Soggiorno Sinistro
A Phantastic Allegorical world of haunted greens and blues with with demonic browns of every description.
We are on a journey through a dangerously forbidden and grotesquely evocative darkness.Our terrain are the paintings of Alessandro Magnasco (1667-1749) and 2 paintings(with flesh colored frames by his friend and occasional collaborator Antonio Francesco Peruzzini .Our soundworld is Cello music of Giuseppe Maria Jacchini (1670-1727),Domenico Gabrielli (1659-1690),and Girolamo Frescobaldi (1583-1643)...The voice of our journey speaks through a Cello made by Mattio Gofriller (Whose instruments you might have heard ,if you have listened to Casals) and an instrument equal to the task of narrarating this haunting sojourn. If you are unfamiliar with Italian Cello music of this era....you could be in for a sinister treat...that is...if you like the Macabre and Eerie. All the music is performed by Anner Bylsma and when there is accompaniement,it is by Bob Van Asperen on Harpsichord and or chamber organ.
You tour guides shall be the voices of Alexander Blok,Edgar Allan Poe,Giacomo Leopardi,Heinrich Heine and many others calling out to you from beyond the grave...Turn off the lights and light a candle...
Domenico Gabrielli..............Ricercar VII
PASSERO SOLITARIO...
D'in su la vetta della torre antica,
Passero solitario, alla campagna
Cantando vai finché non more il giorno;
Ed erra l'armonia per questa valle.
Primavera dintorno
Brilla nell'aria, e per li campi esulta,
Sì ch'a mirarla intenerisce il core.
Odi greggi belar, muggire armenti;
Gli altri augelli contenti, a gara insieme
Per lo libero ciel fan mille giri,
Pur festeggiando il lor tempo migliore:
Tu pensoso in disparte il tutto miri;
Non compagni, non voli,
Non ti cal d'allegria, schivi gli spassi;
Canti, e così trapassi
Dell'anno e di tua vita il più bel fiore.
Oimè, quanto somiglia
Al tuo costume il mio! Sollazzo e riso,
Della novella età dolce famiglia,
E te german di giovinezza, amore,
Sospiro acerbo de' provetti giorni,
Non curo, io non so come; anzi da loro
Quasi fuggo lontano;
Quasi romito, e strano
Al mio loco natio,
Passo del viver mio la primavera.
Questo giorno ch'omai cede alla sera,
Festeggiar si costuma al nostro borgo.
Odi per lo sereno un suon di squilla,
Odi spesso un tonar di ferree canne,
Che rimbomba lontan di villa in villa.
Tutta vestita a festa
La gioventù del loco
Lascia le case, e per le vie si spande;
E mira ed è mirata, e in cor s'allegra.
Io solitario in questa
Rimota parte alla campagna uscendo,
Ogni diletto e gioco
Indugio in altro tempo: e intanto il guardo
Steso nell'aria aprica
Mi fere il Sol che tra lontani monti,
Dopo il giorno sereno,
Cadendo si dilegua, e par che dica
Che la beata gioventù vien meno.
Tu, solingo augellin, venuto a sera
Del viver che daranno a te le stelle,
Certo del tuo costume
Non ti dorrai; che di natura è frutto
Ogni vostra vaghezza.
A me, se di vecchiezza
La detestata soglia
Evitar non impetro,
Quando muti questi occhi all'altrui core,
E lor fia vòto il mondo, e il dì futuro
Del dì presente più noioso e tetro,
Che parrà di tal voglia?
Che di quest'anni miei? che di me stesso?
Ahi pentirommi, e spesso,
Ma sconsolato, volgerommi indietro.
Giacomo Leopardi
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C'e' una certa inclinazione di luce Emily Dickinson
C'e' una certa inclinazione di luce,
i pomeriggi d'inverno che opprime,
come il peso
di musiche di cattedrale
Una ferita celeste,ci apporta
non ne troviamo cicatrice,
ma una interna differenza,
dove stanno i significati
Nessuno puo' insegnarla altrui
è il sigillo la disperazione
un'imperiale afflizione
inviataci dall'aria
Quando viene,il paesaggio ascolta
le ombre trattengono il fiato
quando va, è come la distanza
nell'aspetto della morte
Emily Dickinson
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Sonetti
ALLA SERA
Forse perché della fatal quiete
tu sei l'immago a me sì cara vieni
o Sera! E quando ti corteggian liete
l e nubi estive e i zeffiri sereni,
e quando dal nevoso aere inquiete
tenebre e lunghe all'universo meni
sempre scendi invocata, e le secrete
vie del mio cor soavemente tieni.
