čtvrtek 13. dubna 2023

(Learn English through stories) Berenice by Edgar Allan Poe - Level 1,4 / Berenice horor + četba z knihy CZ

Berenice


 Berenice by Edgar Allan Poe


Egaeus is my name.
My family - I will not name it - is one of the oldest in the land.
We have lived here, inside the walls of this great house, for many hundreds of years.
I sometimes walk through its silent rooms.

Each one is richly decorated, by the hands of only the finest workmen.
But my favourite has always been the library.
It is here, among books, that I have always spent most of my time.

My mother died in the library; I was born here.
Yes, the world heard my first cries here; and these walls, the books that stand along them are among the first things I can remember in my life.

I was born here in this room, but my life did not begin here. 
I know I lived another life before the one I am living now. 
I can remember another time, like a dream without shape or body: a world of eyes, sweet sad sounds and silent shadows.

I woke up from that long night, my eyes opened, and I saw the light of day again - here in this room full of thoughts and dreams.
As a child, I spent my days reading in this library, and my young days dreaming here.

The years passed, I grew up without noticing it, and soon I found that I was no longer young.
I was already in the middle of my life, and I was still living here in the house of my fathers.

I almost never left the house, and I left the library less and less. 
And so, slowly, the real world - life in the world outside these walls - began to seem like a dream to me.
The wild ideas, the dreams inside my head were my real world.

They were my whole life. 
Berenice and I were cousins.
She and I grew up together here in this house.
But we grew so differently.
I was the weak one, so often sick, always lost in my dark and heavy thoughts.
She was the strong, healthy one, always so full of life, always shining like a bright new sun.

She ran over the hills under the great blue sky while I studied in the library.
I lived inside the walls of my mind, fighting with the most difficult and painful ideas.
She walked quickly and happily through life, never thinking of the shadows around her. I watched our young years flying away on the silent wings of time.

Berenice never thought of tomorrow. She lived only for the day.
Berenice - I call out her name - Berenice! 
And a thousand sweet voices answer me from the past.
I can see her clearly now, as she was in her early days of beauty and light.
I see her... and then suddenly all is darkness, mystery and fear.

Her bright young days ended when an illness - a terrible illness - came down on her like a sudden storm.
I watched the dark cloud pass over her.
I saw it change her body and mind completely. 
The cloud came and went, leaving someone I did not know.
Who was this sad person I saw now? 
Where was my Berenice, the Berenice I once knew?

This first illness caused several other illnesses to follow.
One of these was a very unusual type of epilepsy. This epilepsy always came suddenly, without warning.
Suddenly, her mind stopped working.

She fell to the ground, red in the face, shaking all over, making strange sounds, her eyes not seeing any more.
The epilepsy often ended with her going into a kind of very deep sleep.
Sometimes, this sleep was so deep that it was difficult to tell if she was dead or not.

Often she woke up from the sleep as suddenly as the epilepsy began.
She would just get up again as if nothing was wrong.
It was during this time that my illness began to get worse.
I felt it growing stronger day by day.
I knew I could do nothing to stop it.
And soon, like Berenice, my illness changed my life completely.

It was not my body that was sick; it was my mind. It was an illness of the mind.
I can only describe it as a type of monomania. I often lost myself for hours, deep in thought about something - something so unimportant that it seemed funny afterwards.

But I am afraid it may be impossible to describe how fully I could lose myself in the useless study of even the simplest or most ordinary object.
I could sit for hours looking at one letter of a word on a page.

I could stay, for most of a summer's day, watching a shadow on the floor.
I could sit without taking my eyes off a wood fire in winter, until it burnt away to nothing.
I could sit for a whole night dreaming about the sweet smell of a flower.
I often repeated a single word again and again for hours until the sound of it had no more meaning for me.

When I did these things, I always lost all idea of myself, all idea of time, of movement, even of being alive.
There must be no mistake.
You must understand that this monomania was not a kind of dreaming.
Dreaming is completely different.
The dreamer -I am talking about the dreamer who is awake, not asleep - needs and uses the mind to build his dream.

Also, the dreamer nearly always forgets the thought or idea or object that began his dream.
But with me, the object that began the journey into deepest thought always stayed in my mind.
The object was always there at the centre of my thinking.
It was the centre of everything.
It was both the subject and the object of my thoughts.

