Frederick Marryat: The Legend Of The Bell Rock

There was a grand procession through the streets of the two towns of Perth and Dundee. The holy abbots, in their robes, walked under gilded canopies, the monks chanted, the censers were thrown, flags and banners were carried by seamen, lighted tapers by penitents; St. Antonio, the patron of those who trust to the stormy ocean, was carried in all pomp through the streets; and, as the procession passed, coins of various value were thrown down by those who watched it from the windows, and, as fast as thrown were collected by little boys dressed as angels, and holding silver vessels to receive the largesses. During the whole day did the procession continue, and large was the treasure collected in the two towns. Every one gave freely, for there were few, indeed none, who, if not in their own circle, at least among their acquaintances, had to deplore the loss of some one dear to them, or to those they visited, from the dangerous rock which lay in the very track of all the vessels entering the Firth of Tay.

These processions had been arranged, that a sufficient sum of money might be collected to enable them to put in execution a plan proposed by an adventurous and bold young seaman, in a council held for the purpose, of fixing a bell on the rock, which could be so arranged that the slightest breath of wind would cause the hammer of it to sound, and thus, by its tolling, warn the mariner of his danger; and the sums given were more than sufficient. A meeting was then held, and it was unanimously agreed that Andrew M'Clise should be charged with the commission to go over to Amsterdam, and purchase the bell of a merchant residing there, whom Andrew stated to have one in his possession, which, from its fine tone and size, was exactly calculated for the purport to which it was to be appropriated.

Andrew M'Clise embarked with the money, and made a prosperous voyage. He had often been at Amsterdam, and had lived with the merchant, whose name was Vandermaclin; and the attention to his affairs, the dexterity and the rapidity of the movements of Andrew M'Clise, had often elicited the warmest encomiums of Mynheer Vandermaclin; and many evenings had Andrew M'Clise passed with him, drinking in moderation their favourite scheedam, and indulging in the meditative merschaum. Vandermaclin had often wished that he had a son like Andrew M'Clise, to whom he could leave his property, with the full assurance that the heap would not be scattered, but greatly added to.

Vandermaclin was a widower. He had but one daughter, who was now just arrived at an age to return from the pension to her father's house, and take upon herself the domestic duties. M'Clise had never yet seen the beautiful Katerina.

Jorge Luis Borges: El Libro de Arena

La línea consta de un número infinito de puntos; el plano, de un número infinito de líneas; el volumen, de un número infinito de planos; el hipervolumen, de un número infinito de volúmenes... No, decididamente no es éste, more geométrico, el mejor modo de iniciar mi relato. Afirmar que es verídico es ahora una convención de todo relato fantástico; el mío, sin embargo, es verídico.

Yo vivo solo, en un cuarto piso de la calle Belgrano. Hará unos meses, al atardecer, oí un golpe en la puerta. Abrí y entró un desconocido. Era un hombre alto, de rasgos desdibujados. Acaso mi miopía los vio así. Todo su aspecto era de pobreza decente. Estaba de gris y traía una valija gris en la mano. En seguida sentí que era extranjero. Al principio lo creí viejo; luego advertí que me había engañado su escaso pelo rubio, casi blanco, a la manera escandinava. En el curso de nuestra conversación, que no duraría una hora, supe que procedía de las Orcadas.

Le señalé una silla. El hombre tardó un rato en hablar. Exhalaba melancolía, como yo ahora.

- Vendo biblias - me dijo.

No sin pedantería le contesté:

- En esta casa hay algunas biblias inglesas, incluso la primera, la de John Wiclif. Tengo asimismo la de Cipriano de Valera, la de Lutero, que literariamente es la peor, y un ejemplar latino de la Vulgata. Como usted ve, no son precisamente biblias lo que me falta.

Al cabo de un silencio me contestó:

- No sólo vendo biblias. Puedo mostrarle un libro sagrado que tal vez le interese. Lo adquirí en los confines de Bikanir.

Abrió la valija y lo dejó sobre la mesa. Era un volumen en octavo, encuadernado en tela. Sin duda había pasado por muchas manos. Lo examiné; su inusitado peso me sorprendió. En el lomo decía Holy Writ y abajo Bombay.