Vagar mi fai co' miei pensier su l'orme
che vanno al nulla eterno; e intanto fugge
questo reo tempo, e van con lui le torme
delle cure onde meco egli si strugge;
e mentre io guardo la tua pace, dorme
quello spirto guerrier ch'entro mi rugge.
Ugo Foscolo
Giovanni Battista Degli Antonii.............Ricercar X
Pieter Corneliszoon Hooft
Geswinde grijsaert die op wackre wiecken staech,
De dunne lucht doorsnijt, en sonder seil te strijcken,
Altijdt vaert voor de windt, en ijder nae laet kijcken,
Doodtvyandt van de rust, die woelt bij nacht bij daech;
Onachterhaelbre Tijdt, wiens heten honger graech
Verslockt, verslint, verteert al watter sterck mach lijcken
En keert, en wendt, en stort Staeten en Coninckrijcken;
Voor ijder een te snel, hoe valtdij mij soo traech?
Mijn lief sint ick u mis, verdrijve' jck met mishaeghen
De schoorvoetighe Tijdt, en tob de lange daeghen
Met arbeidt avontwaerts; uw afzijn valt te bang.
Rn mijn verlangen can den Tijdtgod niet beweghen.
Maer 't schijnt verlangen daer sijn naem af heeft gecreghen,
Dat jck den Tijdt, die jck vercorten wil, verlang.
Giuseppe Maria Jacchini................Sonata
La Muse Vénale ...
O muse de mon coeur, amante des palais,
Auras-tu, quand Janvier lâchera ses Borées,
Durant les noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirées,
Un tison pour chauffer tes deux pieds violets?
Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées
Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets?
Sentant ta bourse à sec autant que ton palais
Récolteras-tu l'or des voûtes azurées?
II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir,
Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l'encensoir,
Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guère,
Ou, saltimbanque à jeun, étaler tes appas
Et ton rire trempé de pleurs qu'on ne voit pas,
Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.
/
The Venal Muse ...
Oh muse of my heart, lover of palaces,
Will you have, when January lets loose its north winds,
During the black boredom of snowy evenings,
An ember to warm your two violet feet?
Will you revive your marbled shoulders
In the nocturnal beams that pierce your shutters?
With your purse as empty as your belly,
Will you harvest gold in the azure vaults?
You must, to win your daily bread,
Swing the incense burner like an altar boy
And sing Te Deums in which you no longer believe,
Or, starving entertainer, display your wares
And your laugh, soaked with the tears that no one sees,
In order to drive away the boredom of the vulgar herd.
Charles Baudelaire
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Le Mauvais moine ...
Les cloîtres anciens sur leurs grandes murailles
Etalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,
Dont l'effet réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,
Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.
En ces temps où du Christ florissaient les semailles,
Plus d'un illustre moine, aujourd'hui peu cité,
Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles,
Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.
- Mon âme est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite,
Depuis l'éternité je parcours et j'habite;
Rien n'embellit les murs de ce cloître odieux.
O moine fainéant! quand saurai-je donc faire
Du spectacle vivant de ma triste misère
Le travail de mes mains et l'amour de mes yeux?
The Bad Monk ...
To temper the coldness of their austerity,
Ancient cloisters displayed on their thick walls
The sacred Truth in images that
Warmed the entrails of the pious.
In those times when what Christ had sown flourished,
More than one illustrious monk, today rarely cited,
Taking for his workshop the funerary field,
Honored Death with simplicity.
-- My soul is a tomb that I, bad cenobite,
Have paced and inhabited for all eternity;
Nothing adorns the walls of this odious cloister.
O lazy monk! when will I be able, then,
To make of the living spectacle of my sad misery,
The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Charles Baudelaire
Domenico Gabrielli.........................Ricercar IV
Eine Reise durch eine abschreckende evokative und makabere Landschaft....
Steiget auf, ihr alten Träume!
