Ιστορίες αλλόκοτες

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 68

ήθελα να πείσω τον
εαÏ
τόν μοÏ
ότι ο θόρÏ
βος δεν Ï
πήρχεν εις τα αÏ
τιά μοÏ
. Είμαι
βέβαιος ότι έγεινα τότε πολύ ωχρός. Έγεινα εÏ
γλωττότερος και
εσήκωσα την φωνήν μοÏ
. Αλλ' ο ψίθÏ
ρος ηύξανε, και τι ημπορούσα να
κάμω;

Ήτο ψίθÏ
ρος Ï
πόκωφος, σβÏ
σμένος, ταχύς, πραγματικός, όπως ο ήχος
ενός ωρολογίοÏ
σκεπασμένοÏ
με βάμβακα. Ελαχάνιαζα και εν τούτοις
οι αξιωματικοί της αστÏ
νομίας δεν εφαίνοντο ότι ήκοÏ
ον τίποτε.
ΕφλÏ
άρησα με περισσοτέραν εÏ
κινησίαν και τόλμην. Αλλ' ο θόρÏ
βος
δεν έπαÏ
εν από τοÏ
ν' αÏ
ξάνεται. Εσηκώθηκα, ωμιλούσα με μεγάλην
φωνήν και με σχήματα βίαια, αλλ' ο θόρÏ
βος δεν έπαÏ
ε ν' αÏ
ξάνεται.
Πώς σÏ
νέβαινε να μη θέλοÏ
ν να φύγοÏ
ν! Διέτρεξα το παρκέ καθ' όλας
τας διεÏ
θύνσεις, με βήματα αργά και πλατειά, προσποιούμενος ότι
εταράχθην Ï
περβολικά από τας αντιλογίας αÏ
τών των ανθρώπων. Αλλ' ο
θόρÏ
βος δεν έπαÏ
εν από τοÏ
ν' αÏ
ξάνεται. Ω! Θεέ μοÏ
, τι πρέπει να
γείνη; Αφρίζων, παραλογιζόμενος, καταρώμενος έσεισα το κάθισμα,
ποÏ
εκαθήμην επάνω προηγοÏ
μένως, και το ετσάκισα επάνω εις το
πάτωμα. Αλλ' ο θόρÏ
βος εσηκώνετο πάντοτε, ο θόρÏ
βος δεν έπαÏ
σε ν'
αÏ
ξάνη. Έγεινεν ισχÏ
ρότερος, ισχÏ
ρότερος, &ακόμη ισχÏ
ρότερος&. Και
αÏ
τοί οι άνθρωποι, ποÏ
εξηκολούθοÏ
ν να φλÏ
αρούν, ν' αστειεύωνται
και να γελούν, πώς δεν ήτο δÏ
νατόν ν' ακούοÏ
ν; Θεέ μοÏ

παντοδύναμε! Αλλ' όχι, όχι, ήκοÏ
ον το παν, Ï
πωψιάζοντο το παν,
εγνώριζαν το παν, ενόοÏ
ν τον τρόμον μοÏ
. Τέτοια ήτο η σκέψις μοÏ
,
τέτοια εξακολοÏ
θεί να είναι αιωνίως. Αλλά δεν ξέρω διατί ήτο
προτιμοτέρα από την αγωνίαν αÏ
τήν. Ήτο περισσότερον Ï
ποφερτή από
το σκώμμα αÏ
τό! Δεν ήτο δÏ
νατόν να Ï
ποφέρω επί μακρότερον την
Ï
ποκρισίαν των γελοίων αÏ
τών. Ενόησα ότι έπρεπε να φωνάξω ή ν'
αποθάνω . . . και ιδού, ακόμη, ακούσατε! δÏ
νατώτερα! δÏ
νατώτερα,
δÏ
νατώτερα! ακόμη δÏ
νατώτερα!

«Κακούργοι, εφώναξα, δεν αξίζει πλέον τον κόπον ν' αποκρύψω
τίποτε. Το αναγνωρίζω, εγώ έκαμα το έγκλημα! — Σηκώσατε τας
σανίδας αÏ
τάς, εδώ κτÏ
πά η βδελÏ
ρά καρδιά τοÏ
! »



Ζωντανός στον τάφο



Είναι μερικά πρόσωπα και πράγματα τα οποία κινούν το σποÏ
δαιότερον
ενδιαφέρον, αλλ' είναι τόσον φρικτά, ώστε και αÏ
τά τα έργα της
φαντασίας δεν δύνανται εÏ
πρεπώς να τα χρησιμοποιήσοÏ
ν. Τα πρόσωπα
αÏ
τά μερικοί μÏ
θιστοριογράφοι αποφασίζοÏ
ν να τα αποφεύγοÏ
ν, εφ'
όσον δεν θέλοÏ
ν να εκτεθούν εις δÏ
σαρεσκείας, ή να προκαλέσοÏ
ν την
αηδίαν . . . Δεν σÏ
μφέρει ν' απασχοληθή τις με τα τοιαύτα πρόσωπα
ειμή όταν επιβεβαιούνται και σχετίζονται με το αÏ
στηρόν μεγαλείον
τοÏ
αληθούς. Κατ' αÏ
τόν τον τρόπον δοκιμάζομεν με τρόμον την
μεγαλÏ
τέραν «από τας θλιβεράς ηδονάς» από τας διηγήσεις τοÏ