My thoughts always, always came back to that object in a never-ending circle.
The object was no longer real, but still I could not pull myself away from it!
I never loved Berenice, even during the brightest days of her beauty.
This is because I have never had feelings of the heart. 
My loves have always been in the world of the mind.
In the grey light of early morning, among the dancing shadows of the forest, in the silence of my library at night, Berenice moved quickly and lightly before my eyes.

I never saw my Berenice as a living Berenice.
For me, Berenice was a Berenice in a dream.
She was not a person of this world - no, I never thought of her as someone real. Berenice was the idea of Berenice.
She was something to think about, not someone to love.
And so why did I feel differently after her illness?
Why, when she was so terribly and sadly changed, did I shake and go white when she came near me?

Because I saw the terrible waste of that sweet and loving person.
Because now there was nothing left of the Berenice I once knew!
It is true I never loved her.
But I knew she always loved me - deeply. And so, one day - because I felt so sorry for her - I had a stupid and evil idea. I asked her to marry me.

Our wedding day was growing closer, and one warm afternoon I was sitting in the library.
The clouds were low and dark, the air was heavy, everything was quiet. 
Suddenly, lifting my eyes from my book, I saw Berenice standing in front of me.
She was like a stranger to me, only a weak shadow of the woman I remembered.

I could not even remember how she was before.
God, she was so thin! I could see her arms and legs through the grey clothes that hung round her wasted body.
She said nothing.
And I could not speak.
I do not know why, but suddenly 
I felt a terrible fear pressing down like a great stone on my heart.

I sat there in my chair, too afraid to move.
Her long hair fell around her face.
She was as white as snow.
She looked strangely calm and happy.
But there was no life at all in her eyes.
They did not even seem to see me.
I watched as her thin, bloodless lips slowly opened.
They made a strange smile that I could not understand.
And it was then that I saw the teeth.

Oh, why did she have to smile at me! Why did I have to see those teeth?
I heard a door closing and I looked up.
Berenice was not there any more.
The room was empty.
But her teeth did not leave the room of my mind!
I now saw them more clearly than when she was standing in front of me.
Every smallest part of each tooth was burnt into my mind.
The teeth! There they were in front of my eyes - here, there, everywhere I looked. And they were so white, with her bloodless lips always moving round them!

I tried to fight this sudden, terrible monomania, but it was useless.
All I could think about, all I could see in my mind's eye was the teeth.
They were now the centre of my life.
I held them up in my mind's eye, looked at them in every light, turned them every way.

I studied their shapes, their differences; and the more I thought about them, 
the more I began to want them.
Yes, I wanted them! I had to have the teeth! 
Only the teeth could bring me happiness, could stop me from going mad.

Evening came; then darkness turned into another day; soon a second night was falling, and I sat there alone, never moving.
I was still lost in thought, in that one same thought: the teeth.
I saw them everywhere I looked - in the evening shadows, in the darkness in front of my eyes.

Then a terrible cry of horror woke me from my dreams.
I heard voices, and more cries of sadness and pain.
I got up and opened the door of the library.
A servant girl was standing outside, crying.

'Your cousin, sir' she began.
'It was her epilepsy, sir. She died this morning.'
This morning? I looked out of the window. Night was falling...
'We are ready to bury her now,' said the girl.
I found myself waking up alone in the library again.
I thought that I could remember unpleasant and excited dreams, 
but I did not know what they were.
It was midnight.

'They buried Berenice soon after dark,' I told myself again and again.
But I could only half-remember the hours since then - hours full of a terrible unknown horror.

I knew something happened during the night, but I could not remember what it was: those hours of the night were like a page of strange writing that I could not understand.

Next, I heard the high cutting scream of a woman.
I remember thinking: 'What did I do?
I asked myself this question out loud.
And the walls of the library answered me in a soft voice like mine: What did you do?
There was a lamp on the table near me, with a small box next to it. 
I knew this box well - it belonged to our family's doctor.

But why was it there, now, on the table? 
And why was I shaking like a leaf as I looked at it? 
Why was my hair standing on my head?
There was a knock on the door.
A servant came in.
He was wild with fear and spoke to me quickly, in a low, shaking voice.
I could not understand all of what he was saying.

