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Retrieved September 27, Ebony and Crystal: Poems in Verse and Prose. Auburn, California. Studies in Weird Fiction 1, No 1 Summer , 3— Find a Grave. Retrieved September 16, Black Gate. Baltimore: The Mirage Press. December 30, Retrieved October 29, Retrieved September 18, There is mention here of Azathoth productions, a filmmaking group within the [Horror Fantasy Society].
Works of Clark Ashton Smith. Averoigne Hyperborea Zothique Poseidonis. Cthulhu Mythos. Cthulhu Mythos deities. Cthulhu Mythos species. LaVeyan Satanism. An Interview with Peter H. Categories : Use mdy dates from December Commons category link from Wikidata Clark Ashton Smith births deaths 20th-century American novelists American fantasy writers American horror writers American male novelists 20th-century American poets American science fiction writers American short story writers Cthulhu Mythos writers Writers from California 20th-century American writers American male poets American male short story writers.
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In , Smith suffered a coronary attack. Aged 61, he married Carol yn Jones Dorman on November 10, Dorman had much experience in Hollywood and radio public relations.
After honeymooning at the Smith cabin, they moved to Pacific Grove, California , where he set up a household including her three children. Carol had been married before. For several years he alternated between the house on Indian Ridge and their house in Pacific Grove. Smith having sold most of his father's tract, in the old house burned — the Smiths believed by arson, others said by accident.
Smith now reluctantly did gardening for other residents at Pacific Grove, and grew a goatee. He spent much time shopping and walking near the seafront but despite Derleth's badgering, resisted the writing of more fiction.
After Smith's death, Carol remarried becoming Carolyn Wakefield and subsequently died of cancer. The poet's ashes were buried beside, or beneath, a boulder to the immediate west of where his childhood home destroyed by fire in stood; some were also scattered in a stand of blue oaks near the boulder. There was no marker. Bookseller Roy A. Squires was appointed Smith's "west coast executor", with Jack L.
Chalker as his "east coast executor". Arkham House owns the copyright to many Smith stories, though some are now in the public domain. For 'posthumous collaborations' of Smith stories completed by Lin Carter , see the entry on Lin Carter. While Smith was always an artist who worked in several very different media, it is possible to identify three distinct periods in which one form of art had precedence over the others.
Smith published most of his volumes of poetry in this period, including the aforementioned The Star-Treader and Other Poems , as well as Odes and Sonnets , Ebony and Crystal and Sandalwood Smith wrote most of his weird fiction and Cthulhu Mythos stories, partially inspired by H.
Creatures of his invention include Aforgomon , Rlim-Shaikorth , Mordiggian , Tsathoggua , the wizard Eibon , and various others. Barlow to an Atlantean high-priest, "Klarkash-Ton". Smith's weird stories form several cycles, called after the lands in which they are set: Averoigne , Hyperborea , Mars , Poseidonis , Zothique.
Stories set in Zothique belong to the Dying Earth subgenre. Amongst Smith's science fiction tales are stories set on Mars and the invented planet of Xiccarph. Many of Smith's stories were published in six hardcover volumes by August Derleth under his Arkham House imprint.
For a full bibliography to , see Sidney-Fryer, Emperor of Dreams cited below. You'll laugh—at that—laugh, laugh! Why is it more wonderful than wireless telegraphy or the disintegration of atoms? Thirty years ago flying was regarded as a miracle. The flask—I want the flask of Life Water! The gold—throw it into the road—let the poor devils take it who want it. I want life—do you understand?
Dick listened, his eyes never leaving his brother's face. And this was to be Leslie Gine's husband. He shivered at the thought. IF the Honourable Richard Fallington Alford had been regarded by the compilers of such volumes as being sufficiently important to have his biography enshrined in a popular work of reference, his life's work, his hobby and his recreation would be described as "looking after the Chelford estate.
He knew Fossaway Manor, its strength and weakness, better than the estate architect—could point out where the foundations were scamped by the Elizabethan builders. He could trace the walls of the old castle which Richard of York had burnt and razed, beheading the fourth earl for his treachery under the great archway, one crumbling pier of which still showed its grey and battered head above the roses that now surrounded it.
He gave to the broad lands of Chelford a loyal and passionate devotion which any mistress might envy. In the chill of an autumnal morning, when mist blanketed the hollows and a pale sun was struggling through thin clouds, he strolled across the park towards the abbey ruins. There was little of them left. A truncated tower wrecked by lightning; a high, arched space where an oriel window had once flamed; mounds of scattered stones left where Cromwell's soldiers had overturned them; and, under the carpet of grass, a "feel" of solid pavement.
He drew at his pipe as he stepped out, and the tobacco smelt sweet and wholesome in the cold air. He was on his way to the home farm, and his errand was a prosaic one. A cow had died in the night, and his cowman had reported symptoms of cattle fever.
