«Un Drácula de las colinas»: Amy Lowell; poema y análisis.
«Sé que me muero. Pero no moriré.
Ya verás. Encontraré la manera.
Aunque me entierren, viviré,
si hay un Diablo que me ayude.»
Ya verás. Encontraré la manera.
Aunque me entierren, viviré,
si hay un Diablo que me ayude.»
Un Drácula de las colinas (A Dracula of the Hills) es un poema de vampiros [en verso libre] de la escritora norteamericana Amy Lowell (1874-1925), publicado originalmente en la edición de junio de 1923 de la revista The Century Magazine, y luego reeditado de manera póstuma en la antología de 1926: Viento del Este (East Wind). Un par de décadas después, August Derleth lo incluiría en la colección de 1947: El lado oscuro de la luna: poemas de fantasía y lo macabro (Dark of the Moon: Poems of Fantasy and the Macabre)
El poema de Amy Lowell: Un Drácula de las colinas, es una de las piezas más extrañas con las que nos hemos topado en El Espejo Gótico. Todo gira en torno a Florella Perry, una mujer joven y hermosa que enferma repentinamente de tuberculosis y, según sus vecinos, comienza el lento y doloroso proceso de convertirse en vampiro [ver: Bloofer Lady: la transformación de Lucy Westenra]
Florella es una vampiresa interesante. No hay otra en la ficción exactamente como ella, aunque comparte algunas características físicas con las protagonistas de Lamia y La Belle Dame Sans Merci de John Keats, y especialmente con Ligeia de Edgar Allan Poe [ambas son incapaces de renunciar a la vida, aunque eso implique arrebatársela a los vivos], pero en el contexto rural de Nueva Inglaterra. Es interesante, entre otras cosas, porque Amy Lowell rechaza al vampiro europeo y, en cambio, recurre a supersticiones autóctonas. Paradójicamente, incorpora el nombre Drácula, tal vez el vampiro europeo más prominente, en el título de su poema. Podría haber escrito simplemente Un vampiro de las colinas, sin embargo, eligió Drácula. Veremos las razones de esto más adelante.
Florella sigue el patrón del vampire panic de Nueva Inglaterra a fines del siglo XVIII y comienzos del XIX, que fue una reacción a sucesivos brotes de tuberculosis. Florella asesina en silencio desde la tumba, comenzando con su esposo, Joe. Amy Lowell sitúa este drama en un período posterior, tal vez a fines del siglo XIX. Esto queda establecido por los pobladores más ancianos, quienes recuerdan «cosas que habían sucedido años atrás» y por una declaración de la Oradora [«no era la primera vez que algo así sucedía»]. Además, tenemos al médico local, el doctor Smilie, quien diagnostica a Florella, y luego a Joe, como enfermos de tuberculosis, no como potenciales vampiros. No hay un Van Helsing en esta historia.
Un Drácula de las colinas es un poema en verso libre, al estilo de una balada. La Oradora es una vecina de Florella, llamada Becky Wales. Toda la historia se desarrolla desde su perspectiva, aunque de vez en cuando incorpora episodios cruciales de oídas, que no pudo presenciar por ser demasiado joven. Becky rememora el incidente en su adultez, y aunque algunos de estos recuerdos están «todos mezclados», declara que hay «algunas cosas extrañas y aterradoras de las que no puedo olvidarme por mucho que lo intente».
Florella Perry es una mujer amable, amorosa con su marido, que ama a la naturaleza. Lamentablemente, contrae tuberculosis y es confinada a la cama. Durante este proceso, Florella se aferra a la vida con una tenacidad asombrosa. Resiste mucho más de lo esperable para la época, y aún en el peor momento de deterioro físico asegura que vencerá a la muerte, aunque sea con la ayuda del diablo. Cuando el doctor Smilie dice que ya no hay nada que hacer, Florella visita a «una mujer extraña» llamada Anabel Flesche, con reputación de conocer todos los secretos de las hierbas y semillas. En pocas palabras, Anabel es una bruja.
A pesar del conocimiento de Anabel sobre, la condición de Florella no cambia, sigue consumiéndose hasta que «no quedó nada de ella excepto ojos y huesos». Muere de noche.
Becky describe el cadáver de Florella en el funeral:
«No soporto ver un cadáver, y el de Florella era espantoso. No es que no fuera bonita; lo era. Ni siquiera la enfermedad había estropeado su belleza. Era como ella misma en un espejo, de alguna manera, un espejo viejo donde no se ve con claridad. Era como música mirarla, solo por su boca. Había una sonrisa extraña y horrible en su boca.»
Poco después, el esposo de Florella, Joe, empieza a mostrar los mismos síntomas. Al igual que su esposa, consulta con Anabel, pero el doctor Smilie interviene para que ella «deje de molestar a un hombre enfermo con sus historias de brujas».
Un día, mientras Becky está cuidando a Joe, un retrato de Florella cae al piso. Joe lo ve como un presagio de muerte y se desmaya. Becky recoge los pedazos y nota que el retrato se ha cortado a la altura de la boca, «haciendo que se vea como el cadáver de Florella». Joe no vuelve a despertar.
Después del entierro de Joe, el padre de Becky se cruza con la bruja, Anabel Flesche, quien asegura que «Joe se ha ido, pero habrá otros». Asustado, el hombre informa a las autoridades, quienes son lo suficientemente viejos como para recordar incidentes similares. Organizan la exhumación del cuerpo de Florella, de noche, «para no asustar a la gente».
Al abrir el ataúd, el cuerpo de Florella se había convertido en polvo, aunque no había pasado mucho más de un año desde su entierro. Lo único que quedaba era su corazón; estaba intacto, fresco como el de una persona viva; casi parecía latir. Despide una especie de luz propia. Irradiaba más fuerte que las luces de las lámparas. El poema concluye de la siguiente manera:
«Lo quemaron; siempre lo hacen en estos casos, nadie está a salvo hasta que se quema.
Ahora, señor, ¿duda usted de que estas cosas pasaron? Parece que ya no pasan, pero esto pasó. Puede ver la tumba de Joe en el cementerio de Penowasset si va por allí. Los feligreses no permitieron que las cenizas de Florella se devolvieran a su tumba, así que no encontrará eso. Solo un espacio abierto con un arce en el centro; plantaron el árbol para que nadie volviera a ser enterrado en ese lugar.»
Ahora, señor, ¿duda usted de que estas cosas pasaron? Parece que ya no pasan, pero esto pasó. Puede ver la tumba de Joe en el cementerio de Penowasset si va por allí. Los feligreses no permitieron que las cenizas de Florella se devolvieran a su tumba, así que no encontrará eso. Solo un espacio abierto con un arce en el centro; plantaron el árbol para que nadie volviera a ser enterrado en ese lugar.»
Ligeia, como Florella, no puede aceptar la muerte. Quiere vencerla, conquistarla; y lo logra, en cierto modo, suplantando físicamente a la nueva esposa de su marido [ver: Mi esposa nigromante: análisis de «Ligeia»]. Florella procede con más sencillez. Directamente vampiriza a su esposo.
