Kingpost replica bridge over the Plattekill Creek, 3
The Oldest Lunar Calendars and Earliest Constellations have been identified in cave art found in France and Germany. The astronomer-priests of these late Upper Paleolithic Cultures understood mathematical sets, and the interplay between the moon annual cycle, ecliptic, solstice and seasonal changes on earth.
The First (Lunar) Calendar –
The archaeological record’s earliest data that speaks to human awareness of the stars and ‘heavens’ dates to the Aurignacian Culture of Europe, c.32,000 B.C. Between 1964 and the early 1990s, Alexander Marshack published breakthrough research that documented the mathematical and astronomical knowledge in the Late Upper Paleolithic Cultures of Europe. Marshack deciphered sets of marks carved into animal bones, and occasionally on the walls of caves, as records of the lunar cycle. These marks are sets of crescents or lines. Artisans carefully controlled line thickness so that a correlation with lunar phases would be as easy as possible to perceive. Sets of marks were often laid out in a serpentine pattern that suggests a snake deity or streams and rivers.
Aurignacian Lunar Calendar / diagram
Drawing after Marshack, A. 1970 - Notation dans les Gravures du Paléolithique Supérieur, Bordeaux, Delmas / Don’s Maps
Many of these lunar calendars were made on small pieces of stone, bone or antler so that they could be easily carried. These small, portable, lightweight lunar calendars were easily carried on extended journeys such as long hunting trips and seasonal migrations. Hunting the largest animals was arduous, and might require hunters to follow herds of horses, bison, mammoth or ibex for many weeks. (Other big animals such as the auroch, cave bear and cave lion were well known but rarely hunted for food because they had special status in the mythic realm. The Auroch is very important to the search for earliest constellations.)
The phases of the moon depicted in these sets of marks are inexact. Precision was impossible unless all nights were perfectly clear which is an unrealistic expectation. The arithmetic counting skill implied by these small lunar calendars is obvious. The recognition that there are phases of the moon and seasons of the year that can be counted – that should be counted because they are important – is profound.
“All animal activities are time factored, simply because time passes, the future is forever arriving. The reality of time factoring is objective physics and does not depend upon human awareness or consciousness. Until Marshack’s work, many archeologists believed the sets of marks he chose to study were nothing but the aimless doodles of bored toolmakers. What Marshack uncovered is the intuitive discovery of mathematical sets and the application of those sets to the construction of a calendar.” (Source #1, p.10)
Bone is the preferred medium because it allows for easy transport and a long calendar lifetime. Mankind’s earliest astronomy brought the clan into the multi-dimensional universe of the gods. Objects used in the most potent rituals had the highest contextual, cultural value and were treated with great reverence.
Ecliptic moon earthshine Sun corona
Photo - The Clementine Project / NASA
The Earth orbits the Sun but as seen from Earth, the Sun moves on the pathway of the ecliptic (red) on the celestial dome. When the Sun seems to pass through the vernal equinox (longitude 0°), the longitude of the Earth is 180° degrees.
Calendars record events whose location in time is important to the clan. The time scale used on these earliest calendars is the phases of the moon because they are reliable and predictable, easily described with clarity and require only minimal artistic skill to draw. The few powerful ‘cosmic truths’ that were judged to be the most potent of all would be available to a few exceptional initiated adults in the clan. After all, upper level management has to maintain its power base :)
Upper Magdalenian lunar notations sometimes were carved on bones with animal and mythic imagery. The importance and meaning attached to the earliest constellations and the zodiac might have been taught last as initiation time approached and the acolyte’s preparation reached a terminus. The artifacts, upon which this earliest astronomy was recorded, are found in scattered localities, first and foremost sacred caves. Evidence for the auroch as Taurus the Bull and Solar God will soon follow.
Upper Paleolithic Fauna / Cave Art styles
Graphic Art - Marc Groenen / Don’s Maps
It seems likely that concepts of time and the lunar calendar had been understood by the astronomer-priests of Magdalenian culture. The brightest children/teenagers would be selected for training and initiation into this highest of ‘arts’.
Seasonal changes in plants and animal communities can be linked to lunar phases and the lunar calendar. We can speculate that Pliocene-era australopithecines in Africa became aware of this linkage between earthbound seasonal change and celestial events that occurred with predictable patterns. That understanding would expand with evolution of larger brained H. erectus.
The small H.erectus populations that are documented for Europe in the Lower Pleistocene are the distant ancestors of the Magdalenian peoples of the late Upper Paleolithic. In northern latitudes, seasonal changes in antlers, horns and the coat of important food animals are linked to the lunar calendar and the change of seasons. Important large animals included reindeer, horses, bison, auroch, mammoth, bear, rhino and ibex. Astronomer-priests who understood the lunar calendar could predict seasonal events before they occurred. Note that the importance of a species to the clan’s diet is not reflected in how often they were depicted in cave art. Animal imagery in cave art is not sympathetic hunting magic as was assumed for many years. It seems more probable that the most important ritual animals were accorded priority in cave art.
