Conrad Aiken: Silent Snow, Secret Snow

Just why it should have happened, or why it should have happened ust when it did,

he could not, of course, possibly have said; nor perhaps would it even have occurred

to him to ask. The thing was above all a secret, something to be precioust concealed

from Mother and Father; and to that very fact it owed an enormous part of its deli-

ciousness. It was like a peculiarly beautiful trinket to be carried unmentioned in

one’s trouser pocket-——a rare stamp, an old coin, a few tiny gold links found trodden

out of shape on the path in the park, a pebble of carnelian, a seashell distinguishable

from all others by an unusual spot or stripe—and, as if it were any one of these, he

carried around with him everywhere a warm and persistent and increasingly beauti-

ful sense of possession. Nor was it only a sense of possession—it was also a sense of

protection. It was as if, in some delightful way, his secret gave him a fortress, a wall

behind which he could retreat into heavenly seclusion. This was almost the first

thing he had noticed about it—apart from the oddness of the thing itself—and it

was this that now again, for the fiftieth time, occurred to him, as he sat in the little

school room. It was the half-hour for geography. Miss Buell was revolving with one

finger, slowly, a huge terrestrial globe which had been placed on her desk. The green

and yellow continents passed and repassed, questions were asked and answered,

and now the little girl in front of him, Deirdre, who had a funny little constellation

of freckles on the back of her neck, exactly like the Big Dipper, was standing up

and telling Miss Buell that the equator was the line that ran round the middle.

Miss Buell’s face, which was old and grayish and kindly, with gray stiff curls

beside the cheeks, and eyes that swam very brightly, like little minnows, behind

thick glasses, wrinkled itself into a complication of amusements.

“Ah! I see. The earth is wearing a belt, or a sash. Or someone drew a line

around it!”

“Oh no—not that—I mean—”

In the general laughter, he did not share, or only a very little. He was thinking

about the Arctic and Antarctic regions, which of course, on the globe, were white.

Miss Buell was now telling them about the tropics, the jungles, the steamy heat of

equatorial swamps, where birds and butterflies, and even the snakes, were like

living jewels. As he listened to these things, he was already, with a pleasant sense of

half—effort, putting his secret between himself and the words. Was it really an effort

at all? For effort implied something voluntary, and perhaps even something one

did not especially want; whereas this was distinctly pleasant, and came almost of its

own accord. All he needed to do was to think of that morning, the first one, and

then of all the others—

But it was all so absurdly simple! It had amounted to so little. It was nothing,

just an idea—and just why it should have become so wonderful, so permanent, was

a mystery—a very pleasant one, to be sure, but also, in an amusing way, foolish.

However, without ceasing to listen to Miss Buell, who had now moved up to the

north temperate zones, he deliberately invited his memory of the first morning. It

was only a moment or two after he had waked up—or perhaps the moment itself.

But was there, to be exact, an exact moment? Was one awake all at once? or was it

gradual? Anyway, it was after he had stretched a lazy hand up toward the headrail,

and yawned, and then relaxed again among his warm covers, all the more grateful

on a December morning, that the thing had happened. Suddenly, for no reason, he

had thought of the postman, he remembered the postman. Perhaps there was

nothing so odd in that. After all, he heard the postman almost every morning of

his life—his heavy boots could be heard clumping round the corner at the top of

the little cobbled hill-street, and then, progressively nearer, progressively louder,

the double knock at each door, the crossings and re—crossings of the street, till

finally the clumsy steps came stumbling across to the very door, and the tremen—

dous knock came which shook the house itself.

Victor Hugo Pérez Gallo: La abominación de Ur

Nos conocíamos desde la infancia.

Por eso todos se sorprendieron tanto cuando lo maté.

Cuando la policía llegó, solo quedaban restos sanguinolentos y casi irreconocibles de quien en vida fue Miguel Robles, ingeniero en minas; mi amigo de siempre. Y nadie más que yo estaba cerca de tales despojos… así que el juicio fue rápido; la fiscalía lo tuvo fácil.

En realidad, me condenaron a muerte… aunque luego tuvieron la «misericordia» de cambiar mi sentencia: atribuyéndome desórdenes mentales; me enviaron al hospital psiquiátrico.

¿Loco?, ¿yo?

No.

Necios, ellos.

No saben del horror, de la podredumbre nauseabunda, del terror total del que salvé sus mediocres vidas.

