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- Говард Лавкрафт
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- Тень над Иннсмутом
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- Стр. 10/41
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Warning
me
that
many
of
the
street
signs
were
down
,
the
youth
drew
for
my
benefit
a
rough
but
ample
and
painstaking
sketch
map
of
the
town
's
salient
features
.
After
a
moment
's
study
I
felt
sure
that
it
would
be
of
great
help
,
and
pocketed
it
with
profuse
thanks
.
Disliking
the
dinginess
of
the
single
restaurant
I
had
seen
,
I
bought
a
fair
supply
of
cheese
crackers
and
ginger
wafers
to
serve
as
a
lunch
later
on
.
My
program
,
I
decided
,
would
be
to
thread
the
principal
streets
,
talk
with
any
non-natives
I
might
encounter
,
and
catch
the
eight
o'clock
coach
for
Arkham
.
The
town
,
I
could
see
,
formed
a
significant
and
exaggerated
example
of
communal
decay
;
but
being
no
sociologist
I
would
limit
my
serious
observations
to
the
field
of
architecture
.
Thus
I
began
my
systematic
though
half-bewildered
tour
of
Innsmouth
's
narrow
,
shadow-blighted
ways
.
Crossing
the
bridge
and
turning
toward
the
roar
of
the
lower
falls
,
I
passed
close
to
the
Marsh
refinery
,
which
seemed
to
be
oddly
free
from
the
noise
of
industry
.
The
building
stood
on
the
steep
river
bluff
near
a
bridge
and
an
open
confluence
of
streets
which
I
took
to
be
the
earliest
civic
center
,
displaced
after
the
Revolution
by
the
present
Town
Square
.
Re-crossing
the
gorge
on
the
Main
Street
bridge
,
I
struck
a
region
of
utter
desertion
which
somehow
made
me
shudder
.
Collapsing
huddles
of
gambrel
roofs
formed
a
jagged
and
fantastic
skyline
,
above
which
rose
the
ghoulish
,
decapitated
steeple
of
an
ancient
church
.
Some
houses
along
Main
Street
were
tenanted
,
but
most
were
tightly
boarded
up
.
Down
unpaved
side
streets
I
saw
the
black
,
gaping
windows
of
deserted
hovels
,
many
of
which
leaned
at
perilous
and
incredible
angles
through
the
sinking
of
part
of
the
foundations
.
Those
windows
stared
so
spectrally
that
it
took
courage
to
turn
eastward
toward
the
waterfront
.
Certainly
,
the
terror
of
a
deserted
house
swells
in
geometrical
rather
than
arithmetical
progression
as
houses
multiply
to
form
a
city
of
stark
desolation
.
The
sight
of
such
endless
avenues
of
fishy-eyed
vacancy
and
death
,
and
the
thought
of
such
linked
infinities
of
black
,
brooding
compartments
given
over
to
cob-webs
and
memories
and
the
conqueror
worm
,
start
up
vestigial
fears
and
aversions
that
not
even
the
stoutest
philosophy
can
disperse
.
Fish
Street
was
as
deserted
as
Main
,
though
it
differed
in
having
many
brick
and
stone
warehouses
still
in
excellent
shape
.
Water
Street
was
almost
its
duplicate
,
save
that
there
were
great
seaward
gaps
where
wharves
had
been
.
Not
a
living
thing
did
I
see
except
for
the
scattered
fishermen
on
the
distant
break-water
,
and
not
a
sound
did
I
hear
save
the
lapping
of
the
harbour
tides
and
the
roar
of
the
falls
in
the
Manuxet
.
The
town
was
getting
more
and
more
on
my
nerves
,
and
I
looked
behind
me
furtively
as
I
picked
my
way
back
over
the
tottering
Water
Street
bridge
.
The
Fish
Street
bridge
,
according
to
the
sketch
,
was
in
ruins
.
North
of
the
river
there
were
traces
of
squalid
life
--
active
fish-packing
houses
in
Water
Street
,
smoking
chimneys
and
patched
roofs
here
and
there
,
occasional
sounds
from
indeterminate
sources
,
and
infrequent
shambling
forms
in
the
dismal
streets
and
unpaved
lanes
--
but
I
seemed
to
find
this
even
more
oppressive
than
the
southerly
desertion
.
For
one
thing
,
the
people
were
more
hideous
and
abnormal
than
those
near
the
centre
of
the
town
;
so
that
I
was
several
times
evilly
reminded
of
something
utterly
fantastic
which
I
could
not
quite
place
.
Undoubtedly
the
alien
strain
in
the
Innsmouth
folk
was
stronger
here
than
farther
inland
--
unless
,
indeed
,
the
"
Innsmouth
look
"
were
a
disease
rather
than
a
blood
stain
,
in
which
case
this
district
might
be
held
to
harbour
the
more
advanced
cases
.
One
detail
that
annoyed
me
was
the
distribution
of
the
few
faint
sounds
I
heard
.
They
ought
naturally
to
have
come
wholly
from
the
visibly
inhabited
houses
,
yet
in
reality
were
often
strongest
inside
the
most
rigidly
boarded-up
facades
.
There
were
creakings
,
scurryings
,
and
hoarse
doubtful
noises
;
and
I
thought
uncomfortably
about
the
hidden
tunnels
suggested
by
the
grocery
boy
.
Suddenly
I
found
myself
wondering
what
the
voices
of
those
denizens
would
be
like
.
I
had
heard
no
speech
so
far
in
this
quarter
,
and
was
unaccountably
anxious
not
to
do
so
.
Pausing
only
long
enough
to
look
at
two
fine
but
ruinous
old
churches
at
Main
and
Church
Streets
,
I
hastened
out
of
that
vile
waterfront
slum
.
My
next
logical
goal
was
New
Church
Green
,
but
somehow
or
other
I
could
not
bear
to
repass
the
church
in
whose
basement
I
had
glimpsed
the
inexplicably
frightening
form
of
that
strangely
diademmed
priest
or
pastor
.
Besides
,
the
grocery
youth
had
told
me
that
churches
,
as
well
as
the
Order
of
Dagon
Hall
,
were
not
advisable
neighbourhoods
for
strangers
.
Accordingly
I
kept
north
along
Main
to
Martin
,
then
turning
inland
,
crossing
Federal
Street
safely
north
of
the
Green
,
and
entering
the
decayed
patrician
neighbourhood
of
northern
Broad
,
Washington
,
Lafayette
,
and
Adams
Streets
.
Though
these
stately
old
avenues
were
ill-surfaced
and
unkempt
,
their
elm-shaded
dignity
had
not
entirely
departed
.
Mansion
after
mansion
claimed
my
gaze
,
most
of
them
decrepit
and
boarded
up
amidst
neglected
grounds
,
but
one
or
two
in
each
street
shewing
signs
of
occupancy
.
In
Washington
Street
there
was
a
row
of
four
or
five
in
excellent
repair
and
with
finely-tended
lawns
and
gardens
.
The
most
sumptuous
of
these
--
with
wide
terraced
parterres
extending
back
the
whole
way
to
Lafayette
Street
--
I
took
to
be
the
home
of
Old
Man
Marsh
,
the
afflicted
refinery
owner
.
