Mary Elizabeth Braddon: The copy-cat

Mary Elizabeth Braddon byWilliam Powell Frith

THAT affair of Jim Simmons's cats never became known. Two little boys and a little girl can keep a secret—that is, sometimes. The two little boys had the advantage of the little girl because they could talk over the affair together, and the little girl, Lily Jennings, had no intimate girl friend to tempt her to confidence. She had only little Amelia Wheeler, commonly called by the pupils of Madame's school "The Copy-Cat."

Amelia was an odd little girl—that is, everybody called her odd. She was that rather unusual creature, a child with a definite ideal; and that ideal was Lily Jennings. However, nobody knew that. If Amelia's mother, who was a woman of strong character, had suspected, she would have taken strenuous measures to prevent such a peculiar state of affairs; the more so because she herself did not in the least approve of Lily Jennings. Mrs. Diantha Wheeler (Amelia's father had died when she was a baby) often remarked to her own mother, Mrs. Stark, and to her mother-in-law, Mrs. Samuel Wheeler, that she did not feel that Mrs. Jennings was bringing up Lily exactly as she should. "That child thinks entirely too much of her looks," said Mrs. Diantha. "When she walks past here she switches those ridiculous frilled frocks of hers as if she were entering a ballroom, and she tosses her head and looks about to see if anybody is watching her. If I were to see Amelia doing such things I should be very firm with her."

"Lily Jennings is a very pretty child," said Mother-in-law Wheeler, with an under-meaning, and Mrs. Diantha flushed. Amelia did not in the least resemble the Wheelers, who were a handsome set. She looked remarkably like her mother, who was a plain woman, only little Amelia did not have a square chin. Her chin was pretty and round, with a little dimple in it. In fact, Amelia's chin was the prettiest feature she had. Her hair was phenomenally straight. It would not even yield to hot curling-irons, which her grandmother Wheeler had tried surreptitiously several times when there was a little girls' party. "I never saw such hair as that poor child has in all my life," she told the other grandmother, Mrs. Stark. "Have the Starks always had such very straight hair?"

Mrs. Stark stiffened her chin. Her own hair was very straight. "I don't know," said she, "that the Starks have had any straighter hair than other people. If Amelia does not have anything worse to contend with than straight hair I rather think she will get along in the world as well as most people."

José María Merino: El niño lobo del cine Mari

La doctora estaba en lo cierto: ningún proceso anormal se desarrollaba dentro del pequeño cerebro, ninguna perturbación patológica. Sin embargo, si hubiese podido leer el mensaje contenido en los impulsos que habían determinado aquellas líneas sinuosas, se hubiera sorprendido al encontrar un universo tan exuberante: el niño era un pequeño corneta que tocaba a la carga en el desierto, mientras ondeaba el estandarte del regimiento y los jinetes de Toro Sentado preparaban también sus corceles y sus armas, hasta que el páramo polvoriento se convertía en una selva de nutrida vegetación alrededor de una laguna de aguas oscuras, en la que el niño estaba a punto de ser atacado por un cocodrilo, y en ese momento resonaba entre el follaje la larga escala de la voz de Tarzán, que acudía para salvarle saltando de liana en liana, seguido de la fiel Chita. O la selva se transmutaba sin transición en una playa extensa; entre la arena de la orilla reposaba una botella de largo cuello, que había sido arrojada por las olas; el niño encontraba la botella, la destapaba, y de su interior salía una pequeña columnilla de humo que al punto iba creciendo y creciendo hasta llegar a los cielos y convertirse en un terrible gigante verdoso, de larga coleta en su cabeza afeitada y uñas en las manos y en los pies, curvas como zarpas. Pero antes de que la amenaza del gigante se concretase de un modo claro, la playa era un navío, un buque sobre las olas del Pacífico, y el niño acompañaba a aquel otro muchacho, hijo del posadero, en la singladura que les llevaba hasta la isla donde se

oculta el tesoro del viejo y feroz pirata.

Una vez más, la doctora observó perpleja las formas de aquellas ondas. Como de costumbre, no presentaban variaciones especiales. Las frecuencias seguían sin proclamar algún cuadro particularmente extraño. Las ondas no ofrecían ninguna alteración insólita, pero el niño permanecía insensible al mundo que le rodeaba, como una estatua viva y embobada.