Y es mejor que jamás lo sepan.

Existen en el universo fuerzas indescriptibles que dormitan en profundos abismos, esperando la señal para despertarse y diseminar el caos. Formas que existieron antes de los humanos y que sin duda alguna heredarán este planeta, que hoy llamamos nuestro dominio, porque su paciencia las hace capaces de esperar durante eones. Entes poderosísimos, más allá de nuestra comprensión y de toda nuestra orgullosa ciencia materialista.

Yo lo sé.

Yo los he visto cara a cara.

Supongo que el principio de todo podría ser Moa.

Frederick Marryat: The White Wolf of the Hartz Mountains

Frederick Marryat by John Simpson

Scarcely had the soldiers performed their task, and thrown down their shovels, when they commenced an altercation. It appeared that this money was to be again the cause of slaughter and bloodshed. Philip and Krantz determined to sail immediately in one of the peroquas, and leave them to settle their disputes as they pleased. He asked permission of the soldiers to take from the provisions and water, of which there was ample supply, a larger proportion than was their share; stating, that he and Krantz had a long voyage and would require it, and pointing out to them that there were plenty of cocoa-nuts for their support. The soldiers, who thought of nothing but their newly-acquired wealth, allowed him to do as he pleased; and, having hastily collected as many cocoa-nuts as they could, to add to their stock of provisions, before noon, Philip and Krantz had embarked and made sail in the peroqua, leaving the soldiers with their knives again drawn, and so busy in their angry altercation as to be heedless of their departure.

"There will be the same scene over again, I expect," observed Krantz, as the vessel parted swiftly from the shore.

"I have little doubt of it; observe, even now they are at blows and stabs."

"If I were to name that spot, it should be the 'Accursed Isle .'"

"Would not any other be the same, with so much to inflame the passions of men?"

"Assuredly: what a curse is gold!"

"And what a blessing!" replied Krantz. "I am sorry Pedro is left with them."

"It is their destiny," replied Philip; "so let's think no more of them. Now what do you propose? With this vessel, small as she is, we may sail over these seas in safety, and we have, I imagine, provisions sufficient for more than a month."

"My idea is, to run into the track of the vessels going to the westward, and obtain a passage to Goa."

"And if we do not meet with any, we can, at all events, proceed up the Straits, as far as Pulo Penang without risk. There we may safely remain until a vessel passes."

"I agree with you; it is our best, nay our only, place; unless, indeed, we were to proceed to Cochin, where junks are always leaving for Goa."

"But that would be out of our way, and the junks cannot well pass us in the Straits, without their being seen by us."

They had no difficulty in steering their course; the islands by day, and the clear stars by night, were their compass. It is true that they did not follow the more direct track, but they followed the more secure, working up the smooth waters, and gaining to the northward more than to the west. Many times they were chased by the Malay proas which infested the islands, but the swiftness of their little peroqua was their security; indeed, the chase was, generally speaking, abandoned as soon as the smallness of the vessel was made out by the pirates, who expected that little or no booty was to be gained.

Anatole France: La messe des ombres

Voici ce que le sacristain de l’église Sainte-Eulalie, à la Neuville-d’Aumont, m’a conté sous la treille du Cheval-Blanc, par une belle soirée d’été, en buvant une bouteille de vin vieux à la santé d’un mort très à son aise, qu’il avait le matin même porté en terre avec honneur, sous un drap semé de belles larmes d’argent.

— Feu mon pauvre père (c’est le sacristain qui parle) était de son vivant fossoyeur. Il avait l’esprit agréable, et c’était sans doute un effet de son état, car on a remarqué que les personnes qui travaillent dans les cimetières sont d’humeur joviale. La mort ne les effraie point : ils n’y pensent jamais. Moi qui vous parle, monsieur, j’entre dans un cimetière, la nuit, aussi tranquillement que sous la tonnelle du Cheval-Blanc. Et si, d’aventure, je rencontre un revenant, je ne m’en inquiète point, par cette considération qu’il peut bien aller à ses affaires comme je vais aux miennes. Je connais les habitudes des morts et leur caractère. Je sais à ce sujet des choses que les prêtres eux-mêmes ne savent pas. Et si je contais tout ce que j’ai vu, vous seriez étonné. Mais toutes les vérités ne sont pas bonnes à dire, et mon père, qui pourtant aimait à conter des histoires, n’a pas révélé la vingtième partie de ce qu’il savait. En revanche, il répétait souvent les mêmes récits, et il a bien narré cent fois, à ma connaissance, l’aventure de Catherine Fontaine.

