Ambrose Bierce: Haïta, the Shepherd

In the heart of Haïta the illusions of youth had not been supplanted by those of age and experience. His thoughts were pure and pleasant, for his life was simple and his soul devoid of ambition. He rose with the sun and went forth to pray at the shrine of Hastur, the god of shepherds, who heard and was pleased. After performance of this pious rite Haïta unbarred the gate of the fold and with a cheerful mind drove his flock afield, eating his morning meal of curds and oat cake as he went, occasionally pausing to add a few berries, cold with dew, or to drink of the waters that came away from the hills to join the stream in the middle of the valley and be borne along with it, he knew not whither.

During the long summer day, as his sheep cropped the good grass which the gods had made to grow for them, or lay with their forelegs doubled under their breasts and chewed the cud, Haïta, reclining in the shadow of a tree, or sitting upon a rock, played so sweet music upon his reed pipe that sometimes from the corner of his eye he got accidental glimpses of the minor sylvan deities, leaning forward out of the copse to hear; but if he looked at them directly they vanished. From this - for he must be thinking if he would not turn into one of his own sheep - he drew the solemn inference that happiness may come if not sought, but if looked for will never be seen; for next to the favor of Hastur, who never disclosed himself, Haïta most valued the friendly interest of his neighbors, the shy immortals of the wood and stream. At nightfall he drove his flock back to the fold, saw that the gate was secure and retired to his cave for refreshment and for dreams.

So passed his life, one day like another, save when the storms uttered the wrath of an offended god. Then Haïta cowered in his cave, his face hidden in his hands, and prayed that he alone might be punished for his sins and the world saved from destruction. Sometimes when there was a great rain, and the stream came out of its banks, compelling him to urge his terrified flock to the uplands, he interceded for the people in the cities which he had been told lay in the plain beyond the two blue hills forming the gateway of his valley.

“It is kind of thee, O Hastur,” so he prayed, “to give me mountains so near to my dwelling and my fold that I and my sheep can escape the angry torrents; but the rest of the world thou must thyself deliver in some way that I know not of, or I will no longer worship thee.”

And Hastur, knowing that Haïta was a youth who kept his word, spared the cities and turned the waters into the sea.

So he had lived since he could remember. He could not rightly conceive any other mode of existence. The holy hermit who dwelt at the head of the valley, a full hour’s journey away, from whom he had heard the tale of the great cities where dwelt people - poor souls! - who had no sheep, gave him no knowledge of that early time, when, so he reasoned, he must have been small and helpless like a lamb.

Juan Ramón Jiménez: Soñé un sueño

Soñé que estaba muerto y que, muerto, soñaba que resucitaba, y que no podía. Y soñé que ese sueño había de ser eterno.

Montague Rhodes James: The Mezzotint

Some time ago I believe I had the pleasure of telling you the story of an adventure which happened to a friend of mine by the name of Dennistoun, during his pursuit of objects of art for the museum at Cambridge.

He did not publish his experiences very widely upon his return to England; but they could not fail to become known to a good many of his friends, and among others to the gentleman who at that time presided over an art museum at another University. It was to be expected that the story should make a considerable impression on the mind of a man whose vocation lay in lines similar to Dennistoun’s, and that he should be eager to catch at any explanation of the matter which tended to make it seem improbable that he should ever be called upon to deal with so agitating an emergency. It was, indeed, somewhat consoling to him to reflect that he was not expected to acquire ancient MSS. for his institution; that was the business of the Shelburnian Library. The authorities of that institution might, if they pleased, ransack obscure corners of the Continent for such matters. He was glad to be obliged at the moment to confine his attention to enlarging the already unsurpassed collection of English topographical drawings and engravings possessed by his museum. Yet, as it turned out, even a department so homely and familiar as this may have its dark corners, and to one of these Mr Williams was unexpectedly introduced.

Those who have taken even the most limited interest in the acquisition of topographical pictures are aware that there is one London dealer whose aid is indispensable to their researches. Mr J. W. Britnell publishes at short intervals very admirable catalogues of a large and constantly changing stock of engravings, plans, and old sketches of mansions, churches, and towns in England and Wales. These catalogues were, of course, the ABC of his subject to Mr Williams: but as his museum already contained an enormous accumulation of topographical pictures, he was a regular, rather than a copious, buyer; and he rather looked to Mr Britnell to fill up gaps in the rank and file of his collection than to supply him with rarities.

