The Darts of Cupid: Stories
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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.
can't understand it. And I can't understand you, either." "I know you can't," he said. "You are like a princess—I've said so before—and like a princess you are intolerant and won't make compromises, and if you can't have everything, you want nothing. To me, it's a matter of convenience, what the hell. And the same with her." "Convenience, like your calling me Miss P. because you are lazy?" "Yes," he said. "That's it. I'm kind of lazy." "Yes," I said, "and it's dreadful." "It isn't dreadful,"
their lovers, and I did not meet them at parties, because I had stopped mixing with our officers. About two months after our settling in London, Sergeant Parsons stopped at my table. "I thought you'd like to know, ma'am," he began. "Oh yes," I said listlessly. There was precious little I wanted to know in those days, and the stories concerning a little girl called Eve—"Isn't it strange? Eve, just like you"— had ceased altogether, because my behavior had remained exemplary. He said, "The
the lamps." "We've got electric light," she said. "My grandmother could never afford it. But who is 'we,' anyway? Who's got the place now?" "The place belongs to the workers, of course," she said, "and it's being cared for by the Academy of Arts and Sciences. We've got nothing to do with the estate and the farm in the yard yonder. In the beginning, the farm people cast an eye on the castle, but heaven forbid! They would have used it as a pigsty. I mean it, because they've gone in for pigs
a long line of trees; their boughs, to my astonishment, were reflected in a glistening sheet of water. "In my time," I said, "not even an elephant could have seen himself in the lake. It was so thick with filth it was like pea soup, and we couldn't get the gardeners to get down to it and clean it up. Your curator's obviously frightfully good with servants." "There are no servants," she said. "They are employees of the state." "Like those birds in the Garden Room," I said. "We both mean the same
front of it. "I got up at eight this morning, my usual hour. And I've put in a lot of work on my way," he said. "I had a meeting in the airport in Lugano. Then I went to see a client there. Then I drove across the lake to see another client in Campione. Then I came here." Facing him from so near, with only the table between us, I was overwhelmed by the presence of this young man of less than thirty—who could have been Gordon's younger, stronger, tougher brother. I was in a state akin to