- Será del siglo diecinueve - observé.

- No sé. No lo he sabido nunca - fue la respuesta.

Lo abrí al azar. Los caracteres me eran extraños. Las páginas, que me parecieron gastadas y de pobre tipografía, estaban impresas a dos columnas a la manera de una biblia. El texto era apretado y estaba ordenado en versículos. En el ángulo superior de las páginas había cifras arábigas. Me llamó la atención que la página par llevara el número (digamos) 40.514 y la impar, la siguiente, 999. La volví; el dorso estaba numerado con ocho cifras. Llevaba una pequeña ilustración, como es de uso en los diccionarios: un ancla dibujada a la pluma, como por la torpe mano de un niño.

Fue entonces que el desconocido me dijo:

Conrad Aiken: Strange Moonlight

It had been a tremendous week—colossal. Its reverberations around him hardly yet slept—his slightest motion or thought made a vast symphony of them, like a breeze in a forest of bells. In the first place, he had filched a volume of Poe’s tales from his mother's bookcase, and had had in consequence a delirious night in inferno. Down, down he had gone with heavy clangs about him, coiling spouts of fire licking dryly at an iron sky, and a strange companion, of protean shape and size, walking and talking beside him. For the most part, this companion seemed to be nothing but a voice and a wingnan enormous jagged black wing, soft and drooping like a bat's; he had noticed veins in it. As for the voice, it had been singularly gentle. If it was mysterious, that was no doubt because he himself was stupid. Certainly it had sounded placid and reasonahle, exactly, in fact, like his father’s explainifig a problem in mathematics; but, though he had noticed the orderly and logical structure, and felt the inevitable approach toward a vast and beautiful or terrible conclusion, the nature and meaning of the conclusion itself always escaped him. It was as

if, always, he had come just too late. When, for example, he had come at last to the black wall that inclosed the infernal city, and seen the arched gate, the voice had certainly said that if he hurried he would see, through the arch, a far, low landscape of extraordinary'wonder. He had hurried, but it haéi been in vain. He had reached the gate, and for the tiniest fraction of an instant he had even glimpsed the wide green of fields and trees, a winding blue ribbon of water, and a gleam of intense light touching to brilliance some far object. But then, before he had time to notice more than that every detail in this fairy landscape seemed to lead toward a single shining solution, a dazzling significance, suddenly the internal rain, streaked fire and rolling smoke, had swept it away. Then the voice had seemed to become ironic. He had failed, and he felt like crying.

He had still, the next morning, felt that he might, if the opportunity offered, see that vision. It was always just round the corner, just at the head of the stairs, just over the next page. But other adventures had intervened. Prize-day, at school, had come upon him as suddenly as a thunderstorm—the ominous hushed gathering of the entire school into one large room, the tense air of expectancy, the solemn speeches, all had reduced him to a state of acute terror. There was something unintelligible and sinister about it. He had, from first to last, a peculiar

physical sensation that something threatened him, and here and there, in the interminable vague speeches, a word seemed to have eyes and to stare at him. His prescience had'been correct—abruptly his name had been called, he had walked unsteadily amid applause to the teacher's desk, had received a small black pasteboard box; and then had cowered in his chair again, with the blood in his temples beating like gongs. When items over, he had literallyr run away—he didn’t stop till he reached the park. There, among the tombstones (the park had once been a graveyard) and trumpet-vines, he sat on the grass and opened the box. He was dazzled. The medal was of gold, and rested on a tiny blue satin cushion. His name was engraved on it—yes, actually cut into thegold; he felt the incisions with his fingernail. It was an experience not wholly to he comprehended. He put the box down in the grass and detached himself from it, lay full length, resting his chin on his wrist, and stared first at a tombstone and then at the small gold object, as if to discover the relation between them. Humming-birds, tombstones, trumpet-vines, and a gold medal. Amazing. He unpinned the medal from its cushion, put the box in his pocket, and walked slowly homeward, carrying the small, live, gleaming thing between fingers and thumb as if it were a bee. This was an experience to be carefully concealed from mother and father. Possibly he would tell Mary and John. . . . Unfortunately, he met his father as he was going in the door, and was thereafter drowned, for a day, in a glory without significance. He felt ashamed, and put the medal away in a drawer, sternly forbidding Mary and John to look at it. Even so, he was horribly conscious of it—its presence there burned him unceasingly. Nothing afforded escape from it, not even sitting under the peach tree and whittling a boat.

