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Lost Horizon
by
James Hilton
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This is
the scarce October 1937 Film Tie-in Edition with (damaged)
dust-jacket |
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Front cover and spine
Further images of this book are
shown below
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Publisher and place of
publication |
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Dimensions in inches (to
the nearest quarter-inch) |
London: Macmillan and Co. Limited
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4½ inches wide x 7 inches tall |
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Edition |
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Length |
October 1937
Printing History: First published 1933
The Cottage Library October 1936
Reprinted April, September and October 1937 |
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281 pages + Publisher’s advertisement |
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Condition of covers |
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Internal condition |
Original blind-stamped red cloth gilt. The
covers are rubbed but still quite bright, though there is some variation in
colour. The spine ends and corners are bumped (particularly the head of the
spine). |
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There is a previous owner's address stamped in
blind on the front and rear blank end-papers. There are no other internal
markings and the text is clean throughout, on tanned paper (particularly in
the margins - please see the images below). |
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Dust-jacket present? |
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Other
comments |
Yes: however, the dust-jacket is scuffed,
rubbed and creased around the edges, with a number of tears, including a
long jagged tear on the bottom edge of the rear panel. There is some minor loss from
the ends of the spine panel and a larger area of loss on the top edge of the
front
panel. The images below give a good indication of the current state of the
dust-jacket. |
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Quite clean internally, though with some
tanning to the paper, in bright covers and with the rare, though damaged
(with some loss) dust-jacket. |
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Illustrations,
maps, etc |
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Contents |
NONE : No illustrations are called
for |
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Prologue, eleven untitled chapters
and Epilogue |
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Post & shipping
information |
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Payment options |
The packed weight is approximately
500 grams.
Full shipping/postage information is
provided in a panel
at the end of this listing.
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Payment options
:-
UK buyers: cheque (in
GBP), debit card, credit card (Visa, MasterCard but
not Amex), PayPal
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International buyers: credit card
(Visa, MasterCard but not Amex), PayPal
Full payment information is provided in a
panel at the end of this listing. |
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Lost Horizon
Prologue
Cigars had burned low, and we were
beginning to sample the disillusionment that usually afflicts old
school friends who have met again as men and found themselves with
less in common than they had believed they had. Rutherford wrote
novels; Wyland was one of the Embassy secretaries; he had just given
us dinner at Tempelhof--not very cheerfully, I fancied, but with the
equanimity which a diplomat must always keep on tap for such
occasions. It seemed likely that nothing but the fact of being three
celibate Englishmen in a foreign capital could have brought us
together, and I had already reached the conclusion that the slight
touch of priggishness which I remembered in Wyland Tertius had not
diminished with years and an M.V.O. Rutherford I liked more; he had
ripened well out of the skinny, precocious infant whom I had once
alternately bullied and patronized. The probability that he was
making much more money and having a more interesting life than
either of us gave Wyland and me our one mutual emotion--a touch of
envy.
The evening, however, was far from dull. We had a good view of the
big Lufthansa machines as they arrived at the aerodrome from all
parts of Central Europe, and towards dusk, when arc flares were
lighted, the scene took on a rich, theatrical brilliance. One of the
planes was English, and its pilot, in full flying kit, strolled past
our table and saluted Wyland, who did not at first recognize him.
When he did so there were introductions all around, and the stranger
was invited to join us. He was a pleasant, jolly youth named
Sanders. Wyland made some apologetic remark about the difficulty of
identifying people when they were all dressed up in Sibleys and
flying helmets; at which Sanders laughed and answered: "Oh, rather,
I know that well enough. Don't forget I was at Baskul." Wyland
laughed also, but less spontaneously, and the conversation then took
other directions.
Sanders made an attractive addition to our small company, and we all
drank a great deal of beer together. About ten o'clock Wyland left
us for a moment to speak to someone at a table nearby, and
Rutherford, into the sudden hiatus of talk, remarked: "Oh, by the
way, you mentioned Baskul just now. I know the place slightly. What
was it you were referring to that happened there?"
