El Funeral da John Mortonson

[Sir C. M. Siervicül]

Va fuliensen Ladintschen és zemiLadintschen,

Éu téu el plaschair à presentarh-voi el seifetlaiset "Romanet schpeit par 'n ziua es incopös par 'n luïç per l'Oíc'ha da Marderour."

Acest anneu, ar romanet c'e "el Funeral da John Mortonson," par Ambrose Bierce. Enxhoietz!

Anneux previösen:
2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009.

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My fellow Ladintschen and semi-Ladintschen,

It's my pleasure to present to you the seventh annual "Day-Late, Louis-Short Halloween Story."

This year, our story is "The Funeral of John Mortonson," by Ambrose Bierce. Enjoy!

Previous years:
2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010, 2009.

El Funeral da John Mortonson par Ambrose Bierce John Mortonson esteva mort: sieu lignhas in “la Traxhedà dal Crastiun” tignhovent estescu parladas, es o tignhova zespartat el statx. El corputz respoçeva in ‘n cercüglh fineu d’acatxù, forniat cün ‘n planca da glaça. Toct i patarneux per el funeral tignhovent estescu aireçats sa ben qe, schi el defunt en tignhova säpescu, sanc duvitaziun o tenadra aprovat. La faça, come ça apiareva sub la glaça, non füt malprüvada à risguardarh: ça apoarteva ‘n renidença flaivla, es, vü qe la moart tignhova estescu sendolór, ça non tighnova estescu distortada piusutra el pevarh reparatíu del ivalsameir. À las doua þoras d’osprei, els amíci fostevent aßemblarh per zonarh lor dirnalaiset tribüta à viens qi non tighnova pü aucün fost per els amíci eda per la respect. Els membreux survivinds dal famiglha venevent sinxhiglhatim àl cercüglh es plörevent super la flusumia cidì sub la glaça. Acest non lor bunafiçeva, es non bunafiçeva John Mortonson; mas in la presençù dal moart, el säpençéu es la filosofia sint sileçats. Come aproschevent las doua þoras, els amíci auspichevent à cicarh, es osprei qe os profrevent tal refrixhéu àl þacja schagrinind qe las creanças dal situaziun resquirevent, os se setevent partù la cámera avetz ‘n cunschösità pü grült da lor entità in el plan del funeral. À’cest temp, el ministreu entreva, es in aceasta presençù suvelind els luschti minors estevent eclipsadas. Sieu entreia füt parsequitada par aceasta dal vidua, qissen corotzen empienevent la cámera. A aproscheva el cercüglh es, osprei qe a clineva sieu faça contra la glaça fred per ‘n momaintsch, füt conduçada despaçüt à’iens pläts à c’hosta da sieu figlha. Suorlegourmint es bäts, el vür da Díeu auspicheva sieu eloxhíeu del mortescu, es sieu voce dolourös, cuncernada cün la sanclutaziun qe c’esteva ça pürpös à stimularh es a victuarh, alçeva es tombeva, sembleva à grültiçarh es à cuflacescharh come el son d’iensa mar ravagnhar. La ziua glumia tenevricheva à mas quand qe o parleva; ‘n cortina del cupiert zisterneva partù el çéu es aliquinds disgots tombevent auscultavalmint. Ça sembleva sa schi toct el natür plöradra per John Mortonson. Quand qe el ministreu tignhova finischat sieu eloxhíeu avetz ‘n erost, ‘n chirluscha füt cantada, es els porteirs dels dräpsilor se setevent adelmás el ceac'hascour. Quand qe las notaziuns dirnalaisets dal chirluscha desperievent, la vidua corieva àl cercüglh, se xheteva super ça, es sancluteva þüstericmint. Ischù, a cedeva gradual àl deþortaziun, es a zeveneva pü caum; es quand qe el ministreu la conduçeva ut, la fru s’uglhen quairevent àl faça del mortescu sub la glaça. A xheteva upp sieu brätsilor, es, avetz ‘n squitra, tombeva arüc, incunschös. Els lacrimeirs emichevent avant àl cercüglh, els amíci parsequitevent, es quand qe el þoroloxheu super el mantal picheva solenamint las tres toct antspectevent la faça da John Mortonson, defunt. Os inversevent, vildrösigeux es esvanovats. Viens vür, qi atenteva in sieu terour àð escaparh la vischta utxasnéa, estropieçeva contra el cercüglh sa grotzmint qe o abasteva viens da ça suports despois. El cercüglh tombeva àl tavleu, es la glaça esteva sfracada à pünt par la cuncußiun. Ut dal þiança vuleva John Mortonson sè cäts, qi desulteva sloþamint àl tavleu, aßeteva, estaidreva tranqilmint ça cjaftour cramoiçéu cün ‘n piota, es aglhorc marscheva avetz dal zignhità ut dal cámera.

John Mortonson's Funeral by Ambrose Bierce John Mortonson was dead: his lines in “the tragedy ‘Man’” had all been spoken and he had left the stage. The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of glass. All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended to that had the deceased known he would doubtless have approved. The face, as it showed under the glass, was not disagreeable to look upon: it bore a faint smile, and as the death had been painless, had not been distorted beyond the repairing power of the undertaker. At two o’clock of the afternoon the friends were to assemble to pay their last tribute of respect to one who had no further need of friends and respect. The surviving members of the family came severally every few minutes to the casket and wept above the placid features beneath the glass. This did them no good; it did no good to John Mortonson; but in the presence of death reason and philosophy are silent. As the hour of two approached the friends began to arrive and after offering such consolation to the stricken relatives as the proprieties of the occasion required, solemnly seated themselves about the room with an augmented consciousness of their importance in the scheme funereal. Then the minister came, and in that overshadowing presence the lesser lights went into eclipse. His entrance was followed by that of the widow, whose lamentations filled the room. She approached the casket and after leaning her face against the cold glass for a moment was gently led to a seat near her daughter. Mournfully and low the man of God began his eulogy of the dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing which it was its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose and fell, seemed to come and go, like the sound of a sullen sea. The gloomy day grew darker as he spoke; a curtain of cloud underspread the sky and a few drops of rain fell audibly. It seemed as if all nature were weeping for John Mortonson. When the minister had finished his eulogy with prayer a hymn was sung and the pall-bearers took their places beside the bier. As the last notes of the hymn died away the widow ran to the coffin, cast herself upon it and sobbed hysterically. Gradually, however, she yielded to dissuasion, becoming more composed; and as the minister was in the act of leading her away her eyes sought the face of the dead beneath the glass. She threw up her arms and with a shriek fell backward insensible. The mourners sprang forward to the coffin, the friends followed, and as the clock on the mantel solemnly struck three all were staring down upon the face of John Mortonson, deceased. They turned away, sick and faint. One man, trying in his terror to escape the awful sight, stumbled against the coffin so heavily as to knock away one of its frail supports. The coffin fell to the floor, the glass was shattered to bits by the concussion. From the opening crawled John Mortonson’s cat, which lazily leapt to the floor, sat up, tranquilly wiped its crimson muzzle with a forepaw, then walked with dignity from the room.

[Sir C. M. Siervicül]

In case you've noticed that it is now well beyond the day after Halloween, this story was published on the appointed day in the 1 November issue of Beric'ht Talossan. But I thought it should appear in the glheþ forum as well, in case anyone comes looking for it here.