Carlos Gardini: Primera Línea

El cielo es un caldo rojo cruzado por tajos blancos. Colores sucios vibran en la nieve sucia. El ruido es una inyección en el cerebro. Acurrucado en un pozo de zorro, el soldado Cáceres no tiene miedo. Piensa que el espectáculo vale la pena aunque el precio sea el miedo. De pronto es como si le sacaran la inyección, dejándole un hueco doloroso. Un ruido se desprende del ruido. Un manotazo de tierra y nieve sacude al soldado Cáceres. Un silencio gomoso le tapa los oídos.

Cuando abre los ojos, el cielo es blanco, hiriente, liso. Y el silencio sigue, un silencio puntuado por ruidos goteantes, quebradizos: pasos, voces, instrumentos metálicos. El suelo es blando. El suelo es una cama, una cama en un cuarto de hospital. Un tubo de plástico le llega al brazo. Le duelen las manos.

Un médico joven se le acerca mirándolo de reojo.

—Quedáte tranquilo —le dice—. Te vas a poner bien.

—Mis manos —dice el soldado Cáceres—. ¿Cómo están mis manos?

El médico tuerce la boca.

—No están —dice, sonriéndole a un jarrón con flores marchitas—. No están más.

No era lo único que había perdido.

Los días en el hospital eran largos, un corredor de sombras perdiéndose en un hueco negro. El hueco estaba lejos. Inmovilizado en la silla de ruedas, él no podía alcanzarlo. El corredor era opaco como un vidrio de botella, y detrás del vidrio había sombras. A veces las sombras se le acercaban, y adquirían un perfil borroso. Los rasgos se les deformaban cuando se apoyaban en el vidrio, y las voces sonaban distantes, voces envueltas en algodón.

Hoy tenés un plato especial, le decía una sombra. Pollo. ¿Querés que te guarde una pata de más? Y la sombra le guiñaba el ojo, le acariciaba el pelo a través del vidrio opaco. El soldado Cáceres miraba la manta que lo cubría de la cintura para abajo. Una pata de más, repetía estúpidamente. O bien la sombra se le acercaba para ofrecerle un cigarrillo. El soldado Cáceres alzaba los muñones de los brazos, y la sombra, pacientemente, le ponía el cigarrillo en la boca, se lo prendía, lo compartía. Poco a poco el vidrio se resquebrajó. Alicia, le dijo una sombra un día, me llamo Alicia. Y la voz ya parecía de este mundo, un mundo donde los relojes sonaban y el tiempo transcurría. Alicia le contaba anécdotas de otros heridos de guerra, y de cómo se habían curado. O de cómo no se habían curado. él no hablaba nunca.

Cuando estuvo mejor (o eso le dijeron, que estaba mejor) pasaba el día frente al ventanal. Estaba en un piso alto, y mirando desde el ventanal veía el movimiento de afuera. El movimiento eran camiones militares cargando ataúdes, helicópteros descargando cadáveres y heridos en el parque, jeeps que entraban y salían, grupos de mujeres sin uniforme que traían paquetes y flores, pero el movimiento no era movimiento porque le faltaba el ruido. Sin el vidrio del ventanal habría ruido, pero siempre habría más y más vidrios aislándolo del ruido verdadero, la inyección en el cerebro. En medio del parque ondeaba la bandera. Nunca colgaba del mástil. Siempre había viento, y siempre ondeaba. El soldado Cáceres miraba la bandera y buscaba en su memoria, buscaba algo que lo arrancara del sopor, algo que rompiera todos los vidrios. Un día recordó la letra de «Aurora» y le causó gracia. Le causó tanta gracia que cuando Alicia pasó por el corredor el soldado Cáceres se echó a reír.

—Veo que estás mejor —dijo Alicia, acercándose.

Katherine Mansfield: Poison

The post was very late. When we came back from our walk after lunch it still had not arrived.

“Pas encore, Madame,” sang Annette, scurrying back to her cooking.