El niño apareció cuando derribaron el Cine Mari. Tendría unos nueve años, e iba vestido con un traje marrón sin solapas, de pantalón corto, y una camisa de piqué. Calzaba zapatos marrones y calcetines blancos. La máquina echó abajo la última pared del sótano (en la que se marcaban las huellas grotescas que habían dejado los urinarios, los lavabos y los espejos, y por donde asomaban, como extraños hocicos o bocas, los bordes seccionados de las tuberías) y, tras la polvareda, apareció el niño, de pie en medio de aquel montón de cascotes y escombros, mirando fijamente a la máquina, que el conductor detuvo bruscamente, mientras le increpaba, gritando:

–Pero qué haces ahí, chaval. Quítate ahora mismo.

El niño no respondía. Estaba pasmado, ausente. Hubo que apartarlo. Mientras las máquinas roseguían su tarea destructora, le sacaron al callejón, frente a las carteleras ya vacías cuyos cristales sucios proclamaban una larga clausura, y le preguntaban.

Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis: Três Tesouros Perdidos

Uma tarde, eram 4 horas, o Sr. X... voltava à sua casa para jantar. O apetite que levava não o fez reparar em um cabriolé que estava parado à sua porta. Entrou, subiu a escada, penetra na sala e ... dá com os olhos em um homem que passeava a largos passos como agitado por uma interna aflição.

Cumprimentou-o polidamente; mas o homem lançou-se sobre ele com uma voz alternada, diz-lhe:

- Senhor, eu sou F ... marido da senhora Dona E...

- Estimo muito em conhecê-lo, responde o Sr. X ...; mas não tenho a honra de conhecer a senhora Dona E...

- Não a conhece! Não a conhece! ... quer juntar a zombaria à infâmia?

- Senhor!...

E o Sr. X... deu um passo para ele.

O Sr. F..., tirando do bolso uma pistola, continuou:

- Ou o senhor há de deixar esta côrte, ou vai morrer como um cão!

- Mas, senhor, disse o Sr. X..., a quem a eloquência do Sr. F.... tinha produzido um certo efeito, que motivo tem o senhor?...

- Que motivo! É boa! Pois não é um motivo andar fazendo a corte à minha mulher?

- A corte à sua mulher! não compreendo!

- Não compreende! oh! não me faça perder a estribeira.

- Creio que se engana...

- Enganar-me! É boa!... mas eu o vi... sair duas vezes de minha casa...

- Sua casa!

- No Andaraí... por uma porta secreta... Vamos! ou...

Hans Christian Andersen: Tællelyset

Det sydede og bruste, mens Ilden flammede under Gryden, det var Tællelysets Vugge - og ud af den lune Vugge gled Lyset for[m]fuldendt, helstøbt, skinnende hvidt og slankt det var dannet paa en Maade, som fik Alle, der saae det til at troe at det maatte give Løvte om en lys og straalende Fremtid – og Løvterne, som Alle saae, skulde det virkelig holde og opfylde.

Faaret - et nydeligt lille Faar - var Lysets Moder og Smeltegryden var dets Fader. Fra dets Moder havde det arvet sin blendende hvide Krop og en Ahnelse om Livet; men fra / dets Fader havde det faaet Lysten til den flammende Ild, der engang skulde gaae det igjennem Marv og Been – og ”lyse” for det i Livet.

Ja saadan var det skabt og udviklet, da det med de bedste, de lyseste Forhaabninger kastede sig ud i Livet. Der traf det saa underlig mange Medskabninger som det indlod sig med; thi det vilde lære Livet at kjende – og maaskee derved finde den Plads, hvor det selv passede bedst. Men det troede altfor godt om Verden; den brød sig kun om sig selv og slet ikke om Tællelyset; thi den kunde ikke forstaae, til hvad Gavn det kunde være, og derfor søgte den saa at bruge det til Fordeel for sig selv og toge forkeert fat paa Lyset, de sorte Fingre satte større og større Pletter paa den reene Uskyldsfarve; denne svandt efterhaanden ganske bort og blev heelt tildækket af Smuds / fra Omverd[e]nen, der var kommet i altfor svær Berøring med det, meget nærmere end Lyset kunde taale, da det ikke havde kundet skjelne Reent fra Ureent, – men endnu var det i sit Inderste uskyldig og ufordærvet.