Before the lunar calendar was invented, a sharp eye towards the sky and changing weather allowed for a good deal of prediction as to what will unfold in the local habitat a short distance down the time track into the near future. The list of important life cycle events to be tracked and notated became obvious a very long time ago: birth, death, maturation-initiation, mating, family, animal plant resource/periodicity and weather cycles. If the tribe can understand these, it will do well over the long run.
Sun’s Annual Path along the Ecliptic / animation
Animation Dept. Physics / Durham University, UK
But then, what is the moon? The orb that shines at night might be far away. It also must be very important because its cycles are linked to cycles on earth that determine human health, female reproduction capacity, resource abundance, life and death. Only a few art compositions with obvious metaphorical and symbolic meaning were drawn on Upper Paleolithic lunar calendars. Time factored notation is not necessary to understand and record metaphor as the small archeological sample illustrates.
A fine example is an ivory plaque from the terminal Magdalenian of France (La Veche) where a molting bison that indicates an early spring molt, was drawn on a two month lunar notation. This small segment of a complete, year long, lunar calendar is self contained and served its purpose. Constellations and the Zodiac were discovered because they are ‘there’ and the human ‘big brain’ ‘plays’ all the time, is forever active and curious. Understanding the linkage between the lunar cycle and important natural cycles in the ‘world’ was unavoidable.
The discovery of time factored notation, mathematical sets and the lunar calendar set the stage. Upper Paleolithic people are now looking at the heavens and assuredly asking questions. The discovery of constellations and the Zodiac would soon occur. Paleolithic Lunar calendars are central to the mechanism by which observational astronomy at the end of the last Ice Age functioned.
Orion on mammoth tusk ivory / Germany
Photo - Mathilda’s Anthropology Blog
Orion / The First Constellation –
Michael A. Rappenglück in Germany has published exceptional research in which he proposes that astronomer-priests in European Upper Paleolithic cultures could ’see’ constellations in the night sky. They recorded those observations in cave paintings, on calendars and in sculptural art. Furthermore says Dr. Rappenglück, the astronomer-shamans of Magdalenian Culture created a cosmology and the first zodiac known to history.
These ideas were first presented in 1966, then in Dr. Rappenglück’s doctoral thesis in 1968. Dr. Rappenglück was not the first scholar of Upper Paleolithic European cultures to propose that astronomer-priests had found important constellations. Proposals of this sort had been published since the early decades of the 20th century. It is time to honor these researchers who are little known to the general public: Marcel Boudouin (France), Henri Breuil (France, early work at Lascaux), Amandus Weiss (Switzerland), Heino Eelsalu (Estonia), and Marie König (Germany).
Orion from Bayer’s “Uranometria” – 1603
Print - Mouser / United States Naval Observatory / Wikipedia
Orion is the oldest and therefore the first constellation discovered by the human mind. The evidence is a carving on mammoth tusk ivory found with Aurignacian culture artifacts in 1979 in a cave in the Ach Valley, Alb-Danube region of Germany. C-14 dating of adjacent ash deposits brackets the age of this small sliver of mammoth tusk to between 38,000 and 32,000 B.C. Upon it was carved a man-like figure with outstretched arms, a pose that is a match to the stars of Orion, The Hunter. Dr. Rappenglück has also suggested that the notches on the backside of this Orion figure are a primitive pregnancy calendar for predicting when a woman will give birth.
The tablet is 38 x 14 mm and the notches carved into its edges tell us that this is its final size. The tablet is not a fragment broken off from something larger. The Orion figure has arms raised and legs spread apart. Orion appears to have a sword hanging between his legs, and his left leg is shorter than his right leg. The slim waist of this tiny figurine of Orion would correspond to the bright stars of his belt in the constellation. The sword in this ivory figurine is the sword in the constellation of Orion. More telling perhaps is that the left leg in the constellation of Orion The Hunter is shorter than the right leg.
Taurus & Orion constellations / animated
Digital Graphic - Michelet B / Wikimedia
There are 86 notches on this ivory tablet, which is the number of days to be subtracted from the day count of one year to arrive at the average number of days in the human gestation period. ‘86’ is also the number of days that Betelguese, one of Orion’s two prominent stars, is visible to the naked eye each year.
We can conclude with brief mention of the Cueva di El Castillo cave, located in the mountains of Pico del Castillo, Spain. The cave art at this site is dated to 14,000 BP and includes an image that is a strong candidate to join the earliest constellations list. Dr. Rappenglück has identified a star map of the Northern Crown in a curved pattern of dots that has long been known by the misleading name ‘Frieze of Hands”.
In rebuttal to these interpretations, we have to consider that a) we have no idea if or how the Aurignacian people conceptualized the ‘year’, and what method of counting ‘days’ they used; and b) the figure on the Aurignacian mammoth tusk could be a shaman in a ritual costume that has nothing to do with any constellation Orion. Nonetheless, Dr. Rappenglück’s argument is persuasive and we await additional candidates for early constellations.
Solstice Sun stars Taurus Gemeni composite
Photo Montage - Jerry Lodriguss / GSFC – NASA
The interface between Taurus, Solstice and Equinox Sun Rise and Sun Set is unmistakable and will be dissected in a forthcoming article. Did the Magdalenian Year begin plus or minus some days about October 11 to coincide with the rutting season of the Aurochs? If so, would these phenomena be understood as determined and predicted by cyclical position of the Pleiades? Near the ecliptic, the Pleiades was never far from earthly seasonal changes. The Pleiades might be understood as celestial deities, melded to the celestial auroch of the constellation Taurus – which was soon transformed into a solar god, the first such deity to be ’seen’ by our ancestors.