'Some of us heard a wild cry during the night, sir' he said.
We went to find out what it was, and we found Berenice's body lying in the open, sir!' he cried.
'Someone took her out of the hole where we buried her! 
Her body was cut and bleeding! 
But worse than that, she... she was not dead, sir! She was still alive!
He pointed at my clothes.

There was blood all over them.
I said nothing.
He took my hand.
I saw cuts and dried blood on it.
I cried out, jumped to the table and tried to open the box.
I tried and tried but I could not! It fell to the floor and broke.
Dentist's tools fell out of it, and with them - so small and so white! - thirty-two teeth fell here, there, everywhere...

MISERY is manifold. 
The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, --as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. 

Overreaching the wide horizon as the rainbow! 
How is it that from beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness? 
--from the covenant of peace a simile of sorrow? But as, in ethics, evil is 
a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. 
Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.

My baptismal name is Egaeus; that of my family I will not mention. 
Yet there are no towers in the land more time-honored than my gloomy, gray, hereditary halls. Our line has been called a race of visionaries; and in many striking particulars --in the character of the family mansion -- in the frescos of the chief saloon -- in the tapestries of the dormitories -- in the chiselling of some buttresses in the armory -- but more especially in the gallery of antique paintings -- in the fashion of the library chamber -- and, lastly, in the very peculiar nature of the library's contents, there is more than sufficient evidence to warrant the belief.

The recollections of my earliest years are connected with that chamber, and with 
its volumes -- of which latter I will say no more. Here died my mother. Herein was 
I born. But it is mere idleness to say that I had not lived before -- that the soul has no previous existence. You deny it? -- let us not argue the matter. Convinced myself, 

I seek not to convince. There is, however, a remembrance of aerial forms -- of spiritual and meaning eyes -- of sounds, musical yet sad -- a remembrance which will not be excluded; a memory like a shadow, vague, variable, indefinite, unsteady; and like a shadow, too, in the impossibility of my getting rid of it while the sunlight of my reason shall exist.

In that chamber was I born. Thus awaking from the long night of what seemed, but was not, nonentity, at once into the very regions of fairy-land -- into a palace of imagination --into the wild dominions of monastic thought and erudition -- it is not singular that I gazed around me with a startled and ardent eye -- that 
I loitered away my boyhood in books, and dissipated my youth in reverie; but it is singular that as years rolled away, and the noon of manhood found me still in the mansion of my fathers -- it is wonderful what stagnation there fell upon 
the springs of my life -- wonderful how total an inversion took place in 
the character of my commonest thought. 

The realities of the world affected me as visions, and as visions only, while the wild ideas of the land of dreams became, in turn, --not the material of my every-day existence-but in very deed that existence utterly and solely in itself.

Berenice and I were cousins, and we grew up together in my paternal halls. Yet differently we grew -- I ill of health, and buried in gloom -- she agile, graceful, and overflowing with energy; hers the ramble on the hill-side -- mine the studies of the cloister -- I living within my own heart, and addicted body and soul to the most intense and painful meditation -- she roaming carelessly through life with no thought of the shadows in her path, or the silent flight of the raven-winged hours.

 Berenice! -- I call upon her name -- Berenice! -- and from the gray ruins of memory 
a thousand tumultuous recollections are startled at the sound! Ah! vividly is her image before me now, as in the early days of her light-heartedness and joy! Oh! gorgeous yet fantastic beauty! Oh! sylph amid the shrubberies of Arnheim! -- Oh!

 Naiad among its fountains! -- and then --then all is mystery and terror, and a tale which should not be told. Disease -- a fatal disease --f ell like the simoom upon her frame, and, even while I gazed upon her, the spirit of change swept, over her, pervading her mind, her habits, and her character, and, in a manner the most subtle and terrible, disturbing even the identity of her person! Alas! the destroyer came and went, and the victim -- where was she, I knew her not --or knew her no longer as Berenice.

Among the numerous train of maladies superinduced by that fatal and primary one which effected a revolution of so horrible a kind in the moral and physical being of my cousin, may be mentioned as the most distressing and obstinate in its nature, a species of epilepsy not unfrequently terminating in trance itself -- trance very nearly resembling positive dissolution, and from which her manner of recovery was in most instances, startlingly abrupt. In the mean time my own disease -- f or I have been told that I should call it by no other appelation -- my own disease, then, grew rapidly upon me, and assumed finally a monomaniac character of a novel and extraordinary form -- hourly and momently gaining vigor -- and at length obtaining over me the most incomprehensible ascendancy. 