Amy Lowell conocía a la perfección la tradición del Pánico Vampírico (Vampire Panic) de Nueva Inglaterra. Nació en el seno de una familia aristocrática de Massachusetts, muy cerca de Boston. Curiosamente, Bram Stoker, autor de Drácula (Dracula) también estaba familiarizado con el caso; de hecho, entre sus notas preliminares se encuentra un artículo periodístico sobre el tema, titulado Vampiros en Nueva Inglarerra (Vampires in New England), fechado el 2 de febrero de 1896. Un año después de la creación de Un Drácula de las colinas [y dos años antes de su publicación], H. P. Lovecraft escribió La casa maldita (The Shunned House), también inspirada en el Vampire Panic del folclore local de Nueva Inglaterra [ver: El vampiro de Benefit Street: análisis de «La Casa Maldita»]
Amy Lowell y H.P Lovecraft toman el mismo material de base pero lo desarrollan en estructuras disímiles. El Flaco de Providence odiaba el verso libre [que no se ajusta a una rima o métrica en particular], y Amy Lovell era buena en ese aspecto. No hay ningún comentario en las cartas privadas de Lovecraft, ni en las enviadas a Weird Tales, que insinúen que alguna vez leyó Un Drácula de las colinas. Creo que habría apreciado el tema, el dialecto vernáculo [que él utiliza, en menor medida, en La casa maldita] pero despreciado su ejecución. Lo cierto es que las colinas de Amy Lowell son las mismas que rodean Arkham [ver: ¡Vamos a Arkham!: Lovecraft y sus paisajes]
¿Por qué Amy Lowell introduce el nombre de Drácula en una leyenda local de Nueva Inglaterra? La respuesta es simple: publicidad. Una referencia al Drácula de Bram Stoker garantizaba un reconocimiento del tema entre los lectores y, además, capturaba el interés de los aficionados al género. Lovecraft solía hacer algo parecido, aunque con más pudor, nunca en el título, con citas de Arthur Machen y Algernon Blackwood, entre otros. Amy Lowell utiliza «Drácula» como sinónimo del más genérico «Vampiro».
La casa maldita de Lovecraft se inspiró en el caso de Mercy Brown; Amy Lowell, según escribió al editor de The Century, parece haberse inspirado en un caso de Vermont, a fines de 1890, donde se desenterró el cuerpo de una mujer para evitar que los miembros de su familia se convirtieran en sus víctimas.
Por tratarse de un poema en verso libre, decidí darle a Un Drácula de las colinas un formato más narrativo. El original en inglés puede leerse más abajo.
Un Drácula de las colinas.
A Dracula of the Hills, Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
(Traducido al español por Sebastián Beringheli para El Espejo Gótico)
Sí, entiendo que hay cierto placer en coleccionar viejas costumbres y alinearlas como una tarjeta de mariposas. Algunas son realmente pintorescas, creo, pero una cosa es parecer y otra vivir. La gente no se fija en lo pintoresco. Los tiempos han cambiado desde mi juventud; no parece el mismo mundo en el que vivía. Con los teléfonos y los automóviles, y la gente de ciudad yendo de un lado para otro en verano, muchas cosas se han desvanecido. Pero recuerdo algunos sucesos extraños; ahora, al mirar atrás.
Pasamos muchos buenos momentos, claro, pero cuando pienso en ello, se me mezclan. No puedo recordarlos todos, y hay cosas terriblemente extrañas que no puedo olvidar, por mucho que lo intente. Me gustaría olvidarme de Florella Perry, pero nunca lo lograré. No sé si se le llamaría costumbre. No era la primera vez que pasaba algo así, lo sé, pero ya no hay cosas así. Me pregunto si cambian los caminos del Señor. Superstición lo llaman, pero no lo sé. Ver es creer, como lo hizo mi padre y otros además de él. Yo no, porque era jovencita y no me dejaron, pero presencié los comienzos; y lo que mis ojos no vieron, mis oídos oyeron, y eso antes de que otros lo vieran era frío, por así decirlo.
Fue hace casi cuarenta años; era apenas una niña que se acercaba a la etapa de belleza, pero aún no la había alcanzado. Un día no pensaba más que en cintas, y al siguiente me pasaba la tarde despreocupada con los chicos. Florella me hizo mujer para ser justa; quizá fue algo bueno, ya era hora. Pero ya soy mujer desde hace bastante tiempo y me gusta recordar lo que pasó. No vivía aquí entonces; mi marido era de Rockridge y vine aquí al casarme. Me crié al otro lado de Bear Mountain, en Penowasset. Mi padre tenía la tienda allí. Lo tenían en gran estima en el pueblo y tuve una infancia feliz. No vivíamos encima de la tienda, sino más bien al final del pueblo, en una casa que mi madre recibió de su padre.
Teníamos un par de campos y un bosque, y contratábamos a un peón. Papá solía ir y venir en calesa por las mañanas y por las tardes, pero mamá y yo no echábamos de menos a nuestros vecinos. Jared Pierce tenía una granja grande y hermosa justo al lado de la nuestra, y la de Joe Perry estaba al otro lado del camino. Florella era la esposa de Joe, una criatura realmente hermosa, frágil como un plato de porcelana y brillante y pulcra como un clavel de junio bajo el sol. Amaba las flores; su jardín era como un ramillete de mayo a octubre. Nunca vi tantas flores como las suyas; nadie más podía hacerlas florecer así. Sus campanillas siempre brotaban primero en primavera, y bastaban un par de heladas para matar sus ásteres tardíos. Sabíamos que estaba enferma cuando el jardín empezaba a llenarse de maleza.
Ella y Joe llevaban casados unos siete años, Pero no serían felices. Salvo por no tener hijos, no creo que quisieran nada. Y entonces Florella enfermó. Un invierno le dio tos y no lograba recuperar las fuerzas. Cuando llegó la época de plantar, no pudo. Joe hizo lo suyo, pero ese año el jardín no era nada del otro mundo. Florella solía sentarse en su mecedora en la terraza, mirándolo y llorando.
Muchas veces me acerqué y rastrillé para ella. Al principio le gustaba que lo hiciera, pero después de un tiempo me dijo que lo dejara en paz; si no era su jardín, dijo, no le importaba nada. Habló casi con ferocidad, pensé, y no volví a acercarme por un buen rato. Cuando lo hice, Florella se había acostado. Era una especie de inválida. No podías ayudarla en nada. Te dejaba hacer cosas y te agradecía, pero siempre enojada porque tuvieras que ir. Un día estaba quitando el polvo de su habitación, y me dijo:
«Becky, no me voy a morir».
«Claro que no, Florella», dije, «¿Quién te metió eso en la cabeza?»
Se enfureció al oír eso.
«De nada sirve mentirme, Becky Wales. Sé que me muero. Pero no moriré. Ya verás. Encontraré la manera de vivir. Aunque me entierren, viviré. No puedes matarme, no soy de las que matan. ¡Viviré! ¡Viviré, te lo aseguro, si hay un Diablo que me ayude!»
Me gritó esto, incorporándose en la cama y señalando con el dedo. Tenía tanto miedo que tuve que agarrarme a una silla para no caerme. Joe entró corriendo del granero. La abrazó y la calmó, y ella rompió a llorar y se desplomó en un pequeño bulto en la gran cama. Apenas se la podía ver de tan delgada. Joe me envió a casa. Me dijo que no le hiciera caso, que era inconstante y no sabía lo que decía. Después de eso las cosas empeoraron. Florella tenía un ataque tras otro; se la podía oír llorar y gritar a lo lejos, calle abajo. Siempre era lo mismo: no moriría, nadie podía obligarla a morir. Era terriblemente lastimoso oírla. A veces gemía y gemía, y luego estallaba, enloquecida y furiosa, gritando por su vida.
Joe estaba desesperado. El doctor Smilie dijo que no había nada que hacer, salvo darle pociones tranquilizantes. Pero Florella no quería; decía que eran un poco mortales y tiraba la taza al suelo cada vez que se la daban. Entonces se le ocurrió ver a Anabel Flesche. Era una mujer rara, Anabel, vivía en un pequeño cobertizo cerca de Chester. Algunos decían que tenía sangre india, era experta en hierbas y muestras; afirmaba saber exactamente cuándo recogerlas y decía un montón de tonterías sobre la luna llena, las tres horas antes del amanecer, el rocío del segundo viernes y cosas así.