We carried our parcels into the dining-room. The table was laid. As always, the sight of the table laid for two — for two people only — and yet so finished, so perfect, there was no possible room for a third, gave me a queer, quick thrill as though I’d been struck by that silver lightning that quivered over the white cloth, the brilliant glasses, the shallow bowl of freezias.

“Blow the old postman! Whatever can have happened to him?” said Beatrice. “Put those things down, dearest.”

“Where would you like them . . .?”

She raised her head; she smiled her sweet, teasing smile.

“Anywhere — Silly.”

But I knew only too well that there was no such place for her, and I would have stood holding the squat liqueur bottle and the sweets for months, for years, rather than risk giving another tiny shock to her exquisite sense of order.

“Here — I’ll take them.” She plumped them down on the table with her long gloves and a basket of figs. “The Luncheon Table. Short story by — by —” She took my arm. “Let’s go on to the terrace —” and I felt her shiver. “Ça sent,” she said faintly, “de la cuisine . . . ”

I had noticed lately — we had been living in the south for two months — that when she wished to speak of food, or the climate, or, playfully, of her love for me, she always dropped into French.

We perched on the balustrade under the awning. Beatrice leaned over gazing down — down to the white road with its guard of cactus spears. The beauty of her ear, just her ear, the marvel of it was so great that I could have turned from regarding it to all that sweep of glittering sea below and stammered: “You know — her ear! She has ears that are simply the most . . . ”

She was dressed in white, with pearls round her throat and lilies-of-the-valley tucked into her belt. On the third finger of her left hand she wore one pearl ring — no wedding ring.

“Why should I, mon ami? Why should we pretend? Who could possibly care?”

Leopoldo Lugones: Viola Acherontia

Lo que deseaba aquel extraño jardinero, era crear la flor de la muerte. Sus tentativas se remontaban a diez años, con éxito negativo siempre, porque considerando al vegetal sin alma, ateníase exclusivamente a la plástica. Injertos, combinaciones, todo había ensayado.

La producción de la rosa negra ocupóle un tiempo; pero nada sacó de sus investigaciones. Después interesáronlo las pasionarias y los tulipanes, con el único resultado de dos o tres ejemplares monstruosos, hasta que Bernardin de Sain-Pierre lo puso en el buen camino, enseñándole como puede haber analogías entre la flor y la mujer encinta, supuestas ambas capaces de recibir por “antojo” imágenes de los objetos deseados.

Aceptar este audaz postulado, equivalía a suponer en la planta un estado mental suficientemente elevado para recibir, concretar y conservar una impresión; en una palabra, para sugestionarse con intensidad parecida a la de un organismo inferior. Esto era, precisamente, lo que había llegado a comprobar nuestro jardinero. Según él, la marcha de los vástagos en las enredaderas obedecía a una deliberación seguida por resoluciones que daban origen a una serie de tanteos. De aquí las curvas y acomodamientos, caprichosos al parecer, las diversas orientaciones y adaptaciones a diferentes planos, que ejecutan guías, los gajos, las raíces. Un sencillo sistema nervioso presidía esas oscuras funciones. Había también en cada planta su bulbo cerebral y su corazón rudimentario, situados respectivamente en el cuello de la raíz y en el tronco. La semilla, es decir el ser resumido para la procreación, lo dejaba ver con toda claridad. El embrión de una nuez tiene la misma forma del corazón, siendo asaz parecida al cerebro la de los cotileidones. Las dos hojas rudimentarias que salen de dicho embrión, recuerda con bastante claridad dos ramas bronquiales cuyo oficio desempeñan la germinación.

Las analogías morfológicas, suponen casi siempre otras de fondo; y por esto la sugestión ejerce una influencia más vasta de lo que se cree sobre la forma de los seres. Algunos clarividentes de la historia natural, como Michelet y Fries, presintieron esta verdad que la experiencia va confirmando. El mundo de los insectos, pruébalo enteramente. Los pájaros ostentan colores más brillantes en los países cuyo cielo es siempre puro (Gould). Los gatos blancos y de ojos azules, son comúnmente sordos (Darwin). Hay peces que llevan fotografiadas en la gelatina de su dorso, las olas del mar (Strindberg). El girasol mira constantemente al astro del día, y reproduce con fidelidad su núcleo, sus rayos y sus manchas (Saint-Pierre).