Da saae de falske Venner, at de ikke kunde naae det Indre – og vrede kastede de Lyset bort som en unyttig Tingest.

Men de[n] ydre sorte Skal holdt alle de Gode borte, – de vare bange for at smittes af den sorte Farve, for at faae Pletter paa sig, – og saa holdt de sig borte.

Nu stod det stakkels Tællelys saa ene og forladt, det vidste hverken ud eller ind. Det saae sig forstødt af det Gode og det opdagede nu, at det kun havde været et Redskab til at fremme det slette, det følte sig da saa uendelig ulyksalig, fordi det havde tilbragt dets Liv til ingen Nytte, ja det havde maaskee endogsaa sværtet det Bedre i sin Omgang –, det kunde ikke fatte, hvorfor eller hvortil det egentlig / var skabt, hvorfor det skulde leve paa Jorden – og maaskee ødelægge sig selv og andre.

Rafael Dieste: Sobre da morte de Bieito

Foi preto do camposanto cando eu sentín boligar dentro da caixa ó pobre Bieito. (Dos catro levadores do cadaleito eu era un). ¿Sentino ou foi aprensión miña? Entonces non podería aseguralo. ¡Foi un rebulir tan maino!… Como a teimosa puvulla que rila, rila na noite, rila de entón no meu maxín afervoado aquel mainiño rebulir.

Pero é que eu, meus amigos, non tiña seguranza, e polo tanto —comprendede, escoitade— polo tanto non podía, non debía dicir nada.

Imaxinade nun intre que eu dixese:

O Bieito vai vivo.

Tódalas testas dos velliños que portaban cirios ergueríanse nun babeco aglaio. Tódolos pícaros que viñan extendendo a palma da man baixo o pingotear da cera, virían en remuíño arredor meu. Apiñocaríanse as mulleres a carón do cadaleito. Escorregaría por tódolos beizos un marmular sobrecolleito, insólito:

¡O Bieito vai vivo, o Bieito vai vivo!…

Calaría o lamento da nai e das irmás, e axiña tamén, descompasándose, a gravedosa marcha que planxía nos bronces da charanga. E eu sería o gran revelador, o salvador, eixo de tódolos asombros e de tódalas gratitudes. E o sol na miña face cobraría unha importancia imprevista.

¡Ah! ¿E se entonces, ó ser aberto o cadaleito, a miña sospeita resultaba falsa? Todo aquel magno asombro viraríase inconmensurable e macabro ridículo. Toda a arelante gratitude da nai e das irmás, tornaríase despeito. O martelo espetando de novo a caixa tería un son sinistro e único na tarde estantía. ¿Comprendedes? Por iso non dixen nada.

Houbo un intre en que pola face dun dos compañeiros de fúnebre carga pasou a insinuación leviá dun sobresalto, coma se el estivese a sentir tamén o velaíño boligar. Mais non foi máis que un lampo. De seguida ficou sereno. E non dixen nada.

Houbo un intre en que case me decidín. Dirixinme ó da miña banda e, acobexando a pregunta nunha surrisa de retrouso, deslicei:

— ¿E se o Bieito fose vivo?

O outro riu picaramente coma quen di: «Qué ocorrencias temos», e eu amplifiquei adrede a miña falsa surrisa de retrouso.

Tamén me vin a rentes de dicilo no camposanto, cando xa pousarámo-la caixa e o crego requeneaba.

«Cando o crego remate», pensei. Mais o crego acabou e a caixa deceu á cova sen que eu puidese dicir nada.

Ambrose Bierce: An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack fell to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners -- two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest -- a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the body. It did not appear to be the duty of these two men to know what was occurring at the center of the bridge; they merely blockaded the two ends of the foot planking that traversed it.