Bueno, Florella tenía hierbas, y preparaba sus infusiones y lociones de manzanilla con hojas y plantas que había recogido, y jugueteaba con trozos de cera y cuerda, pero no cambiaba nada. Se hundía sin parar, y los ataques de llanto eran cada vez más frecuentes. Lloraba casi todo el tiempo. Yo solía sentarme en la escalera cuando debería estar en la cama, escuchando. Me ponía los pelos de punta oír su pobre voz quebrada declarando que no moriría. Nunca vi a nadie con tantas ganas de vivir, aunque de hambre se moría. Incluso cuando no quedaba de ella nada más que ojos y huesos, hablaba y hablaba de la vida a la que tenía derecho, y que iba a tener, ¡pasara lo que pasara!
Era un poco solitario por aquel entonces; la mayoría de los que pasaban tenían que ir por Brook Road. No estaba tan cerca ni por dos millas, pero nadie soportaba oír a Florella llamar y gemir. No se podían contar las veces que se quedó quieta. Era un sonido horrible, como de brujas, que llegaba a través de la noche; sé que me agoté y perdí el sueño al oírlo.
Mamá y la señorita Pierce solían turnarse para cuidarla, y era un verdadero gesto de bondad, pues les ponía los nervios de punta. Un sábado por la tarde, la señorita Pierce estaba con ella cuando de repente saltó de la cama, llorando, diciendo que iba al jardín, que ya estaba bien y que no la iban a retener más. La señorita Pierce la atrapó justo cuando iba a cruzar la puerta y supongo que hubo un forcejeo. Joe lo oyó en el patio, desgranando judías. Estaba muerto de miedo, se subió la azada al hombro y entró corriendo. Florella lo vio venir con la azada al hombro y lanzó un grito terrible y salvaje:
«¡Tú también, Joe!», dijo, «¿Quieres matarme igual que a los demás? Pero no lo harás. Viviré gracias a ti.»
Se burlaba, sonreía, tosía y lo amenazaba con el dedo, y su cabeza se movía de un hombro a otro como la de una muñeca de trapo. La señorita Pierce corrió y le dijo a mamá si podría hablar un minuto, y esas fueron sus palabras. Florella amaba a Joe como solo unas pocas mujeres aman; pero para entonces estaba completamente loca, preocupada porque la vida la abandonaba y consumida por la tuberculosis. Pero a Joe no le importaba, él la amaba. Simplemente la levantó y la acostó en la cama, y ella se desmayó y nunca volvió en sí. Murió esa noche.
Lo recuerdo bien, porque los chotacabras hicieron mucho ruido la noche anterior; cuando los oí, pensé que había llegado la hora de Florella. Siempre he odiado los funerales; no soporto ver un cadáver, y el de Florella era espantoso. No es que no fuera bonita; lo era. Ni siquiera la enfermedad había estropeado su belleza. Era como ella misma en un espejo, de alguna manera, un espejo viejo donde no se ve con claridad. Era como música mirarla, solo por su boca. Había una sonrisa extraña y horrible en su boca. La hacía parecer burlona, nada que ver con el aspecto de Florella. Si cierro los ojos puedo ver esa cara ahora, azul y delgada, y los labios torcidos y congelados. Creo que he visto esa cara en mi mente todos los días durante cuarenta años, más o menos.
Bueno, la enterraron, y nosotras, las chicas, pusimos pensamientos y lobelias alrededor de su tumba y nos turnamos para cuidarla, semana tras semana. Yo había amado a Florella, y cuando murió, la recordé como era antes de que llegara su enfermedad y olvidé el resto. Dos años es mucho tiempo para ver morir a una persona, y Joe había cuidado más que la mayoría de los maridos. Se sintió un poco triste cuando todo terminó, pero los vecinos no dejaban de ir a verlo, y mi madre y la señorita Pierce lo ayudaban de vez en cuando, poco a poco se fue recuperando. Era un buen granjero y todo le iba bien, salvo su pena, que, naturalmente, nada podía aliviar cuando el invierno siguiente se pescó un fuerte resfriado.
Supongo que lo dejó pasar antes de ver al médico; en fin, se le apoderó por completo y no podía quitárselo de encima. Nadie le habría dado mucha importancia, supongo, de no ser porque Florella empezó de la misma manera. Joe no estaba preocupado; dijo que estaría bien en primavera, pero no fue así. Intentaba hacer su trabajo como siempre, pero pronto se rendía y se sentaba. Era muy paciente, pero no mejoraba. El doctor Smilie empezó a preocuparse. Un día fui con un tazón de sopa de mamá. Joe estaba sentado en el jardín, junto a un macizo de verdolaga; son flores brillantes y crueles, y Joe parecía tan gris a su lado que me sobresalté al verlo.
«Becky», dijo, «sé que querías a Florella y me gustaría que te quedaras con sus flores», añadió. «Le dejé la granja a mi hermano en Hillsborough, pero puedes cortar las flores antes de que tome posesión.»
«Joe», dije, «Joe…», y no pude articular palabra más.
«Sí», continuó, «claro que me voy. Le di todo lo que pude, pero esto no puede durar. Anabel Flesche estuvo aquí ayer y me lo contó. Con gusto la ayudaré, lo sabes, pero esto no puede durar.»
¿Se alegraba de haber ayudado a Anabel Flesche? Sabía que no lo decía en serio. Corrí directo a casa y se lo conté a mamá, y ella se lo contó a papá, y esa misma noche fueron a casa del doctor Smilie. El doctor dijo que era tuberculosis, pero ya estaba bastante enfadado con Anabel Flesche.
«Me encargaré de que esa fulana deje de hacer trampas», dijo. «Está poniendo nerviosa a un enfermo con sus historias de brujas», dijo. «La echaré del pueblo si vuelve».
Anabel no volvió, pero supongo que lo hizo a la primera, porque a Joe no parecía interesarle mucho curarse. Cuando un hombre no quiere vivir, no vive, y esa es la ley del evangelio.
Joe se deterioró tan rápido que a mediados de verano ya no había esperanza. Solía pasar mucho tiempo con él, y era curioso lo diferente que era de Florella. Creo que era el hombre más tranquilo que he conocido. No parecía disfrutar más que hablando de Florella. A veces me lo contaba todo: cómo la cortejaba, lo que ella decía y su mirada cuando la traía a casa. Me acostumbré terriblemente a lo que me contaba. He estado casada y viuda desde entonces, pero no sé si alguna vez me acerqué a esas cosas como en las conversaciones de Joe. Los hombres no se parecen, las mujeres tampoco, y los matrimonios son todos distintos. Mi matrimonio, cuando llegó, no se parecía al de Joe y Florella más que un pino a una col. Pero esta no es mi historia.
«Florella tenía una voluntad férrea», me dijo Joe una tarde.
Para entonces ya había llegado el otoño, y algunas hojas habían caído, y las que aún quedaban eran tan brillantes que parecían embellecer el sol. Joe estaba acostado en su cama con una colcha de retazos encima, preciosa, con el diseño de las escaleras de la Casa del Estado; la había hecho Florella; era maravillosamente hábil con la aguja. Toda la habitación era un rayo de sol. Justo en la chimenea colgaba un cuadro de Florella que un artista ambulante había pintado el año en que se casó. No creo que la gente de la ciudad le hubiera dado mucha importancia, pero a mí me pareció una preciosidad, una imagen viva de Florella.
«Florella tenía una voluntad férrea», dijo Joe de nuevo. «Me poseía en cuerpo y alma, y eso era un orgullo poco común para mí».
No supe qué responder, así que no lo hice.