He aquí un punto de partida. Bacon en su Novum Organum establece que el canelero y otros odoríferos colocados cerca de lugares fétidos, retienen obstinadamente el aroma, rehusando su emisión, para impedir que se mezcle con las exhalaciones graves...

Hume Nisbet: The Old Portrait

Old-fashioned frames are a hobby of mine. I am always on the prowl amongst the framers and dealers in curiosities for something quaint and unique in picture frames. I don’t care much for what is inside them, for being a painter it is my fancy to get the frames first and then paint a picture which I think suits their probable history and design. In this way I get some curious and I think also some original ideas.

One day in December, about a week before Christmas, I picked up a fine but dilapidated specimen of wood-carving in a shop near Soho. The gilding had been worn nearly away, and three of the corners broken off; yet as there was one of the corners still left, I hoped to be able to repair the others from it. As for the canvas inside this frame, it was so smothered with dirt and time stains that I could only distinguish it had been a very badly painted likeness of some sort, of some commonplace person, daubed in by a poor pot-boiling painter to fill the secondhand frame which his patron may have picked up cheaply as I had done after him; but as the frame was alright I took the spoiled canvas along with it, thinking it might come in handy.

For the next few days my hands were full of work of one kind and another, so that it was only on Christmas Eve that I found myself at liberty to examine my purchase which had been lying with its face to the wall since I had brought it to my studio.

Having nothing to do on this night, and not in the mood to go out, I got my picture and

frame from the corner, and laying them upon the table, with a sponge, basin of water, and some soap, I began to wash so that I might see them the better. They were in a terrible mess, and I think I used the best part of a packet of soap-powder and had to change the water about a dozen times before the pattern began to show up on the frame, and the portrait within it asserted its awful crudeness, vile drawing, and intense vulgarity. It was the bloated, piggish visage of a publican clearly, with a plentiful supply of jewellery displayed, as is usual with such masterpieces, where the features are not considered of so much importance as a strict fidelity in the depicting of such articles as watch-guard and seals, finger rings, and breast pins; these were all there, as natural and hard as reality.

The frame delighted me, and the picture satisfied me that I had not cheated the dealer with my price, and I was looking at the monstrosity as the gaslight beat full upon it, and wondering how the owner could be pleased with himself as thus depicted, when something about the background attracted my attention—a slight marking underneath the thin coating as if the portrait had been painted over some other subject.

It was not much certainly, yet enough to make me rush over to my cupboard, where I kept my

spirits of wine and turpentine, with which, and a plentiful supply of rags, I began to demolish the

publican ruthlessly in the vague hope that I might find something worth looking at underneath.

A slow process that was, as well as a delicate one, so that it was close upon midnight before the gold cable rings and vermilion visage disappeared and another picture loomed up before me; then giving it the final wash over, I wiped it dry, and set it in a good light on my easel, whi le I filled and lit my pipe, and then sat down to look at it.

Medardo Fraile: La trampa

-¿Adonde vas?

-No sé.

De doce de la noche a ocho de la mañana se duerme. De ocho de la mañana a doce de la noche, no.

-¿A dónde vas?

-¡Yo qué sé!

Hay tres caminos. Llevan a tres sitios, los mismos siempre. ¿Y entre ellos? ¿Y si fuera por entre dos de ellos? Iría también a sitios conocidos, siempre los mismos. Porque esto es conocido. Porque nada se mueve. Porque somos así. Porque estamos en el mapa y en el padrón y nos busca el tren, el coche de línea, el correo, el teléfono, los amigos, la familia, y nos encierra la calle, la habitación, la puerta. La ventana mira siempre al mismo sitio. ¿Y si un día mirase a otro sitio? No lo hará.

Hay veces en que a las cuatro de la tarde o a las siete tengo un sueño de losa. Pero a esa hora no se duerme y yo no duermo. Hay veces en que a las cuatro de la mañana, o a las cinco, tengo los ojos abiertos y la cabeza clara como una estrella. Y quiero dormirme. Y no puedo. Y mi mujer duerme. Y mis hijos. Porque el brasero y yo somos iguales: tarda en enfriarse. Noto en mi cabeza las brasas, las últimas brasas de la madrugada, en las que, a veces, cae una idea, cualquiera, y las reaviva dolorosamente, con algo funeral, como puñado de espliego.