Sanders smiled rather shyly. "Oh, just a bit of excitement we had
once when I was in the Service." But he was a youth who could not
long refrain from being confidential. "Fact is, an Afghan or an
Afridi or somebody ran off with one of our buses, and there was the
very devil to pay afterwards, as you can imagine. Most impudent
thing I ever heard of. The blighter waylaid the pilot, knocked him
out, pinched his kit, and climbed into the cockpit without a soul
spotting him. Gave the mechanics the proper signals, too, and was up
and away in fine style. The trouble was, he never came back."
Rutherford looked interested. "When did this happen?"
"Oh--must have been about a year ago. May, 'thirty-one. We were
evacuating civilians from Baskul to Peshawar owing to the
revolution--perhaps you remember the business. The place was in a
bit of an upset, or I don't suppose the thing could have happened.
Still, it did happen--and it goes some way to show that clothes make
the man, doesn't it?"
Rutherford was still interested. "I should have thought you'd have
had more than one fellow in charge of a plane on an occasion like
that?"
"We did, on all the ordinary troop carriers, but this machine was a
special one, built for some maharajah originally--quite a stunt kind
of outfit. The Indian Survey people had been using it for
high-altitude flights in Kashmir."
"And you say it never reached Peshawar?"
"Never reached there, and never came down anywhere else, so far as
we could discover. That was the queer part about it. Of course, if
the fellow was a tribesman he might have made for the hills,
thinking to hold the passengers for ransom. I suppose they all got
killed, somehow. There are heaps of places on the frontier where you
might crash and not be heard of afterwards."
"Yes, I know the sort of country. How many passengers were there?"
"Four, I think. Three men and some woman missionary."
"Was one of the men, by any chance, named Conway?"
Sanders looked surprised. "Why, yes, as a matter of fact. 'Glory'
Conway--did you know him?"
"He and I were at the same school," said Rutherford a little
self-consciously, for it was true enough, yet a remark which he was
aware did not suit him.
"He was a jolly fine chap, by all accounts of what he did at Baskul,"
went on Sanders.
Rutherford nodded. "Yes, undoubtedly . . . but how extraordinary . .
. extraordinary . . ." He appeared to collect himself after a spell
of mind-wandering. Then he said: "It was never in the papers, or I
think I should have read about it. How was that?"
Sanders looked suddenly rather uncomfortable, and even, I imagined,
was on the point of blushing. "To tell you the truth," he replied,
"I seem to have let out more than I should have. Or perhaps it
doesn't matter now--it must be stale news in every mess, let alone
in the bazaars. It was hushed up, you see--I mean, about the way the
thing happened. Wouldn't have sounded well. The government people
merely gave out that one of their machines was missing, and
mentioned the names. Sort of thing that didn't attract an awful lot
of attention among outsiders."
At this point Wyland rejoined us, and Sanders turned to him
half-apologetically. "I say, Wyland, these chaps have been talking
about 'Glory' Conway. I'm afraid I spilled the Baskul yarn--I hope
you don't think it matters?"
Wyland was severely silent for a moment. It was plain that he was
reconciling the claims of compatriot courtesy and official
rectitude. "I can't help feeling," he said at length, "that it's a
pity to make a mere anecdote of it. I always thought you air fellows
were put on your honor not to tell tales out of school." Having thus
snubbed the youth, he turned, rather more graciously, to Rutherford.
"Of course, it's all right in your case, but I'm sure you realize
that it's sometimes necessary for events up on the frontier to be
shrouded in a little mystery."
"On the other hand," replied Rutherford dryly, "one has a curious
itch to know the truth."
"It was never concealed from anyone who had any real reason for
wanting to know it. I was at Peshawar at the time, and I can assure
you of that. Did you know Conway well--since school days, I mean?"
"Just a little at Oxford, and a few chance meetings since. Did you
come across him much?"
"At Angora, when I was stationed there, we met once or twice."
"Did you like him?"
"I thought he was clever, but rather slack."
Rutherford smiled. "He was certainly clever. He had a most exciting
university career--until war broke out. Rowing Blue and a leading
light at the Union and prizeman for this, that, and the other--also
I reckon him the best amateur pianist I ever heard. Amazingly
many-sided fellow, the kind, one feels, that Jowett would have
tipped for a future premier. Yet, in point of fact, one never heard
much about him after those Oxford days. Of course the war cut into
his career. He was very young and I gather he went through most of
it."