«Supongo que todavía me posee», dijo, y no sé si realmente me estaba hablando a mí. «Me alegro de que así sea. Tenemos que ser los dos, todos o ninguno, juntos».
Sonrió ante eso, muy lenta y cansadamente, casi como si le dolieran los labios al hacerlo.
«Quizás no lo entiendas, pequeña Becky», dijo.
No sé si lo entendí o no, y no tuve oportunidad de decirlo, porque de repente el retrato de Florella se desplomó en el suelo con la cuerda rota. Casi pegué un salto, creo que también grité, pero Joe ni siquiera tembló.
«Sí», dijo, mirándome con su sonrisa firme, «Esto lo prueba. Recuerda lo que te digo. No puede durar mucho más. ¡Pobre Florella!»
Suspiró y se acostó, pensé que se había dormido. Recogí la pintura, pero el cristal la había cortado gravemente, incluso en toda la boca. Le daba el mismo aspecto que el cadáver de Florella, lo que me asustó. Temía que Joe la viera al despertar, así que la puse de cara a la pared. Pero no tenía por qué molestarme, porque Joe nunca despertó. Cuando llegó mi madre mandó llamar al doctor Smilie. No estaba muerto cuando llegó el doctor, pero estaba inconsciente y apenas respiraba; así permaneció un día y una noche.
Y entonces todo terminó. Todo terminó para Joe, sí, pero no para nosotros.
Aproximadamente una semana después del funeral, papá se cruzó con Anabel Flesche.
«Así que Joe Perry ha muerto», gimió Anabel, y papá estaba seguro de que la vieja bruja parecía complacida. Solo respondió:
«Sí, ha muerto», y siguió adelante cuando Anabel lo detuvo.
«"Florella tenía una voluntad férrea», se rió entre dientes, «¿no temes que intente con alguien más?»
«¿Qué demonios quieres decir?», gritó papá.
«Amaba la vida», dijo Anabel, de una manera extraña y astuta, «Joe se ha ido, pero hay otros».
Papá estaba tan enojado que no podía confiar en sí mismo para hablar, simplemente rascó su caballo y siguió adelante. Pero lo que dijo Anabel le dolió. Él y mamá lo hablaron esa noche. Se suponía que no debía oír, pero lo hice. Me sentí muy conmocionada por lo que había sucedido y no me atrevía a quedarme sola en la cama, así que solía escabullirme y sentarme en las escaleras hasta que papá y mamá subían.
Me reconfortaba saber que estaban en la habitación de al lado y que podía dormir. Mi madre era muy estricta y siempre me mandaban a la cama a las nueve; subían sobre las diez y yo fijaba esa hora en la escalera, desde donde podía mirar hacia la cocina. Así es como me enteré. Después dije que lo sabía y me lo contaron todo. Para resumir, mi padre y Jared Pierce fueron directamente a ver a los concejales y les contaron lo que Anabel insinuaba. Entonces, unas personas mayores recordaron cosas que habían sucedido años atrás y, atando cabos, decidieron verlo con sus propios ojos. Los concejales estaban allí, mi padre y Jared Pierce; lo hicieron de noche para no asustar a la gente.
Yo no estuve allí, pero papá me lo contó, así que creo haberlo visto: las hojas segando y cayendo, la luz de la linterna sacudiéndose en el suelo, el ruido de picos y palas. Levantaron el ataúd y lo abrieron. El cuerpo de Florella se había convertido en polvo, aunque no sería mucho más de un año después de que la enterraran, pero su corazón estaba tan fresco como el de una persona viva.
Papá dijo que brillaba como un granate cuando le quitaron la tapa al ataúd. Estaba tan vivo que casi parecía latir. Papá dijo que emanaba una luz tan fuerte que creaba sombras mucho más densas que las de la linterna, y que se extendían en otra dirección.
Lo quemaron; siempre lo hacen en estos casos, nadie está a salvo hasta que se quema.
Ahora, señor, ¿duda usted de que estas cosas pasaron? Parece que ya no pasan, pero esto pasó. Puede ver la tumba de Joe en el cementerio de Penowasset si va por allí. Los feligreses no permitieron que las cenizas de Florella se devolvieran a su tumba, así que no encontrará eso. Solo un espacio abierto con un arce en el centro; plantaron el árbol para que nadie volviera a ser enterrado en ese lugar.
Yes, I can understan' ther's a sort o' pleasure collectin' old customs
An' linin' up like a card o' butterflies.
Some on real quaint, I dessay,
But lookin's one thing an' livin's another.
Folks don't figger on th' quaintness o' th' things they're doin',
Ther' ain't no knick-knack about it then, I guess.
Times is changed since my young days,
Don't seem like th' same world I used to live in.
What with th' telephones an' th' automobiles,
An' city folks rampin' all over th' place Summers,
Lots o' things has kind o' faded out.
But I remember some queer goin's on;
They seem queer 'nough to me now, lookin' back.
We had good times a-plenty, nat'rally,
But they're all jumbled up together when I think on 'mdash,
I can't git aholt o' one more'n another,
While ther's some fearful strange things I can't ever lose a mite of,
No matter how I try.
I'd like to forgit 'bout Florella Perry,
But I ain't never be'n able to.
I don't know as you'd call it a custom,
'Twarn't th' first time th' like had happened, I know,
But ther' ain't never no such doin's nowadays.
Do the Lord's ways change, I wonder?
Superstition, you call it—but I don't know.
Seein's believin' all th' world over,
An' 'twas my own father seed
An' others besides him.
I didn't, 'cause I was a young girl an' not let,
But I watched th' beginnin's;
An' what my eyes didn't see, my ears heerd,
An' that afore other folks' seein' was cold, as you might say.
'Twas all of forty year ago;
I was jest a slip of a girl drawin' toward th' beau stage but not yit ther'.
One day I'd be thinkin' o' nothin' but ribbons,
An' th' next I'd go coastin' bellybumps all afternoon with th' boys.
Florella made me a woman for fair;
P'raps that was a good thing, 'twas time for it,
But I be'n a woman long 'nough now
An' I kind o' like to look back to what went afore.
I warn't livin' here then;
My husband was a Rockridge man
An' I come here when I married.
I was raised t'other side o' Bear Mountain to Penowasset.
Father kep' th' store ther'.
They thought a heap o' him in th' town
An' I had a happy childhood.
We didn't live over th' shop,
But quite along by th' end o' th' village
In a house my mother got from her father.
We had a couple o' fields an' a wood lot
An' kep' a hired man.
Father used to drive back an' forth in a buggy mornin's an' evenin's,
But Mother an' me didn't miss for neighbors.
Jared Pierce owned a fine big farm just beyond us,
An' Joe Perry's was t'other side th' road.
Florella was Joe's wife,
An' a real pretty creatur she was,
Fragile as a chiney plate
An' bright an' tidy as a June pink in sunshine.
She loved flowers;
Her door-yard was like a nosegay from May till October.
I never seen sich flowers as hers;
Nobody else couldn't make 'mdash bloom so,
Even when she give 'mdash th' seeds.
Her snowdrops was al'ays first up in th' Spring,
An' it took more'n a couple o' frosts to kill her late asters.
Th' way we knew she was ill was when th' garden begun to git weedy.
She an' Joe'd be'n married 'bout seven year then,
An' My! but they'd be'n happy!
Exceptin' for not havin' a child, I don't think ther' was a thing they wanted.
An' then Florella took sick.
It come with a cough one Winter,
An' she couldn't seem to git back her stren'th.
Come plantin' time, she couldn't do it.
Joe done his best, but that year th' garden warn't nothin' perticlar.
Florella used to set in her rocker on th' piazza lookin' at it an' cryin'.
Many's th' time I've slipped over an' done a little rakin' for her.
