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

'It were better not to ask, my son.' He crossed himself as he spoke,
and his voice was no longer mellow, but harsh, agitated, full of a
sorrowful perturbation. 'There is a curse on the pages that you hold in
your hand: an evil spell, a malign power is attached to them, and he
who would venture to peruse them is henceforward in dire peril both of
body and soul.' He took the little volume from me as he spoke, and
returned it to the drawer, again crossing himself carefully as he did so.
'But, father,' I dared to expostulate, 'how can such things be? How
can there be danger in a few written sheets of parchment?'
'Christophe, there are things beyond your understanding, things
that it were not well for you to know. The might of Satan is
manifestable in devious modes, in diverse manners; there are other
temptations than those of the world and the flesh, there are evils no less
subtle than irresistible, there are hidden heresies, and necromancies
other than those which sorcerers practise.'
'With what, then, are these pages concerned, that such occult peril,
such unholy power lurks within them?'
'I forbid you to ask.' His tone was one of great rigor, with a finality
that dissuaded me from further questioning.
'For you, my son,' he went on, 'the danger would be doubly great,
because you are young, ardent, full of desires and curiosities. Believe
me, it is better to forget that you have ever seen this manuscript.' He
closed the hidden drawer, and as he did so, the melancholy troubled
look was replaced by his former benignity.
'Now,' he said, as he turned to one of the book-shelves, 'I will show
you the copy of Ovid that was owned by the poet Petrarch.' He was
again the mellow scholar, the kindly, jovial host, and it was evident that
the mysterious manuscript was not to be referred to again. But his odd
perturbation, the dark and awful hints he had let fall, the vague terrific
terms of his proscription, had all served to awaken my wildest curiosity,
and, though I felt the obsession to be unreasonable, I was quite unable
to think of anything else for the rest of the evening. All manner of
speculations, fantastic, absurd, outrageous, ludicrous, terrible, defiled. ў
through my brain as I duly admired the incunabula which Hilaire took
down so tenderly from the shelves for my delectation.
At last, toward midnight, he led me to my room Љ a room
especially reserved for visitors, and with more of comfort, of actual
luxury in its hangings, carpets and deeply quilted bed than was
allowable in the cells of the monks or of the abbot himself. Even when
Hilaire had withdrawn, and I had proved for my satisfaction the
softness of the bed allotted me, my brain still whirled with questions
concerning the forbidden manuscript. Though the storm had now
ceased, it was long before I fell asleep; but slumber, when it finally
came, was dreamless and profound.
When I awoke, a river of sunshine clear as molten gold was pouring
through my wmdow. The storm had wholly vanished, and no lightest
tatter of cloud was visible anywhere in the pale-blue October heavens. I
ran to the window and peered out on a world of autumnal forest and
fields all a-sparkle with the diamonds of rain. All was beautiful, all was
idyllic to a degree that could be fully appreciated only by one who had