A TRADIO E O CONTO CONTEMPORNEO

O conto em lngua inglesa

A longa tradio dos contos na literatura ocidental moderna deve muito
aos escritores de lngua inglesa. Autores como o norte-americano Edgar Allan
Poe (1809-1849), a neo-zelandesa Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923), o irlands
James Joyce (1882-1941) e a inglesa Virginia Woolf (1882-1941), entre tantos
outros, fizeram da prtica do conto uma parte central de suas obras e
ajudaram a definir as regras do gnero. Portanto, todas as tendncias
contemporneas do conto devem, necessariamente, fazer um ajuste de
contas com essa tradio, afirmando-a ou negando-a, conforme o caso.
A teoria e a prtica de Edgar Allan Poe
Entre todos os escritores de lngua inglesa, aquele que mais
imediatamente se associa prtica do conto Edgar Allan Poe. Ele no
apenas produziu uma impressionante quantidade de contos (um pouco mais
de setenta), principalmente contos de mistrio e horror, como The Black
Cat, The Oval Portrait, The Fall o fthe House of Usher, The Cask of
Amontillado, etc., pelos quais mais famoso, mas tambm considerado por
muitos como o inventor de novos subgneros modernos, tais como o conto de
fico cientfica e o conto policial. Alm disso, Poe foi um dos primeiros
escritores de lngua inglesa a se voltar para uma tentativa sistemtica de
produzir uma teoria do gnero.
Uma das principais contribuies de Poe para a teoria do conto seu
conceito de unidade de efeito. Assim explica Ndia Battella Gotlib, estudiosa
do conto:
A teoria de Poe sobre o conto recai no princpio de uma relao entre a
extenso do conto e a reao que ele consegue provocar no leitor ou o efeito
que a leitura lhe causa. [...] A composio literria causa um efeito, um estado
de excitao ou de exaltao da alma. E como todas as excitaes
intensas, elas so necessariamente transitrias. Logo, preciso dosar a
obra, de forma a permitir sustentar esta excitao durante um determinado
tempo. Se o texto for longo demais ou breve demais, esta excitao ou efeito
ficar diludo. Torna-se imprescindvel, ento, a leitura de uma s sentada,
para se conseguir esta unidade de efeito. (Gotlib, 1995, p. 32)

Aqui estaria, segundo Poe, a marca que difere o conto do romance:

[...] como [o romance] no pode ser lido de uma sentada, destitui-se
obviamente, da imensa fora derivada da totalidade. Interesses externos
intervindo durante as pausas da leitura modificam, anulam ou contrariam em
maior ou menor grau as impresses do livro. Mas a simples interrupo da
leitura ser, ela prpria, suficiente para destruir a verdadeira unidade. [...] No
conto breve, o autor capaz de realizar a plenitude de sua inteno, seja ela
qual for. Durante a hora de leitura atenta, a alma do leitor est sob o controle
do escritor. (Gotlib, 1995, p.34)
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 claro que, ao descrever um leitor hipottico, que no consegue se

concentrar na leitura de algo longo como um romance, Poe j est fazendo
um mapeamento dos ritmos e das pessoas dos novos espaos urbanos que se
formaram no sculo 19, quando o caos, a enorme quantidade de informaes
e distraes externas tornaram difcil o esforo da concentrao. Da a
necessidade de criao e aperfeioamento de um gnero literrio que, por
sua curta extenso, acomoda-se melhor velocidade dos ritmos urbanos. Da
tambm a necessidade de afastamento desse mesmo espao urbano que,
com sua uniformidade absurda e ritmos desumanos, seria responsvel pela
morte da sensibilidade do leitor.
Para despertar essa sensibilidade ameaada, Poe cria situaes
fantsticas, chocantes e assustadoras, distantes da rotina e do universo do
trabalho mecanizado que j caracterizava grande parte da vida nas cidades.
Por isso o gosto pelo conto de mistrio e horror.

THE OVAL PORTRAIT

THE CHATEAU into which my valet had ventured to make forcible
entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to
pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and
grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less in fact
than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily
and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest
and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the
building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were
hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial
trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern
paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which
depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many
nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary- in
these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep
interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room- since it
was already night- to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by
the head of my bed- and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of
black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might
resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these
pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the
pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.
Long- long I read- and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and
gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position of the
candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather
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than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully
upon the book.
But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of
the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the
room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bedposts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait
of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting
hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent
even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over
in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to
gain time for thought- to make sure that my vision had not deceived me- to
calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very
few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.
That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first
flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy
stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into
waking life.
The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere
head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner;
much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and
even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet
deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The frame was
oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be
more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the
execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had
so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been
that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of
a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the
vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea- must
have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon
these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with
my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of
its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an
absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally
confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I
replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep
agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which
discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which
designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which
follow:

"She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of
glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter.
He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a
maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and
smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things;
hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes
and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her
lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his
desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient,
and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the
light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter,
took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day.
And be was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in
reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that
lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to
all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw
that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in
his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who
grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the
portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a
proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom
he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its
conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had
grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas
merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that
the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her
who sate beside him. And when many weeks bad passed, and but little
remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye,
the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the
lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for
one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had
wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very
pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!'
turned suddenly to regard his beloved:- She was dead!
1850

Referncias Bibliogrficas
GOTLIB, N. B. Teoria do Conto. So Paulo: tica, 1995.
LAUTER, P. The Heath Anthology of American Literature. Boston: Houghton Mifflin,
2001.