"He was blown up or something," responded Wyland, "but nothing very
serious. Didn't do at all badly, got a D.S.O. in France. Then I
believe he went back to Oxford for a spell as a sort of don. I know
he went east in 'twenty-one. His Oriental languages got him the job
without any of the usual preliminaries. He had several posts."
Rutherford smiled more broadly. "Then of course, that accounts for
everything. History will never disclose the amount of sheer
brilliance wasted in the routine decoding F.O. chits and handing
round tea at legation bun fights."
"He was in the Consular Service, not the Diplomatic," said Wyland
loftily. It was evident that he did not care for the chaff, and he
made no protest when, after a little more badinage of a similar
kind, Rutherford rose to go. In any case it was getting late, and I
said I would go, too. Wyland's attitude as we made our farewells was
still one of official propriety suffering in silence, but Sanders
was very cordial and he said he hoped to meet us again sometime.
I was catching a transcontinental train at a very dismal hour of the
early morning, and, as we waited for a taxi, Rutherford asked me if
I would care to spend the interval at his hotel. He had a sitting
room, he said, and we could talk. I said it would suit me
excellently, and he answered: "Good. We can talk about Conway, if
you like, unless you're completely bored with his affairs."
I said that I wasn't at all, though I had scarcely known him. "He
left at the end of my first term, and I never met him afterwards.
But he was extraordinarily kind to me on one occasion. I was a new
boy and there was no earthly reason why he should have done what he
did. It was only a trivial thing, but I've always remembered it."
Rutherford assented. "Yes, I liked him a good deal too, though I
also saw surprisingly little of him, if you measure it in time."
And then there was a somewhat odd silence, during which it was
evident that we were both thinking of someone who had mattered to us
far more than might have been judged from such casual contacts. I
have often found since then that others who met Conway, even quite
formally and for a moment, remembered him afterwards with great
vividness. He was certainly remarkable as a youth, and to me, who
had known him at the hero-worshipping age, his memory is still quite
romantically distinct. He was tall and extremely good-looking, and
not only excelled at games but walked off with every conceivable
kind of school prize. A rather sentimental headmaster once referred
to his exploits as "glorious," and from that arose his nickname.
Perhaps only he could have survived it. He gave a Speech Day oration
in Greek, I recollect, and was outstandingly first-rate in school
theatricals. There was something rather Elizabethan about him--his
casual versatility, his good looks, that effervescent combination of
mental with physical activities. Something a bit Philip-Sidney-ish.
Our civilization doesn't often breed people like that nowadays. I
made a remark of this kind to Rutherford, and he replied: "Yes,
that's true, and we have a special word of disparagement for
them--we call them dilettanti. I suppose some people must have
called Conway that, people like Wyland, for instance. I don't much
care for Wyland. I can't stand his type--all that primness and
mountainous self-importance. And the complete head-prefectorial
mind, did you notice it? Little phrases about 'putting people on
their honor' and 'telling tales out of school'--as though the bally
Empire were the fifth form at St. Dominic's! But, then, I always
fall foul of these sahib diplomats."
We drove a few blocks in silence, and then he continued: "Still, I
wouldn't have missed this evening. It was a peculiar experience for
me, hearing Sanders tell that story about the affair at Baskul. You
see, I'd heard it before, and hadn't properly believed it. It was
part of a much more fantastic story, which I saw no reason to
believe at all, or well, only one very slight reason, anyway. Now
there are two very slight reasons. I daresay you can guess that I'm
not a particularly gullible person. I've spent a good deal of my
life traveling about, and I know there are queer things in the
world--if you see them yourself, that is, but not so often if you
hear of them secondhand. And yet . . ."
He seemed suddenly to realize that what he was saying could not mean
very much to me, and broke off with a laugh. "Well, there's one
thing certain--I'm not likely to take Wyland into my confidence. It
would be like trying to sell an epic poem to Tit-Bits. I'd rather
try my luck with you."
"Perhaps you flatter me," I suggested.
"Your book doesn't lead me to think so."