Öffne dich, du Herzensthor!
Liederwonne, Wehmutsthränen
Strömen wunderbar hervor.
Durch die Tannen will ich schweifen,
Wo die muntre Quelle springt,
Wo die stolzen Hirsche wandeln,
Wo die liebe Drossel singt.
Auf die Berge will ich steigen,
Auf die schroffen Felsenhöhn,
Wo die grauen Schloßruinen
In dem Morgenlichte stehn.
Dorten setz' ich still mich nieder
Und gedenke alter Zeit,
Alter blühender Geschlechter
Und versunkner Herrlichkeit.
Gras bedeckt jetzt den Turnierplatz,
Wo gekämpft der stolze Mann,
Der die Besten überwunden
Und des Kampfes Preis gewann.
Epheu rankt an dem Balkone,
Wo die schöne Dame stand,
Die den stolzen Überwinder
Mit den Augen überwand.
Ach! den Sieger und die Siegrin
Hat besiegt des Todes Hand --
Jener dürre Sensenritter
Streckt uns alle in den Sand.
"Die Harzreise"...Heinrich Heine
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Das versunkene Kloster
Ein Kloster ist versunken
Tief in den wilden See,
Die Nonnen sind ertrunken
Zusamt dem Pater, weh!
Der Nixen muntre Scharen,
Sie schwimmen stracks herbei,
Nun einmal zu erfahren,
Was in den Mauern sei.
Das plätschert und das rauschet
In Kreuzgang und Dorment!
Am Lokutorium lauschet
Der schäkernde Konvent;
Man hört Gesang im Chore
Und lustig Orgelspiel;
Das Glöcklein ruft zur Hore,
Wann's ihnen just gefiel.
Bei heitrem Vollmondglanze
Lockt sie der grüne Strand
Zu einem Ringeltanze
In geistlichem Gewand;
Die weißen Schleier flattern,
Die schwarzen Stolen wehn,
Die Kerzenflämmchen knattern,
Wie sie im Sprung sich drehn.
Der Kobold dort im Schutte
Der hohlen Felsenwand,
Er nimmt des Paters Kutte,
Die er am Ufer fand;
Die Tänzerinnen schreckend,
Kommt er zur Mummerei,
Sie aber tauchen neckend
Hinab in die Abtei.
Ludwig Uhland
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Letzte Gaben
Durchwachte Nacht
Wie sank die Sonne glüh und schwer,
Und aus versengter Welle dann
Wie wirbelte der Nebel Heer
Die sternenlose Nacht heran! —
Ich höre ferne Schritte gehn —
Die Uhr schlägt Zehn.
Noch ist nicht alles Leben eingenickt,
Der Schlafgemächer letzte Türen knarren;
Vorsichtig in der Rinne Bauch gedrückt,
Schlüpft noch der Iltis an des Giebels Sparren,
Die schlummertrunkne Färse murrend nickt,
Und fern im Stalle dröhnt des Rosses Scharren,
Sein müdes Schnauben, bis vom Mohn getränkt,
Es schlaff die regungslose Flanke senkt.
Betäubend gleitet Fliederhauch
Durch meines Fensters offnen Spalt,
Und an der Scheibe grauem Rauch
Der Zweige wimmelnd Neigen wallt.
Matt bin ich, matt wie die Natur! —
Elf schlägt die Uhr.
O wunderliches Schlummerwachen, bist
Der zartren Nerve Fluch du oder Segen? —
' s ist eine Nacht, vom Taue wach geküßt,
Das Dunkel fühl' ich kühl wie feinen Regen
An meine Wangen gleiten, das Gerüst
Des Vorhangs scheint sich schaukelnd zu bewegen,
Und dort das Wappen an der Decke Gips
Schwimmt sachte mit dem Schlängeln des Polyps.
Wie mir das Blut im Hirne zuckt!
Am Söller geht Geknister um,
Im Pulte raschelt es und ruckt,
Als drehe sich der Schlüssel um.
Und — horch, der Seiger hat gewacht!
s' ist Mitternacht.