Now, in February of last year there appeared upon Mr Williams’s desk at the museum a catalogue from Mr Britnell’s emporium, and accompanying it was a typewritten communication from the dealer himself. This latter ran as follows:

Dear Sir,

We beg to call your attention to No. 978 in our accompanying catalogue, which we shall be glad to send on approval.

Yours faithfully,

J. W. Britnell.

To turn to No. 978 in the accompanying catalogue was with Mr. Williams (as he observed to himself) the work of a moment, and in the place indicated he found the following entry:

Ángel Olgoso: Introito para arpa de tendones humanos

El ojo derecho me cuelga a la altura del pómulo. Las ametralladoras nos barrieron del parapeto. A Le Brun y a mí. Caí bocabajo en el barro. Oscuridad, acógeme entre tus brazos. Hacerme el muerto. Aquel crujido era la bala volándome el hueso orbital. Intento devolver el ojo a su lugar sin delatarme. Parece un amasijo de muelles blandos. La aviación nos había bombardeado de nuevo a la salida del sol. El capitán d’Herbelot se disgregó en miles de pequeños d’Herbelot. El miedo no es negrura si antes has conocido el espanto. Thierry perdió los brazos mientras los estiraba en un bostezo de cansancio. Comimos ratas que sabíamos devoraban cuerpos de soldados muertos. Amortajamos miembros amputados. Hilamos tripas y las repusimos en sus cadáveres coronándolas con las fotos de sus novias sonrientes. Cada uno de nosotros, espectros raquíticos y aulladores, conocía en vida el nombre de su infierno: el bosque Prijmadin, la plaza de Altsattl, los pastizales de Na Mustku, el río Týna, la colina Podêbrady. Ha vuelto a desprenderse el globo ocular. Lo empujo al fondo de su cavidad con un lentísimo amago, intentando no descubrirme. Dios delante y yo detrás. En uno de los últimos ataques, Litvak el Pelícano levitó en el aire con la explosión del mortero y pude contemplar momentáneamente el revés entero de su piel. Litvak el Pelícano fumaba picadura de primera. Camaradas que eran borbotones de rabia, miedo, astucia, lealtad, locura, y una fracción de segundo después caparazones vacíos, hollejos, remolinos de carbón y fosfato. Permanezco inmóvil. Bocabajo. La náusea llama convulsamente a mi puerta. La dejo entrar y se acomoda en la mesa junto al dolor. Decrece el ruido sordo de los impactos contra los sacos terreros. Mi ojo izquierdo, entreabierto, asiste toda la tarde a desfiles de chinches y hormigas y cucarachas. No hay paisaje en esta sala de máquinas de la historia, en esta artesa para matanzas. Sólo raciones de sangre. Macutos de barro. Cantimploras de secreciones. Trincheras de vendas y delirios. Pienso en la pureza, en una monja de hábitos blancos y toca almidonada que acaricia mi frente con un beso incomparablemente dulce y consolador. Pienso en la imprecisión del dedo meñique de los pies. Se acerca el enemigo entre los escombros. Lo olisqueo. Tiemblo. La muerte es sólo un día más, nos arengaba el capitán d’Herbelot antes de desintegrarse en su halo. Un día más, quizá, pero interminable. Siento pánico. Doy la espalda a las ráfagas perdidas de los francotiradores, a los lanzallamas, al imperceptible y concluyente disparo de los rematadores de heridos. Llega la noche, como aturdida. Horas apiladas en frías capas de agonía. Temo también una paletada de cal sin previo aviso. Dormir. Visto desde arriba, mi cuerpo hace nido. El párpado restante se me cierra de sueño, de agotamiento, de asco. Pero lo que más empavorece a este cobarde, a este desertor, es la infinita maldad del amanecer.

Agatha Christie: Philomel Cottage

"Good-bye, darling."

"Good-bye, sweetheart."