Beyond one of the sentinels nobody was in sight; the railroad ran straight away into a forest for a hundred yards, then, curving, was lost to view. Doubtless there was an outpost farther along. The other bank of the stream was open ground -- a gentle slope topped with a stockade of vertical tree trunks, loopholed for rifles, with a single embrasure through which protruded the muzzle of a brass cannon commanding the bridge. Midway up the slope between the bridge and fort were the spectators -- a single company of infantry in line, at "parade rest," the butts of their rifles on the ground, the barrels inclining slightly backward against the right shoulder, the hands crossed upon the stock. A lieutenant stood at the right of the line, the point of his sword upon the ground, his left hand resting upon his right. Excepting the group of four at the center of the bridge, not a man moved. The company faced the bridge, staring stonily, motionless. The sentinels, facing the banks of the stream, might have been statues to adorn the bridge. The captain stood with folded arms, silent, observing the work of his subordinates, but making no sign. Death is a dignitary who when he comes announced is to be received with formal manifestations of respect, even by those most familiar with him. In the code of military etiquette silence and fixity are forms of deference.

The man who was engaged in being hanged was apparently about thirty-five years of age. He was a civilian, if one might judge from his habit, which was that of a planter. His features were good -- a straight nose, firm mouth, broad forehead, from which his long, dark hair was combed straight back, falling behind his ears to the collar of his well fitting frock coat. He wore a moustache and pointed beard, but no whiskers; his eyes were large and dark gray, and had a kindly expression which one would hardly have expected in one whose neck was in the hemp. Evidently this was no vulgar assassin. The liberal military code makes provision for hanging many kinds of persons, and gentlemen are not excluded.

Mario Benedetti: El niño cinco mil millones

En un día del año 1987 nació el niño Cinco Mil Millones. Vino sin etiqueta, así que podía ser negro, blanco, amarillo, etc. Muchos países, en ese día eligieron al azar un niño Cinco Mil Millones para homenajearlo y hasta para filmarlo y grabar su primer llanto.

Sin embargo, el verdadero niño Cinco Mil Millones no fue homenajeado ni filmado ni acaso tuvo energías para su primer llanto. Mucho antes de nacer ya tenía hambre. Un hambre atroz. Un hambre vieja. Cuando por fin movió sus dedos, éstos tocaron tierra seca. Cuarteada y seca. Tierra con grietas y esqueletos de perros o de camellos o de vacas. También con el esqueleto del niño 4.999.999.999.

El verdadero niño Cinco Mil Millones tenía hambre y sed, pero su madre tenía más hambre y más sed y sus pechos oscuros eran como tierra exahusta. Junto a ella, el abuelo del niño tenía hambre y sed más antiguas aún y ya no encontraba en si mismo ganas de pensar o creer.

Una semana después el niño Cinco Mil Millones era un minúsculo esqueleto y en consecuencia disminuyó en algo el horrible riesgo de que el planeta llegara a estar superpoblado.

Kahlil Gibran ( جبران خليل جبران ) : The Two Hunters (اﻟﺼﻴﺎدان)

اﻟﺘﻘﻰ اﻟﺴﺮور واﻟﺤﺰن، ﻓﻲ ﻳﻮم ﻣﻦ ﻳﺎم ﻧﻮار، ﺠﺎﻧﺐ ﺣﺪى اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮات، ﻓﺘﺒﺎدﻻ اﻟﺘﺤﻴّﺔ، وﺟﻠﺴﺎ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻣﻘﺮﺔ ﻣﻦ اﻟﻤﻴﺎه اﻟﻤﻄﻤﺌﻨﺔ، ﻳﺘﻄﺎرﺣﺎن اﻷﺣﺎدﻳﺚ.

ﺗﺤﺪث اﻟﺴﺮور ﻋﻦ اﻟﺠﻤﺎل اﻟﺬي ﻳﻐﻤﺮ اﻷرض، وﻋﻦ اﻟﺮوﻋﺔ اﻟﻴﻮﻣﻴّﺔ اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﻔﻌﻢ اﻟﺤﻴﺎة ﻓﻲ اﻟﻐﺎﺔ، وﻴﻦ اﻟﻬﻀﺎب، واﻷﻏﺎﻧﻲ اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﺴﻤﻊ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻔﺠﺮ واﻷﺻﻴﻞ.

وﺗﻜﻠّﻢ اﻟﺤﺰن، وواﻓﻖ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻛﻞ ﻣﺎ ﻗﺎﻟﻪ اﻟﺴﺮور، ﻷنّ اﻟﺤﺰن ﻛﺎن ﻳﺪرك ﺳﺤﺮ اﻟﺴﺎﻋﺔ واﻟﺠﻤﺎل اﻟﻤﻨﺒﻌﺚ ﻓﻴﻬﺎ. واﻟﺤﺰن ﻠﻴﻎ ﺣﻴﻦ ﻳﺨﻮض ﻓﻲ ﺣﺪﻳﺖ ﻧﻮار وﺳﻂ اﻟﺤﻘﻮل وﻓﻮق اﻟﻬﻀﺎب.