War das ein Geisterlaut? So schwach und leicht
Wie kaum berührten Glases schwirrend Klingen,
Und wieder wie verhaltnes Weinen steigt
Ein langer Klageton aus den Syringen,
Gedämpfter, süßer nun, wie tränenfeucht
Und selig kämpft verschämter Liebe Ringen; —
O Nachtigall, das ist kein wacher Sang,
Ist nur im Traum gelöster Seele Drang.
Da kollert's nieder vom Gestein!
Des Turmes morsche Trümmer fällt,
Das Käuzlein knackt und hustet drein;
Ein jäher Windesodem schwellt
Gezweig und Kronenschmuck des Hains; —
Die Uhr schlägt Eins.
Und drunten das Gewölke rollt und klimmt;
Gleich einer Lampe aus dem Hünenmale
Hervor des Mondes Silbergondel schwimmt,
Verzitternd auf der Gasse blauem Stahle;
An jedem Fliederblatt ein Fünkchen glimmt,
Und hell gezeichnet von dem blassen Strahle
Legt auf mein Lager sich des Fensters Bild,
Vom schwanken Laubgewimmel überhüllt.
Jetzt möcht' ich schlafen, schlafen gleich,
Entschlafen unterm Mondeshauch,
Umspielt vom flüsternden Gezweig,
Im Blute Funken, Funk' im Strauch
Und mir im Ohre Melodei; —
Die Uhr schlägt Zwei.
Und immer heller wird der süße Klang,
Das liebe Lachen; es beginnt zu ziehen
Gleich Bildern von Daguerre die Deck' entlang,
Die aufwärts steigen mit des Pfeiles Fliehen;
Mir ist, als seh' ich lichter Locken Hang,
Gleich Feuerwürmern seh' ich Augen glühen,
Dann werden feucht sie, werden blau und lind,
Und mir zu Füßen sitzt ein schönes Kind.
Es sieht empor, so fromm gespannt,
Die Seele strömend aus dem Blick;
Nun hebt es gaukelnd seine Hand,
Nun zieht es lachend sie zurück;
Und — horch, des Hahnes erstem Schrei! —
Die Uhr schlägt Drei.
Wie bin ich aufgeschreckt, — o süßes Bild,
Du bist dahin, zerflossen mit dem Dunkel!
Die unerfreulich graue Dämmrung quillt,
Verloschen ist des Flieders Taugefunkel,
Verrostet steht des Mondes Silberschild,
Im Walde gleitet ängstliches Gemunkel,
Und meine Schwalbe an des Frieses Saum
Zirpt leise, leise auf im schweren Traum.
Der Tauben Schwärme kreisen scheu,
Wie trunken, in des Hofes Rund,
Und wieder gellt des Hahnes Schrei,
Auf seiner Streue rückt der Hund,
Und langsam knarrt des Stalles Tür —
Die Uhr schlägt Vier.
Da flammt's im Osten auf, — o Morgenglut!
Sie steigt, sie steigt, und mit dem ersten Strahle
Strömt Wald und Heide vor Gesangesflut,
Das Leben quillt aus schäumendem Pokale,
Es klirrt die Sense, flattert Falkenbrut,
Im nahen Forste schmettern Jagdsignale,
Und wie ein Gletscher sinkt der Träume Land
Zerrinnend in des Horizontes Brand.
Annette von Droste-Hülshoff
1862
Domenico Gabrielli............................Ricercar I
САПСАН
В полях, далеко от усадьбы,
Зимует просяной омет.
Там табунятся волчьи свадьбы,
Там клочья шерсти и помет.
Воловьи ребра у дороги
Торчат в снегу ― и спал на них
Сапсан, стервятник космоногий,
Готовый взвиться каждый миг.
Я застрелил его. А это
Грозит бедой. И вот ко мне
Стал гость ходить. Он до рассвета
Вкруг дома бродит при луне.
Я не видал его. Я слышал
Лишь хруст шагов. Но спать невмочь.
На третью ночь я в поде вышел...
О, как была печальна ночь!
Когтистый след в снегу глубоком
В глухие степи вел с гумна.
На небе мглистом и высоком
Плыла холодная луна.
За валом, над привадой в яме,
Серо маячила ветла.
Даль над пустынными полями
Была таинственно светла.
Облитый этим странным светом,
Подавлен мертвой тишиной,
Я стал ― и бледным силуэтом
Упала тень моя за мной.