At first she liked me to do it,
But after a while she said to let it alone;
Ef it warn't her garden, she said, she didn't care nothin' 'bout it.
She spoke almost fierce, I thought, an' I didn't go over agin for quite a spell.
When I did, Florella had took to her bed.
She was a queer kind of invalid. You couldn't seem to help her any.
She'd let you do things an' thank you,
But she al'ays seemed angry that you had to come.
One day I was dustin' her room, an' she said to me:
“Becky, I ain't a-goin' to die.”
“'Course you ain't, Florella,” says I,
“Whatever put that into your head?”
She flared up at that.
“'Tain't no use lyin' to me, Becky Wales, I know I'm dyin'.
But I won't die. You'll see.
I'll find some way o' livin'.
Even ef they bury me, I'll live.
You can't kill me, I ain't th' kind to kill.
I'll live! I'll live, I tell you,
Ef there's a Devil to help me do it!”
She screamed this out at me, settin' up in bed
An' p'intin' with her finger.
I was so scared I had to grab a chair to keep from fallin',
An' Joe come runnin' in from th' barn.
He took her in his arms an' soothed her,
An' she bust out cryin' an' sunk into a little heap in th' big bed
So's you couldn't hardly see her, she was so thin.
Joe sent me home. He said not to mind Florella,
That she was flighty an' didn't know what she was sayin'.
Well, after that things got worse.
Florella had spell after spell;
You could hear her cryin' an' hollerin' way down th' road.
It was al'ays th' same thing: she wouldn't die,
Nobody could make her die.
'Twas awful pitiful to hear her takin' on.
Sometimes she'd moan an' moan,
An' then she'd break out crazy mad an' angry, screamin' for life.
Joe was at his wits' end.
Dr. Smilie said ther' warn't nothin' to do for her
'Cept give her quietin' draughts.
But Florella wouldn't take 'mdash;
She said they was a little death,
An' she'd throw down th' cup every time they give it to her.
Then she took a notion to see Anabel Flesche.
She was a queer sort of woman, was Anabel,
She lived in a little shed of a place over Chester way.
Some said she had Indian blood in her,
Anyway she was learn'd in herbs an' semples;
She claimed to know jest when to pick 'mdash,
An' she talked a lot o' foolishness about th' full o' th' moon,
An' three hours before dawn, an' th' dew o' th' second Friday,
An' things like that.
Well, Florella had her in,
An' she made her camomile teas an' lotions, out o' leaves an' plants she'd gathered,
An' fussed around with bits o' wax an' string,
But Florella didn't change none.
She kep' sinkin' an' sinkin',
An' th' cryin' spells got to comin' oftener.
She cried most o' th' time then.
I used to set in th' stair winder
When I'd oughter be'n in bed, listenin'.
It made my flesh creep to hear her poor cracked voice declarin' she wouldn't die,
An' all th' time she was dyin' plain as pikestaff.
I never see nobody so hungry for life;
She was jest starvin' for it.
Why, even when ther' warn't nothin' lef' of her but eyes an' bones,
She'd talk an' talk 'bout th' life she'd a right to, an' she was goin' to have, come what or nothin'!
It was kind o' lonesome out our way then;
Most o' th' passin' got to go by th' Brook Road.
'Twarn't so handy by a good two mile,
But nobody couldn't a-bear to hear Florella
Callin' an' wailin'.
You couldn't count ten th' times she was still.
'Twas a awful witchin' sound, comin' through th' night th' way it did;
I know I got all frazzled out losin' my sleep for hearin' it.
Mother an' Mis' Pierce used to take it in turns to watch her,
An' 'twas a real kindness to do it,
It wore th' nerves so.
One Saturday afternoon Mis' Pierce was with her,
When all of a suddint she jumped out o' bed,
Cryin' she was goin' int' th' garden,
That she was well now an' wouldn't be kep' back no more.
Mis' Pierce caught her just as she was goin' through th' door
An' ther' was a struggle, I guess.
Joe heerd where he was out in th' yard hoein' beans.
He was scared to death, an' jest heaved his hoe up onto his shoulder
An' run in as he was.
Florella seed him comin' with th' hoe up on his shoulder,
An' she screamed a fearful wild scream:
“You too, Joe!” she said,
“You want to kill me same as th' others?
But you shan't do it.
I'll live to spite you,
I'll live because o' you.”
She was mockin', an' grinnin', an' coughin',
An' menacin' him with her finger,
An' her head joggin' back an' forth from shoulder to shoulder like a rag-doll's.
Mis' Pierce run'd over an' tell'd Mother soon's she could git a minit,
An' them was her very words.
Now Florella loved Joe as only a rare few women do love;
But she was jest plumb crazy by this time,
Worryin' 'bout th' life was leavin' her, an' all eat up with consumption.
But it didn't make no diff'rence to Joe,
He loved her al'ays.
He jest picked her up an' laid her back in bed,
An' she went off unconscious an' never come to.
She died that night.
I mind it well, 'cause th' whippoorwills'd be'n so loud th' night before;
When I'd heerd 'mdash I'd thought Florella's time was come.
I've al'ays hated funerals,
I can't a-bear to look on a corpse
An' Florella's was dretful.
Not that she warn't pretty;
She was. Even her sickness hadn't sp'iled her beauty.
She was like herself in a glass, somehow,
An old glass where you don't see real clear.
'Twas like music to look at her,
Only for her mouth.
Ther' was a queer, awful smile 'bout her mouth.
It made her look jeery, not a bit th' way Florella used to look.
Ef I shut my eyes I can see that face now,
Blue, an' thin an' th' lips all twisted up an' froze so.
I guess I've seen that face in my mind every day for forty year, more or less.
Well, they buried her, an' we girls set pansies an' lobelia all about her grave
An' took turns tendin' 'mdash, week by week.
I'd loved Florella,
An', when she was dead, I rec'llected her as she was 'fore her sickness come
An' forgot th' rest.
Two years is a long time to watch a person die,
An' Joe'd done more nussin' than most husbands.
He kind o' pined when 'twas all finished,
But th' neighbors kep' a-droppin' in to see him,
An' Mother an' Mis' Pierce did him up every so often,
An' bimeby he got aholt of himself,
An' seemed to be gittin' on nicely.
He was a proper good farmer
An' things was goin' well with him,
All 'ceptin' his sorrow, which nothin' couldn't lift, nat'rally,
When th' next Winter he caught a bad cold.
I guess he let it go too far afore he saw th' doctor;
Anyhow it got a good settle on him an' he couldn't shake it off.
Nobody'd have thought much of it, I guess, but for Florella beginnin' th' same way.
Joe warn't concerned, he said he'd be all right come Spring,
But he warn't. He'd try to do his work as usual,
But soon he'd give over an' set down.
He was real patient, but he didn't git no better.
Dr Smilie begun to look grave.
One day I went over with a bowl o' soup from Mother.
Joe was settin' in th' garden, by a bed o' portulaca;
They's cruel bright flowers, an' Joe looked so grey beside
I got a start to see him.
“Becky,” says he, “I know you loved Florella,
An' I should like you to have her flowers,” says he.
“I've willed th' farm to my brother over to Hillsborough,
But you can dig up th' flowers afore he takes possession.”
“Joe,” I said, “Joe—” an' I couldn't git out another word for th' life o' me.
“Yes,” he went on, “o' course I'm goin'. I've give her all I could, but it can't last.
Anabel Flesche was here yesterday, an' she told me.
I'm glad to ease her any, you know that,
But it can't last.”
Glad to ease Anabel Flesche—I thought,
But I know'd he didn't mean that.
I run right home an' told Mother, an' she told Father,
An' that evenin' they druv down to Dr. Smilie's.
The doctor 'lowed 'twas consumption, but he was angry enough 'bout Anabel Flesche.