I had not mentioned my authorship of that rather technical work
(after all, a neurologist's is not everybody's "shop"), and I was
agreeably surprised that Rutherford had even heard of it. I said as
much, and he answered: "Well, you see, I was interested, because
amnesia was Conway's trouble at one time."
We had reached the hotel and he had to get his key at the bureau. As
we went up to the fifth floor he said: "All this is mere beating
about the bush. The fact is, Conway isn't dead. At least he wasn't a
few months ago."
This seemed beyond comment in the narrow space and time of an
elevator ascent. In the corridor a few seconds later I responded:
"Are you sure of that? How do you know?"
And he answered, unlocking his door: "Because I traveled with him
from Shanghai to Honolulu in a Jap liner last November." He did not
speak again till we were settled in armchairs and had fixed
ourselves with drinks and cigars. "You see, I was in China in the
autumn on a holiday. I'm always wandering about. I hadn't seen
Conway for years. We never corresponded, and I can't say he was
often in my thoughts, though his was one of the few faces that have
always come to me quite effortlessly if I tried to picture it. I had
been visiting a friend in Hankow and was returning by the Pekin
express. On the train I chanced to get into conversation with a very
charming Mother Superior of some French sisters of charity. She was
traveling to Chung-Kiang, where her convent was, and, because I knew
a little French, she seemed to enjoy chattering to me about her work
and affairs in general. As a matter of fact, I haven't much sympathy
with ordinary missionary enterprise, but I'm prepared to admit, as
many people are nowadays, that the Romans stand in a class by
themselves, since at least they work hard and don't pose as
commissioned officers in a world full of other ranks. Still, that's
by the by. The point is that this lady, talking to me about the
mission hospital at Chung-Kiang, mentioned a fever case that had
been brought in some weeks back, a man who they thought must be a
European, though he could give no account of himself and had no
papers. His clothes were native, and of the poorest kind, and when
taken in by the nuns he had been very ill indeed. He spoke fluent
Chinese, as well as pretty good French, and my train companion
assured me that before he realized the nationality of the nuns, he
had also addressed them in English with a refined accent. I said I
couldn't imagine such a phenomenon, and chaffed her gently about
being able to detect a refined accent in a language she didn't know.
We joked about these and other matters, and it ended by her inviting
me to visit the mission if ever I happened to be thereabouts. This,
of course, seemed then as unlikely as that I should climb Everest,
and when the train reached Chung-Kiang I shook hands with genuine
regret that our chance contact had come to an end. As it happened,
though, I was back in Chung-Kiang within a few hours. The train
broke down a mile or two further on, and with much difficulty pushed
us back to the station, where we learned that a relief engine could
not possibly arrive for twelve hours. That's the sort of thing that
often happens on Chinese railways. So there was half a day to be
lived through in Chung-Kiang--which made me decide to take the good
lady at her word and call at the mission.
"I did so, and received a cordial, though naturally a somewhat
astonished, welcome. I suppose one of the hardest things for a
non-Catholic to realize is how easily a Catholic can combine
official rigidity with non-official broad-mindedness. Is that too
complicated? Anyhow, never mind, those mission people made quite
delightful company. Before I'd been there an hour I found that a
meal had been prepared, and a young Chinese Christian doctor sat
down with me to it and kept up a conversation in a jolly mixture of
French and English. Afterwards, he and the Mother Superior took me
to see the hospital, of which they were very proud. I had told them
I was a writer, and they were simpleminded enough to be aflutter at
the thought that I might put them all into a book. We walked past
the beds while the doctor explained the cases. The place was
spotlessly clean and looked to be very competently run. I had
forgotten all about the mysterious patient with the refined English
accent till the Mother Superior reminded me that we were just coming
to him. All I could see was the back of the man's head; he was
apparently asleep. It was suggested that I should address him in
English, so I said 'Good afternoon,' which was the first and not
very original thing I could think of. The man looked up suddenly and
said 'Good afternoon' in answer. It was true; his accent was
educated. But I hadn't time to be surprised at that, for I had
already recognized him, despite his beard and altogether changed
appearance and the fact that we hadn't met for so long. He was
Conway. I was certain he was, and yet, if I'd paused to think about
it, I might well have come to the conclusion that he couldn't
possibly be. Fortunately I acted on the impulse of the moment. I
called out his name and my own, and though he looked at me without
any definite sign of recognition, I was positive I hadn't made any
mistake. There was an odd little twitching of the facial muscles
that I had noticed in him before, and he had the same eyes that at
Balliol we used to say were so much more of a Cambridge blue than an
Oxford. But besides all that, he was a man one simply didn't make
mistakes about--to see him once was to know him always. Of course
the doctor and the Mother Superior were greatly excited. I told them
that I knew the man, that he was English, and a friend of mine, and
that if he didn't recognize me, it could only be because he had
completely lost his memory. They agreed, in a rather amazed way, and
we had a long consultation about the case. They weren't able to make
any suggestions as to how Conway could possibly have arrived at
Chung-Kiang in his condition.