The familiar ruins showed up ahead, the half-arch, like a huge question mark, arrested his eye and raised again the well-argued problem of restoration. Some day, when the Chelford ship came home; when that coal vein was proved, or when Harry had a rich wife. A figure was walking amongst the ruins—a woman.
Her back was towards him and she was obviously unaware of his presence. Something about her figure seemed familiar—Dick turned from the path and walked towards her. Evidently she did not hear him, for when he spoke she started, uttered a little scream and turned a frightened face to him. There was no need for him to wonder whether this girl had ever forgiven him for the very painful interview that had preceded her retirement. Recognising him, her eyes blazed with hate.
I thought you would apprehend this. He could admire, in a detached way, her wholesome good looks; could even admire her courage. Her wrathful eyes were fixed on his, the break in her voice betrayed the fury she strove to conceal. As for Dick Alford, he felt a brute. You second sons and hangers-on poisoned his mind against me! You ought to be downright ashamed of yourself, you good-for-nothing penniless pauper! After all them—I mean those hours I've spent with his lordship workin' at the Treasure, an' he told me I was the most helpful secretary he'd ever had—".
The point is, your presence here is a little—indelicate. Seeing her look round over her shoulder as she was talking, he had taken a quick survey of the ruins, expecting to discover that she had a companion. But there was nobody in sight. The ground sloped steeply from where he stood to the little Ravensrill, the broad brook which had for a thousand years marked the boundary of the manor.
Unless somebody was concealed behind the fallen masonry she was alone. What had she been doing in the abbey ruins so early in the morning? He knew that it was useless to ask her. I wish him joy! Everybody knows! You want her money too—the second son's in love with her — that's a nice look-out for Harry Alford! IN all the city of London there was perhaps no office more elegant than that in which Mr Arthur Gine spent his leisurely business hours.
It was a large room, panelled in white wood, with pink-shaded wall brackets of frosted silver. Its floor was covered with a deep rose carpet into which the feet sank as into an old lawn; and such furnishing as the room held was of the most costly description. Visitors and clients who had business with this dainty lawyer were warned not to smoke in his sacred presence. The windows were doubled to keep out the noises of Holborn; there were exterior sun-blinds to exclude the fugitive rays of pale sunlight which occasionally bathed the City; and long velvet curtains, in harmony with the carpet, to shut out the horrid world that roared and palpitated outside Mr Gine's exquisite chamber.
In this room was a faint aroma of roses—he was partial to the more expensive varieties of perfume, and had a standing order with the best of the Grasse houses. He was a fair man with an unblemished skin and a small yellow moustache; a credit to his hosier and shirt-maker. His wasp-waisted morning coat fitted him without the suspicion of a wrinkle; his grey waistcoat, the severe dark trousers with the thinnest of white stripes, the patent shoes, the exact cravat, were all parts of a sartorial symmetry.
Mr Gine seldom appeared in the courts. His head clerk, a grey hard man of fifty, who was generally supposed by Mr Gine's brother solicitors to be the brains of the business, prepared most of the briefs, interviewed the majority of clients, leaving to his employer the most important. On a bright morning in the early days of September, Mr Gine's big Rolls glided noiselessly to the kerb, the youthful footman seated by the side of the driver sprang out and opened the door, and Arthur Gine stepped daintily forth.
There was a small white rose in his buttonhole, and the passer-by who saw him, noting the perfect shine of his silk hat, the glitter of his patent shoes, and the ebony stick that he carried in his gloved hand, thought he was a bridegroom stopping on his way to church. He entered the tiny electric lift and was whisked up to the first floor. A porter opened his door with a little bow and Arthur walked in, followed by the servitor, who took his hat, gloves and cane, and disappeared with them to an inner room.
Mr Gine sat down at his desk, glanced at the letters that had been left opened for his inspection, and pushed them aside. He pressed an onyx bell-push twice, and in a few seconds his hard-faced managing clerk came in, carrying a wad of papers in his hand. I haven't had a chance of speaking to you since I came back from my holidays. Did you lose much at Goodwood? This is going to look ugly if it comes into court. I tell you that will look ugly, and the Law Society will be asking questions.
You'll have to raise money to settle this case out of court. You seem to forget, my dear fellow, that to Chelford I am the brother of a young lady who on her twenty-fifth birthday inherits the greater part of a million pounds. I'm not only the brother, but I am her trustee. Besides which, I am managing his mother's estate. What would he think if I tried? Chelford's a fool, but he's not such a fool as that, and I would remind you that all his business affairs are in the hands of the Second Son.
I don't know whether or not he suspects that I'm a fake, and that Leslie's fortune is a myth, but there have been times when he has asked some deucedly uncomfortable questions. The croupiers of Monte Carlo have raked into their treasury quite a lot of it—various bookmakers I could mention have built handsome villas out of it.