Sources –
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
The Power of the Sea
view from shaker village
Mystery on the Beach
Trevi Fountain
Yaquina Head, Oregon Coast
Optical Society of America.First efficient diamond Raman laser paves the way to new defense technologies and improved laser surgery
WASHINGTON, Sept. 18—Tomorrow’s lasers may come with a bit of bling, thanks to a new technology that uses man-made diamonds to enhance the power and capabilities of lasers. Researchers in Australia have now demonstrated the first laser built with diamonds that has comparable efficiency to lasers built with other materials.
This “Raman” laser has applications that range from defense technologies and trace gas detectors to medical devices and satellite mapping of greenhouse gases. The special properties of diamonds offer a stepping stone to more powerful lasers that can be optimized to produce laser light colors currently unavailable to existing technologies.
Richard Mildren of Macqaurie University in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia and Alexander Sabella of the Defence Science and Technology Organisation in Edinburgh, South Australia developed the device, described in the current issue of the Optical Society (OSA) journal Optics Letters.
“Diamond is quite a bizarre material with unique and extreme properties,” says Mildren. “Single crystal diamond is very new on the scene as an optical and laser material.”
Existing Raman lasers typically use crystals of silicon, barium nitrate or metal tungstate to amplify light created by a pump laser. Compared to these materials, diamond has a higher optical gain (ability to amplify) as well as a greater thermal conductivity (ability to conduct heat), making it ideal for high-power applications. Diamond crystals also can be made to generate a wider variety of wavelengths of light, each of which have its own applications—from ultraviolet light at 225 nanometers to far-infrared light at 100 microns.
In 2008, Mildren built the first diamond Raman laser, reported in Optics Express, OSA's open-access journal. This proof-of-principle device was only 20 percent as efficient as the best barium nitrate lasers.
In the past year, the industrial process used to grow these artificial diamonds–chemical vapor deposition–has greatly improved, allowing the synthesis of crystals with a lower birefringence (less likely to split apart an incoming beam of light).
“The material is now good enough to start moving into applications that are of real practical interest,” says Mildren.
Now Mildren's current laser, which uses a 6.7 mm long diamond, achieves an efficiency of 63.5 percent, which is competitive with the 65 percent efficiency achieved by existing Raman lasers. The device is currently optimized to produce yellow laser light useful for medical applications such as eye surgery, and other applications should be possible with different optimization schemes.
Paper: “Highly efficient diamond Raman laser,” R.P. Mildren et al., Optics Letters, Vol. 34, Issue 18, pp. 2811-2813.
About OSA
Uniting more than 106,000 professionals from 134 countries, the Optical Society (OSA) brings together the global optics community through its programs and initiatives. Since 1916 OSA has worked to advance the common interests of the field, providing educational resources to the scientists, engineers and business leaders who work in the field by promoting the science of light and the advanced technologies made possible by optics and photonics. OSA publications, events, technical groups and programs foster optics knowledge and scientific collaboration among all those with an interest in optics and photonics. For more information, visit www.osa.org.
Cat in Fauvist oilsKeats based his poem on the superstition that a girl could see her future husband in a dream if she performed certain rites on the eve of St. Agnes; that is she would go to bed without any supper, undress herself so that she was completely naked and lie on her bed with her hands under the pillow and looking up to the heavens and not to look behind. Then the proposed husband would appear in her dream, kiss her, and feast with her.
In the original version of this poem, Keats emphasized the young lovers' sexuality, but his publishers, who feared public reaction, forced him to tone down the eroticism.