Catherine Fontaine était une vieille demoiselle qu’il lui souvenait d’avoir vue quand il était enfant. Je ne serais point étonné qu’il y eût encore dans le pays jusqu’à trois vieillards qui se rappellent avoir ouï parler d’elle, car elle était très connue et de bon renom, quoique pauvre. Elle habitait, au coin de la rue aux Nonnes, la tourelle que vous pouvez voir encore et qui dépend d’un vieil hôtel à demi détruit qui regarde sur le jardin des Ursulines. Il y a sur cette tourelle des figures et des inscriptions a demi effacées. Le défunt curé de Sainte-Eulalie, M. Levasseur, assurait qu’il y est dit en latin que l’amour est plus fort que la mort. Ce qui s’entend, ajoutait-il, de l’amour divin.

Catherine Fontaine vivait seule dans ce petit logis. Elle était dentellière. Vous savez que les dentelles de nos pays étaient autrefois très renommées. On ne lui connaissait ni parents ni amis. On disait qu’à dix-huit ans elle avait aimé le jeune chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry, à qui elle avait été secrètement fiancée. Mais les gens de bien n’en voulaient rien croire et ils disaient que c’était un conte qui avait été imaginé parce que Catherine Fontaine avait plutôt l’air d’une dame que d’une ouvrière, qu’elle gardait sous ses cheveux blancs les restes d’une grande beauté, qu’elle avait l’air triste et qu’on lui voyait au doigt une de ces bagues sur lesquelles l’orfèvre a mis deux petites mains unies, et qu’on avait coutume, dans l’ancien temps, d’échanger pour les fiançailles. Vous saurez tout à l’heure ce qu’il en était.

José Echegaray: La lotería del diablo

El diablo es vicioso, grandemente vicioso; y dentro de su impuro ser no hay vicio que no llegue a la plenitud. Porque de no ser así, no sería el diablo un diablo completo, sino un diablo a medias.

De donde resulta, que el diablo es jugador y, por añadidura, jugador tramposo: pudiéramos decir que es el gran tahúr de los abismos.

El diablo es, además, envidioso, porque en su perverso seno se agitan todas las malas pasiones. Y en él la envidia es infinita: como que envidia al cielo y a los que en él moran. Si sus envidias fueran vulgares no pasaría de ser un pobre diablo: cualquier pobre diablo es envidioso.

Y he aquí por qué en estos días de navidad se exacerban las torturas que constantemente sufre el espíritu de las tinieblas.

Envidia las santas alegrías de la nochebuena, y hasta envidia los más vulgares regocijos y las emociones más vulgares de este día, único en el año, porque es el único en que se sabe de fijo que ha de tener una buena noche.

Y como el diablo es jugador y el diablo es envidioso, una de las cosas que más le revuelven las infernales entrañas es la lotería de navidad.

El diablo quisiera tener su lotería con su gremio gordo y hasta con sus aproximaciones.

Después de mucho pensarlo —porque el diablo no escarmienta y tiene todavía la fatal manía de pensar—, decidió que su deseo de tener una lotería propia llegase hasta el trono del Altísimo; y para ello quiso ponerse en comunicación con un ángel que allá, en tiempos mejores, cuando él era ángel todavía y de los más hermosos, había sido gran amigo suyo.

Era el amanecer de un día de otoño. La noche iba recogiendo sus velos; el oriente se teñía con las tintas rosadas de la aurora; pero el tiempo estaba revuelto; y allá, en los confines del horizonte por donde el sol asoma, oscuros nubarrones estaban en contacto casi con neblinas rosadas; la sombra y la luz se tocaban en la indecisa frontera del crepúsculo matutino.

Bien sabía el diablo dónde encontrar al ángel, y a través del firmamento, todavía oscuro, tendió su vuelo, azotando con alas de murciélago las densas nubes, que por todas partes se extendían, llegando de este modo al fin de las tinieblas.

En el borde de la última nube sombría se acurrucó, y en la primera nube de color de rosa que estaba más allá, vio al ángel, su amigo, aleteando en plena luz y bañando en oro y grana sus blanquísimas alas.

