The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom — Volume 01Smollett, T. (Tobias)
General
The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom — Volume 01
Smollett, T. (Tobias)
Adventure stories; Gothic fiction
Our adventurer, having allowed some time for the effect of this
contrivance, repaired to her chamber door, and, in a whisper, conveyed
through the keyhole, asked if she was awake, begged pardon for such an
unseasonable visit, and desired to know her opinion of the strange music
which he then heard. In spite of her notions of decency, she was glad of
his intrusion, and, being in no condition to observe punctilios, slipped
on a wrapper, opened the door, and, with a faltering voice, owned herself
frightened almost to distraction. He pretended to console her with
reflections, importing, that she was in the hands of a benevolent Being,
who would not impose upon his creatures any task which they could not
bear; he insisted upon her returning to bed, and assured her he would not
stir from her chamber till day. Thus comforted, she betook herself again
to rest, while he sat down in an elbow-chair at some distance from the
bedside, and, in a soft voice, began the conversation with her on the
subject of those visitations from above, which, though undertaken on
pretence of dissipating her fear and anxiety, was, in reality, calculated
for the purpose of augmenting both.
"That sweet air," said he, "seems designed for soothing the bodily
anguish of some saint in his last moments. Hark! how it rises into a
more sprightly and elevated strain, as if it were an inspiriting
invitation to the realms of bliss! Sure, he is now absolved from all the
misery of this life! That full and glorious concert of voices and
celestial harps betoken his reception among the heavenly choir, who now
waft his soul to paradisian joys! This is altogether great, solemn, and
amazing! The clock strikes one, the symphony hath ceased!"
This was actually the case; for he had ordered Maurice to remove the
instrument at that hour, lest the sound of it should become too familiar,
and excite the curiosity of some undaunted domestic, who might frustrate
his scheme by discovering the apparatus. As for poor Celinda, her fancy
was, by his music and discourse, worked up to the highest pitch of
enthusiastic terrors; the whole bed shook with her trepidation, the awful
silence that succeeded the supernatural music threw an additional damp
upon her spirits, and the artful Fathom affecting to snore at the same
time, she could no longer contain her horror, but called upon his name
with a fearful accent, and, having owned her present situation
insupportable, entreated him to draw near her bedside, that he might be
within touch on any emergency.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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