This monomania, if I must so term it, consisted in a morbid irritability of those properties of the mind in metaphysical science termed the attentive. It is more than probable that I am not understood; but I fear, indeed, that it is in no manner possible to convey to the mind of the merely general reader, an adequate idea of that nervous intensity of interest with which, in my case, the powers of meditation 
(not to speak technically) busied and buried themselves, in the contemplation of even the most ordinary objects of the universe.

To muse for long unwearied hours with my attention riveted to some frivolous device on the margin, or in the topography of a book; to become absorbed for the better part of a summer's day, in a quaint shadow falling aslant upon the tapestry, 
or upon the door; to lose myself for an entire night in watching the steady flame of 
a lamp, or the embers of a fire; to dream away whole days over the perfume of 
a flower; to repeat monotonously some common word, until the sound, by dint of frequent repetition, ceased to convey any idea whatever to the mind; to lose all sense of motion or physical existence, by means of absolute bodily quiescence long and obstinately persevered in; -- such were a few of the most common and least pernicious vagaries induced by a condition of the mental faculties, not, indeed, altogether unparalleled, but certainly bidding defiance to anything like analysis or explanation.

Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, earnest, and morbid attention thus excited by objects in their own nature frivolous, must not be confounded in character with that ruminating propensity common to all mankind, and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent imagination. It was not even, as might be at first supposed, an extreme condition or exaggeration of such propensity, but primarily and essentially distinct and different. In the one instance, the dreamer, or enthusiast, being interested by an object usually not frivolous, imperceptibly loses sight of this object in a wilderness of deductions and suggestions issuing therefrom, until, at the conclusion of a day dream often replete with luxury, he finds the incitamentum or first cause of his musings entirely vanished and forgotten. 

In my case the primary object was invariably frivolous, although assuming, through the medium of my distempered vision, a refracted and unreal importance. 
Few deductions, if any, were made; and those few pertinaciously returning in upon the original object as a centre. The meditations were never pleasurable; and, at the termination of the reverie, the first cause, so far from being out of sight, had attained that supernaturally exaggerated interest which was the prevailing feature of the disease. In a word, the powers of mind more particularly exercised were, with me, as I have said before, the attentive, and are, with the day - dreamer, the speculative.

My books, at this epoch, if they did not actually serve to irritate the disorder, partook, it will be perceived, largely, in their imaginative and inconsequential nature, of the characteristic qualities of the disorder itself. I well remember, among others, the treatise of the noble Italian Coelius Secundus Curio "de Amplitudine Beati Regni dei"; St. Austin's great work, the "City of God"; and Tertullian "de Carne Christi," in which the paradoxical sentence "Mortuus est Dei filius; credible est quia ineptum est: et sepultus resurrexit; certum est quia impossibile est" occupied my undivided time, for many weeks of laborious and fruitless investigation.

Thus it will appear that, shaken from its balance only by trivial things, my reason bore resemblance to that ocean-crag spoken of by Ptolemy Hephestion, which steadily resisting the attacks of human violence, and the fiercer fury of the waters and the winds, trembled only to the touch of the flower called Asphodel.

 And although, to a careless thinker, it might appear a matter beyond doubt, that 
the alteration produced by her unhappy malady, in the moral condition of Berenice, would afford me many objects for the exercise of that intense and abnormal meditation whose nature I have been at some trouble in explaining, yet such was not in any degree the case. In the lucid intervals of my infirmity, her calamity, indeed, gave me pain, and, taking deeply to heart that total wreck of her fair and gentle life, I did not fall to ponder frequently and bitterly upon the wonder-working means by which so strange a revolution had been so suddenly brought to pass.

 But these reflections partook not of the idiosyncrasy of my disease, and were such as would have occurred, under similar circumstances, to the ordinary mass of mankind. True to its own character, my disorder revelled in the less important but more startling changes wrought in the physical frame of Berenice -- in the singular and most appalling distortion of her personal identity.