Eugene Field: The Werewolf

IN the reign of Egbert the Saxon there dwelt in Britain a maiden named Yseult, who was beloved of all, both for her goodness and for her beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Harold only, and to him she plighted her troth.

Among the other youth of whom Yseult was beloved was Alfred, and he was sore angered that Yseult showed favor to Harold, so that one day Alfred said to Harold: "Is it right that old Siegfried should come from his grave and have Yseult to wife?" Then added he, "Prithee, good sir, why do you turn so white when I speak your grandsire's name?"

Then Harold asked, "What know you of Siegfried that you taunt me? What memory of him should vex me now?"

"We know and we know," retorted Alfred. "There are some tales told us by our grandmas we have not forgot."

So ever after that Alfred's words and Alfred's bitter smile haunted Harold by day and night.

Harold's grandsire, Siegfried the Teuton, had been a man of cruel violence. The legend said that a curse rested upon him, and that at certain times he was possessed of an evil spirit that wreaked its fury on mankind. But Siegfried had been dead full many years, and there was naught to mind the world of him save the legend and a cunning-wrought spear which he had from Brunehilde, the witch. This spear was such a weapon that it never lost its brightness, nor had its point been blunted. It hung in Harold's chamber, and it was the marvel among weapons of that time.

Yseult knew that Alfred loved her, but she did not know of the bitter words which Alfred had spoken to Harold. Her love for Harold was perfect in its trust and gentleness. But Alfred had hit the truth: the curse of old Siegfried was upon Harold — slumbering a century, it had awakened in the blood of the grandson, and Harold knew the curse that was upon him, and it was this that seemed to stand between him and Yseult. But love is stronger than all else, and Harold loved.

Harold did not tell Yseult of the curse that was upon him, for he feared that she would not love him if she knew. Whensoever he felt the fire of the curse burning in his veins he would say to her, "To-morrow I hunt the wild boar in the uttermost forest," or, "Next week I go stag-stalking among the distant northern hills." Even so it was that he ever made good excuse for his absence, and Yseult thought no evil things, for she was trustful; ay though he went many times away and was long gone, Yseult suspected no wrong. So none beheld Harold when the curse was upon him in its violence.

Luis Taboada: El pavo de Navidad o la falta de costumbre

I

Don Silverio, el auxiliar de la clase de segundos, tiene una hermana en Crevillente, casada con un fabricante de estera de cordelillo que está muy bien, y este año la hermana quiso obsequiar a don Silverio y le envío un pavo, color de canela, que llegó, franco de porte, el día 23 por la mañana.

Don Silverio experimentó una dulce sorpresa y al ver el pavo se le humedecieron los ojos y se le cayeron las lágrimas cuando leyó la carta siguiente:

«Mi querido Silverio: te remito el adjunto pavo para que veas que te tenemos en la memoria mi marido y yo. Es muy sanito y muy manso. Podéis comerlo con toda confianza porque está criado, como quien dice, a nuestros pechos. Como no tenemos hijos, nos encariñamos con todos los animales.

»Va pagado el porte y te incluyo el talón, juntamente con el cariño de tu hermana, Dorotea».

—¡Es muy buena! —dijo don Silverio, contemplando la carta con los ojos húmedos.

—¡Gracias a Dios que se ha acordado de nosotros! —añadió la esposa de don Silverio—. Es el primer año que nos obsequia, y no será por falta de posibles, pues dicen todos los de Crevillente ¡que gasta un lujo!…

A todo esto, el pavo, rotas las ligaduras que le aprisionaban, se había arrimado a un baúl, como si le faltaran las fuerzas, y miraba dulcemente a don Silverio y a su esposa.

—¡Qué limpio es! —exclamó don Silverio—. ¡Cómo se conoce que ha sido criado en una casa decente!

El pavo levantó la cabeza en señal de gratitud y don Silverio, que es el corazón más generoso y el hombre más sensible de este mundo, sintió que se le ponía un nudo en la garganta.

—Parece que se entera de lo que estamos diciendo. ¡Animalito! — objetó la esposa.

—¿Quién sabe? — murmuró don Silverio.

La presencia del pavo había reverdecido los recuerdos de su juventud y al contemplarlo silencioso, arrimado al cofre, acudió a su mente la imagen de Dorotea, que siempre había sido muy sosa.

—¿Sabes lo que se me ocurre? —dijo don Silverio—. Que este pavo se parece a alguien de mi familia.

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.