| 39. The Eve of St. Agnes |
I. ST. AGNES’ Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was! | |
| The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; | |
| The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, | |
| And silent was the flock in woolly fold: | |
| Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told | 5 |
| His rosary, and while his frosted breath, | |
| Like pious incense from a censer old, | |
| Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death, | |
| Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith. | |
II. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; | 10 |
| Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, | |
| And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, | |
| Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: | |
| The sculptur’d dead, on each side, seem to freeze, | |
| Emprison’d in black, purgatorial rails: | 15 |
| Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries, | |
| He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails | |
| To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. | |
III. Northward he turneth through a little door, | |
| And scarce three steps, ere Music’s golden tongue | 20 |
| Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor; | |
| But no—already had his deathbell rung; | |
| The joys of all his life were said and sung: | |
| His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve: | |
| Another way he went, and soon among | 25 |
| Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve, | |
| And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve. | |
IV. That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; | |
| And so it chanc’d, for many a door was wide, | |
| From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, | 30 |
| The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide: | |
| The level chambers, ready with their pride, | |
| Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: | |
| The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, | |
| Star’d, where upon their heads the cornice rests, | 35 |
| With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their breasts. | |
V. At length burst in the argent revelry, | |
| With plume, tiara, and all rich array, | |
| Numerous as shadows haunting fairily | |
| The brain, new stuff d, in youth, with triumphs gay | 40 |
| Of old romance. These let us wish away, | |
| And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, | |
| Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, | |
| On love, and wing’d St. Agnes’ saintly care, | |
| As she had heard old dames full many times declare. | 45 |
VI. They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ Eve, | |
| Young virgins might have visions of delight, | |
| And soft adorings from their loves receive | |
| Upon the honey’d middle of the night, | |
| If ceremonies due they did aright; | 50 |
| As, supperless to bed they must retire, | |
| And couch supine their beauties, lily white; | |
| Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require | |
| Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. | |
VII. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: | 55 |
| The music, yearning like a God in pain, | |
| She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, | |
| Fix’d on the floor, saw many a sweeping train | |
| Pass by—she heeded not at all: in vain | |
| Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, | 60 |
| And back retir’d; not cool’d by high disdain, | |
| But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: | |
| She sigh’d for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year. | |
VIII. She danc’d along with vague, regardless eyes, | |
| Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: | 65 |
| The hallow’d hour was near at hand: she sighs | |
| Amid the timbrels, and the throng’d resort | |
| Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; | |
| ’Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, | |
| Hoodwink’d with faery fancy; all amort, | 70 |
| Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, | |
| And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. | |
IX. So, purposing each moment to retire, | |
| She linger’d still. Meantime, across the moors, | |
| Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire | 75 |
| For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, | |
| Buttress’d from moonlight, stands he, and implores | |
| All saints to give him sight of Madeline, | |
| But for one moment in the tedious hours, | |
| That he might gaze and worship all unseen; | 80 |
| Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss—in sooth such things have been. | |
X. He ventures in: let no buzz’d whisper tell: | |
| All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords | |
| Will storm his heart, Love’s fev’rous citadel: | |
| For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, | 85 |
| Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, | |
| Whose very dogs would execrations howl | |
| Against his lineage: not one breast affords | |
| Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, | |
| Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. | 90 |
XI. Ah, happy chance! the aged creature came, | |
| Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, | |
| To where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame, | |
| Behind a broad hail-pillar, far beyond | |
| The sound of merriment and chorus bland: | 95 |
| He startled her; but soon she knew his face, | |
| And grasp’d his fingers in her palsied hand, | |
| Saying, “Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; | |
| “They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race! | |
XII. “Get hence! get hence! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand; | 100 |
| “He had a fever late, and in the fit | |
| “He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: | |
| “Then there ’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit | |
| “More tame for his gray hairs—Alas me! flit! | |
| “Flit like a ghost away.”—“Ah, Gossip dear, | 105 |
| “We’re safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, | |
| “And tell me how”—“Good Saints! not here, not here; | |
| “Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.” | |
XIII. He follow’d through a lowly arched way, | |
| Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; | 110 |
| And as she mutter’d “Well-a—well-a-day!” | |
| He found him in a little moonlight room, | |
| Pale, lattic’d, chill, and silent as a tomb. | |
| “Now tell me where is Madeline,” said he, | |
| “O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom | 115 |
| “Which none but secret sisterhood may see, | |
| “When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.” | |
XIV. “St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes’ Eve— | |
| “Yet men will murder upon holy days: | |
| “Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve, | 120 |
| “And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, | |
| “To venture so: it fills me with amaze | |
| “To see thee, Porphyro!—St. Agnes’ Eve! | |
| “God’s help! my lady fair the conjuror plays | |
| “This very night: good angels her deceive! | 125 |
| “But let me laugh awhile, I’ve mickle time to grieve.” | |
XV. Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, | |
| While Porphyro upon her face doth look, | |
| Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone | |
| Who keepeth clos’d a wond’rous riddle-book, | 130 |
| As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. | |
| But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told | |
| His lady’s purpose; and he scarce could brook | |
| Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, | |
| And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. | 135 |
XVI. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, | |
| Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart | |
| Made purple riot: then doth he propose | |
| A stratagem, that makes the beldame start: | |
| “A cruel man and impious thou art: | 140 |
| “Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream | |
| “Alone with her good angels, far apart | |
| “From wicked men like thee. Go, go!—I deem | |
| “Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem. | |
XVII. “I will not harm her, by all saints I swear,” | 145 |
| Quoth Porphyro: “O may I ne’er find grace | |
| “When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, | |