"To make the story brief, I stayed there over a fortnight, hoping
that somehow or other I might induce him to remember things. I
didn't succeed, but he regained his physical health, and we talked a
good deal. When I told him quite frankly who I was and who he was,
he was docile enough not to argue about it. He was quite cheerful,
even, in a vague sort of way, and seemed glad enough to have my
company. To my suggestion that I should take him home, he simply
said that he didn't mind. It was a little unnerving, that apparent
lack of any personal desire. As soon as I could I arranged for our
departure. I made a confidant of an acquaintance in the consular
office at Hankow, and thus the necessary passport and so on were
made out without the fuss there might otherwise have been. Indeed,
it seemed to me that for Conway's sake the whole business had better
be kept free from publicity and newspaper headlines, and I'm glad to
say I succeeded in that. It could have been jam, of course, for the
press.
"Well, we made our exit from China in quite a normal way. We sailed
down the Yangtze to Nanking, and then took a train for Shanghai.
There was a Jap liner leaving for 'Frisco that same night, so we
made a great rush and got on board."
"You did a tremendous lot for him," I said.
Rutherford did not deny it. "I don't think I should have done quite
as much for anyone else," he answered. "But there was something
about the fellow, and always had been--it's hard to explain, but it
made one enjoy doing what one could."
"Yes," I agreed. "He had a peculiar charm, a sort of winsomeness
that's pleasant to remember even now when I picture it, though, of
course, I think of him still as a schoolboy in cricket flannels."
"A pity you didn't know him at Oxford. He was just
brilliant--there's no other word. After the war people said he was
different. I, myself, think he was. But I can't help feeling that
with all his gifts he ought to have been doing bigger work. All that
Britannic Majesty stuff isn't my idea of a great man's career. And
Conway was--or should have been--great. You and I have both known
him, and I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it's an
experience we shan't ever forget. And even when he and I met in the
middle of China, with his mind a blank and his past a mystery, there
was still that queer core of attractiveness in him."
Rutherford paused reminiscently and then continued: "As you can
imagine, we renewed our old friendship on the ship. I told him as
much as I knew about himself, and he listened with an attention that
might almost have seemed a little absurd. He remembered everything
quite clearly since his arrival at Chung-Kiang, and another point
that may interest you is that he hadn't forgotten languages. He told
me, for instance, that he knew he must have had something to do with
India, because he could speak Hindostani.
"At Yokohama the ship filled up, and among the new passengers was
Sieveking, the pianist, en route for a concert tour in the States.
He was at our dining table and sometimes talked with Conway in
German. That will show you how outwardly normal Conway was. Apart
from his loss of memory, which didn't show in ordinary intercourse,
there couldn't have seemed much wrong with him.
"A few nights after leaving Japan, Sieveking was prevailed upon to
give a piano recital on board, and Conway and I went to hear him. He
played well, of course, some Brahms and Scarlatti, and a lot of
Chopin. Once or twice I glanced at Conway and judged that he was
enjoying it all, which appeared very natural, in view of his own
musical past. At the end of the program the show lengthened out into
an informal series of encores which Sieveking bestowed, very
amiably, I thought, upon a few enthusiasts grouped round the piano.