Alix Martin stood leaning over the small rustic gate, watching the retreating figure of her husband, as he walked down the road in the direction of the village.

Presently he turned a bend and was lost to sight, but Alix still stayed in the same position, absent-mindedly smoothing a lock of the rich brown hair which had blown across her face, her eyes far-away and dreamy.

Alix Martin was not beautiful, nor even, strictly speaking, pretty. But her face, the face of a woman no longer in her first youth, was irradiated and softened until her former colleagues of the old office days would hardly have recognized her. Miss Alix King had been a trim business-like young woman, efficient, slightly brusque in manner, obviously capable and matter-of-fact.

Alix had graduated in a hard school. For fifteen years, from the age of eighteen until she was thirty-three, she had kept herself (and for seven years of the time, an invalid mother) by her work as a shorthand-typist. It was the struggle for existence which had hardened the soft lines of her girlish face.

True, there had been romance - of a kind - Dick Windyford, a fellow-clerk. Very much of a woman at heart, Alix had always known without seeming to know that he cared. Outwardly they had been friends, nothing more. Out of his slender salary, Dick had been hard put to it to provide for the schooling of a younger brother. For the moment, he could not think of marriage.

And then suddenly deliverance from daily toil had come to the girl in the most unexpected manner. A distant cousin had died leaving her money to Alix - a few thousand pounds, enough to bring in a couple of hundred a year. To Alix, it was freedom, life, independence. Now she and Dick need wait no longer.

Nevertheless, when Alix envisaged the future, it was with the half acknowledged certainty that she would one day be Dick's wife. They cared for one another, so she would have put it, but they were both sensible people. Plenty of time, no need to do anything rash. So the years had gone on.

But Dick reacted unexpectedly. He had never directly spoken of his love to Alix, now he seemed less inclined to do so than ever. He avoided her, became morose and gloomy. Alix was quick to realize the truth.

She had become a woman of means. Delicacy and pride stood in the way of Dick's asking her to be his wife. She liked him none the worse for it and was indeed deliberating as to whether herself might not take the first step when for the second time the unexpected descended upon her.

She met Gerald Martin at a friend's house. He fell violently in love with her and within a week they were engaged. Alix, who had always considered herself "not the falling-in-love kind," was swept clean off her feet.

Unwittingly she had found the way to arouse her former lover. Dick Windyford had come to her stammering with rage and anger.

"The man's a perfect stranger to you! You know nothing about him!"

Charles Baudelaire: Une mort héroïque

Fancioulle était un admirable bouffon, et presque un des amis du Prince. Mais pour les personnes vouées par état au comique, les choses sérieuses ont de fatales attractions, et, bien qu'il puisse paraître bizarre que les idées de patrie et de liberté s'emparent despotiquement du cerveau d'un histrion, un jour Fancioulle entra dans une conspiration formée par quelques gentilshommes mécontents.

Il existe partout des hommes de bien pour dénoncer au pouvoir ces individus d'humeur atrabilaire qui veulent déposer les princes et opérer, sans la consulter, le déménagement d'une société. Les seigneurs en question furent arrêtés, ainsi que Fancioulle, et voués à une mort certaine.

Je croirais volontiers que le Prince fut presque fâché de trouver son comédien favori parmi les rebelles. Le Prince n'était ni meilleur ni pire qu'un autre; mais une excessive sensibilité le rendait, en beaucoup de cas, plus cruel et plus despote que tous ses pareils. Amoureux passionné des beaux-arts, excellent connaisseur d'ailleurs, il était vraiment insatiable de voluptés. Assez indifférent relativement aux hommes et à la morale, véritable artiste lui-même, il ne connaissait d'ennemi dangereux que l'Ennui, et les efforts bizarres qu'il faisait pour fuir ou pour vaincre ce tyran du monde lui auraient certainement attiré, de la part d'un historien sévère, l'épithète de "monstre", s'il avait été permis, dans ses domaines, d'écrire quoi que ce fût qui ne tendît pas uniquement au plaisir ou à l'étonnement, qui est une des formes les plus délicates du plaisir. Le grand malheur de ce Prince fut qu'il n'eut jamais un théâtre assez vaste pour son génie. Il y a de jeunes Nérons qui étouffent dans des limites trop étroites, et dont les siècles à venir ignoreront toujours le nom et la bonne volonté. L'imprévoyante Providence avait donné à celui-ci des facultés plus grandes que ses Etats.