وﺗﺤﺪث اﻟﺤﺰن واﻟﺴﺮور ﻃﻮﻳﻼ، وﻛﺎن اﻟﻮﻓﺎق ﻴﻨﻬﻤﺎ ﺗﺎﻣﺎ ﺣﻮل ﺟﻤﻴﻊ اﻷﺷﻴﺎء، اﻟﺘﻲ ﻳﻌﺮﻓﺎﻧﻬﺎ.

ﺛﻢ ﻣﺮ ﻬﻤﺎ ﺻﻴﺎدّان ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﻀﻔﺔ اﻷﺧﺮى ﻣﻦ اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮة. وﻓﻴﻤﺎ ﻫﻤﺎ ﻳﻨﻈﺮان إﻟﻴﻬﻤﺎ ﻋﺒﺮ اﻟﻤﺎء، ﻗﺎل ﺣﺪﻫﻤﺎ: "ﻧﻲ ﻷﻋﺠﺐ ﻣﻦ ﻋﺴﻰ ﻫﺬان اﻟﺸﺨﺼﺎن أن ﻳﻜﻮﻧﺎ ؟" وﻗﺎل اﻵﺧﺮ: " ﻗﻠﺖ: ﺛﻨﺎن ؟ ﻧﺎ ﻻ أرى إﻻ وﺣﺪا".

ﻗﺎل اﻟﺼﻴﺎد اﻷول: " وﻟﻜﻦ ﻫﻨﺎك ﺛﻨﺎن ". ورّد اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻲ ﻗﺎﺋﻼ: "ﻟﻴﺲ ﻫﻨﺎك إﻻ ﺷﺨﺺ وﺣﺪ ﺳﺘﻄﻴﻊ أن ﺗﺒﻴّﻨﻪ، وﻧﻌﻜﺎس ﺻﻮرﺗﻪ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮة وﺣﺪ ﻳﻀﺎ".

ﻗﺎل اﻟﺼﻴﺎد اﻷول: " ﻻ ! ﻫﻨﺎك ﺛﻨﺎن. وﻧﻌﻜﺎس اﻟﺼﻮرة ﻓﻲ اﻟﻤﺎء اﻟﻬﺎدئ، ﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﻮ ﻟﺸﺨﺼﻴﻦ ﻳﻀﺎ ".

وﻟﻜﻦ اﻟﺮﺟﻞ اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻲ ﻗﺎل ﺛﺎﻧﻴﺔ: " أرى وﺣﺪا ﻤﻔﺮده ". وﻗﺎل اﻵﺧﺮ ﻟﻠﻤﺮة اﻟﺜﺎﻧﻴﺔ ﻳﻀﺎ: " وﻟﻜﻨﻲ أرى ﺛﻨﻴﻦ ﺑﻮﺿﻮح".

وﻻ ﻳﺰال ﺣﺪ اﻟﺼﻴﺎدﻳﻦ ﻳﻘﻮل ﺣﺘﻰ اﻟﻴﻮم إن اﻵﺧﺮ رأى ﺷﺨﺼﺎ ﻣﻀﺎﻋﻔﺎ، ﻴﻨﻤﺎ اﻵﺧﺮ ﻳﻘﻮل: "ﺻﺪﻳﻘﻲ أﻋﻤﻰ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻧﺤﻮﻣﺎ ".

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: Ex oblivione

When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victims body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams I found a little of the beauty I had vainly sought in life, and wandered through old gardens and enchanted woods.

Once when the wind was soft and scented I heard the south calling, and sailed endlessly and languorously under strange stars.

Once when the gentle rain fell I glided in a barge down a sunless stream under the earth till I reached another world of purple twilight, iridescent arbours, and undying roses.

And once I walked through a golden valley that led to shadowy groves and ruins, and ended in a mighty wall green with antique vines, and pierced by a little gate of bronze.