A myth. It wasn't a myth ten years ago. It was two hundred thousand pounds short of a myth? But today—". He is comparatively poor, because that brother of his will sell none of the estates. He has the family obsession — their motto is 'Hold Fast. A clerk came in with some letters to sign at this moment, and, after he was gone: "Does your sister still think she is an heiress? You don't imagine Leslie would lend herself to that kind of ramp, do you? He took a pen from the silver tray before him, dipped it into the ink, and, drawing a sheet of paper towards him, scribbled down the figures.
The only thing to do is to rush the wedding. I could have made twenty thousand profit on that. There's coal in abundance; that I have proved. But the Second Son was on the job, damn him! I'm at my wits' end. Can't you suggest anything? As Gilder was making his way to his own office, a clerk handed him a letter. It was addressed to him personally, in an illiterate hand.
Behind the door of his office bureau he opened the envelope. His lordship is still working on the Treasure. He had an old book sent to him from Germany last Tuesday, written by a German who was in this country hundreds of years ago.
I cannot read the title because of the funny printing, which is like Old English. His lordship has also had a plan sent to him from a London bookseller of Fossaway Manor. Miss Gine came to tea yesterday with his lordship and Mr Alford, and afterwards Miss Gine and his lordship went for a walk in the home park. There is some talk about the Black Abbot having been seen near the old abbey.
He was seen by Thomas Elwin, the half-witted son of Elwin, his lordship's cowman, but nobody takes any notice of this. He has now been seen by Mr Cartwright, the grocer. His lordship has had an offer for his Yorkshire estate, but I heard Mr Alford advise him not to sell, as he was sure there was coal on it. When I was taking tea into the library I heard his lordship say that he wanted the wedding to take place in October, but Miss Gine said she would like it after Christmas.
His lordship said that he didn't mind because he was so busy. I did not hear any more because Mr Alford told me to get out. Miss Wenner, who used to be his lordship's secretary, came down from London yesterday, but Mr Alford has given orders that she is not to be admitted. His lordship did not see her—. Mr Fabrian Gilder's spy reported other minor matters which were less interesting.
He read the letter again, put it in his pocket and was busy at his desk for five minutes. He came back to find his employer leaning over his desk, his head between his hands, and laid a slip of paper before him.
I've put an extra thousand in for luck," said Gilder coolly. Gine read the document quickly. It was a bill, and required only his signature and that of Harry, Earl of Chelford, to make it convertible into solid cash.
Arthur Gine looked up sharply. Was it a coincidence that this excuse should be suggested? There was nothing in the head clerk's face to suggest otherwise. If you go down, my livelihood disappears. He had been out of the room only a few minutes when he came back and, closing the door carefully behind him: "Do you know a Miss Wenner? Do you want to see her? You are getting prettier every time I see you. You've got to be good, Mary. Chelford is going to marry my sister.
And I want like sin to get back on that cold-blooded hound Dick Alford. I've been fired out once for proposing to a man—I'm going to take a second chance. We've been good pals, Arthur. You can marry me and I'll bring you a bigger dowry than your sister will take to Harry Alford.
Two and a half million pounds! Arthur Gine stared at the girl incredulously. But she was making no idle statement, and that she at least believed what she said was clear from her flushed face and shining eyes.
For a second he was speechless. I have found the Chelford treasure, I tell you. He sat down heavily in his chair, his startled eyes still fixed upon hers. He was for the moment inarticulate. Living so long in the same house with Harry Alford has made you as mad as he!
The sight of a black-lettered book makes me ill even now, and the plans of Fossaway Manor that I've studied—well, I don't like to think of them! I've lived with this treasure for three years, Arthur, and there have been times when I could have screamed when it was mentioned.
I got so that I came to like Dick Alford just because he never spoke to me about it. And then one day there came a bundle of plans from London—Harry had a standing order with an old bookseller to send him anything he could find about Chelfordbury or Fossaway Manor.
Harry had gone up to town that morning and I had no other work to do, so I went through these dusty old sheets to index them. And on the third sheet I found something that made me open my eyes.
She opened her handbag and took out a paper, and he watched with fascinated interest. If he expected the secret of the Chelford treasure to be laid before him in writing, he was to be disappointed. In consideration of receiving one-half of the Chelford treasure, I, Arthur Gine, of Willow House, Chelfordbury, Sussex, agree to bind myself to Mary Agnes Wenner in the bonds of holy matrimony within one month of the treasure being found and divided. I'm not in love with you and you're not in love with me.
But I want a home and a position. I may not be a lady, but I am ladylike, and I have lived long enough with swagger people to make no mistakes.