По небесам, в туманной мути,
Сияя, лунный лик нырял
И серебристым блеском ртути
Слюду по насту озарял.
Кто был он, этот полуночный
Незримый гость? Откуда он
Ко мне приходит в час урочный
Через сугробы под балкон?
Иль он узнал, что я тоскую,
Что я один? что в дом ко мне
Лишь снег да небо в ночь немую
Глядят из сада при луне?
Быть может, он сегодня слышал,
Как я, покинув кабинет,
По темной спальне в залу вышел,
Где в сумраке мерцал паркет,
Где в окнах небеса синели,
А в этой сини четко встал
Черно-зеленей конус ели
И острый Сириус блистал?
Теперь луна была в зените,
На небе плыл густой туман...
Я ждал его,― я шел к раките
По насту снеговых полян,
И если б враг мой от привады
Внезапно прянул на сугроб,―
Я б из винтовки без пощады
Пробил его широкий лоб.
Но он не шел. Луна скрывалась,
Луна сияла сквозь туман,
Бежала мгла... И мне казалось,
Что на снегу сидит Сапсан.
Морозный иней, как алмазы,
Сверкал на нем, а он дремал,
Седой, зобастый, круглоглазый,
И в крылья голову вжимал.
И был он страшен, непонятен,
Таинственен, как этот бег
Туманной мглы и светлых пятен,
Порою озарявших снег,―
Как воплотившаяся сила
Той Воли, что в полночный час
Нас страхом всех соединила ―
И сделала врагами нас.
Иван Бунин
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У меня не живут цветы,
Красотой их на миг я обманут,
Постоят день-другой и завянут,
У меня не живут цветы.Да и птицы здесь не живут,
Только хохлятся скорбно и глухо,
А наутро ― комочек из пуха...
Даже птицы здесь не живут.
Только книги в восемь рядов,
Молчаливые, грузные томы,
Сторожат вековые истомы,
Словно зубы в восемь рядов.
Мне продавший их букинист,
Помню, был горбатым, и нищим......
Торговал за проклятым кладбищем
Мне продавший их букинист.
Николай Гумилев
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Ты много жил, я больше пел...
Ты испытал и жизнь и горе,
Ко мне незримый дух слетел,
Открывший полных звуков море...
Твоя душа уже в цепях;
Ее коснулись вихрь и бури;
Моя - вольна: так тонкий прах
По ветру носится в лазури.
Мой друг, я чувствую давно,
Что скоро жизнь меня коснется...
Но сердце в землю снесено
И никогда не встрепенется!
Когда устанем на пути,
И нас покроет смрад туманный,
Ты отдохнуть ко мне приди,
А я - к тебе, мой друг желанный!
Александр Александрович Блок 1898
I haven"t lived so long as you...
I"ve sung while you"ve been down and out.
A spirit came out of the blue
To show the sea of ample sound...
Your soul is chained stirred by the blast
Of storm and whirlwind wailing there,
While mine is free, as fine as dust,
That blows around in the air.
My friend, I"ve felt since long ago
I"ll be impaired by my portion...
My heart is berried, and I know
It won"t be ever set in motion!
When we get tired and cease to be,
When in the haze we disappear
Do come to have a rest with me,
And I will come to see you, dear!
Alexander Blok 1898
Domenico Gabrielli..................................Ricercare V
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
¿1648?-1695
Soneto CXLV
A su retrato
Este que ves, engaño colorido,
que, del arte ostentando los primores,
con falsos silogismos de colores
es cauteloso engaño del sentido;
éste, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido
excusar de los años los horrores,
y venciendo del tiempo los rigores
triunfar de la vejez y del olvido,
es un vano artificio del cuidado,
es una flor al viento delicada,
es un resguardo inútil para el hado:
es una necia diligencia errada,
es un afán caduco y, bien mirado,
es cadáver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada.
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Fernando de Herrera
(1534-1598)
Rojo sol
Rojo sol que con hacha luminosa
coloras el purpúreo alto cielo,
¿hallaste tal belleza en todo el suelo,
que iguale a mi serena luz dichosa?
Aura süave, blanda y amorosa
que nos halagas con tu fresco vuelo;
cuando el oro descubre y rico velo
mi luz, ¿trenza tocaste más hermosa?