Many times I walked through that valley, and longer and longer would I pause in the spectral half-light where the giant trees squirmed and twisted grotesquely, and the grey ground stretched damply from trunk to trunk, sometimes disclosing the mould-stained stones of buried temples. And always the goal of my fancies was the mighty vine-grown wall with the little gate of bronze therein.

After awhile, as the days of waking became less and less bearable from their greyness and sameness, I would often drift in opiate peace through the valley and the shadowy groves, and wonder how I might seize them for my eternal dwelling-place, so that I need no more crawl back to a dull world stript of interest and new colours. And as I looked upon the little gate in the mighty wall, I felt that beyond it lay a dream-country from which, once it was entered, there would be no return.

So each night in sleep I strove to find the hidden latch of the gate in the ivied antique wall, though it was exceedingly well hidden. And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

Then one night in the dream-city of Zakarion I found a yellowed papyrus filled with the thoughts of dream-sages who dwelt of old in that city, and who were too wise ever to be born in the waking world. Therein were written many things concerning the world of dream, and among them was lore of a golden valley and a sacred grove with temples, and a high wall pierced by a little bronze gate. When I saw this lore, I knew that it touched on the scenes I had haunted, and I therefore read long in the yellowed papyrus.

Hugo Carlos Martínez Téllez: Flor roja

El combatiente alcanzó a sonreír, satisfecho, antes que las balas del terror lo aplastaran contra esa tierra ya empapada en sangre nueva, en sangre vieja, en sangre…

Muchos años después, un niño pasó por aquel sitio y cortó una flor roja… muy bella, muy roja; la contempló tranquilamente durante unos minutos, la guardó después en su mochila y, tras reacomodarse el fusil al hombro, continuó su marcha.

William Gilbert: The last lords of Gardonal

William Gilbert by Francis Montague

Part I.

from Argosy, 1867-jul

ONE of the most picturesque objects of the valley of the Engadin is the ruined castle of Gardonal, near the village of Madaline. In the feudal times it was the seat of a family of barons, who possessed as their patrimony the whole of the valley, which with the castle had descended from father to son for many generations. The two last of the race were brothers; handsome, well-made, fine-looking young men, but in nature they more resembled fiends than human beings--so cruel, rapacious, and tyrannical were they. During the earlier part of his life their father had been careful of his patrimony. He had also been unusually just to the serfs on his estates, and in consequence they had attained to such a condition of comfort and prosperity as was rarely met with among those in the power of the feudal lords of the country; most of whom were arbitrary and exacting in the extreme. For several years in the latter part of his life he had been subject to a severe illness, which had confined him to the castle, and the management of his possessions and the government of his serfs had thus fallen into the hands of his sons. Although the old baron had placed so much power in their hands; still he was far from resigning his own authority. He exacted a strict account from them of the manner in which they performed the different duties he had intrusted to them; and having a strong suspicion of their character, and the probability of their endeavouring to conceal their misdoings, he caused agents to watch them secretly, and to report to him as to the correctness of the statements they gave. These agents possibly knowing that the old man had but a short time to live invariably gave a most favourable description of the conduct of the two young nobles, which, it must be admitted, was not, during their father's lifetime, particularly reprehensible on the whole. Still, they frequently showed as much of the cloven foot as to prove to the tenants what they had to expect at no distant day.

At the old baron's death, Conrad, the elder, inherited as his portion the castle of Gardonal, and the whole valley of Engadin; while to Hermann, the younger, was assigned some immense estates belong to his father in the Bresciano district; for even in those early days, there was considerable intercourse between the inhabitants of that northern portion of Italy and those of the valley of the Engadin. The old baron had also willed, that should either of his sons die without children his estates should go to the survivor.

Tomás Donaire Mendoza: No me pongas esa cara

A menudo el picor era molesto, pero aquella mañana resultaba simplemente insoportable. Sabía que no debía rascar­se, que no serviría de nada, pero aun así no pudo evitar pasarse los dedos puestos de punta, en forma de peine, por luda la cara. Se sintió agradablemente aliviado por un momento, en el que emitió un breve suspiro y luego, pocos segundos después, peor. Mucho peor.

-Malditos sean sus dichosos caprichos —farfulló mien­tras componía una mueca amarga.