Again he played mostly Chopin; he rather specializes in it, you
know. At last he left the piano and moved towards the door, still
followed by admirers, but evidently feeling that he had done enough
for them. In the meantime a rather odd thing was beginning to
happen. Conway had sat down at the keyboard and was playing some
rapid, lively piece that I didn't recognize, but which drew
Sieveking back in great excitement to ask what it was. Conway, after
a long and rather strange silence, could only reply that he didn't
know. Sieveking exclaimed that it was incredible, and grew more
excited still. Conway then made what appeared to be a tremendous
physical and mental effort to remember, and said at last that the
thing was a Chopin study. I didn't think myself it could be, and I
wasn't surprised when Sieveking denied it absolutely. Conway,
however, grew suddenly quite indignant about the matter--which
startled me, because up to then he had shown so little emotion about
anything. 'My dear fellow,' Sieveking remonstrated, 'I know
everything of Chopin's that exists, and I can assure you that he
never wrote what you have just played. He might well have done so,
because it's utterly his style, but he just didn't. I challenge you
to show me the score in any of the editions.' To which Conway
replied at length: 'Oh, yes, I remember now, it was never printed. I
only know it myself from meeting a man who used to be one of
Chopin's pupils. . . . Here's another unpublished thing I learned
from him.'"
Rutherford studied me with his eyes as he went on: "I don't know if
you're a musician, but even if you're not, I daresay you'll be able
to imagine something of Sieveking's excitement, and mine, too, as
Conway continued to play. To me, of course, it was a sudden and
quite mystifying glimpse into his past, the first clew of any kind
that had escaped. Sieveking was naturally engrossed in the musical
problem, which was perplexing enough, as you'll realize when I
remind you that Chopin died in 1849.
"The whole incident was so unfathomable, in a sense, that perhaps I
should add that there were at least a dozen witnesses of it,
including a California university professor of some repute. Of
course, it was easy to say that Conway's explanation was
chronologically impossible, or almost so; but there was still the
music itself to be explained. If it wasn't what Conway said it was,
then what was it? Sieveking assured me that if those two pieces were
published, they would be in every virtuoso's repertoire within six
months. Even if this is an exaggeration, it shows Sieveking's
opinion of them. After much argument at the time, we weren't able to
settle anything, for Conway stuck to his story, and as he was
beginning to look fatigued, I was anxious to get him away from the
crowd and off to bed. The last episode was about making some
phonograph records. Sieveking said he would fix up all arrangements
as soon as he reached America, and Conway gave his promise to play
before the microphone. I often feel it was a great pity, from every
point of view, that he wasn't able to keep his word."
Rutherford glanced at his watch and impressed on me that I should
have plenty of time to catch my train, since his story was
practically finished. "Because that night--the night after the
recital--he got back his memory. We had both gone to bed and I was
lying awake, when he came into my cabin and told me. His face had
stiffened into what I can only describe as an expression of
overwhelming sadness--a sort of universal sadness, if you know what
I mean--something remote or impersonal, a Wehmut or Weltschmerz, or
whatever the Germans call it. He said he could call to mind
everything, that it had begun to come back to him during Sieveking's
playing, though only in patches at first. He sat for a long while on
the edge of my bed, and I let him take his own time and make his own
method of telling me. I said that I was glad his memory had
returned, but sorry if he already wished that it hadn't. He looked
up then and paid me what I shall always regard as a marvelously high
compliment. 'Thank God, Rutherford,' he said, 'you are capable of
imagining things.' After a while I dressed and persuaded him to do
the same, and we walked up and down the boat deck. It was a calm
night, starry and very warm, and the sea had a pale, sticky look,
like condensed milk. Except for the vibration of the engines, we
might have been pacing an esplanade. I let Conway go on in his own
way, without questions at first. Somewhere about dawn he began to
talk consecutively, and it was breakfast-time and hot sunshine when
he had finished. When I say 'finished' I don't mean that there was
nothing more to tell me after that first confession. He filled in a
good many important gaps during the next twenty-four hours. He was
very unhappy, and couldn't have slept, so we talked almost
constantly. About the middle of the following night the ship was due
to reach Honolulu. We had drinks in my cabin the evening before; he
left me about ten o'clock, and I never saw him again."
"You don't mean--" I had a picture in mind of a very calm,
deliberate suicide I once saw on the mail boat from Holyhead to
Kingstown.