During the brightest days of her unparalleled beauty, most surely I had never loved her. In the strange anomaly of my existence, feelings with me, had never been of the heart, and my passions always were of the mind. Through the gray of the early morning -- among the trellised shadows of the forest at noonday -- and in the silence of my library at night, she had flitted by my eyes, and I had seen her -- not as the living and breathing Berenice, but as the Berenice of a dream -- not as a being of the earth, earthy, but as the abstraction of such a being-not as a thing to admire, but to analyze -- not as an object of love, but as the theme of the most abstruse although desultory speculation. And now -- now I shuddered in her presence, and grew pale at her approach; yet bitterly lamenting her fallen and desolate condition, I called to mind that she had loved me long, and, in an evil moment, I spoke to her of marriage.

And at length the period of our nuptials was approaching, when, upon an afternoon in the winter of the year, --one of those unseasonably warm, calm, and misty days which are the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon*, -- I sat, (and sat, as I thought, alone,) in the inner apartment of the library. But uplifting my eyes I saw that Berenice stood before me.

*For as Jove, during the winter season, gives twice seven days of warmth, men have called this clement and temperate time the nurse of the beautiful Halcyon --Simonides.

Was it my own excited imagination -- or the misty influence of the atmosphere -- or the uncertain twilight of the chamber -- or the gray draperies which fell around her figure --that caused in it so vacillating and indistinct an outline? I could not tell. 
She spoke no word, I -- not for worlds could I have uttered a syllable. 

An icy chill ran through my frame; a sense of insufferable anxiety oppressed me; 
a consuming curiosity pervaded my soul; and sinking back upon the chair, 
I remained for some time breathless and motionless, with my eyes riveted upon 
her person. Alas! its emaciation was excessive, and not one vestige of the former being, lurked in any single line of the contour. My burning glances at length fell upon the face.

The forehead was high, and very pale, and singularly placid; and the once jetty hair fell partially over it, and overshadowed the hollow temples with innumerable ringlets now of a vivid yellow, and Jarring discordantly, in their fantastic character, with the reigning melancholy of the countenance. The eyes were lifeless, and lustreless, and seemingly pupil-less, and I shrank involuntarily from their glassy stare to the contemplation of the thin and shrunken lips. They parted; and in a smile of peculiar meaning, the teeth of the changed Berenice disclosed themselves slowly to my view. Would to God that I had never beheld them, or that, having done so, I had died!

The shutting of a door disturbed me, and, looking up, I found that my cousin had departed from the chamber. But from the disordered chamber of my brain, had not, alas! departed, and would not be driven away, the white and ghastly spectrum of the teeth. Not a speck on their surface -- not a shade on their enamel --not an indenture in their edges --but what that period of her smile had sufficed to brand in upon my memory. I saw them now even more unequivocally than 
I beheld them then. The teeth! -- the teeth! -- they were here, and there, and everywhere, and visibly and palpably before me; long, narrow, and excessively white, with the pale lips writhing about them, as in the very moment of their first terrible development. 

Then came the full fury of my monomania, and I struggled in vain against its strange and irresistible influence. In the multiplied objects of the external world 
I had no thoughts but for the teeth. For these I longed with a phrenzied desire. 
All other matters and all different interests became absorbed in their single contemplation. They --they alone were present to the mental eye, and they, in their sole individuality, became the essence of my mental life. I held them in every light. 
I turned them in every attitude. I surveyed their characteristics.

 I dwelt upon their peculiarities. I pondered upon their conformation. I mused upon the alteration in their nature. I shuddered as I assigned to them in imagination a sensitive and sentient power, and even when unassisted by the lips, a capability of moral expression. Of Mad'selle Salle it has been well said, "que tous ses pas etaient des sentiments," and of Berenice I more seriously believed que toutes ses dents etaient des idees. Des idees! -- ah here was the idiotic thought that destroyed me! Des idees! -- ah therefore it was that I coveted them so madly! I felt that their possession could alone ever restore me to peace, in giving me back to reason.

And the evening closed in upon me thus-and then the darkness came, and tarried, and went --and the day again dawned --and the mists of a second night were now gathering around --and still I sat motionless in that solitary room; and still I sat buried in meditation, and still the phantasma of the teeth maintained its terrible ascendancy as, with the most vivid hideous distinctness, it floated about amid the changing lights and shadows of the chamber.

 At length there broke in upon my dreams a cry as of horror and dismay; and thereunto, after a pause, succeeded the sound of troubled voices, intermingled with many low moanings of sorrow, or of pain. I arose from my seat and, throwing open one of the doors of the library, saw standing out in the antechamber a servant maiden, all in tears, who told me that Berenice was --no more. She had been seized with epilepsy in the early morning, and now, at the closing in of the night, the grave was ready for its tenant, and all the preparations for the burial were completed.