¿Por qué no he podido comer hoy a la hora de comer?

-¿A dónde vas a estas horas?

Estas horas son siempre para otra cosa, lo sé. A veces huele a comida en las calles, o a cocina recién encendida, o a muía adormilada y caliente, o los campos y las estrellas empiezan a echar el vaho. ¿Y si ahora saliera y no viera a Mateo, no le viera nunca más y no se hubiera muerto?

-Acuéstate.

-No puedo…

-Levántate.

-Más tarde…

El otro día hubiera dado cualquier cosa por pasar a la otra habitación por otro sitio. Quise hacerlo y no pude. Empujé y no pude. Di puñetados y voces y no pude. Estuve a punto de ir por la piqueta.

Al filo de una madrugada estrangulé al gallo. Le echaron de menos porque no cantó. Aunque los vecinos cantaron como todos los días.

No quiero cerrar nada por las noches, ni las ventanas, ni las puertas, ni el corral, ni la cuadra. No quiero dejar de ver el sol por las noches. Y lo veo. ¿Cómo se explica que nadie en absoluto, nadie, salga a la calle de noche? Sí quiero fumarme ahora un cigarro con Felipe, ¿lo puedo hacer?

A veces me voy a trabajar a las tantas, aunque no tenga trabajo pendiente. Luego, a lo mejor, no hago nada; un monigote de hierro sin pies ni cabeza. Pero entre golpe y golpe me empapo de silencio; un baño, como si me diera un baño. Y hasta las tías del Egido están dormidas; las tías del Egido, con sus nalgas gordas, lustrosas, bien magreadas. Si quisiera… Pero también tengo mi cama y mi mujer, que esperan. ¿Y si no quiero esa cama?

Ray Bradbury: A Scent of Sarsaparilla

r. William Finch stood quietly in the dark and blowing attic all morning and afternoon for three days. For three days in late November, he stood alone, feeling the soft white flakes of Time falling out of the infinite cold steel sky, silently, softly, feathering the roof and powdering the eaves. He stood, eyes shut. The attic, wallowed in seas of wind in the long sunless days, creaked every bone and shook down ancient dusts from its beams and warped timbers and lathings. It was a mass of sighs and torments that ached all about him where he stood sniffing its elegant dry perfumes and feeling of its ancient heritages. Ah. Ah.

Listening, downstairs, his wife Cora could not hear him walk or shift or twitch. She imagined she could only hear him breathe, slowly out and in, like a dusty bellows, alone up there in the attic, high in the windy house.

"Ridiculous," she muttered.

When he hurried down for lunch the third afternoon, he smiled at the bleak walls, the chipped plates, the scratched silverware, and even at his wife!

"What's all the excitement?" she demanded.

"Good spirits is all. Wonderful spirits!" he laughed. He seemed almost hysterical with joy. He was seething in a great warm ferment which, obviously, he had trouble concealing. His wife frowned.

"What's that smell ?"

"Smell, smell, smell?"

"Sarsaparilla." She sniffed suspiciously. "That's what it is!"

"Oh, it couldn't be!" His hysterical happiness stopped as quickly as if she'd switched him off. He seemed stunned, ill at ease, and suddenly very careful.

"Where did you go this morning?" she asked.

"You know I was cleaning the attic."

"Mooning over a lot of trash. I didn't hear a sound. Thought maybe you weren't in the attic at all. What's that?" She pointed.

"Well, now how did those get there?" he asked the world.

He peered down at the pair of black spring-metal bicycle clips that bound his thin pants cuffs to his bony ankles.

"Found them in the attic," he answered himself. "Remember when we got out on the gravel road in the early morning on our tandem bike, Cora, forty years ago, everything fresh and new?"

"If you don't finish that attic today, I'll come up and toss everything out myself."

"Oh, no," he cried. "I have everything the way I want it!"

She looked at him coldly.