Tout d'un coup le bruit courut que le souverain voulait faire grâce à tous les conjurés; et l'origine de ce bruit fut l'annonce d'un grand spectacle où Fancioulle devait jouer l'un de ses principaux et de ses meilleurs rôles, et auquel assisteraient même, disait-on, les gentilshommes condamnés; signe évident, ajoutaient les esprits superficiels, des tendances généreuses du Prince offensé.

De la part d'un homme aussi naturellement et volontairement excentrique, tout était possible, même la vertu, même la clémence, surtout s'il avait pu espérer y trouver des plaisirs inattendus. Mais pour ceux qui, comme moi, avaient pu pénétrer plus avant dans les profondeurs de cette âme curieuse et malade, il était infiniment plus probable que le Prince voulait juger de la valeur des talents scéniques d'un homme condamné à mort. Il voulait profiter de l'occasion pour faire une expérience physiologique d'un intérêt capital, et vérifier jusqu'à quel point les facultés habituelles d'un artiste pouvaient être altérées ou modifiées par la situation extraordinaire où il se trouvait; au-delà, existait-il dans son âme une intention plus ou moins arrêtée de clémence? C'est un point qui n'a jamais pu être éclairci.

José Manuel Benítez Ariza: Críticas de cine

Sé cómo lo hacen. Primero, se filma al personaje caminando en dirección a la cámara. A partir de determinado punto, se hacen otras dos tomas del personaje siguiendo trayectorias opuestas. También puede utilizarse un espejo, para que las dos trayectorias divergentes guarden una perfecta simetría. El resultado es lo que cuenta: esa imagen inquietante de un hombre desdoblándose en dos personajes con destinos opuestos. Espejos, fundidos, transparencias. Muy fácil, en el cine.

También están las tomas descartadas: todo lo que no se aprovecha cuando se procede al montaje definitivo de la película. Uno mira, por ejemplo, a John Gielgud en El agente secreto. Lo mira bajar las escaleras en su uniforme de aviador. Abajo lo espera Peter Lorre. Y uno sospecha que, en el limbo de las imágenes descartadas, a lo mejor es Peter Lorre el que sube esa escalera mientras John Gielgud lo espera en el descansillo, las manos a la espalda, los guantes doblados en el cinturón. Y que, a lo mejor, de haberse aprovechado el recelo, la desconfianza que implicaba esa actitud distante, John Gielgud no hubiese llegado a ser cómplice de un asesinato inútil cometido más tarde por Peter Lorre. Claro que, entonces, no tendríamos película. A lo sumo, y de haber quedado constancia de que Gielgud no acepta la misión, hubiésemos tenido el vago consuelo de que algunas personas se niegan a prestarse a ser cómplices de cosas que, de cualquier modo, acabarán sucediendo.

Lo que me va a suceder a mí también es inevitable. Y, por una vez, tiene algo que ver, aunque sólo sea de un modo tangencial, con el cine.

Me preguntarán de dónde demonios he sacado la pistola. Es una historia larga, que incluye haberme ganado la confianza de Luisito, el hijo de mi vecino, y haberlo llevado, junto con mi sobrinilla, al zoo y al parque y a una película de Disney y a no sé cuántos sitios más en las últimas semanas. El padre de Luisito es policía. Y Luisito sabe dónde guarda el arma.

Les hablaba de un personaje que camina hasta un punto y, a partir de ahí, se convierte en dos réplicas de sí mismo que siguen caminos opuestos. Estoy viendo la escena, no me pregunten de qué película. He detenido la imagen (mi última estupidez: el vídeo de cuatro cabezales, que me ha costado cien mil pesetas) justo en el momento en que el personaje empieza a desdoblarse. Estudio las dos caras. Desde el principio, en una se lee decisión, seguridad, éxito. La otra, en cambio, parece desconcertada, como si no supiera dónde está o intuyera un peligro inmediato.

