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classic mystery and detective stories-第46部分

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exercises are intense; vivid; and eloquent; his nightly blasphemies

are outrageous and horrible。Hark!  Now he believes himself a

demon; listen to his diabolical eloquence of horror!〃



Stanton listened; and shuddered        。        。



        。        。        。        。        。



〃Escapeescape for your life;〃 cried the tempter; 〃break forth

into life; liberty; and sanity。  Your social happiness; your

intellectual powers; your immortal interests; perhaps; depend on

the choice of this moment。There is the door; and the key is in my

hand。Choosechoose!〃〃And how comes the key in your hand? and

what is the condition of my liberation?〃 said Stanton。



        。        。        。        。        。



The explanation occupied several pages; which; to the torture of

young Melmoth; were wholly illegible。  It seemed; however; to have

been rejected by Stanton with the utmost rage and horror; for

Melmoth at last made out;〃Begone; monster; demon!begone to your

native place。  Even this mansion of horror trembles to contain you;

its walls sweat; and its floors quiver; while you tread them。〃



        。        。        。        。        。



The conclusion of this extraordinary manuscript was in such a

state; that; in fifteen moldy and crumbling pages; Melmoth could

hardly make out that number of lines。  No antiquarian; unfolding

with trembling hand the calcined leaves of an Herculaneum

manuscript; and hoping to discover some lost lines of the Aeneis in

Virgil's own autograph; or at least some unutterable abomination of

Petronius or Martial; happily elucidatory of the mysteries of the

Spintriae; or the orgies of the Phallic worshipers; ever pored with

more luckless diligence; or shook a head of more hopeless

despondency over his task。  He could but just make out what tended

rather to excite than assuage that feverish thirst of curiosity

which was consuming his inmost soul。  The manuscript told no more

of Melmoth; but mentioned that Stanton was finally liberated from

his confinement;that his pursuit of Melmoth was incessant and

indefatigable;that he himself allowed it to be a species of

insanity;that while he acknowledged it to be the master passion;

he also felt it the master torment of his life。  He again visited

the Continent; returned to England;pursued; inquired; traced;

bribed; but in vain。  The being whom he had met thrice; under

circumstances so extraordinary; he was fated never to encounter

again IN HIS LIFETIME。  At length; discovering that he had been

born in Ireland; he resolved to go there;went; and found his

pursuit again fruitless; and his inquiries unanswered。  The family

knew nothing of him; or at least what they knew or imagined; they

prudently refused to disclose to a stranger; and Stanton departed

unsatisfied。  It is remarkable; that he too; as appeared from many

half…obliterated pages of the manuscript; never disclosed to mortal

the particulars of their conversation in the madhouse; and the

slightest allusion to it threw him into fits of rage and gloom

equally singular and alarming。  He left the manuscript; however; in

the hands of the family; possibly deeming; from their incuriosity;

their apparent indifference to their relative; or their obvious

unacquaintance with reading of any kind; manuscript or books; his

deposit would be safe。  He seems; in fact; to have acted like men;

who; in distress at sea; intrust their letters and dispatches to a

bottle sealed; and commit it to the waves。  The last lines of the

manuscript that were legible; were sufficiently extraordinary。 。 。





        。        。        。        。        。



〃I have sought him everywhere。The desire of meeting him once more

is become as a burning fire within me;it is the necessary

condition of my existence。  I have vainly sought him at last in

Ireland; of which I find he is a native。Perhaps our final meeting

will be in。 。 。 。



        。        。        。        。        。



Such was the conclusion of the manuscript which Melmoth found in

his uncle's closet。  When he had finished it; he sunk down on the

table near which he had been reading it; his face hid in his folded

arms; his senses reeling; his mind in a mingled state of stupor and

excitement。  After a few moments; he raised himself with an

involuntary start; and saw the picture gazing at him from its

canvas。  He was within ten inches of it as he sat; and the

proximity appeared increased by the strong light that was

accidentally thrown on it; and its being the only representation of

a human figure in the room。  Melmoth felt for a moment as if he

were about to receive an explanation from its lips。



He gazed on it in return;all was silent in the house;they were

alone together。  The illusion subsided at length: and as the mind

rapidly passes to opposite extremes; he remembered the injunction

of his uncle to destroy the portrait。  He seized it;his hand

shook at first; but the moldering canvas appeared to assist him in

the effort。  He tore it from the frame with a cry half terrific;