| “If one of her soft ringlets I displace, | |
| “Or look with ruffian passion in her face: | |
| “Good Angela, believe me by these tears; | 150 |
| “Or I will, even in a moment’s space, | |
| “Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen’s ears, | |
| “And beard them, though they be more fang’d than wolves and bears.” | |
XVIII. “Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? | |
| “A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, | 155 |
| “Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; | |
| “Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, | |
| “Were never miss’d.”—Thus plaining, doth she bring | |
| A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; | |
| So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, | 160 |
| That Angela gives promise she will do | |
| Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. | |
XIX. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, | |
| Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide | |
| Him in a closet, of such privacy | 165 |
| That he might see her beauty unespied, | |
| And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, | |
| While legion’d fairies pac’d the coverlet, | |
| And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. | |
| Never on such a night have lovers met, | 170 |
| Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. | |
XX. “It shall be as thou wishest,” said the Dame: | |
| “All cates and dainties shall be stored there | |
| “Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame | |
| “Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, | 175 |
| “For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare | |
| “On such a catering trust my dizzy head. | |
| “Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer | |
| “The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, | |
| “Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.” | 180 |
XXI. So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. | |
| The lover’s endless minutes slowly pass’d; | |
| The dame return’d, and whisper’d in his ear | |
| To follow her; with aged eyes aghast | |
| From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, | 185 |
| Through many a dusky gallery, they gain | |
| The maiden’s chamber, silken, hush’d, and chaste; | |
| Where Porphyro took covert, pleas’d amain. | |
| His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. | |
XXII. Her falt’ring hand upon the balustrade, | 190 |
| Old Angela was feeling for the stair, | |
| When Madeline, St. Agnes’ charmed maid, | |
| Rose, like a mission’d spirit, unaware: | |
| With silver taper’s light, and pious care, | |
| She turn’d, and down the aged gossip led | 195 |
| To a safe level matting. Now prepare, | |
| Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; | |
| She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray’d and fled. | |
XXIII. Out went the taper as she hurried in; | |
| Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: | 200 |
| She clos’d the door, she panted, all akin | |
| To spirits of the air, and visions wide: | |
| No uttered syllable, or, woe betide! | |
| But to her heart, her heart was voluble, | |
| Paining with eloquence her balmy side; | 205 |
| As though a tongueless nightingale should swell | |
| Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. | |
XXIV. A casement high and triple-arch’d there was, | |
| All garlanded with carven imag’ries | |
| Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, | 210 |
| And diamonded with panes of quaint device, | |
| Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, | |
| As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damask’d wings; | |
| And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries, | |
| And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, | 215 |
| A shielded scutcheon blush’d with blood of queens and kings. | |
XXV. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, | |
| And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast, | |
| As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon; | |
| Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, | 220 |
| And on her silver cross soft amethyst, | |
| And on her hair a glory, like a saint: | |
| She seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest, | |
| Save wings, for heaven:—Porphyro grew faint: | |
| She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. | 225 |
XXVI. Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, | |
| Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; | |
| Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; | |
| Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees | |
| Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: | 230 |
| Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, | |
| Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, | |
| In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, | |
| But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. | |
XXVII. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, | 235 |
| In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay, | |
| Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d | |
| Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; | |
| Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day; | |
| Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain; | 240 |
| Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray; | |
| Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, | |
| As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. | |
XXVIII. Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced, | |
| Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, | 245 |
| And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced | |
| To wake into a slumberous tenderness; | |
| Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, | |
| And breath’d himself: then from the closet crept, | |
| Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, | 250 |
| And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept, | |
| And ’tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo!—how fast she slept. | |
XXIX. Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon | |
| Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set | |
| A table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon | 255 |
| A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:— | |
| O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! | |
| The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, | |
| The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, | |
| Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:— | 260 |
| The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. | |
XXX. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, | |
| In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d, | |
| While he from forth the closet brought a heap | |
| Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; | 265 |
| With jellies soother than the creamy curd, | |
| And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; | |
| Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d | |
| From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, | |
| From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon. | 270 |
XXXI. These delicates he heap’d with glowing hand | |
| On golden dishes and in baskets bright | |
| Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand | |
| In the retired quiet of the night, | |
| Filling the chilly room with perfume light.— | 275 |
| “And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake! | |
| “Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: | |
| “Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes’ sake, | |
| “Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.” | |
XXXII. Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm | 280 |
| Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream | |
| By the dusk curtains:—’twas a midnight charm | |
| Impossible to melt as iced stream: | |
| The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; | |
| Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: | 285 |
| It seem’d he never, never could redeem | |
| From such a stedfast spell his lady’s eyes; | |
| So mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies. | |
XXXIII. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,— | |
| Tumultuous,—and, in chords that tenderest be, | 290 |
| He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute, | |
| In Provence call’d, “La belle dame sans mercy:” | |