“I'll see that hussy stops her trapesin',” he said,
“Rilin' up a sick man with her witch stories,” he said.
“I'll witch her, I'll run her out o' town if she comes agin.”
Anabel didn't come agin, but I guess she done it th' first time,
For Joe didn't seem to take much int'rest in gittin' well.
When a man don't want to live, he don't live, an' that's gospel.
Joe went down hill so fast that by Mid-summer ther' warn't no hope.
I used to set with him a good deal,
An' 'twas queer how diff'rent he was to Florella.
I think he was th' quietest man I ever see.
He didn't seem to have no pleasure 'cept in speakin' 'bout Florella.
By times he told me everythin':
How he courted her, an' what she said, an' th' way she looked when he brought her home.
I got awful near life for a young girl with th' things he told me.
I've be'n married an' widowed since, but I don't know as I ever got nearer to things than Joe's talk brought me.
Men ain't alike, an' women ain't alike, an' marriages is th' most unlike of all.
My marriage, when it come, was no more like Joe's an' Florella's
Than a piney's like a cabbage.
But this ain't my story.
“Florella had a strong will,” says Joe to me one afternoon.
Autumn had come by then, an' some o' th' leaves had fell,
An' those that hung on were so bright they seemed to fairly smarten up th' sun.
Joe was layin' in his bed with a patchwork quilt over him,
A lovely one 'twas, the State House Steps pattern;
Florella'd made it, she was wonderful clever with her needle.
Th' whole room was a blaze o' sunshine.
Right on th' chimbley hung a picture o' Florella
Some travellin' artist had painted th' year she was married.
I don't suppose city folk would have made much of it,
But I thought 'twas a sweet pretty thing, an' th' spon-image o' Florella.
“Florella had a mighty strong will,” says Joe agin.
“She owned me body an' soul, an' that was a rare pride to me.”
I couldn't figger what to answer, so I didn't.
“I guess she owns me still,” he says, an' I don't know ef he was really talkin' to me.
“I'm glad she does. It's got to be both o' us, all or neither, together.”
He smiled at that, very slow an' tired, almost as though it hurt his lips to do it.
“Perhaps you don't understand, little Becky,” said he.
I don't know whether I did or not, an' I didn't have a chance to say,
For all of a sudden crash down come Florella's picture on th' floor with th' cord broke.
I jumped nearly out o' my skin, I expect I screamed too,
But Joe didn't so much as shiver.
“Yes,” he said, lookin' at me with his steady smile,
“This proves it. You mark my words. It can't go on much longer. Poor Florella!”
He sighed then an' layed down, an' I thought he went to sleep.
I picked up th' picture, but th' glass had cut it badly,
All about th' mouth too.
It make it look th' way Florella's corpse did an' give me a turn.
I was afeerd Joe'd see it when he waked up,
So I set it with its face aginst th' wall.
But I needn't have bothered, for Joe never waked up.
When Mother come, she didn't think he looked right,
An' she sent for Dr. Smilie.
He warn't dead when th' doctor got ther',
But he was unconscious an' hardly breathin';
He stayed like that for a day an' a night
An' then 'twas all over.
All over for Joe, yes,
But not for us.
About a week after th' funeral, Father met Anabel Flesche.
“So Joe Perry's dead,” whined Anabel, an' Father was sure th' old hag looked pleased.
He only said, “Yes, he's dead,” an' was pushin' on when Anabel stopped him.
“Florella's a determined woman,” she cackled, “ain't you afeerd she'll try somebody else?”
“What th' Hell do you mean?” cried out Father.
“She loved life,” said Anabel, in a queer, sly way,
“Joe's gone, but ther's others.”
Father was so angry he couldn't trust himself to speak,
He jest touched up his horse an' druv on.
But what Anabel said rankled.
He an' Mother talked it over that night.
I warn't supposed to hear, but I did.
I was all shook up with th' things had happened
An' I daresn't stay in bed alone with nobody near,
So I used to creep out an' set on th' stairs
Till Father an' Mother come up.
It comforted me to know they was in th' next room,
An' I could sleep then.
Mother was real strict, an' I was al'ays sent to bed at nine;
They'd come up 'bout ten, an' I'd set that hour on th' stairs
Where I could look int' th' kitchen an' see 'mdash.
That's how I come to hear.
Afterwards I 'lowed I knew, an' they told me everythin'.
Well, to make a long story short,
Father an' Jared Pierce went straight to th' Selectmen,
An' told 'mdash what Anabel was hintin'.
Then some old people rec'llected things which had happened years ago,
An', puttin' two an' two together, they decided to see for themselves.
The Selectmen was all ther', an' Father, an' Jared Pierce;
They did it at night so’s not to scare folks.
I warn’t ther’, but Father told it so I think I seen it:
Th’ leaves Mowin' an’ sidlin’ down,
Th’ lantern light jerkin’ Tong th’ ground,
Th’ noise o’ th’ pickaxes an’ spades.
They got up th’ coffin an' opened it.
Florclla’s body was all gone to dust,
Though ’twam't much niore’n a year she’d be’n buried,
But her heart was as fresh as a livin’ person’s.
Father said it glittered like a garnet when they took th' lid off th' coffin.
It was so 'live, it seemed to beat almost.
Father said a light come from it so strong it made shadows
Much heavier than tli' lantern shadows an’ runnin’ in a diff’rent direction.
Oh, they burnt it; they al’ays do in such cases,
Nobody’s safe till it’s burnt.
Now, sir, will you tell me how such things used to be?
They don’t happen now, seemingly, but this happened.
You can see Joe's grave over to Penowasset buryin’-ground
Ef you go that way.
The church-members wouldn’t let Florella’s ashes be put back in hers.
So you won’t find that.
Only an open space with a maple in th’ middle of it;
They planted th’ tree so’s no one wouldn’t ever be buried in that spot agin.
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
An' linin' up like a card o' butterflies.
Some on real quaint, I dessay,
But lookin's one thing an' livin's another.
Folks don't figger on th' quaintness o' th' things they're doin',
Ther' ain't no knick-knack about it then, I guess.
Times is changed since my young days,
Don't seem like th' same world I used to live in.
What with th' telephones an' th' automobiles,
An' city folks rampin' all over th' place Summers,
Lots o' things has kind o' faded out.
But I remember some queer goin's on;
They seem queer 'nough to me now, lookin' back.
We had good times a-plenty, nat'rally,
But they're all jumbled up together when I think on 'mdash,
I can't git aholt o' one more'n another,
While ther's some fearful strange things I can't ever lose a mite of,
No matter how I try.
I'd like to forgit 'bout Florella Perry,
But I ain't never be'n able to.
I don't know as you'd call it a custom,
'Twarn't th' first time th' like had happened, I know,
But ther' ain't never no such doin's nowadays.
Do the Lord's ways change, I wonder?
Superstition, you call it—but I don't know.
Seein's believin' all th' world over,
An' 'twas my own father seed
An' others besides him.
I didn't, 'cause I was a young girl an' not let,
But I watched th' beginnin's;
An' what my eyes didn't see, my ears heerd,
An' that afore other folks' seein' was cold, as you might say.
'Twas all of forty year ago;
I was jest a slip of a girl drawin' toward th' beau stage but not yit ther'.
One day I'd be thinkin' o' nothin' but ribbons,
An' th' next I'd go coastin' bellybumps all afternoon with th' boys.
Florella made me a woman for fair;
P'raps that was a good thing, 'twas time for it,
But I be'n a woman long 'nough now
An' I kind o' like to look back to what went afore.
I warn't livin' here then;
My husband was a Rockridge man
An' I come here when I married.
I was raised t'other side o' Bear Mountain to Penowasset.
