classic mystery and detective stories-第46节

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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　　　　　　　　。　　　　　　　　。



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〃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。



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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。〃



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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。　。　。

。



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〃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。　。　。　。



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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〃