Is it yes or is it no? That it belongs to Lord Chelford, his heirs and his successors? Treasure found hidden after hundreds of years has to be divided between the State and the finder. That is only the case if the owner of the money cannot be found. In the present instance there is no doubt whatever that the treasure would belong to Chelford. The only question is, have you found the treasure? I hadn't time. But I saw the boxes through the grating. The door was locked, and I was so excited that I had to come out and walk around.
And then Dick Alford saw me. Arthur was puzzled. He knew this girl well enough; they had been good friends in the days when she was Chelford's secretary, and she had been a most useful agent of his.
I saw it two days ago," she said, to his surprise, for he had thought she was talking about some experience she had had when she was an inmate of Fossaway Manor. Will you sign that agreement? He looked at the paper again. His training in the law, his natural instincts against putting his name under any document which bound him, urged him to temporise.
I'll take it to Harry, and maybe, if I put him in possession of this gold, he'll do the right thing by me. And, seeing that he made no move, she took up the paper, folded it determinedly and put it in her little satchel. Don't you realise what you're asking me to do? You're proposing an act of sheer robbery and you're asking me to become an accomplice.
After all—" He shrugged his shoulders. I'm not the sort of girl who'd throw herself at any man's head. I'll take it along to Harry and see if his conscience is busy. He took her by the arm and forcibly drew her back. He skimmed it through quickly, making sure that he was under no obligation if the treasure did not materialise, and, picking up a pen, he made a little correction, she watching suspiciously, and signed with a flourish.
Arthur, there are times when I think you're clever! Arthur Gine smiled as he put his arm about her and led her to the window.
Below, thick streams of road traffic were passing east and west. A great lorry was under his eyes; he saw an inscription on its side, "5 tons. And you'll know how clever you are when I've dealt with the last. There's two millions in this. Now tell me, where is this gold?
For a second neither spoke, and then: "Will you see your sister, Mr Gine? She has just arrived. Arthur Gine spun round, an oath on his lips. Gilder had come noiselessly into the room, his inscrutable eyes fixed upon his employer. Not a muscle of his face betrayed whether or not he had overheard the last words.
Though her brother did not maintain a very expensive or elaborate establishment, he lived in a style consonant with the position he held in the county. There were little dinner-parties, an occasional dance, and, in the winter, Arthur, who was a good man to hounds and was ambitious to be master of the local pack, entertained on a lavish scale the more prominent members of the Hunt.
In these amenities Leslie acted as hostess for her brother, and at all times was the real housekeeper of the establishment. For all his extravagance he was a careful and grudging house-master, required that the necessities of life should be bought in the cheapest markets, that the best at the lowest price should be found upon his table.
The resolve to go to town that morning had been born of a sudden impulse. The day was her own and she could do as she liked with it. For some reason the idea of lunching alone did not appeal to her. She had a wild thought of going on to Fossaway Manor, but remembered that Wednesday was a day that Dick Alford gave up entirely to visiting his tenant farmers. She had got beyond the point of finding excuses for herself; she felt a certain recklessness; was conscious that her manner and attitude of mind were defiant.
Against what and whom? With a lift of her pretty shoulders she shrugged the matter out of consideration. All that she knew was that the preoccupation of Dick Alford and the unlikelihood of seeing him made a visit to Fossaway Manor not only undesirable but out of the question.
She would go to town: the decision was taken in an instant, and she went upstairs and dressed hurriedly, whilst the gardener wheeled her little two-seater to the drive before the house.
Five minutes later she was spinning along the straight road towards the railway station. She had plenty of time; indeed there was a certainty that she would arrive at the station at least half an hour before the train left, even if it was punctual. As she entered Fontwell Cutting she thought she saw a familiar form crossing the field towards the road a quarter of a mile away, and her heart jumped for no known reason.
The high walls of the cut road shut out her view, but when she emerged and slid down the steep little hill to the village road, she discovered that she had not been mistaken, and brought her car to a halt as Dick Alford opened a field gate and came out. He greeted her with a wave of his hand and a smile, and, to her consternation, would have passed on had she not called him back. If there is one thing I don't want to see, it is our good farms turned into little residential estates for the City gentry!
I sold Red Farm to Mr Leonard last week, under the impression that the old"—he checked a naughty word—"gentleman wanted to extend his holding, though why on earth he should want to buy Red Farm, which is the poorest land around here, I couldn't guess.Clark Ashton Smith (January 13, – August 14, ) was a self-educated American poet, sculptor, painter and author of flakowalabemununalarmelniggbal.co a poet, Smith is grouped with the West Coast Romantics alongside Ambrose Bierce, Joaquin Miller, Sterling, Nora May French, and remembered as "The Last of the Great Romantics" and "The Bard of Auburn".. Smith was one of "the big three of Weird Tales, along.