Father kep' th' store ther'.
They thought a heap o' him in th' town
An' I had a happy childhood.
We didn't live over th' shop,
But quite along by th' end o' th' village
In a house my mother got from her father.
We had a couple o' fields an' a wood lot
An' kep' a hired man.
Father used to drive back an' forth in a buggy mornin's an' evenin's,
But Mother an' me didn't miss for neighbors.
Jared Pierce owned a fine big farm just beyond us,
An' Joe Perry's was t'other side th' road.
Florella was Joe's wife,
An' a real pretty creatur she was,
Fragile as a chiney plate
An' bright an' tidy as a June pink in sunshine.
She loved flowers;
Her door-yard was like a nosegay from May till October.
I never seen sich flowers as hers;
Nobody else couldn't make 'mdash bloom so,
Even when she give 'mdash th' seeds.
Her snowdrops was al'ays first up in th' Spring,
An' it took more'n a couple o' frosts to kill her late asters.
Th' way we knew she was ill was when th' garden begun to git weedy.
She an' Joe'd be'n married 'bout seven year then,
An' My! but they'd be'n happy!
Exceptin' for not havin' a child, I don't think ther' was a thing they wanted.
An' then Florella took sick.
It come with a cough one Winter,
An' she couldn't seem to git back her stren'th.
Come plantin' time, she couldn't do it.
Joe done his best, but that year th' garden warn't nothin' perticlar.
Florella used to set in her rocker on th' piazza lookin' at it an' cryin'.
Many's th' time I've slipped over an' done a little rakin' for her.
At first she liked me to do it,
But after a while she said to let it alone;
Ef it warn't her garden, she said, she didn't care nothin' 'bout it.
She spoke almost fierce, I thought, an' I didn't go over agin for quite a spell.
When I did, Florella had took to her bed.
She was a queer kind of invalid. You couldn't seem to help her any.
She'd let you do things an' thank you,
But she al'ays seemed angry that you had to come.
One day I was dustin' her room, an' she said to me:
“Becky, I ain't a-goin' to die.”
“'Course you ain't, Florella,” says I,
“Whatever put that into your head?”
She flared up at that.
“'Tain't no use lyin' to me, Becky Wales, I know I'm dyin'.
But I won't die. You'll see.
I'll find some way o' livin'.
Even ef they bury me, I'll live.
You can't kill me, I ain't th' kind to kill.
I'll live! I'll live, I tell you,
Ef there's a Devil to help me do it!”
She screamed this out at me, settin' up in bed
An' p'intin' with her finger.
I was so scared I had to grab a chair to keep from fallin',
An' Joe come runnin' in from th' barn.
He took her in his arms an' soothed her,
An' she bust out cryin' an' sunk into a little heap in th' big bed
So's you couldn't hardly see her, she was so thin.
Joe sent me home. He said not to mind Florella,
That she was flighty an' didn't know what she was sayin'.
Well, after that things got worse.
Florella had spell after spell;
You could hear her cryin' an' hollerin' way down th' road.
It was al'ays th' same thing: she wouldn't die,
Nobody could make her die.
'Twas awful pitiful to hear her takin' on.
Sometimes she'd moan an' moan,
An' then she'd break out crazy mad an' angry, screamin' for life.
Joe was at his wits' end.
Dr. Smilie said ther' warn't nothin' to do for her
'Cept give her quietin' draughts.
But Florella wouldn't take 'mdash;
She said they was a little death,
An' she'd throw down th' cup every time they give it to her.
Then she took a notion to see Anabel Flesche.
She was a queer sort of woman, was Anabel,
She lived in a little shed of a place over Chester way.
Some said she had Indian blood in her,
Anyway she was learn'd in herbs an' semples;
She claimed to know jest when to pick 'mdash,
An' she talked a lot o' foolishness about th' full o' th' moon,
An' three hours before dawn, an' th' dew o' th' second Friday,
An' things like that.
Well, Florella had her in,
An' she made her camomile teas an' lotions, out o' leaves an' plants she'd gathered,
An' fussed around with bits o' wax an' string,
But Florella didn't change none.
She kep' sinkin' an' sinkin',
An' th' cryin' spells got to comin' oftener.
She cried most o' th' time then.
I used to set in th' stair winder
When I'd oughter be'n in bed, listenin'.
It made my flesh creep to hear her poor cracked voice declarin' she wouldn't die,
An' all th' time she was dyin' plain as pikestaff.
I never see nobody so hungry for life;
She was jest starvin' for it.
Why, even when ther' warn't nothin' lef' of her but eyes an' bones,
She'd talk an' talk 'bout th' life she'd a right to, an' she was goin' to have, come what or nothin'!
It was kind o' lonesome out our way then;
Most o' th' passin' got to go by th' Brook Road.
'Twarn't so handy by a good two mile,
But nobody couldn't a-bear to hear Florella
Callin' an' wailin'.
You couldn't count ten th' times she was still.
'Twas a awful witchin' sound, comin' through th' night th' way it did;
I know I got all frazzled out losin' my sleep for hearin' it.
Mother an' Mis' Pierce used to take it in turns to watch her,
An' 'twas a real kindness to do it,
It wore th' nerves so.
One Saturday afternoon Mis' Pierce was with her,
When all of a suddint she jumped out o' bed,
Cryin' she was goin' int' th' garden,
That she was well now an' wouldn't be kep' back no more.
Mis' Pierce caught her just as she was goin' through th' door
An' ther' was a struggle, I guess.
Joe heerd where he was out in th' yard hoein' beans.
He was scared to death, an' jest heaved his hoe up onto his shoulder
An' run in as he was.
Florella seed him comin' with th' hoe up on his shoulder,
An' she screamed a fearful wild scream:
“You too, Joe!” she said,
“You want to kill me same as th' others?
But you shan't do it.
I'll live to spite you,
I'll live because o' you.”
She was mockin', an' grinnin', an' coughin',
An' menacin' him with her finger,
An' her head joggin' back an' forth from shoulder to shoulder like a rag-doll's.
Mis' Pierce run'd over an' tell'd Mother soon's she could git a minit,
An' them was her very words.
Now Florella loved Joe as only a rare few women do love;
But she was jest plumb crazy by this time,
Worryin' 'bout th' life was leavin' her, an' all eat up with consumption.
But it didn't make no diff'rence to Joe,
He loved her al'ays.
He jest picked her up an' laid her back in bed,
An' she went off unconscious an' never come to.
She died that night.
I mind it well, 'cause th' whippoorwills'd be'n so loud th' night before;
When I'd heerd 'mdash I'd thought Florella's time was come.
I've al'ays hated funerals,
I can't a-bear to look on a corpse
An' Florella's was dretful.
Not that she warn't pretty;
She was. Even her sickness hadn't sp'iled her beauty.
She was like herself in a glass, somehow,
An old glass where you don't see real clear.
'Twas like music to look at her,
Only for her mouth.
Ther' was a queer, awful smile 'bout her mouth.
It made her look jeery, not a bit th' way Florella used to look.
Ef I shut my eyes I can see that face now,
Blue, an' thin an' th' lips all twisted up an' froze so.
I guess I've seen that face in my mind every day for forty year, more or less.
Well, they buried her, an' we girls set pansies an' lobelia all about her grave
An' took turns tendin' 'mdash, week by week.
I'd loved Florella,
An', when she was dead, I rec'llected her as she was 'fore her sickness come
An' forgot th' rest.
Two years is a long time to watch a person die,
An' Joe'd done more nussin' than most husbands.
He kind o' pined when 'twas all finished,
But th' neighbors kep' a-droppin' in to see him,
An' Mother an' Mis' Pierce did him up every so often,
An' bimeby he got aholt of himself,
An' seemed to be gittin' on nicely.
