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210
— the cold crawiing of their bloated limbs often awoke me from my
sleep, and still oftener made me shudder when awake. I struok at
them; — I tried to terrify them by my voice, to arm myself against
them by the help of my mat; but above all, my anxiety was ceaseiess
to defend my bread from their loathsome incursions, and my pitcher
of water from their dropping into it.»
Det verkligt diaboliska i de kval, som beretts Poes
hjälte, ligger emellertid i den hemska långsamhet varmed
domen verkställes, i den roll tiden spelar som plågoande.
Den olycklige ber himlen att påskynda mordverktygets
arbete. För Mongada har visserligen ingen så raffinerad
pina uttänkts, men i den mörka cellen koncentreras hans
tankar på tidens outhärdliga långsamhet på ett sätt, som
mycket erinrar om Poes novell. Tiden som demon, sym-
boliserad i sin mätare pendeln eller uret, är bödeln i båda
berättelserna, och i båda är denna tortyr på väg att be-
röva offren deras förstånd.
Jag anför ett par parallellställen:
Pit and Pendulum:
What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of horror more
than mortal, during which I counted the rushing vibrations of the
Steel! Inch by inch — line by line — with a descent only appreciable
at intervals that seemed ages — down and still down it came! Days
passed — I prayed — I wearied heaven with my prayer for
its more speedy descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled to
force myself upward against the sweep of the fearful scimitar
Long suffering had nearly annihilated all my ordinary powers of
mind. I was an imbecile — an idiot. ^
Melmoth:
I had another employment, — I cannot call it occupation. I
had calculated with myself, that sixty minutes made an hour, and
sixty seconds a minute So I sat and counted sixty; a doiibt
always occurred to me, that I was counting them faster than the
clock. Then I wished to be the clock, that I might have no feeling,
no motive for hurrying on the approach of time Had I led this
life much longer, I might have been converted into the idiot, who as
’ V, 79.
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