Cuentos Clásicos del Norte, Primera Serie

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 52

las flores le oprimía; la luz más débil
torturaba sus ojos; y sólo le era dado resistir sin horror sones
peculiares arrancados de ciertos instrumentos de cuerda.

Le encontré ciegamente esclavizado por terrores anómalos. "Pereceré
seguramente," decía, "debo perecer en esta deplorable locura. Así, así,
y no de otra manera he de morir. Tiemblo ante los acontecimientos
futuros, no tanto en sí mismos como en sus resultados. Me estremezco al
pensamiento de cualquier incidente, siquiera el más trivial, que se
desarrolle para mí en medio de esta intolerable agitación de espíritu.
En verdad, no odio el peligro sino en su efecto absoluto, el terror. En
esta lastimosa y debilitada condición, siento que pronto o tarde llegará
el momento en que pierda a la vez la razón y la vida en lucha con el
horrendo fantasma, _terror_."

Me di cuenta además, a intervalos y a través de cortadas y ambiguas
alusiones, de otro rasgo singular de su estado mental. Hallábase
encadenado a la mansión que habitaba por ciertas creencias
supersticiosas en virtud de las cuales jamás se había atrevido a
alejarse durante largos años, y que se basaban en determinada
influencia, cuyo supuesto poder se transmitía en forma demasiado
tenebrosa para repetirse aquí; influencia que, debido a ciertas
peculiaridades en la naturaleza y estructura de la morada de sus
antepasados, había prevalecido en su espíritu, a costa de largos
sufrimientos, afirmaba él; efecto provocado por la _fisonomía_ de los
grises muros y torrecillas y por el tétrico estanque en que se
reflejaban, que había al fin echado abajo la fuerza moral de su
existencia.

Admitía, sin embargo, aunque con alguna vacilación, que gran parte de
aquella melancolía particular que le afligía podía atribuirse a causa
más natural y palpable, a la seria y larga enfermedad, y probablemente
cercano fin, de una hermana tiernamente amada, su única compañera por
largos años, el único y último miembro de su familia en la tierra. "Su
muerte," decía con amargura que jamás olvidaré, "le dejaría (a él,
desesperado y frágil) único descendiente de la antigua raza de Úsher."
Mientras hablaba así, Lady Mádeline--que así se llamaba la
dama--atravesó suavemente un ángulo lejano de la habitación y
desapareció sin haber notado mi presencia. La miré con profunda
extrañeza no desprovista de terror, y estoy todavía lejos de expresar
mis verdaderos sentimientos. Una sensación de estupor me oprimía en
tanto que mis ojos seguían sus huellas. Cuando al fin cerróse una puerta
tras ella, mis miradas trataron instintiva y ansiosamente de escudriñar
el continente de su hermano; pero había enterrado el rostro entre sus
manos, y pude solamente percibir que una palidez mayor que de ordinario
se extendía sobre

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Text Comparison with The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3

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