Cuentos Clásicos del Norte, Primera Serie

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 64

imposible
rememorarlo ahora porque, en realidad, la personalidad de mi amada, su
raro talento, el sereno y singular carácter de su belleza y la
penetrante y avasalladora elocuencia de su voz velada y musical se
abrieron paso hasta mi corazón en forma tan rápida y furtiva que, sin
duda alguna, aquellos incidentes pasaron desapercibidos o ignorados.
Creo, sin embargo, que la encontré por primera vez y más a menudo en
alguna grande, antigua y decadente ciudad en las cercanías del Rhin.
Seguramente debo haberla oído hablar de su familia; y no cabe duda de
que se remontaba a una gran antigüedad. ¡Ligeia! ¡Ligeia! Sumido en
estudios de naturaleza tal que debilitan todas las impresiones del mundo
exterior, sólo esta dulce palabra ¡Ligeia! tiene el poder de hacer
brotar ante mis ojos, por medio de la fantasía, la imagen de aquella que
ya no existe. Y ahora, mientras escribo, me asalta la idea de que jamás
llegué a saber el nombre de familia de la que fué mi amiga y mi
prometida, y llegó a convertirse en la compañera de mis estudios, y más
tarde en la esposa elegida de mi corazón. ¿Fué aquello una humorada de
mi Ligeia? ¿Exigió acaso, como prueba de la intensidad de mi afecto, que
no hiciera yo investigación alguna a este respecto? ¿O sería quizás un
capricho mío, alguna extraña y romántica ofrenda en el altar de la más
apasionada devoción? Apenas tengo la confusa reminiscencia del hecho en
sí mismo; ¿cómo puede maravillar que haya olvidado por completo las
circunstancias que lo originaron? Realmente, si alguna vez el espíritu
que se denomina _Romance_, si la pálida _Astophet_, de alas de nebulosa,
diosa del Egipto idólatra, presidió alguna vez, como aseguran, los
matrimonios novelescos, indudablemente debió reinar en el mío.

Hay, sin embargo, un tema predilecto de mi corazón en el que mi memoria
jamás falla. Es éste _la propia_ Ligeia. Era de alta estatura, algo
cenceña y casi flaca en sus últimos días. Trataría en vano de describir
la majestad, el apacible reposo de su continente y la incomparable
ligereza y elasticidad de su marcha. Iba y volvía como una sombra. Nunca
me daba cuenta de su entrada a mi cerrado estudio sino por la música
amada de su voz, dulce y queda, cuando colocaba su marmórea mano sobre
uno de mis hombros. Ninguna doncella igualó jamás la hermosura de su
semblante. Era la irradiación de un sueño de opio, una aérea y
espiritual visión, más extraordinariamente divina que todas las
fantasías que poblaban los ensueños de las hijas de Delos. Sin embargo,
sus facciones no se definían en el molde

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