ταξιδίοÏ
τοÏ
Δε λα Βερεβίνχ, ή των σεισμών της Λισσαβώνος, ή τοÏ

λοιμού τοÏ
ΛονδίνοÏ
, ή των σφαγών τοÏ
ΑγίοÏ
ΒαρθολομαίοÏ
, ή τοÏ

θανάτοÏ
των ογδοήκοντα τριών δεσμωτών εις την μαύρην φÏ
λακήν της
Καλκούττας. Και απλώς, όταν τα φαντάζεται κανείς, δεν δοκιμάζει
άλλο τι από την αγανάκτησιν.

ΕμνημόνεÏ
σα εδώ μερικάς από τας θρασÏ
τέρας και τρομερωτέρας
καταστροφάς

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Text Comparison with The Bells, and Other Poems

Page 2
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows: Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- Of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-- In the clamour and the clangour of the bells! IV.
Page 3
And the people--ah, the people-- They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone-- They are neither man nor woman-- They are neither brute nor human-- They are Ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells-- Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells-- To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To.
Page 5
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
Page 6
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more.
Page 7
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-- Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.
Page 8
" "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore.
Page 12
[Illustration: The Haunted Palace] But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate.
Page 13
The waves have now a redder glow-- The hours are breathing faint and low-- And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.
Page 15
" Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, And tempted her out of her gloom-- And conquered her scruples and gloom; And we passed to the end of the vista, .
Page 20
erst it sham'd All other loveliness:--its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven.
Page 22
Within the centre of that hall to breathe, She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath, The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.
Page 23
gushing music as they fell In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell; Yet silence came upon material things-- Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings-- And sound alone that from the spirit sprang Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang: "'Neath the blue-bell or streamer-- Or tufted wild spray That keeps, from the dreamer, The moonbeam away-- Bright beings! that ponder, With half closing eyes, On the stars which your wonder Hath drawn from the skies, Till they glance thro' the shade, and Come down to your brow Like----eyes of the maiden Who calls on you now-- Arise! from your dreaming In violet bowers, To duty beseeming These star-litten hours-- And shake from your tresses Encumber'd with dew The breath of those kisses That cumber them too-- (O! how, without you, Love! Could angels be blest?) Those kisses of true Love That lull'd ye to rest! Up!--shake from your wing Each hindering thing: The dew of the night-- It would weigh down your flight; And true love caresses-- O, leave them apart! They are light on the tresses, But lead on the heart.
Page 24
Thou hast bound many eyes In a dreamy sleep-- But the strains still arise Which _thy_ vigilance keep-- The sound of the rain, Which leaps down to the flower-- And dances again In the rhythm of the shower-- The murmur that springs From the growing of grass Are the music of things-- But are modell'd, alas!-- Away, then, my dearest, Oh! hie thee away To the springs that lie clearest Beneath the moon-ray-- To lone lake that smiles, In its dream of deep rest, At the many star-isles That enjewel its breast-- Where wild flowers, creeping, Have mingled their shade, On its margin is sleeping Full many a maid-- Some have left the cool glade, and Have slept with the bee-- Arouse them, my maiden, On moorland and lea-- Go! breathe on their slumber, All softly in ear, Thy musical number They slumbered to hear-- For what can awaken An angel so soon, Whose sleep hath been taken Beneath the cold moon, As the spell which no slumber Of witchery may test, The rhythmical number Which lull'd him to rest?" Spirits in wing, and angels to the view, A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro' Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight-- Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen.
Page 27
Stannard, whose death also inspired Lenore.
Page 30
Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish, Now are visions ne'er to vanish; From thy spirit shall they pass No more, like dew-drop from the grass.
Page 31
hill Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token.
Page 32
[Illustration: Fairy-land] _THE COLISEUM_ Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length--at length--after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory! Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now--I feel ye in your strength-- O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars! Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, Lit by the wan light of the horned moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones! But stay! these walls--these ivy-clad arcades-- These mouldering plinths--these sad and blackened.
Page 34
And oh! of all torture _That_ torture the worst Has abated--the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst:-- I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst:-- Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few Feet under ground-- From a cavern not very far Down under ground.
Page 35
Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses-- Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses; For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odour About it, of pansies-- A rosemary odour, Commingled with pansies-- With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.
Page 36
O yearning heart! I did inherit Thy withering portion with the fame, The searing glory which hath shone Amid the jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! and with a pain Not Hell shall make me fear again-- O craving heart, for the lost flowers And sunshine of my summer hours! The undying voice of that dead time, With its interminable chime, Rings, in the spirit of a spell, Upon thy emptiness--a knell.