Los artículos de cine que publicaba en El Vigía no le gustaban a nadie. Ni siquiera al director de El Vigía. Los publicaba porque le salían gratis. Y porque, sospecho, le hacía gracia que el mismo tipo que le atendía en la ventanilla del banco por las mañanas apareciese por la tarde en el periódico con un par de folios mecanografiados y la pretensión (insólita, al principio) de que se los publicaran. Convencerlo no fue fácil. Se permitió rechazar los diez o doce primeros, con una mezcla muy suya de amabilidad e impertinencia, pero dejando siempre abierta la posibilidad de aceptar el próximo. Y yo iba al cine aquella misma noche y, al día siguiente, mientras mi mujer dormía la siesta, le daba a la máquina y pergeñaba una nueva crítica. Era cuestión de insistir. Alguna vez, pensaba, a ese tipo le sobraría espacio en alguna página. Las cosas que pasan en una ciudad como ésta no dan ni para llenar las dieciséis páginas de un periodicucho como El Vigía.

Hume Nisbet: The Vampire Maid

It was the exact kind of abode that I had been looking after for weeks, for I was in that condition of mind when absolute renunciation of society was a necessity. I had become diffident of myself, and wearied of my kind. A strange unrest was in my blood; a barren dearth in my brains. Familiar objects and faces had grown distasteful to me. I wanted to be alone.

This is the mood which comes upon every sensitive and artistic mind when the possessor has been overworked or living too long in one groove. It is Nature's hint for him to seek pastures new; the sign that a retreat has become needful.

If he does not yield, he breaks down and becomes whimsical and hypochondriacal, as well as hypercritical. It is always a bad sign when a man becomes over-critical and censorious about his own or other people's work, for it means that he is losing the vital portions of work, freshness and enthusiasm.

Before I arrived at the dismal stage of criticism I hastily packed up my knapsack, and taking the train to Westmorland, I began my tramp in search of solitude, bracing air and romantic surroundings.

Many places I came upon during that early summer wandering that appeared to have almost the required conditions, yet some petty drawback prevented me from deciding. Sometimes it was the scenery that I did not take kindly to. At other places I took sudden antipathies to the landlady or landlord, and felt I would abhor them before a week was spent under their charge. Other places which might have suited me I could not have, as they did not want a lodger. Fate was driving me to this Cottage on the Moor, and no one can resist destiny.

One day I found myself on a wide and pathless moor near the sea. I had slept the night before at a small hamlet, but that was already eight miles in my rear, and since I had turned my back upon it I had not seen any signs of humanity; I was alone with a fair sky above me, a balmy ozone-filled wind blowing over the stony and heather-clad mounds, and nothing to disturb my meditations.

How far the moor stretched I had no knowledge; I only knew that by keeping in a straight line I would come to the ocean cliffs, then perhaps after a time arrive at some fishing village.

I had provisions in my knapsack, and being young did not fear a night under the stars. I was inhaling the delicious summer air and once more getting back the vigour and happiness I had lost; my city-dried brains were again becoming juicy.

Ednodio Quintero: Cacería

Permanece estirado, boca arriba, sobre la estrecha cama de madera. Con los ojos apenas entreabiertos busca, en las extrañas líneas del techo, el comienzo de un camino que lo aleje de su perseguidor. Durante noches enteras ha soportado el acoso, atravesando praderas de yerbas venenosas, vadeando ríos de vidrio molido, cruzando puentes frágiles como galletas. Cuando el perseguidor está a punto de alcanzarlo, cuando lo siente tan cerca que su aliento le quema la nuca, se revuelca en la cama como un gallo que recibe un espuelazo en pleno corazón. Entonces el perseguidor se detiene y descansa recostado a un árbol, aguarda con paciencia que la víctima cierre los ojos para reanudar la cacería.

Charles Bukowski: The Most Beautiful Woman In Tow

Cass was the youngest and most beautiful of 5 sisters. Cass was the most beautiful girl

in town. 1/2 Indian with a supple and strange body, a snake-like and fiery body with eyes

to go with it. Cass was fluid moving fire. She was like a spirit stuck into a form that

would not hold her. Her hair was black and long and silken and whirled about as did her

body. Her spirit was either very high or very low. There was no in between for Cass. Some

said she was crazy. The dull ones said that. The dull ones would never understand Cass. To

the men she was simply a sex machine and they didn't care whether she was crazy or not.