| Close to her ear touching the melody;— | |
| Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan: | |
| He ceased—she panted quick—and suddenly | 295 |
| Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: | |
| Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. | |
XXXIV. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, | |
| Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: | |
| There was a painful change, that nigh expell’d | 300 |
| The blisses of her dream so pure and deep | |
| At which fair Madeline began to weep, | |
| And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; | |
| While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; | |
| Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, | 305 |
| Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly. | |
XXXV. “Ah, Porphyro!” said she, “but even now | |
| “Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, | |
| “Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; | |
| “And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: | 310 |
| “How chang’d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! | |
| “Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, | |
| “Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! | |
| “Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, | |
| “For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.” | 315 |
XXXVI. Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far | |
| At these voluptuous accents, he arose, | |
| Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star | |
| Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose; | |
| Into her dream he melted, as the rose | 320 |
| Blendeth its odour with the violet,— | |
| Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows | |
| Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet | |
| Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set. | |
XXXVII. ’Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: | 325 |
| “This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!” | |
| ’Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: | |
| “No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! | |
| “Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.— | |
| “Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? | 330 |
| “I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, | |
| “Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;— | |
| “A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.” | |
XXXVIII. “My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! | |
| “Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? | 335 |
| “Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shap’d and vermeil dyed? | |
| “Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest | |
| “After so many hours of toil and quest, | |
| “A famish’d pilgrim,—saved by miracle. | |
| “Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest | 340 |
| “Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well | |
| “To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.” | |
XXXIX. ’Hark! ’tis an elfin-storm from faery land, | |
| “Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: | |
| “Arise—arise! the morning is at hand;— | 345 |
| “The bloated wassaillers will never heed:— | |
| “Let us away, my love, with happy speed; | |
| “There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,— | |
| “Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: | |
| “Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, | 350 |
| “For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.” | |
XL. She hurried at his words, beset with fears, | |
| For there were sleeping dragons all around, | |
| At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears— | |
| Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.— | 355 |
| In all the house was heard no human sound. | |
| A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door; | |
| The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, | |
| Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar; | |
| And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. | 360 |
XLI. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; | |
| Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide; | |
| Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, | |
| With a huge empty flaggon by his side; | |
| The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, | 365 |
| But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: | |
| By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:— | |
| The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;— | |
| The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groan. | |
XLII. And they are gone: ay, ages long ago | 370 |
| These lovers fled away into the storm. | |
| That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, | |
| And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form | |
| Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, | |
| Were long be-nightmar’d. Angela the old | 375 |
| Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform; | |
| The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, | |
| For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold. | |
| See Notes. |
Apples on the old apple treeby Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1850)
EL ACERCAMIENTO A ALMOTÁSIM
JORGE LUIS BORGES
Philip Guedalla escribe que la novela The approach to Al-Mu'tasim del abogado Mir Bahadur Alí, de Bombay, «es una combinación algo incómoda (a rather uncomfortable combination) de esos poemas alegóricos del Islam que raras veces dejan de interesar a su traductor y de aquellas novelas policiales que inevitablemente superan a John H. Watson y perfeccionan el horror de la vida humana en las pensiones más irreprochables de Brighton». Antes, Mr. Cecil Roberts había denunciado en el libro de Bahadur «la doble, inverosímil tutela de Wilkie Collins y del ilustre persa del siglo XII, Ferid Eddin Attar» -tranquila observación que Guedalla repite sin novedad, pero en un dialecto colérico-.
Esencialmente, ambos escritores concuerdan: los dos indican el mecanismo policial de la obra, y su undercurrent místico. Esa hibridación puede movernos a imaginar algún parecido con Chesterton; ya comprobaremos que no hay tal cosa.
La editio princeps del Acercamiento a Almotásim apareció en Bombay, a fines de 1932. El papel era casi papel de diario; la cubierta anunciaba al comprador que se trataba de la primera novela policial escrita por un nativo de Bombay City: En pocos meses, el público agotó cuatro impresiones de mil ejemplares cada una. La Bombay Quarterly Review, la Bombay Gazette, la Cdlcutta Review, la Hindustan Review (de Alahabad) y el Calcutta Englishman, dispensaron su ditirambo. Entonces Bahadur publicó una edición ilustrada que tituló The conversation with the man called Al-Mu'tasim y que subtituló hermosamente: A game with shifting mimo» (Un juego con espejos que se desplazan).
Esa edición es la que acaba de reproducir en Londres Victor Gollancz, con prólogo de Dorothy L. Sayers y con omisión -quizá misericordiosa- de las ilustraciones. La tengo a la vista; no he logrado juntarme con la primera, que presiento muy superior. A ello me autoriza un apéndice, que resume la diferencia fundamental entre la versión primitiva de 1932 y la de 1934.
Antes de examinarla -y de discutirla- conviene que yo indique rápidamente el curso general de la obra.
Su protagonista visible -no se nos dice nunca su nombre- es estudiante de derecho en Bombay. Blasfematoriamente, descree de la fe islámica de sus padres, pero al declinar la décima noche de la luna de muharram, se halla en el centro de un tumulto civil entre musulmanes e hindúes. Es noche de tambores e invocaciones: entre la muchedumbre adversa, los grandes palios de papel de la procesión musulmana se abren camino. Un ladrillo hindú vuela de una azotea; alguien hunde un puñal en un vientre; alguien ¿musulmán, hindú? muere y es pisoteado. Tres mil hombres pelean: bastón contra revólver, obscenidad contra imprecación, Dios el Indivisible contra los Dioses. Atónito, el estudiante librepensador entra en el motín. Con las desesperadas manos, mata (o piensa haber matado) a un hindú. Atronadora, ecuestre, semidormida, la policía del Sirkar interviene con rebencazos imparciales. Huye el estudiante, casi bajo las patas de los caballos. Busca los arrabales últimos. Atraviesa dos vías ferroviarias, o dos veces la misma vía. Escala el muro de un desordenado jardín, con una torre circular en el fondo.