He was a proper good farmer
An' things was goin' well with him,
All 'ceptin' his sorrow, which nothin' couldn't lift, nat'rally,
When th' next Winter he caught a bad cold.
I guess he let it go too far afore he saw th' doctor;
Anyhow it got a good settle on him an' he couldn't shake it off.
Nobody'd have thought much of it, I guess, but for Florella beginnin' th' same way.
Joe warn't concerned, he said he'd be all right come Spring,
But he warn't. He'd try to do his work as usual,
But soon he'd give over an' set down.
He was real patient, but he didn't git no better.
Dr Smilie begun to look grave.
One day I went over with a bowl o' soup from Mother.
Joe was settin' in th' garden, by a bed o' portulaca;
They's cruel bright flowers, an' Joe looked so grey beside
I got a start to see him.
“Becky,” says he, “I know you loved Florella,
An' I should like you to have her flowers,” says he.
“I've willed th' farm to my brother over to Hillsborough,
But you can dig up th' flowers afore he takes possession.”
“Joe,” I said, “Joe—” an' I couldn't git out another word for th' life o' me.
“Yes,” he went on, “o' course I'm goin'. I've give her all I could, but it can't last.
Anabel Flesche was here yesterday, an' she told me.
I'm glad to ease her any, you know that,
But it can't last.”
Glad to ease Anabel Flesche—I thought,
But I know'd he didn't mean that.
I run right home an' told Mother, an' she told Father,
An' that evenin' they druv down to Dr. Smilie's.
The doctor 'lowed 'twas consumption, but he was angry enough 'bout Anabel Flesche.
“I'll see that hussy stops her trapesin',” he said,
“Rilin' up a sick man with her witch stories,” he said.
“I'll witch her, I'll run her out o' town if she comes agin.”
Anabel didn't come agin, but I guess she done it th' first time,
For Joe didn't seem to take much int'rest in gittin' well.
When a man don't want to live, he don't live, an' that's gospel.
Joe went down hill so fast that by Mid-summer ther' warn't no hope.
I used to set with him a good deal,
An' 'twas queer how diff'rent he was to Florella.
I think he was th' quietest man I ever see.
He didn't seem to have no pleasure 'cept in speakin' 'bout Florella.
By times he told me everythin':
How he courted her, an' what she said, an' th' way she looked when he brought her home.
I got awful near life for a young girl with th' things he told me.
I've be'n married an' widowed since, but I don't know as I ever got nearer to things than Joe's talk brought me.
Men ain't alike, an' women ain't alike, an' marriages is th' most unlike of all.
My marriage, when it come, was no more like Joe's an' Florella's
Than a piney's like a cabbage.
But this ain't my story.
“Florella had a strong will,” says Joe to me one afternoon.
Autumn had come by then, an' some o' th' leaves had fell,
An' those that hung on were so bright they seemed to fairly smarten up th' sun.
Joe was layin' in his bed with a patchwork quilt over him,
A lovely one 'twas, the State House Steps pattern;
Florella'd made it, she was wonderful clever with her needle.
Th' whole room was a blaze o' sunshine.
Right on th' chimbley hung a picture o' Florella
Some travellin' artist had painted th' year she was married.
I don't suppose city folk would have made much of it,
But I thought 'twas a sweet pretty thing, an' th' spon-image o' Florella.
“Florella had a mighty strong will,” says Joe agin.
“She owned me body an' soul, an' that was a rare pride to me.”
I couldn't figger what to answer, so I didn't.
“I guess she owns me still,” he says, an' I don't know ef he was really talkin' to me.
“I'm glad she does. It's got to be both o' us, all or neither, together.”
He smiled at that, very slow an' tired, almost as though it hurt his lips to do it.
“Perhaps you don't understand, little Becky,” said he.
I don't know whether I did or not, an' I didn't have a chance to say,
For all of a sudden crash down come Florella's picture on th' floor with th' cord broke.
I jumped nearly out o' my skin, I expect I screamed too,
But Joe didn't so much as shiver.
“Yes,” he said, lookin' at me with his steady smile,
“This proves it. You mark my words. It can't go on much longer. Poor Florella!”
He sighed then an' layed down, an' I thought he went to sleep.
I picked up th' picture, but th' glass had cut it badly,
All about th' mouth too.
It make it look th' way Florella's corpse did an' give me a turn.
I was afeerd Joe'd see it when he waked up,
So I set it with its face aginst th' wall.
But I needn't have bothered, for Joe never waked up.
When Mother come, she didn't think he looked right,
An' she sent for Dr. Smilie.
He warn't dead when th' doctor got ther',
But he was unconscious an' hardly breathin';
He stayed like that for a day an' a night
An' then 'twas all over.
All over for Joe, yes,
But not for us.
About a week after th' funeral, Father met Anabel Flesche.
“So Joe Perry's dead,” whined Anabel, an' Father was sure th' old hag looked pleased.
He only said, “Yes, he's dead,” an' was pushin' on when Anabel stopped him.
“Florella's a determined woman,” she cackled, “ain't you afeerd she'll try somebody else?”
“What th' Hell do you mean?” cried out Father.
“She loved life,” said Anabel, in a queer, sly way,
“Joe's gone, but ther's others.”
Father was so angry he couldn't trust himself to speak,
He jest touched up his horse an' druv on.
But what Anabel said rankled.
He an' Mother talked it over that night.
I warn't supposed to hear, but I did.
I was all shook up with th' things had happened
An' I daresn't stay in bed alone with nobody near,
So I used to creep out an' set on th' stairs
Till Father an' Mother come up.
It comforted me to know they was in th' next room,
An' I could sleep then.
Mother was real strict, an' I was al'ays sent to bed at nine;
They'd come up 'bout ten, an' I'd set that hour on th' stairs
Where I could look int' th' kitchen an' see 'mdash.
That's how I come to hear.
Afterwards I 'lowed I knew, an' they told me everythin'.
Well, to make a long story short,
Father an' Jared Pierce went straight to th' Selectmen,
An' told 'mdash what Anabel was hintin'.
Then some old people rec'llected things which had happened years ago,
An', puttin' two an' two together, they decided to see for themselves.
The Selectmen was all ther', an' Father, an' Jared Pierce;
They did it at night so’s not to scare folks.
I warn’t ther’, but Father told it so I think I seen it:
Th’ leaves Mowin' an’ sidlin’ down,
Th’ lantern light jerkin’ Tong th’ ground,
Th’ noise o’ th’ pickaxes an’ spades.
They got up th’ coffin an' opened it.
Florclla’s body was all gone to dust,
Though ’twam't much niore’n a year she’d be’n buried,
But her heart was as fresh as a livin’ person’s.
Father said it glittered like a garnet when they took th' lid off th' coffin.
It was so 'live, it seemed to beat almost.
Father said a light come from it so strong it made shadows
Much heavier than tli' lantern shadows an’ runnin’ in a diff’rent direction.
Oh, they burnt it; they al’ays do in such cases,
Nobody’s safe till it’s burnt.
Now, sir, will you tell me how such things used to be?
They don’t happen now, seemingly, but this happened.
You can see Joe's grave over to Penowasset buryin’-ground
Ef you go that way.
The church-members wouldn’t let Florella’s ashes be put back in hers.
So you won’t find that.
Only an open space with a maple in th’ middle of it;
They planted th’ tree so’s no one wouldn’t ever be buried in that spot agin.
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)
(Traducido al español por Sebastián Beringheli para El Espejo Gótico)
Poemas góticos. I Poemas de vampiros.
Más literatura gótica:
El análisis, traducción al español y resumen del poema de Amy Lowell: Un Drácula de las colinas (A Dracula of the Hills), fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
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