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- Говард Лавкрафт
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- Тень над Иннсмутом
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- Стр. 20/41
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Though
the
golden
light
of
late
afternoon
gave
the
ancient
roofs
and
decrepit
chimneys
an
air
of
mystic
loveliness
and
peace
,
I
could
not
help
glancing
over
my
shoulder
now
and
then
.
I
would
surely
be
very
glad
to
get
out
of
malodorous
and
fear-shadowed
Innsmouth
,
and
wished
there
were
some
other
vehicle
than
the
bus
driven
by
that
sinister-looking
fellow
Sargent
.
Yet
I
did
not
hurry
too
precipitately
,
for
there
were
architectural
details
worth
viewing
at
every
silent
corner
;
and
I
could
easily
,
I
calculated
,
cover
the
necessary
distance
in
a
half-hour
.
Studying
the
grocery
youth
's
map
and
seeking
a
route
I
had
not
traversed
before
,
I
chose
Marsh
Street
instead
of
State
for
my
approach
to
Town
Square
.
Near
the
corner
of
Fall
Street
I
began
to
see
scattered
groups
of
furtive
whisperers
,
and
when
I
finally
reached
the
Square
I
saw
that
almost
all
the
loiterers
were
congregated
around
the
door
of
the
Gilman
House
.
It
seemed
as
if
many
bulging
,
watery
,
unwinking
eyes
looked
oddly
at
me
as
I
claimed
my
valise
in
the
lobby
,
and
I
hoped
that
none
of
these
unpleasant
creatures
would
be
my
fellow-passengers
on
the
coach
.
The
bus
,
rather
early
,
rattled
in
with
three
passengers
somewhat
before
eight
,
and
an
evil-looking
fellow
on
the
sidewalk
muttered
a
few
indistinguishable
words
to
the
driver
.
Sargent
threw
out
a
mail-bag
and
a
roll
of
newspapers
,
and
entered
the
hotel
;
while
the
passengers
--
the
same
men
whom
I
had
seen
arriving
in
Newburyport
that
morning
--
shambled
to
the
sidewalk
and
exchanged
some
faint
guttural
words
with
a
loafer
in
a
language
I
could
have
sworn
was
not
English
.
I
boarded
the
empty
coach
and
took
the
seat
I
had
taken
before
,
but
was
hardly
settled
before
Sargent
re-appeared
and
began
mumbling
in
a
throaty
voice
of
peculiar
repulsiveness
.
I
was
,
it
appeared
,
in
very
bad
luck
.
There
had
been
something
wrong
with
the
engine
,
despite
the
excellent
time
made
from
Newburyport
,
and
the
bus
could
not
complete
the
journey
to
Arkham
.
No
,
it
could
not
possibly
be
repaired
that
night
,
nor
was
there
any
other
way
of
getting
transportation
out
of
Innsmouth
either
to
Arkham
or
elsewhere
.
Sargent
was
sorry
,
but
I
would
have
to
stop
over
at
the
Gilman
.
Probably
the
clerk
would
make
the
price
easy
for
me
,
but
there
was
nothing
else
to
do
.
Almost
dazed
by
this
sudden
obstacle
,
and
violently
dreading
the
fall
of
night
in
this
decaying
and
half-unlighted
town
,
I
left
the
bus
and
reentered
the
hotel
lobby
;
where
the
sullen
queer-looking
night
clerk
told
me
I
could
have
Room
428
on
next
the
top
floor
--
large
,
but
without
running
water
--
for
a
dollar
.
Despite
what
I
had
heard
of
this
hotel
in
Newburyport
,
I
signed
the
register
,
paid
my
dollar
,
let
the
clerk
take
my
valise
,
and
followed
that
sour
,
solitary
attendant
up
three
creaking
flights
of
stairs
past
dusty
corridors
which
seemed
wholly
devoid
of
life
.
My
room
was
a
dismal
rear
one
with
two
windows
and
bare
,
cheap
furnishings
,
overlooked
a
dingy
court-yard
otherwise
hemmed
in
by
low
,
deserted
brick
blocks
,
and
commanded
a
view
of
decrepit
westward-stretching
roofs
with
a
marshy
countryside
beyond
.
At
the
end
of
the
corridor
was
a
bathroom
--
a
discouraging
relique
with
ancient
marble
bowl
,
tin
tub
,
faint
electric
light
,
and
musty
wooded
paneling
around
all
the
plumbing
fixtures
.
It
being
still
daylight
,
I
descended
to
the
Square
and
looked
around
for
a
dinner
of
some
sort
;
noticing
as
I
did
so
the
strange
glances
I
received
from
the
unwholesome
loafers
.
Since
the
grocery
was
closed
,
I
was
forced
to
patronise
the
restaurant
I
had
shunned
before
;
a
stooped
,
narrow-headed
man
with
staring
,
unwinking
eyes
,
and
a
flat-nosed
wench
with
unbelievably
thick
,
clumsy
hands
being
in
attendance
.
The
service
was
all
of
the
counter
type
,
and
it
relieved
me
to
find
that
much
was
evidently
served
from
cans
and
packages
.
A
bowl
of
vegetable
soup
with
crackers
was
enough
for
me
,
and
I
soon
headed
back
for
my
cheerless
room
at
the
Gilman
;
getting
a
evening
paper
and
a
fly-specked
magazine
from
the
evil-visaged
clerk
at
the
rickety
stand
beside
his
desk
.
As
twilight
deepened
I
turned
on
the
one
feeble
electric
bulb
over
the
cheap
,
iron-framed
bed
,
and
tried
as
best
I
could
to
continue
the
reading
I
had
begun
.
I
felt
it
advisable
to
keep
my
mind
wholesomely
occupied
,
for
it
would
not
do
to
brood
over
the
abnormalities
of
this
ancient
,
blight-shadowed
town
while
I
was
still
within
its
borders
.
The
insane
yarn
I
had
heard
from
the
aged
drunkard
did
not
promise
very
pleasant
dreams
,
and
I
felt
I
must
keep
the
image
of
his
wild
,
watery
eyes
as
far
as
possible
from
my
imagination
.
Also
,
I
must
not
dwell
on
what
that
factory
inspector
had
told
the
Newburyport
ticket-agent
about
the
Gilman
House
and
the
voices
of
its
nocturnal
tenants
--
not
on
that
,
nor
on
the
face
beneath
the
tiara
in
the
black
church
doorway
;
the
face
for
whose
horror
my
conscious
mind
could
not
account
.
It
would
perhaps
have
been
easier
to
keep
my
thoughts
from
disturbing
topics
had
the
room
not
been
so
gruesomely
musty
.
As
it
was
,
the
lethal
mustiness
blended
hideously
with
the
town
's
general
fishy
odour
and
persistently
focussed
one
's
fancy
on
death
and
decay
.
