?" "Wonderful," I said. "Who did it?" "No one you've ever heard of. St. Croix de Marseille, a follower of
from the village?" "No," I said. "But when will he be in?" "Can't say," she said. "Sometimes he's in and sometime's he's out." "Charming," I said. "In that case, I suppose I'd better apply to him in writing, don't you think? And maybe he'll reply? That is, if he's in the mood?" "You could try," she said. She really is like the cook, I thought. Completely insensitive to sarcasm. Still craning up the stairs at her, I said, "I've come all the way from London to see the castle." "Have you?" she
end yet," said my cousin. "You don't know what use he will find for you. Just before you leave he will put the pressure on." "Make me earn my keep," I said, and burst out laughing. "And to think," said my cousin, pointedly ignoring my merriment, "that I had to come here with you and that he has seen me." "So what?" I said. "There are worse sights than you. You know how we used to tease you that you looked exactly like the Prince of Wales? Now you look like the Duke of Windsor." "Look over
who sold it, but Pfizer, too, who manufactured it, could not be left to starve. It was at this point—while Sylvia continued staring at Edmund, who had been uttering all this nonsense with his customary grave courtesy—that we heard the screech of the front door. Sylvia gave a deep sigh, as though feeling relieved, and Clarence made his entrance. It was a theatrical entrance, like that of a knight in full armor. Why, I asked myself, had he not taken off his hat and coat in the hall? And why, having
see," I said, humbly. We were talking about silver. Odiot is the greatest silversmith in France. They started making silverware for Louis XIV, continued for Louis XV, and then for each succeeding reigning monarch, including Napoleon. They are still the most celebrated manufacturers of their kind in France. He said, "Is it white silver, or vermeil?" And, pleased at having understood him, I said, "White silver." By now I not only had recognized his laughter but also knew exactly what he looked