half triumphant;it fell at his feet; and he shuddered as it fell。

He expected to hear some fearful sounds; some unimaginable

breathings of prophetic horror; follow this act of sacrilege; for

such he felt it; to tear the portrait of his ancestor from his

native walls。  He paused and listened:〃There was no voice; nor

any that answered;〃but as the wrinkled and torn canvas fell to

the floor; its undulations gave the portrait the appearance of

smiling。  Melmoth felt horror indescribable at this transient and

imaginary resuscitation of the figure。  He caught it up; rushed

into the next room; tore; cut; and hacked it in every direction;

and eagerly watched the fragments that burned like tinder in the

turf fire which had been lit in his room。  As Melmoth saw the last

blaze; he threw himself into bed; in hope of a deep and intense

sleep。  He had done what was required of him; and felt exhausted

both in mind and body; but his slumber was not so sound as he had

hoped for。  The sullen light of the turf fire; burning but never

blazing; disturbed him every moment。  He turned and turned; but

still there was the same red light glaring on; but not

illuminating; the dusky furniture of the apartment。  The wind was

high that night; and as the creaking door swung on its hinges;

every noise seemed like the sound of a hand struggling with the

lock; or of a foot pausing on the threshold。  But (for Melmoth

never could decide) was it in a dream or not; that he saw the

figure of his ancestor appear at the door?hesitatingly as he saw

him at first on the night of his uncle's death;saw him enter the

room; approach his bed; and heard him whisper; 〃You have burned me;

then; but those are flames I can survive。I am alive;I am beside

you。〃  Melmoth started; sprung from his bed;it was broad

daylight。  He looked round;there was no human being in the room

but himself。  He felt a slight pain in the wrist of his right arm。

He looked at it; it was black and blue; as from the recent gripe of

a strong hand。





Balzac's tale; Melmoth Reconciled; in Vol。 IV。; furnishes a

solution to the terrible problem which Maturin has stated in this

story。EDITOR'S NOTE。







Introduction to 〃A Mystery with a Moral〃





The next Mystery Story is like no other in these volumes。  The

editor's defense lies in the plea that Laurence Sterne is not like

other writers of English。  He is certainly one of the very

greatest。  Yet nowadays he is generally unknown。  His rollicking

frankness; his audacious unconventionality; are enough to account

for the neglect。  Even the easy mannered England of 1760 opened its

eyes in horror when 〃Tristram Shandy〃 appeared。  〃A most unclerical

clergyman;〃 the public pronounced the rector of Sutton and

prebendary of York。



Besides; his style was rambling to the last degree。  Plot concerned

him least of all authors of fiction。



For instance; it is more than doubtful that the whimsical parson

really INTENDED a moral to be read into the adventures of his

〃Sentimental Journey〃 that follow in these pages。  He used to

declare that he never intended anythinghe never knew whither his

pen was leadingthe rash implement; once in hand; was likely to

fly with him from Yorkshire to Italyor to Parisor across the

road to Uncle Toby's; and what could the helpless author do but

improve each occasion?



So here is one such 〃occasion〃 thus 〃improved〃 by disjointed

sequelsheedless; one would say; and yet glittering with the

unreturnable thrust of subtle wit; or softening with simple

emotion; like a thousand immortal passages of this random

philosopher。



Even the slightest turns of Sterne's pen bear inspiration。  No less

a critic than the severe Hazlitt was satisfied that 〃his works

consist only of brilliant passages。〃



And because the editors of the present volumes found added to 〃The

Mystery〃 not only a 〃Solution〃 
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