"Cora," he said, eating his lunch, relaxing, beginning to enthuse again, "You know what attics are? They're Time Machines, in which old, dim-witted men like me can travel back forty years to a time when it was summer all year round and children raided ice wagons. Remember how it tasted? You held the ice in your handkerchief. It was like sucking the flavor of linen and snow at the same time."

Ramón Gómez de la Serna: Sueño del violinista

Siempre había sido el sueño del gran violinista tocar debajo del agua para que se oyese arriba, creando los nenúfares musicales.

En el jardín abandonado y silente y sobre las aguas verdes, como una sombra en el agua, se oyeron unos compases de algo muy melancólico que se podía haber llamado “La alegría de morir”, y después de un último glu-glu salió flotando el violín como un barco de los niños que comenzó a bogar desorientado.

Algernon Blackwood: The Man Whom the Trees Loved

~I~

He painted trees as by some special divining instinct of their essential qualities. He understood them. He knew why in an oak forest, for instance, each individual was utterly distinct from its fellows, and why no two beeches in the whole world were alike. People asked him down to paint a favorite lime or silver birch, for he caught the individuality of a tree as some catch the individuality of a horse. How he managed it was something of a puzzle, for he never had painting lessons, his drawing was often wildly inaccurate, and, while his perception of a Tree Personality was true and vivid, his rendering of it might almost approach the ludicrous. Yet the character and personality of that particular tree stood there alive beneath his brush—shining, frowning, dreaming, as the case might be, friendly or hostile, good or evil. It emerged.

There was nothing else in the wide world that he could paint; flowers and landscapes he only muddled away into a smudge; with people he was helpless and hopeless; also with animals. Skies he could sometimes manage, or effects of wind in foliage, but as a rule he left these all severely alone. He kept to trees, wisely following an instinct that was guided by love. It was quite arresting, this way he had of making a tree look almost like a being—alive. It approached the uncanny.

"Yes, Sanderson knows what he's doing when he paints a tree!" thought old David Bittacy, C.B., late of the Woods and Forests. "Why, you can almost hear it rustle. You can smell the thing. You can hear the rain drip through its leaves. You can almost see the branches move. It grows." For in this way somewhat he expressed his satisfaction, half to persuade himself that the twenty guineas were well spent (since his wife thought otherwise), and half to explain this uncanny reality of life that lay in the fine old cedar framed above his study table.

Yet in the general view the mind of Mr. Bittacy was held to be austere, not to say morose. Few divined in him the secretly tenacious love of nature that had been fostered by years spent in the forests and jungles of the eastern world. It was odd for an Englishman, due possibly to that Eurasian ancestor. Surreptitiously, as though half ashamed of it, he had kept alive a sense of beauty that hardly belonged to his type, and was unusual for its vitality. Trees, in particular, nourished it. He, also, understood trees, felt a subtle sense of communion with them, born perhaps of those years he had lived in caring for them, guarding, protecting, nursing, years of solitude among their great shadowy presences. He kept it largely to himself, of course, because he knew the world he lived in. HE also kept it from his wife—to some extent. He knew it came between them, knew that she feared it, was opposed. But what he did not know, or realize at any rate, was the extent to which she grasped the power which they wielded over his life. Her fear, he judged, was simply due to those years in India, when for weeks at a time his calling took him away from her into the jungle forests, while she remained at home dreading all manner of evils that might befall him. This, of course, explained her instinctive opposition to the passion for woods that still influenced and clung to him. It was a natural survival of those anxious days of waiting in solitude for his safe return.

Federico García Lorca: Juego de damas

Las cinco damas de una corte llena de color y poesía, enamoradas las cinco de un joven misterioso que ha llegado a ella de lejanas tierras. Lo rondan, lo cercan y se ocultan mutuamente su amor. Pero el joven no les hace caso. El joven pasea el jardín enamorando a la hija del jardinero, joven con la piel tostada y de ninguna belleza, aunque sin fealdad, desde luego. Las otras damas lo rondan y averiguan de qué se trata e, indignadas, tratan de matar a la joven tostada, pero cuando llegan ya está ella muerta con la cara sonriente y llena de luz y aroma exquisito. Sobre un banco del jardín encuentran una mariposa que sale volando y las ropas del joven

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.