And Cass danced and flirted, kissed the men, but except for an instance or two, when it

came time to make it with Cass, Cass had somehow slipped away, eluded the men.

Her sisters accused her of misusing her beauty, of not using her mind enough, but Cass

had mind and spirit; she painted, she danced, she sang, she made things of clay, and when

people were hurt either in the spirit or the flesh, Cass felt a deep grieving for them.

Her mind was simply different; her mind was simply not practical. Her sisters were jealous

of her because she attracted their men, and they were angry because they felt she didn't

make the best use of them. She had a habit of being kind to the uglier ones; the so-called

handsome men revolted her- "No guts," she said, "no zap. They are riding on

their perfect little earlobes and well- shaped nostrils...all surface and no

insides..." She had a temper that came close to insanity, she had a temper that some

call insanity. Her father had died of alcohol and her mother had run off leaving the

girls alone. The girls went to a relative who placed them in a convent. The convent had

been an unhappy place, more for Cass than the sisters. The girls were jealous of Cass and

Cass fought most of them. She had razor marks all along her left arm from defending

herself in two fights. There was also a permanent scar along the left cheek but the scar

rather than lessening her beauty only seemed to highlight it. I met her at the West End

Bar several nights after her release from the convent. Being youngest, she was the last of

the sisters to be released. She simply came in and sat next to me. I was probably the

ugliest man in town and this might have had something to do with it.

"Drink?" I asked.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: El regreso del Dr. Hesselius / Dr. Hesselius Returns

–Una sobredosis de té. No fue más que una vulgar alucinación producida por el excesivo consumo de ese mejunje. Cómico, ¿no? Desengáñese, amigo mío, cada caso horrendo en el que me he visto envuelto, por espeluznante que pudiese parecer a simple vista, tenía una explicación muy lógica. No existe lo sobrenatural; no son más que patrañas para convencer a los incautos. Los muertos, muertos están. Y no vuelven.

–Por supuesto, por supuesto –musita distraídamente.

Toma notas con un entusiasmo febril. Ni en sus más locos sueños ni durante sus vigilias más lúcidas habría imaginado tramas tan brillantes. Sin él seguiría escribiendo relatos de fantasmas al uso. Pero con su ayuda, está seguro, creará escuela.

Celebra el audaz espíritu racional del Dr. Hesselius. Sin embargo, al tiempo, le estomaga su exceso de escepticismo. Esa suficiencia germana. Por eso a veces sopesa si revelarle su condición –la memoria es siempre selectiva, piensa–. Pero la tentación dura escasos segundos. Sencillamente no puede; él es feliz así, con esas periódicas entrevistas nocturnas que le permiten rememorar sus casos más enrevesados y horripilantes. Además se le antoja de muy mal gusto decirle a un muerto que lo está. La reacción del espectro podría resultar impredecible. Quizá dejase de acudir a su llamada, y eso supondría la ruina como escritor: adiós a esa misteriosa inspiración que, desde que comprase el reloj que perteneció al doctor, ha encontrado en la noche, en el retiro de su sótano, y que todos atribuyen a la melancolía provocada por la pérdida de su esposa.

–Bien, creo que por hoy nuestro tiempo se ha acabado –acaricia agradecido el mecanismo muerto, parado desde el mismo momento en que Hesselius sufrió un infarto mientras investigaba su último caso, el más aterrador. Ése que tendrá la precaución de no hacerle recordar hasta que no se le hayan agotado las historias–. Es tarde y no desearía abusar de su generosidad. Debe usted descansar –aconseja.

Y el Dr. Hesselius, obediente, se va diluyendo al tiempo que bosteza.

Neil Gaiman: The Problem of Susan

She has the dream again that night.