Rutherford laughed. "Oh, Lord, no--he wasn't that sort. He just gave
me the slip. It was easy enough to get ashore, but he must have
found it hard to avoid being traced when I set people searching for
him, as of course I did. Afterwards I learned that he'd managed to
join the crew of a banana boat going south to Fiji."
"How did you get to know that?"
"Quite straightforwardly. He wrote to me, three months later, from
Bangkok, enclosing a draft to pay the expenses I'd been put to on
his account. He thanked me and said he was very fit. He also said he
was about to set out on a long journey--to the northwest. That was
all."
"Where did he mean?"
"Yes, it's pretty vague, isn't it? A good many places lie to the
northwest of Bangkok. Even Berlin does, for that matter."
Rutherford paused and filled up my glass and his own. It had been a
queer story--or else he had made it seem so; I hardly knew which.
The music part of it, though puzzling, did not interest me so much
as the mystery of Conway's arrival at that Chinese mission hospital;
and I made this comment. Rutherford answered that in point of fact
they were both parts of the same problem. "Well, how did he get to
Chung-Kiang?" I asked. "I suppose he told you all about it that
night on the ship?"
"He told me something about it, and it would be absurd for me, after
letting you know so much, to be secretive about the rest. Only, to
begin with, it's a longish sort of tale, and there wouldn't be time
even to outline it before you'd have to be off for your train. And
besides, as it happens, there's a more convenient way. I'm a little
diffident about revealing the tricks of my dishonorable calling, but
the truth is, Conway's story, as I pondered over it afterwards,
appealed to me enormously. I had begun by making simple notes after
our various conversations on the ship, so that I shouldn't forget
details; later, as certain aspects of the thing began to grip me, I
had the urge to do more, to fashion the written and recollected
fragments into a single narrative. By that I don't mean that I
invented or altered anything. There was quite enough material in
what he told me: he was a fluent talker and had a natural gift for
communicating an atmosphere. Also, I suppose, I felt I was beginning
to understand the man himself." He went to an attaché case, and took
out a bundle of typed manuscript. "Well, here it is, anyhow, and you
can make what you like of it."
"By which I suppose you mean that I'm not expected to believe it?"
"Oh, hardly so definite a warning as that. But mind, if you do
believe, it will be for Tertullian's famous reason--you remember?
quia impossibile est. Not a bad argument, maybe. Let me know what
you think, at all events."
I took the manuscript away with me and read most of it on the Ostend
express. I intended returning it with a long letter when I reached
England, but there were delays, and before I could post it I got a
short note from Rutherford to say that he was off on his wanderings
again and would have no settled address for some months. He was
going to Kashmir, he wrote, and thence "east." I was not surprised.
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Lost Horizon
From the dust-jacket:
This brilliant and highly
popular story was awarded the Hawthornden Prize in 1934, and
the dramatised version ol it has several times been
broadcast. Lost Horizon has now been made the subject of a
clever and magnificently staged film, in which Ronald Colman
and Jane Wyatt play the leading parts.
The novel deals with a mysterious aeroplane journey to
Tibet, and the weird and fantastic adventures there of its
kidnapped passengers, " Glory " Conway and his companions.
THE STORY OF THE FILM
"I READ LOST HORIZON when it
was first published and immediately I wanted to do it. I saw
in the book one of the most important pieces of literature
in the last decade. The story had bigness. It held a mirror
up to the thoughts of every human being on earth. It held
something of greatness. Any story that reaches into the
hearts and minds of all humanity is a story that can be put
on the screen successfully as good entertainment" [Frank
Capra]
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Please note: to avoid opening the book out, with the
risk of damaging the spine, some of the pages were slightly raised on the
inner edge when being scanned, which has resulted in some blurring to the
text and a
shadow on the inside edge of the final images. Colour reproduction is shown
as accurately as possible but please be aware that some colours
are difficult to scan and may result in a slight variation from
the colour shown below to the actual colour.
In line with eBay guidelines on picture sizes, some of the illustrations may
be shown enlarged for greater detail and clarity.
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U.K. buyers:
To estimate the
“packed
weight” each book is first weighed and then
an additional amount of 150 grams is added to allow for the packaging
material (all
books are securely wrapped and posted in a cardboard book-mailer).
