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The Tomb - H. Lovecraft

The Tomb

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"The Tomb" is an intriguing tale featuring Jervas Dudley, a young and imaginative individual. As a child, he stumbles upon a hidden entrance to a mausoleum, belonging to the renowned Hyde family. Interestingly, their ancestral mansion had tragically burned down many years ago. Curiosity piqued, Jervas tries to open the padlocked entrance but fails in his attempts. Undeterred, he finds solace in sleeping near the tomb, letting his vivid dreams transport him to another world.

Driven by an insatiable thirst for knowledge, Jervas immerses himself in Plutarch's Lives, a captivating historical account of extraordinary individuals. With each turn of the page, his imagination soars, and a newfound determination takes root. He begins to realize that his destiny is intertwined with the secrets that lie within the tomb, patiently waiting for the right moment to unravel its mysteries.

Drawing inspiration from the lives of Plutarch's subjects, Jervas embarks on a personal journey of self-discovery and growth. With an unwavering belief in his own abilities, he embraces the passage of time, acknowledging that his destiny will reveal itself when the stars align. In the enchanting realm of daydreams and books, Jervas meticulously plans his future encounter with the enigmatic mausoleum, eagerly anticipating the transformative experience that awaits him.

Immersed in the magic of the story, one cannot help but be captivated by Jervas Dudley's unwavering determination, his insatiable curiosity, and his willingness to patiently wait for the opportune moment. As the world spins around him, Jervas remains steadfast, knowing that the path to the tomb is not simply about unlocking a physical door, but also about unlocking the hidden depths of his own soul.

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The Tomb

“Sedibus ut saltem placidis in morte quiescam.”

– Virgil.

In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things appear as they do only by virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns as madness the flashes of super-sight which penetrate the common veil of obvious empiricism.

My name is Jervas Dudley, and from earliest childhood I have been a dreamer and a visionary. Wealthy beyond the necessity of a commercial life, and temperamentally unfitted for the formal studies and social recreations of my acquaintances, I have dwelt ever in realms apart from the visible world; spending my youth and adolescence in ancient and little-known books, and in roaming the fields and groves of the region near my ancestral home. I do not think that what I read in these books or saw in these fields and groves was exactly what other boys read and saw there; but of this I must say little, since detailed speech would but confirm those cruel slanders upon my intellect which I sometimes overhear from the whispers of the stealthy attendants around me. It is sufficient for me to relate events without analysing causes.

I have said that I dwelt apart from the visible world, but I have not said that I dwelt alone. This no human creature may do; for lacking the fellowship of the living, he inevitably draws upon the companionship of things that are not, or are no longer, living. Close by my home there lies a singular wooded hollow, in whose twilight deeps I spent most of my time; reading, thinking and dreaming. Down its moss-covered slopes my first steps of infancy were taken, and around its grotesquely gnarled oak trees my first fancies of boyhood were woven. Well did I come to know the presiding dryads of those trees, and often have I watched their wild dances in the struggling beams of waning moon – but of these things I must not now speak. I will tell only of the lone tomb in the darkest of the hillside thickets; the deserted tomb of the Hydes, an old and exalted family whose last direct descendant had been laid within its black recesses many decades before my birth.

The vault to which I refer is an ancient granite, weathered and discoloured by the mists and dampness of generations. Excavated back into the hillside, the structure is visible only at the entrance. The door, a ponderous and forbidding slab of stone, hangs upon rusted iron hinges, and is fastened ajar in a queerly sinister way by means of heavy iron chains and padlocks, according to a gruesome fashion of half a century ago. The abode of the race whose scions are inurned had once crowned the declivity which holds the tomb, but had long since fallen victim to the flames which sprang up from a disastrous stroke of lighting. Of the midnight storm which destroyed this gloomy mansion, the older inhabitants of the region sometimes speak in hushed and uneasy voices; alluding to what they call “divine wrath” in a manner that in later years vaguely increased the always strong fascination which I felt for the forest-darkened sepulchre. One man only had perished in the fire. When the last of the Hydes was buried in this place of shade and stillness, the sad urnful of ashes had come from a distant land; to which the family had repaired when the mansion burned down. No one remains to lay flowers before the granite portal, and few care to brave the depressing shadows which seem to linger strangely about the water-worn stones.

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