In the dream, she is standing, with her brothers and her sister, on the edge of the battlefield. It is summer, and the grass is a peculiarly vivid shade of green: a wholesome green, like a cricket pitch or the welcoming slope of the South Downs as you make your way north from the coast. There are bodies on the grass. None of the bodies are human; she can see a centaur, its throat slit, on the grass near her. The horse half of it is a vivid chestnut. Its human skin is nut-brown from the sun. She finds herself staring at the horse’s penis, wondering about centaurs mating, imagines being kissed by that bearded face. Her eyes flick to the cut throat, and the sticky red-black pool that surrounds it, and she shivers.

Flies buzz about the corpses.

The wildflowers tangle in the grass. They bloomed yesterday for the first time in, how long? A hundred years? A thousand? A hundred thousand? She does not know.

All this was snow, she thinks, as she looks at the battlefield. Yesterday, all this was snow. Always winter, and never Christmas. Her sister tugs her hand and points. On the brow of the green hill they, stand, deep in conversation. The lion is golden, his hands folded behind his back. The witch is dressed all in white. Right now she is shouting at the lion, who is simply listening. The children cannot make out any of their words, not her cold anger or the lion’s thrum-deep replies. The witch’s hair is black and shiny; her lips are red.

In her dream she notices these things.

They will finish their conversation soon, the lion and the witch…. There are things about herself that the professor despises. Her smell, for example. She smells like her grandmother smelled, like old women smell, and for this she cannot forgive herself, so on waking, she bathes in scented water and, naked and towel-dried, dabs several drops of Chanel toilet water beneath her arms and on her neck. It is, she believes, her sole extravagance.

Today she dresses in her dark brown dress suit. She thinks of these as her interview clothes, as opposed to her lecture clothes or her knocking-about-the-house clothes. Now she is in retirement, she wears her knocking-about-the-house clothes more and more. She puts on lipstick.

After breakfast, she washes a milk bottle, places it at her back door. She discovers that next-door’s cat has deposited a mouse head, and a paw, on the doormat. It looks as though the mouse is swimming through the coconut matting, as though most of it is submerged. She purses her lips, then she folds her copy of yesterday’s Daily Telegraph, and she folds and flips the mouse head and the paw into the newspaper, never touching them with her hands. Today’s Daily Telegraph is waiting for her in the hall, along with several letters, which she inspects, without opening any of them, and then places on the desk in her tiny study. Since her retirement, she visits her study only to write. Now she walks into the kitchen and seats herself at the old oak table. Her reading glasses hang about her neck, on a silver chain, and she perches them on her nose, and begins with the obituaries.

Rudyard Kipling: The finest story in the world

"O' ever the knightly years were gone
With the old world to the grave,
I was a king in Babylon
And you were a Christian slave."
—W. E. Henley.

His name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother who was a widow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City every day to work in a bank. He was twenty years old and suffered from aspirations. I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker called him by his given name, and he called the marker "Bulls-eyes." Charley explained, a little nervously, that he had only come to the place to look on, and since looking on at games of skill is not a cheap amusement for the young, I suggested that Charlie should go back to his mother.

That was our first step toward better acquaintance. He would call on me sometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with his fellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young man must, he told me of his aspirations, which were all literary. He desired to make himself an undying name chiefly through verse, though he was not above sending stories of love and death to the drop-a-penny-in-the-slot journals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie read me poems of many hundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely shake the world. My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the self-revelations and troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden. Charlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first opportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honorable, but, at the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that he knew his way about the world as befitted a bank clerk on twenty-five shillings a week. He rhymed "dove" with "love" and "moon" with "June," and devoutly believed that they had never so been rhymed before. The long lame gaps in his plays he filled up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on, seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause.

I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations, and I know that his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he told me almost at the outset of our acquaintance; when he was ravaging my bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth as to his chances of "writing something really great, you know." Maybe I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly:

"Do you mind—can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I won't interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in at my mother's."

"What's the trouble?" I said, knowing well what that trouble was.

"I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's such a notion!"

There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased. The finest story in the world would not come forth.

