classic mystery and detective stories-第43章

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property；　which；　though　originally　moderate；　had；　by　his　grasping

habits；　and　parsimonious　life；　become　very　considerable。



As　the　attorney　who　read　the　will　concluded；　he　added；　〃There　are

some　words　here；　at　the　corner　of　the　parchment；　which　do　not

appear　to　be　part　of　the　will；　as　they　are　neither　in　the　form　of　a

codicil；　nor　is　the　signature　of　the　testator　affixed　to　them；　but；

to　the　best　of　my　belief；　they　are　in　the　handwriting　of　the

deceased。〃　　As　he　spoke　he　showed　the　lines　to　Melmoth；　who

immediately　recognized　his　uncle's　hand　（that　perpendicular　and

penurious　hand；　that　seems　determined　to　make　the　most　of　the　very

paper；　thriftily　abridging　every　word；　and　leaving　scarce　an　atom

of　margin）；　and　read；　not　without　some　emotion；　the　following

words：　〃I　enjoin　my　nephew　and　heir；　John　Melmoth；　to　remove；

destroy；　or　cause　to　be　destroyed；　the　portrait　inscribed　J。

Melmoth；　1646；　hanging　in　my　closet。　　I　also　enjoin　him　to　search

for　a　manuscript；　which　I　think　he　will　find　in　the　third　and

lowest　left…hand　drawer　of　the　mahogany　chest　standing　under　that

portrait；it　is　among　some　papers　of　no　value；　such　as　manuscript

sermons；　and　pamphlets　on　the　improvement　of　Ireland；　and　such

stuff；　he　will　distinguish　it　by　its　being　tied　round　with　a　black

tape；　and　the　paper　being　very　moldy　and　discolored。　　He　may　read

it　if　he　will；I　think　he　had　better　not。　　At　all　events；　I　adjure

him；　if　there　be　any　power　in　the　adjuration　of　a　dying　man；　to

burn　it。〃



After　reading　this　singular　memorandum；　the　business　of　the　meeting

was　again　resumed；　and　as　old　Melmoth's　will　was　very　clear　and

legally　worded；　all　was　soon　settled；　the　party　dispersed；　and　John

Melmoth　was　left　alone。



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He　resolutely　entered　the　closet；　shut　the　door；　and　proceeded　to

search　for　the　manuscript。　　It　was　soon　found；　for　the　directions

of　old　Melmoth　were　forcibly　written；　and　strongly　remembered。　　The

manuscript；　old；　tattered；　and　discolored；　was　taken　from　the　very

drawer　in　which　it　was　mentioned　to　be　laid。　　Melmoth's　hands　felt

as　cold　as　those　of　his　dead　uncle；　when　he　drew　the　blotted　pages

from　their　nook。　　He　sat　down　to　read；there　was　a　dead　silence

through　the　house。　　Melmoth　looked　wistfully　at　the　candles；

snuffed　them；　and　still　thought　they　looked　dim；　（perchance　he

thought　they　burned　blue；　but　such　thought　he　kept　to　himself）。

Certain　it　is；　he　often　changed　his　posture；　and　would　have　changed

his　chair；　had　there　been　more　than　one　in　the　apartment。



He　sank　for　a　few　moments　into　a　fit　of　gloomy　abstraction；　till

the　sound　of　the　clock　striking　twelve　made　him　start；it　was　the

only　sound　he　had　heard　for　some　hours；　and　the　sounds　produced　by

inanimate　things；　while　all　living　beings　around　are　as　dead；　have

at　such　an　hour　an　effect　indescribably　awful。　　John　looked　at　his

manuscript　with　some　reluctance；　opened　it；　paused　over　the　first

lines；　and　as　the　wind　sighed　round　the　desolate　apartment；　and　the

rain　pattered　with　a　mournful　sound　against　the　dismantled　window；

wishedwhat　did　he　wish　for？he　wished　the　sound　of　the　wind　less

dismal；　and　the　dash　of　the　rain　less　monotonous。He　may　be

forgiven；　it　was　past　midnight；　and　there　was　not　a　human　being

awake　but　himself　within　ten　miles　when　he　began　to　read。



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The　manuscript　was　discolored；　obliterated；　and　mutilated　beyond

