The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2Poe, Edgar Allan
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The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 2
Poe, Edgar Allan
American fiction -- 19th century; Fantasy fiction; Horror tales, American; Short stories
“Ha! ha! ha!—ha! ha! ha!”—laughed the proprietor, motioning me to
a seat as I entered the room, and throwing himself back at
full-length upon an ottoman. “I see,” said he, perceiving that I
could not immediately reconcile myself to the _bienseance_ of so
singular a welcome—“I see you are astonished at my apartment—at
my statues—my pictures—my originality of conception in
architecture and upholstery! absolutely drunk, eh, with my
magnificence? But pardon me, my dear sir, (here his tone of voice
dropped to the very spirit of cordiality,) pardon me for my
uncharitable laughter. You appeared so _utterly_ astonished.
Besides, some things are so completely ludicrous, that a man
_must_ laugh or die. To die laughing, must be the most glorious
of all glorious deaths! Sir Thomas More—a very fine man was Sir
Thomas More—Sir Thomas More died laughing, you remember. Also in
the _Absurdities_ of Ravisius Textor, there is a long list of
characters who came to the same magnificent end. Do you know,
however,” continued he musingly, “that at Sparta (which is now
Palæochori,) at Sparta, I say, to the west of the citadel, among
a chaos of scarcely visible ruins, is a kind of _socle_, upon
which are still legible the letters ΛΑΞΜ. They are undoubtedly
part of ΓΕΛΑΞΜΑ. Now, at Sparta were a thousand temples and
shrines to a thousand different divinities. How exceedingly
strange that the altar of Laughter should have survived all the
others! But in the present instance,” he resumed, with a singular
alteration of voice and manner, “I have no right to be merry at
your expense. You might well have been amazed. Europe cannot
produce anything so fine as this, my little regal cabinet. My
other apartments are by no means of the same order—mere _ultras_
of fashionable insipidity. This is better than fashion—is it not?
Yet this has but to be seen to become the rage—that is, with
those who could afford it at the cost of their entire patrimony.
I have guarded, however, against any such profanation. With one
exception, you are the only human being besides myself and my
_valet_, who has been admitted within the mysteries of these
imperial precincts, since they have been bedizened as you see!”
I bowed in acknowledgment—for the overpowering sense of splendor
and perfume, and music, together with the unexpected eccentricity
of his address and manner, prevented me from expressing, in
words, my appreciation of what I might have construed into a
compliment.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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