Una chusma de perros color de luna (a lean and evil mob of mooncoloured hounds) emerge de los rosales negros. Acosado, busca amparo en la torre. Sube por una escalera de fierro -faltan algunos tramos- y en la azotea, que tiene un pozo renegrido en el centro, da con un hombre escuálido, que está orinando vigorosamente en cuclillas, a la luz de la luna. Ese hombre le confía que su profesión es robar los dientes de oro de los cadáveres trajeados de blanco que los parsis dejan en esa torre. Dice otras cosas viles y menciona que hace catorce noches que no se purifica con bosta de búfalo. Habla con evidente rencor de ciertos ladrones de caballos de Guzerat, «comedores de perros y de lagartos, hombres al cabo tan infames como nosotros dos». Está clareando: en el aire hay un vuelo bajo de buitres gordos. El estudiante, aniquilado, se duerme; cuando despierta, ya con el sol bien alto, ha desaparecido el ladrón. Han desaparecido también un par de cigarros de Trichinópoli y unas rupias de plata. Ante las amenazas proyectadas por la noche anterior, el estudiante resuelve perderse en la India. Piensa que se ha mostrado capaz de matar un idólatra, pero no de saber con certidumbre si el musulmán tiene más razón que el idólatra. El nombre de Guzerat no lo deja, y el de una malka-sansi (mujer de casta de ladrones) de Palanpur, muy preferida por las imprecaciones y el odio del despojador de cadáveres. Arguye que el rencor de un hombre tan minuciosamente vil importa un elogio.
Resuelve -sin mayor esperanza- buscarla. Reza, y emprende con segura lentitud el largo camino. Así acaba el segundo capítulo de la obra.
Imposible trazar las peripecias de los diecinueve restantes. Hay una vertiginosa pululación de dramatis personae -para no hablar de una biografía que parece agotar los movimientos del espíritu humano (desde la infamia hasta la especulación matemática) y de la peregrinación que comprende la vasta geografía del Indostán-. La historia comenzada en Bombay sigue en las tierras bajas de Palanpur, se demora una tarde y una noche en la puerta de piedra de Bikanir, narra la muerte de un astrólogo ciego en un albañal de Benarés, conspira en el palacio multiforme de Katmandú, reza y fornica en el hedor pestilencial de Calcuta, en el Machua Bazar, mira nacer los días en el mar desde una escribanía de Madrás, mira morir las tardes en el mar desde un balcón en el estado de Travancor, vacila v mata en Indaptir y cierra su órbita de leguas y de años en el mismo Bombay, a pocos pasos del jardín de los perros color de luna. El argumento es éste: Un hombre, el estudiante incrédulo y fugitivo que conocemos, cae entre gente de la clase más vil y se acomoda a ellos, en una especie de certamen de infamias. De golpe -con el milagroso espanto de Robinsón ante la huella de un pie humano en la arena-- percibe alguna mitigación de esa infamia: tina ternura, una exaltación, un silencio, en uno de los hombres aborrecibles. «Fue como si hubiera terciado en el diálogo un interlocutor más complejo.» Sabe que el hombre vil que está conversando con él es incapaz de ese momentáneo decoro; de ahí postula que éste tia reflejado a un amigo, o arraigo de un amigo. Repensando el problema, llega a una convicción misteriosa: En algún punto de la tierra hay un hombre de quien procede esa claridad; en algún punto de la tierra está el hombre que es igual a esa claridad. El estudiante resuelve dedicar su vida a encontrarlo.
Ya el argumento general se entrevé: la insaciable busca de un alma a través de los delicados reflejos que ésta ha dejado en otras: en el principio, el tenue rastro de una sonrisa o de una palabra; en el fin, esplendores diversos y crecientes de la razón, de la imaginación y del bien. A medida que los hombres interrogados han conocido más de cerca a Almotásim, su porción divina es mayor, pero se entiende que son meros espejos.
El tecnicismo matemático es aplicable: la cargada novela de Bahadur es una progresión ascendente, cuyo término final es el presentido «hombre que se llama Almotásim». El inmediato antecesor de Almotásim es un librero persa de suma cortesía y felicidad; el que precede a ese librero es un santo... Al cabo de los años, el estudiante llega a una galería «en cuyo fondo hay una puerta y una estera barata con muchas cuentas y atrás un resplandor». El estudiante golpea las manos una y dos veces y pregunta por Almotásim.
Una voz de hombre -la increíble voz de Almotásim- lo insta a pasar. El estudiante descorre la cortina y avanza. En ese punto la novela concluye.
Si no me engaño, la buena ejecución de tal argumento impone dos obligaciones al escritor: una, la variada invención de rasgos proféticos; otra, la de que el héroe prefigurado por esos rasgos no sea una mera convención o fantasma. Bahadur satisface la primera; no sé hasta dónde la segunda. Dicho sea con otras palabras: el inaudito y no mirado Almotásim debería dejarnos la impresión de un carácter real, no de un desorden de superlativos insípidos. En la versión de 1932, las notas sobrenaturales ralean: «el hombre llamado Almotásim» tiene su algo de símbolo, pero no carece de rasgos idiosincrásicos, personales. Desgraciadamente, esa buena conducta literaria no perduró.