Ahora la cara le escocía y el picor se había multiplicado, como si un millar de abejas se hubieran posado en ella para aguijonearla. Se miró por un instante al espejo y pudo distin­guir cinco ronchas en su cara, rojizas y algo hinchadas, recorriéndola de arriba abajo como un campo recién arado. La san­gre le palpitaba en cada una de aquellas marcas, y sentía cómo la piel alrededor de ellas se tensaba tanto que parecía a punto de rasgarse como unas sábanas viejas. Esa era una pesadilla que tenía a menudo, que la piel se estiraba hasta que su rostro se deshacía, la piel caía a tiras, y al final quedaba poco más que una calavera pelada. No resultaba en absoluto agradable.

Maldijo otra vez y se metió en la ducha. El agua fría era lo único que engañaba aquella sensación de endemoniado picor —durante un rato—, sin que tuviese la inconveniente necesidad de restregar su cara contra un montón de papel de lija. Bendita ducha fría. El chorro cayendo directamente en el rostro atenuaba la intensidad del picor de tal forma que se convertía en un chisporroteo molesto, pero que a aquellas alturas casi le parecía agradable. Se abandonó bajo el agua más de media hora y sólo cuando la piel de los dedos se arrugaba ya como un puñado de garbanzos tomó la determinación de salir.

Se secó, tomando especial cuidado en la cara, se colocó el albornoz y luego, palpándose con suavidad las mejillas ron breves cachetes, entró al dormitorio.

Observó con inquietud que Silvia estaba ya despierta y que pasaba el rato leyendo una de sus novelitas románticas, desparramada sobre la cama con postura indolente.

Levantó los ojos de las páginas al verle pasar y, al ver su gesto quejoso, le preguntó.

—¿Otra vez ese picor?

—Sí, sí... otra vez. Ya sabes... —murmuró, dudando de si expresar su enfado o dejarlo pasar.

—Puedes echarte la crema, ¿no? Esa que dan con el apa­rato.

Negó con la cabeza.

—Ya sabes que esa crema es una porquería. No sirve para nada. No me aliviaría ni la picadura de mosquito.

—Tonterías —replicó Silvia dejando de lado la novela y tomando el bote de crema de la mesilla—. Aquí pone que... —añadió señalando la etiqueta del producto.

—¿Qué importa lo que ponga? No funciona, al menos conmigo, así que, ¿para qué demonios me la voy a echar?

Silvia lo miró con ojos grandes y luego se encogió de hombros. Su melena pelirroja centelleó al moverse con el brillo del sol.

—Está bien, como quieras... Pero me gustaría que utili­zaras el modelador personal otra vez ahora. He pensado que me apetece besarme con Eduardo Noriega antes de desayu­nar —dijo, sonriendo pícaramente.

—¡Oh, ya basta! No pienso utilizar el dichoso modelador más por hoy. ¡Ni una vez más! ¿Me oyes? ¡El picor es insoportable! —explotó—. ¡Por Dios, la cara no me va a aguan tar ni un cambio de forma más! ¿Es que no te valió con que me convirtiera en Newman y Delon esta noche?

Silvia permaneció imperturbable. Luego sonrió.

Patricia Highsmith: The Heroine

The girl was so sure she would get the job that she had come to Westchester with her suitcase. She sat in the living room of the Christiansens' house, looking, in her plain blue coat and hat, even younger than her twenty-one years.

'Have you worked as a governess before?' Mr Christiansen asked. He sat beside his wife on the sofa. 'Any references, I mean?'

'I was a maid at Mr Dwight Howell's home in New York for the last seven months.' Lucille looked at him with suddenly wide gray eyes. 'I could get a reference from there if you like . . . But when I saw your advertisement this morning, I didn't want to wait. I've always wanted a place where there are children.'

Mrs Christiansen smiled at the girl's enthusiasm, and said, 'We might phone them, of course ... What do you say, Ronald? You wanted someone who really liked children . . .'

And fifteen minutes later Lucille Smith was standing in her room in the servants' house, at the back of the big house, putting on her new white uniform.

'You're starting again, Lucille,' she told herself in the mirror. 'You're going to forget everything that happened before.'

But her eyes grew too wide again, as though to deny her words. They looked like her mother's when they opened like that, and her mother was part of what she must forget.