Luna, honor de la noche, ilustre coro
de los errantes astros y fijados
¿consideraste tales dos estrellas?
Sol puro, aura, luna, llamas de oro
¿oísteis mis dolores nunca usados?
¿visteis luz más ingrata a mis querellas?
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San Juan de la Cruz
(1542-1591)
La noche oscura
Canciones del alma que se goza de haber llegado al
alto estado de la perfección, que es la unión con Dios,
por el camino de la negación espiritual.
En una noche oscura,
con ansias en amores inflamada,
(¡oh dichosa ventura!)
salí sin ser notada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
A oscuras y segura,
por la secreta escala disfrazada,
(¡oh dichosa ventura!)
a oscuras y en celada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
En la noche dichosa,
en secreto, que nadie me veía,
ni yo miraba cosa,
sin otra luz ni guía
sino la que en el corazón ardía.
Aquésta me guïaba
más cierta que la luz del mediodía,
adonde me esperaba
quien yo bien me sabía,
en parte donde nadie parecía.
¡Oh noche que me guiaste!,
¡oh noche amable más que el alborada!,
¡oh noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado transformada!
En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él solo se guardaba,
allí quedó dormido,
y yo le regalaba,
y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.
El aire de la almena,
cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía,
con su mano serena
en mi cuello hería,
y todos mis sentidos suspendía.
Quedéme y olvidéme,
el rostro recliné sobre el amado,
cesó todo, y dejéme,
dejando mi cuidado
entre las azucenas olvidado.
Girolamo Frescobaldi.....................Canzone XVI
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely settled--but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved, precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. I continued, as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point--this Fortunato--although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few Italians have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity-- to practise imposture upon the British and Austrian millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, like his countrymen, was a quack-- but in the matter of old wines he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him materially: I was skillful in the Italian vintages myself, and bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-fitting parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him--"My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met. How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he. "Amontillado? A pipe? Impossible! And in the middle of the carnival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to pay the full Amontillado price without consulting you in the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing a bargain."
"Amontillado!"
"I have my doubts."
"Amontillado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Amontillado!"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If any one has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me--"
"Luchesi cannot tell Amontillado from Sherry."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match for your own."
"Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi--"
"I have no engagement;--come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with nitre."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado! You have been imposed upon. And as for Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm. Putting on a mask of black silk, and drawing a roquelaire closely about my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make merry in honour of the time. I had told them that I should not return until the morning, and had given them explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he followed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe," said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white web-work which gleams from these cavern walls."
He turned towards me, and looked into my eyes with two filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
"Nitre?" he asked, at length.
"Nitre," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many minutes.
"It is nothing," he said, at last.
"Come," I said, with decision, "we will go back; your health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi--"
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention of alarming you unnecessarily--but you should use all proper caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the damps."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us."
"And I to your long life."
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Montresors," I replied, "were a great and numerous family."
"I forget your arms."
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the heel."
"And the motto?"
" Nemo me impune lacessit."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed through walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of catacombs. I paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by an arm above the elbow.
"The nitre!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like moss upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed. The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we will go back ere it is too late. Your cough--"
"It is nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught of the Medoc."
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grave. He emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce light. He laughed and threw the bottle upwards with a gesticulation I did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement--a grotesque one.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I," I replied.
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"How?"
"You are not of the masons."
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A mason?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said, "a sign."
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let us proceed to the Amontillado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily. We continued our route in search of the Amontillado. We passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the fourth side the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth about four feet in width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, uplifting his dull torch, endeavoured to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Amontillado. As for Luchesi--"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you. But I must first render you all the little attentions in my power."
"The Amontillado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Amontillado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I soon un- covered a quantity of building stone and mortar. With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labours and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated-- I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs, and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the yells of him who clamoured. I re-echoed-- I aided-- I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamourer grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said--
"Ha! ha! ha!--he! he! he!--a very good joke indeed--an excellent jest. We shall have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo--he! he! he!--over our wine--he! he! he!"
"The Amontillado!" I said.
"He! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
" For the love of God, Montresor!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud--
"Fortunato!"
No answer. I called again--
"Fortunato--"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in reply only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick on account of the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of my labour. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat!
Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849