any　that　had　ever　before　exercised　the　patience　of　a　reader。

Michaelis　himself；　scrutinizing　into　the　pretended　autograph　of　St。

Mark　at　Venice；　never　had　a　harder　time　of　it。Melmoth　could　make

out　only　a　sentence　here　and　there。　　The　writer；　it　appeared；　was

an　Englishman　of　the　name　of　Stanton；　who　had　traveled　abroad

shortly　after　the　Restoration。　　Traveling　was　not　then　attended

with　the　facilities　which　modern　improvement　has　introduced；　and

scholars　and　literati；　the　intelligent；　the　idle；　and　the　curious；

wandered　over　the　Continent　for　years；　like　Tom　Corvat；　though　they

had　the　modesty；　on　their　return；　to　entitle　the　result　of　their

multiplied　observations　and　labors　only　〃crudities。〃



Stanton；　about　the　year　1676；　was　in　Spain；　he　was；　like　most　of

the　travelers　of　that　age；　a　man　of　literature；　intelligence；　and

curiosity；　but　ignorant　of　the　language　of　the　country；　and

fighting　his　way　at　times　from　convent　to　convent；　in　quest　of　what

was　called　〃Hospitality；〃　that　is；　obtaining　board　and　lodging　on

the　condition　of　holding　a　debate　in　Latin；　on　some　point

theological　or　metaphysical；　with　any　monk　who　would　become　the

champion　of　the　strife。　　Now；　as　the　theology　was　Catholic；　and　the

metaphysics　Aristotelian；　Stanton　sometimes　wished　himself　at　the

miserable　Posada　from　whose　filth　and　famine　he　had　been　fighting

his　escape；　but　though　his　reverend　antagonists　always　denounced

his　creed；　and　comforted　themselves；　even　in　defeat；　with　the

assurance　that　he　must　be　damned；　on　the　double　score　of　his　being

a　heretic　and　an　Englishman；　they　were　obliged　to　confess　that　his

Latin　was　good；　and　his　logic　unanswerable；　and　he　was　allowed；　in

most　cases；　to　sup　and　sleep　in　peace。　　This　was　not　doomed　to　be

his　fate　on　the　night　of　the　17th　August　1677；　when　he　found

himself　in　the　plains　of　Valencia；　deserted　by　a　cowardly　guide；

who　had　been　terrified　by　the　sight　of　a　cross　erected　as　a

memorial　of　a　murder；　had　slipped　off　his　mule　unperceived；

crossing　himself　every　step　he　took　on　his　retreat　from　the

heretic；　and　left　Stanton　amid　the　terrors　of　an　approaching　storm；

and　the　dangers　of　an　unknown　country。　　The　sublime　and　yet

softened　beauty　of　the　scenery　around；　had　filled　the　soul　of

Stanton　with　delight；　and　he　enjoyed　that　delight　as　Englishmen

generally　do；　silently。



The　magnificent　remains　of　two　dynasties　that　had　passed　away；　the

ruins　of　Roman　palaces；　and　of　Moorish　fortresses；　were　around　and

above　him；the　dark　and　heavy　thunder　clouds　that　advanced　slowly；

seemed　like　the　shrouds　of　these　specters　of　departed　greatness；

they　approached；　but　did　not　yet　overwhelm　or　conceal　them；　as　if

Nature　herself　was　for　once　awed　by　the　power　of　man；　and　far

below；　the　lovely　valley　of　Valencia　blushed　and　burned　in　all　the

glory　of　sunset；　like　a　bride　receiving　the　last　glowing　kiss　of

the　bridegroom　before　the　approach　of　night。　　Stanton　gazed　around。

The　difference　between　the　architecture　of　the　Roman　and　Moorish

ruins　struck　him。　　Among　the　former　are　the　remains　of　a　theater；

and　something　like　a　public　place；　the　latter　present　only　the

remains　of　fortresses；　embattled；　castellated；　and　fortified　from

top　to　bottom；not　a　loophole　for　pleasure　to　get　in　by；the

loopholes　were　only　for　arrows；　all　denoted　military　power　and

despotic　subjugation　a　l'outrance。　　The　contrast　might　have　pleased

a　philosopher；　and　he　might　have　indulged　in　the　reflection；　that

though　the　ancient　Greeks　and　Romans　were　savages　（as　Dr。　Johnson

says　all　people　who　want　a　press　must　be；　and　he　says　truly）；　yet

they　were　wonderful　savages　for　their　time；　for　they　alone　have

left　traces　of　their　taste　for　pleasure　in　the　countries　they

conquered；　in　their　superb　theaters；　temples　（which　were　also

dedicated　to　pleasure　one　way　or　another）；　and　baths；　while　other

conquering　bands　of　savages　never　left　anything　behind　them　but

traces　of　their　rage　for　power。　　So　thought　Stanton；　as　he　still

saw　strongly　defined；　though　darkened　by　the　darkening　clouds；　the

huge　skeleton　of　a　Roman　amphitheater；　its　arched　and　gigantic

colonnades　now　admitting　a　gleam　of　light；　and　now　commingling　with

the　purple　thunder　cloud；　and　now　the　solid　and　heavy　mass　of　a

Moorish　fortress；　no　light　playing　between　its　impermeable　walls；

the　image　of　power；　dark；　isolated；　impenetrable。　　Stanton　forgot

his　cowardly　guide；　his　loneliness；　his　danger　amid　an　approaching

storm　and　an　inhospitable　country；　where　his　na