The weight of the book and packaging is then rounded up to the
nearest hundred grams to arrive at the postage figure. I make no charge for packaging materials and
do not seek to profit
from postage and packaging. Postage can be combined for multiple purchases. |
Packed weight of this item : approximately 500 grams
Postage and payment options to U.K. addresses: |
-
Details of the various postage options can be obtained by selecting
the “Postage and payments” option at the head of this
listing (above). -
Payment can be made by: debit card, credit
card (Visa or MasterCard, but not Amex), cheque (payable to
"G Miller", please), or PayPal. -
Please contact me with name,
address and payment details within seven days of the end of the auction;
otherwise I reserve the right to cancel the auction and re-list the item. -
Finally, this should be an
enjoyable experience for both the buyer and seller and I hope
you will find me very easy to deal with. If you have a question
or query about any aspect (postage, payment, delivery options
and so on), please do not hesitate to contact me.
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International
buyers:
To estimate the
“packed
weight” each book is first weighed and then
an additional amount of 150 grams is added to allow for the packaging
material (all
books are securely wrapped and posted in a cardboard book-mailer).
The weight of the book and packaging is then rounded up to the
nearest hundred grams to arrive at the shipping figure.
I make no charge for packaging materials and do not
seek to profit
from shipping and handling.
Shipping can
usually be combined for multiple purchases
(to a
maximum
of 5 kilograms in any one parcel with the exception of Canada, where
the limit is 2 kilograms). |
Packed weight of this item : approximately 500 grams
International Shipping options: |
Details of the postage options
to various countries (via Air Mail) can be obtained by selecting
the “Postage and payments” option at the head of this listing
(above) and then selecting your country of residence from the drop-down
list. For destinations not shown or other requirements, please contact me before buying.
Due to the
extreme length of time now taken for deliveries, surface mail is no longer
a viable option and I am unable to offer it even in the case of heavy items.
I am afraid that I cannot make any exceptions to this rule.
Payment options for international buyers: |
-
Payment can be made by: credit card (Visa
or MasterCard, but not Amex) or PayPal. I can also accept a cheque in GBP [British
Pounds Sterling] but only if drawn on a major British bank. -
Regretfully, due to extremely
high conversion charges, I CANNOT accept foreign currency : all payments
must be made in GBP [British Pounds Sterling]. This can be accomplished easily
using a credit card, which I am able to accept as I have a separate,
well-established business, or PayPal. -
Please contact me with your name and address and payment details within
seven days of the end of the auction; otherwise I reserve the right to
cancel the auction and re-list the item. -
Finally, this should be an enjoyable experience for
both the buyer and seller and I hope you will find me very easy to deal
with. If you have a question or query about any aspect (shipping,
payment, delivery options and so on), please do not hesitate to contact
me.
Prospective international
buyers should ensure that they are able to provide credit card details or
pay by PayPal within 7 days from the end of the auction (or inform me that
they will be sending a cheque in GBP drawn on a major British bank). Thank you.
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(please note that the
book shown is for illustrative purposes only and forms no part of this
auction)
Book dimensions are given in
inches, to the nearest quarter-inch, in the format width x height.
Please
note that, to differentiate them from soft-covers and paperbacks, modern
hardbacks are still invariably described as being ‘cloth’ when they are, in
fact, predominantly bound in paper-covered boards pressed to resemble cloth. |
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Fine Books for Fine Minds |
I value your custom (and my
feedback rating) but I am also a bibliophile : I want books to arrive in the
same condition in which they were dispatched. For this reason, all books are
securely wrapped in tissue and a protective covering and are
then posted in a cardboard container. If any book is
significantly not as
described, I will offer a full refund. Unless the
size of the book precludes this, hardback books with a dust-jacket are
usually provided with a clear film protective cover, while
hardback books without a dust-jacket are usually provided with a rigid clear cover.
The Royal Mail, in my experience, offers an excellent service, but things
can occasionally go wrong.
However, I believe it is my responsibility to guarantee delivery.
If any book is lost or damaged in transit, I will offer a full refund.
Thank you for looking.
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Please also
view my other listings for
a range of interesting books
and feel free to contact me if you require any additional information
Design and content © Geoffrey Miller |
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