There were only a few things to remember. A few silly habits,

like burning bits of paper in ashtrays, forgetting time sometimes - little things that many people did, but that she must remember not to do. With practice she would remember, because she was just like other people (hadn't the psychiatrist told her so?).

She looked out at the garden and lawn that lay between the servants' house and the big house. The garden was longer than it was wide, and there was a fountain in the center. It was a beautiful garden! And trees so high and close together that Lucille could not see through them, and did not have to admit or believe that there was another house somewhere beyond ... The Howell house in New York, tall and heavily ornamented, looking like an old wedding cake in a row of other old wedding cakes.

The Christiansen house was friendly, and alive! There were children in it! Thank God for the children. But she had not even met them yet.

She hurried downstairs and went across to the big house: What had the Christiansens agreed to pay her? She could not remember and did not care. She would have worked for nothing just to live in such a place.

Mrs Christiansen took her upstairs to the nursery where the children lay on the floor among colored pencils and picture books.

'Nicky, Heloise, this is your new nurse,' their mother said. 'Her name is Lucille.'

The little boy stood up and said, 'How do you do.'

Pío Baroja: La sima

Pío Baroja by Joaquín Sorolla

El paraje era severo, de adusta severidad. En el término del horizonte, bajo el cielo inflamado por nubes rojas, fundidas por los últimos rayos del sol, se extendía la cadena de montañas de la sierra, como una muralla azuladoplomiza, coronada en la cumbre por ingentes pedruscos y veteada más abajo por blancas estrías de nieve.

El pastor y su nieto apacentaban su rebaño de cabras en el monte, en la cima del alto de las Pedrizas, donde se yergue como gigante centinela de granito el pico de la Corneja. El pastor llevaba anguarina de paño amarillento sobre los hombros, zahones de cuero en las rodillas, una montera de piel de cabra en la cabeza, y en la mano negruzca, como la garra de un águila, sostenía un cayado blanco de espino silvestre. Era hombre tosco y primitivo; sus mejillas, rugosas como la corteza de una vieja encina, estaban en parte cubiertas por la barba naciente no afeitada en varios días, blanquecina y sucia.

El zagal, rubicundo y pecoso, correteaba seguido del mastín; hacía zumbar la honda trazando círculos vertiginosos por encima de su cabeza y contestaba alegre a las voces lejanas de los pastores y de los vaqueros, con un grito estridente, como un relincho, terminando en una nota clara, larga, argentina, carcajada burlona, repetida varias veces por el eco de las montañas. El pastor y su nieto veían desde la cumbre del monte laderas y colinas sin árboles, prados yermos, con manchas negras, redondas, de los matorrales de retama y macizos violetas y morados de los tomillos y de los cantuesos en flor...

En la hondonada del monte, junto al lecho de una torrentera llena de hojas secas, crecían arbolillos de follaje verde negruzco y matas de brezo, de carrascas y de roble bajo. Comenzaba a anochecer, corría ligera brisa; el sol iba ocultándose tras de las crestas de la montaña; sierpes y dragones rojizos nadaban por los mares de azul nacarado del cielo, y, al retirarse el sol, las nubes blanqueaban y perdían sus colores, y las sierpes y los dragones se convertían en inmensos cocodrilos y gigantescos cetáceos. Los montes se arrugaban ante la vista, y los valles y las hondonadas parecían ensancharse y agrandarse a la luz del crepúsculo. Se oía a lo lejos el ruido de los cencerros de las vacas, que pasaban por la cañada, y el ladrido de los perros, el ulular del aire; y todos esos rumores, unidos a los murmullos indefinibles del campo, resonaban en la inmensa desolación del paraje como voces misteriosas nacidas de la soledad y del silencio.

-Volvamos, muchacho -dijo el pastor-. El sol se esconde.

El zagal corrió presuroso de un lado a otro, agitó sus brazos, enarboló su cayado, golpeó el suelo, dio gritos y arrojó piedras, hasta que fue reuniendo las cabras en una rinconada del monte. El viejo las puso en orden; un macho cabrío, con un gran cencerro en el cuello, se adelantó como guía, y el rebaño comenzó a bajar hacia el llano. Al destacarse el tropel de cabras sobre la hierba, parecía oleada negruzca, surcando un mar verdoso. Resonaba igual, acompasado, el alegre campanilleo de las esquilas.