I found myself sitting in the library, and again sitting there alone. It seemed that 
I had newly awakened from a confused and exciting dream. I knew that it was now midnight, and I was well aware that since the setting of the sun Berenice had been interred. But of that dreary period which intervened I had no positive -- at least no definite comprehension. Yet its memory was replete with horror -- horror more horrible from being vague, and terror more terrible from ambiguity. 

It was a fearful page in the record my existence, written all over with dim, and hideous, and unintelligible recollections. I strived to decypher them, but in vain; while ever and anon, like the spirit of a departed sound, the shrill and piercing shriek of a female voice seemed to be ringing in my ears. I had done a deed -- 
what was it? I asked myself the question aloud, and the whispering echoes of 
the chamber answered me, "what was it?"

On the table beside me burned a lamp, and near it lay a little box. It was of no remarkable character, and I had seen it frequently before, for it was the property of the family physician; but how came it there, upon my table, and why did 
I shudder in regarding it? 

These things were in no manner to be accounted for, and my eyes at length dropped to the open pages of a book, and to a sentence underscored therein. 
The words were the singular but simple ones of the poet Ebn Zaiat, "Dicebant mihi sodales si sepulchrum amicae visitarem, curas meas aliquantulum fore levatas." Why then, as I perused them, did the hairs of my head erect themselves on end, and the blood of my body become congealed within my veins?

There came a light tap at the library door, and pale as the tenant of a tomb, 
a menial entered upon tiptoe. His looks were wild with terror, and he spoke to me in a voice tremulous, husky, and very low. What said he? -- some broken sentences 
I heard. He told of a wild cry disturbing the silence of the night -- of the gathering together of the household-of a search in the direction of the sound; --and then his tones grew thrillingly distinct as he whispered me of a violated grave -- of 
a disfigured body enshrouded, yet still breathing, still palpitating, still alive!

He pointed to garments;-they were muddy and clotted with gore. I spoke not, and he took me gently by the hand; -- it was indented with the impress of human nails. He directed my attention to some object against the wall; -- I looked at it for some minutes; -- it was a spade. With a shriek I bounded to the table, and grasped the box that lay upon it. But I could not force it open; and in my tremor it slipped from my hands, and fell heavily, and burst into pieces; and from it, with a rattling sound, there rolled out some instruments of dental surgery, intermingled with thirty-two small, white and ivory-looking substances that were scattered to and fro about the floor.



BERENICE -  [CZ]
strašná převaha, když se s nejživější ohavnou odlišností vznášela mezi měnícími se světly a stíny komory. Nakonec do mých snů pronikl výkřik hrůzy a zděšení; a pak po pauze následoval zvuk ustaraných hlasů, promíchaných s mnoha tichými sténáními smutku nebo bolesti. Vstal jsem ze svého místa, otevřel jsem jedny z dveří knihovny a uviděl v předsíni stát služebnou pannu, celou v slzách, která mi řekla, že Berenice už není. Brzy ráno ji zachvátila epilepsie a nyní, když se končila noc, byl hrob připraven pro svého nájemníka a všechny přípravy na pohřeb byly dokončeny.
Zjistil jsem, že sedím v knihovně a zase tam sedím sám. Zdálo se, že jsem se nově probudil ze zmateného a vzrušujícího snu. Věděl jsem, že je teď půlnoc, a dobře jsem si uvědomoval, že od západu slunce byla Berenice pohřbena. Ale z toho bezútěšného období, které zasáhlo, jsem neměl nic pozitivního - alespoň žádné určité pochopení. Přesto byla jeho paměť plná hrůzy – hrůza ještě strašlivější z toho, že byla vágní, a hrůza ještě strašlivější z nejednoznačnosti. Byla to děsivá stránka v záznamu o mé existenci, všude napsaná matnými, ohavnými a nesrozumitelnými vzpomínkami. Snažil jsem se je dešifrovat, ale marně; i když se mi zdálo, jako by mi v uších zvonil pronikavý a pronikavý výkřik ženského hlasu jako duch odcházejícího zvuku. Udělal jsem skutek -- co to bylo? Položil jsem si otázku nahlas a šeptající ozvěny komory mi odpověděly: "Co to bylo?"