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While it dragged for me a bit in the second act, there's no doubt that this is a true classic. While set in Edwardian Australia, the book also reads like an Edwardian novel. It's like E.M. Forster by way of Lovecraft. ( )
Febrero de 1900. Un grupo de alumnas del selecto colegio Appleyard para señoritas se dispone a celebrar un picnic el día de San Valentín. Lo que empieza siendo una inocente comida campestre se torna en tragedia cuando tres niñas y una profesora desaparecen misteriosamente entre los recovecos de Hanging Rock, un imponente conjunto de rocas rodeado de la salvaje y asfixiante vegetación australiana. La única chica que logra regresar, presa de la histeria, no recuerda nada de lo sucedido.
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Everyone agreed that the day was just right for the picnic to Hanging Rock—a shimmering summer morning warm and still, with cicadas shrilling all through breakfast from the loquat trees outside the dining room windows and bees murmuring above the pansies bordering the drive.
Citat
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Miranda!
As always, in matters of surpassing human interest, those who knew nothing whatever either at first or even second hand were the most emphatic in expressing their opinions; which are well known to have a way of turning into established facts overnight.
Hatless and trembling with suppressed fury Reg stood alone in the hall. Here, in an agony of frustrated oratory and punctured self-esteem, he was obliged to pass the time as best he could, on a high-backed mahogany chair, devising ways and means of retrieving his hat from the study without loss of face.
She sat staring at the heavy curtains that shut out the gentle twilit garden, thinking how few things in life were unmuddled, firmly outlined as they were surely intended to be? One could organize, direct, plan each hour in advance and still the muddle persisted. Nothing in life was really watertight, nothing secret, nothing secure.
At every step the prospect ahead grew more enchanting with added detail of crenellated crags and lichen-patterned stone. Now a mountain laurel glossy above the dogwood's dusty silver leaves, now a dark slit between two rocks where maidenhair fern trembled like green lace. 'Well, at least let us see what it looks like over this first little rise,' said Irma, gathering up her voluminous skirts. 'Whoever invented female fashions for nineteen hundred should be made to walk through bracken fern in three layers of petticoats.' The bracken soon gave way to a belt of dense scratchy scrub ending in a waist-high shelf of rock. Miranda was first out of the scrub and kneeling on the rock to pull up the others with the expert assurance that Ben Hussey had admired this morning when she opened the gate.
Avslutande ord
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Thus the College Mystery, like that of the celebrated case of the Marie Celeste, seems likely to remain forever unsolved.