Hans Christian Andersen: Under Piletræet

Albert Küchler Portrait of Hans Christian Andersen

Egnen er meget nøgen nede ved Kjøge; Byen ligger jo rigtignok ved Stranden, og det er altid kjønt, men der kunde dog være kjønnere, end der er: rundt om flad Mark, og langt er der til Skoven; men naar man er rigtig hjemme et Sted, saa finder man dog Noget kjønt, noget, man paa det deiligste Sted i Verden siden kan længes efter! Og det maae vi ogsaa sige, at i Udkanten af Kjøge, hvor et Par smaa fattige Haver strække sig ned til den lille Aa, som løber ud i Stranden, kunde der være ganske yndigt ved Sommertid, og det fandt især de to smaa Nabobørn, Knud og Johanne, som legede her og krøb under Stikkelsbærbuskene ind til hinanden. I den ene Have stod en Hyld, i den anden et gammelt Piletræ, og under det især legede de Børn saa gjerne, og dertil havde de Lov, skjøndt Træet stod lige tæt ved Aaen, hvor de let kunde falde i Vandet, men vor Herre har Øie paa de Smaa, ellers saae det slemt ud; de vare ogsaa meget forsigtige, ja, Drengen var en saadan Cujon for Vandet, at det var ikke mueligt ved Sommertid at faae ham ud i Stranden, hvor dog de andre Børn saa gjerne vilde gaae at pjadske; han blev skaamet ud for det, og det maatte han taale; men saa drømte Naboens lille Johanne, at hun seilede i en Baad paa Kjøgebugt og Knud gik lige ud til hende, Vandet naaede ham først til Halsen og saa gik det ham heelt over Hovedet; og fra det Øieblik af, at Knud hørte den Drøm, taalte han ikke længer, at man kaldte ham en Cujon for Vandet, men henviste bare til Johannes Drøm; den var hans Stolthed; men i Vandet gik han ikke.

De fattige Forældre kom jævnlig sammen, og Knud og Johanne legede i Haverne og paa Landeveien, som langs med Grøfterne havde en heel Række Piletræer, og de vare ikke kjønne, de vare saa forhuggede i Kronen, men de stode jo heller ikke til Stads, men for at gjøre Nytte; deiligere var den gamle Piil i Haven, og under den sad de mangen god Gang, som man siger.

Inde i Kjøge er der et stort Torv, og ved Markedstid stod der hele Gader af Telte med Silkebaand, Støvler og alt mueligt; der var en Trængsel og sædvanligviis Regnveir, og da mærkede man Dunsten af Bondekofter, men ogsaa den deiligste Lugt af Honningkager, der var en heel Bod fuld, og hvad der var det prægtigste: Manden, som solgte dem, indlogerede sig altid i Markedstiden hos den lille Knuds Forældre, og saa vankede der naturligviis en lille Honningkage, hvoraf Johanne ogsaa fik sit Stykke, men hvad der næsten var endnu meget mere, Honningkagehandleren vidste at fortælle Historier, og det næsten om enhver Ting, selv om sine Honningkager; ja om disse fortalte han en Aften en Historie, som gjorde et saa dybt Indtryk paa de to Børn, at de aldrig siden glemte den, og saa er det vel bedst, vi ogsaa høre den, især da den er kort.

"Der laae paa Disken to Honningkager," sagde han, "den ene havde Skikkelse af et Mandfolk med Hat, den anden som en Jomfru uden Hat, men med en Klat Bog-Guld paa Hovedet; de havde Ansigt paa den side, som vendte opad, og der skulde man see dem og ikke paa Vrangen, der skal man aldrig see noget Mennekse. Mandfolket havde en Bittermandel til Venstre, det var hans Hjerte, Jomfruen var derimod bare Honningkage. De laae som Prøver paa Disken, de laae længe og saa elskede de hinanden, men den Ene sagde det ikke til den Anden, og det maa man, naar det skal blive til Noget.

Han er et Mandfolk, han maa sige det første Ord," tænkte hun, men vilde dog være fornøiet med at vide, at hendes Kjærlighed blev gjengjældt.

Han var nu mere glubende i sine Tanker, og det er altid Mandfolkene; han drømte, han var en levende Gadedreng og eiede fire Skilling, og saa kjøbte han Jomfruen og aad hende.

Og de laae Dage og Uger paa Disken og blev tørre, og hendes Tanker bleve finere og mere qvindelige: "det er mig nok, at jeg har ligget paa Disk med ham!" tænkte hun, og saa knak hun i Livet.