The Judas Tree

Начало книги

The autumn morning was so brilliant that Moray, judiciously consulting the rheostat thermometer outside his window, decided to breakfast on the balcony of his bedroom. He had slept well: for an ex-insomniac six hours was a reassuring performance: the sun shone warm through his Grieder silk robe, and Arturo had, as usual, prepared his tray to perfection. He poured his Toscanini coffee—kept hot in a silver Thermos—anointed a fresh croissant with mountain honey, and let his eye wander, with all the rich, possessive pleasure of a discoverer. God, what beauty! On the one hand, the Riesenberg, rising to the blue sky with heaven-designed symmetry above green, green grasslands lightly peppered with little ancient red-roofed peasant chalets; on the other, the gentle slopes of Eschenbrück, orchards of pear, apricot and cherry; in front, to the south, a distant ridge of snowy Alp and beneath, ah yes, beneath the plateau of his property lay the Schwansee, beloved lake of so many, many moods, sudden, wild and wonderful, but now glimmering in peace, veiled by the faintest skein of mist, through which a little white boat stole silently, like . . . well, like a swan, he decided poetically.

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