En la versión de 1934 -la que tengo a la vista- la novela decae en alegoría: Almotásim es emblema de Dios y los puntuales itinerarios del héroe son de algún modo los progresos del alma en el ascenso místico. Hay pormenores afligentes: un judío negro de Kochín que habla de Almotásim, dice que su piel es oscura; un cristiano lo describe sobre una torre con los brazos abiertos; un lama rojo lo recuerda sentado «como esa imagen de manteca de yak que yo modelé y adoré en el monasterio de Tashilhunpo». Esas declaraciones quieren insinuar un Dios unitario que se acomoda a las desigualdades humanas. La idea es poco estimulante, a mi ver. No diré lo mismo de esta otra: la conjetura de que también el Todopoderoso está en busca de Alguien, y ese Alguien de Alguien superior (o simplemente imprescindible e igual) y así hasta el Fin -o mejor, el Sinfín- del Tiempo, o en forma cíclica. Almotásim (el nombre de aquel octavo Abbasida que fue vencedor en ocho batallas, engendró ocho varones y ocho mujeres, dejó ocho mil esclavos y reinó durante un espacio de ocho años, de ocho lunas y de ocho días) quiere decir etimológicamente «El buscador de amparo». En la versión de 1932, el hecho de que el objeto de la peregrinación fuera un peregrino, justificaba de oportuna manera la dificultad de encontrarlo; en la de 1934, da lugar a la teología extravagante que declaré. Mir Bahadur Alí, lo hemos visto, es incapaz de soslayar la más burda de las tentaciones del arte: la de ser un genio.
Releo lo anterior y temo no haber destacado bastante las virtudes del libro. Hay rasgos muy civilizados: por ejemplo, cierta disputa del capítulo diecinueve en la que se presiente que es amigo de Almotásim un contendor que no rebate los sofismas del otro, «para no tener razón de un modo triunfal».
Se entiende que es honroso que un libro actual derive de uno antiguo: ya que a nadie le gusta (como dijo Johnson) deber nada a sus contemporáneos. Los repetidos pero insignificantes contactos del Ulises de Joyce con la Odisea homérica, siguen escuchando -nunca sabré por qué- la atolondrada admiración de la crítica; los de la novela de Bahadur con el venerado Coloquio de los pájaros de Farid ud-din Attar, conocen el no menos misterioso aplauso de Londres, y aun de Alahabad y Calcuta. Otras derivaciones no faltan.
Algún inquisidor ha enumerado ciertas analogías de la primera escena de la novela con el relato de Kipling On the City Vall,; Bahadur las admite, pero alega que sería muy anormal que dos pinturas de la décima noche de muharram no coincidieran... Eliot, con más justicia, recuerda los setenta cantos de la incompleta alegoría The Faërie Queene, en los que no aparece una sola vez la heroína, Gloriana -como lo hace notar una censura de Richard William Church (Spenser, 1879). Yo, con toda humildad, señalo un precursor lejano y posible: el cabalista de Jerusalén, Isaac Luria, que en el siglo xvi propaló que el alma de un antepasado o maestro puede entrar en el alma de un desdichado, para confortarlo o instruirlo. Ibbür se llama esa variedad de la metempsicosis.1
Nota
1 En el decurso de esta noticia, me he referido al Mantiq al-Tayr (Coloquio de los pájaros) del místico persa Farid al-Din Abú Talib Muhámmad ben lbrahim Attar a quien mataron los soldados de Tule, hijo de Zingis Jan, cuando Nishapur fue expoliada. Quizá no huelgue resumir el poema. El remoto rey de los pájaros, el Simurg, deja caer en el centro de la China una pluma espléndida; los pájaros resuelven buscarlo, hartos de su antigua anarquía. Saben que el nombre de su rey quiere decir treinta pájaros; saben que su alcázar está en el Kaf, la montaña circular que rodea la tierra. Acometen la casi infinita aventura; superan siete valles, o mares; el nombre del penúltimo es «Vértigo»; el último se llama «Aniquilación». Muchos peregrinos desertan; otros perecen. Treinta, purificados por los trabajos, pisan la montaña del Simurg. Lo contemplan al fin: perciben que ellos son el Simurg y que el Simurg es cada uno de ellos y todos. (También Plotino-Enéodas,V 8, 4 -declara una extensión paradisíaca del principio de identidad: Todo, en el cielo inteligible, está en todas partes. Cualquier cosa es todas las cosas. El sol es todas las estrellas, y cada estrella es todas las estrellas y el sol.) El Mantiq al-Tayr ha sido vertido al francés por Garcín de Tassy; al inglés por Edward FitzGerald; para esta nota, he consultado el décimo tomo de Las mil y uno noches de Burton y la monografa The Persion mystics: Attar (1932) de Margaret Smith. Los contactos de ese poema con la novela de Mir Bahadur Alí no son excesivos. En el vigésimo capítulo, unas palabras atribuidas por un librero persa a Almotásim son, quizá, la magnificación de otras que ha dicho el héroe; ésa y otras ambiguas analogías pueden significar la identidad del buscado y del buscador; pueden también significar que éste influye en aquél. Otro capítulo insinúa que Almotásim es el «hindú» que el estudiante cree haber matado.The Cask of Amontillado
by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1846)
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 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 skilful 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 Luchresi. If any one has a critical turn it is he. He will tell me --"
"Luchresi 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. Luchresi--"
"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 Luchresi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontillado."
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm; and 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 upon 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," he said.
"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 Luchresi --"
"Enough," he said; "the cough's 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 long walls of piled skeletons, with casks and puncheons intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the 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 from beneath the folds of my roquelaire a trowel.
"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 crypt or 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 Luchresi --"
"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 uncovered 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 will 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 return only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick; it was the dampness of the catacombs that made it so. 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!
