"Smith, Clark Ashton - Tales of Averoigne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Clark Ashton)

Christian authors. My host, I soon discovered, was a scholar of
uncommon attainments, with an erudition, a ready familiarity with
both ancient and modern literature that made my own seem as that of
the merest beginner by comparison. He, on his part, was so good as to
commend my far from perfect Latin, and by the time I had emptied my
bottle of red wine we were chatting familiarly like old friends.
All my fatigue had now flown, to be succeeded by a rare sense of
well-being, of physical comfort combined with mental alertness and
keenness. So, when the abbot suggested that we pay a visit to the
library, I assented with alacrity.
He led me down a long corridor, on each side of which were cells
belonging to the brothers of the order, and unlocked, with a huge
brazen key that depended from his girdle, the door of a great room with
lofty ceiling and several deep-set windows. Truly, he had not
exaggerated the resources of the library; for the long shelves were
overcrowded with books, and many volumes were piled high on the
tables or stacked in corners. There were rolls of papyrus, of parchment,
of vellum; there were strange Byzantine or Coptic bibles; there were old
Arabic and Persian manuscripts with floriated or jewel-studded covers;
there were scores of incunabula from the first printing-presses; there
were innumerable monkish copies of antique authors, bound in wood
or ivory, with rich illuminations and lettering that was often in itself a
work of art.
With a care that was both loving and meticulous, the abbot Hilaire
brought out volume after volume for my inspection. Many of them I
had never seen before; some were unknown to me even by fame or
rumor. My excited interest, my unfeigned enthusiasm, evidently
pleased him, for at length he pressed a hidden spring in one of the
library tables and drew out a long drawer, in which, he told me, were
certain treasures that he did not care to bring forth for the edification or
delectation of many, and whose very existence was undreamed of by
the monks.
'Here,' he continued, 'are three odes by Catullus which you will not
find in any published edition of his works. Here, also, is an original
manuscript of Sappho Љ a complete copy of a poem otherwise extant
only in brief fragments; here are two of the lost tales of Miletus, a letter
of Perides to Aspasia, an unknown dialogue of Plato and an old
Arabian work on astronomy, by some anonymous author, in which the
theories of Copernicus are anticipated. And, lastly, here is the
somewhat infamous Histoire d'Amour, by Bernard de Vaillantcoeur,
which was destroyed immediately upon publication, and of which only
one other copy is known to exist.'.
As I gazed with mingled awe and curiosity on the unique, unheard-
of treasures he displayed, I saw in one corner of the drawer what
appeared to be a thin volume with plain untitled binding of dark
leather. I ventured to pick it up, and found that it contained a few
sheets of ciosely written manuscript in old French.
'And this?' I queried, turning to look at Hilaire, whose face, to my
amazement, had suddenly assumed a melancholy and troubled
expression.