Arthur Conan Doyle: The ring of Thoth

MR. JOHN VANSITTART SMITH, F.R.S., of 147A Gower Street, was a man whose energy of purpose and clearness of thought might have placed him in the very first rank of scientific observers. He was the victim, however, of a universal ambition which prompted him to aim at distinction in many subjects rather than pre-eminence in one. In his early days he had shown aptitude for zoology and for botany which caused his friends to look upon him as a second Darwin, but when a professorship was almost within his reach he had suddenly discontinued his studies and turned his whole attention to chemistry. Here his researches upon the spectra of the metals had won him his fellowship in the Royal Society; but again he played the coquette with his subject, and after a year's absence from the laboratory he joined the Oriental Society, and delivered a paper on the Hieroglyphic and Demotic inscriptions of El Kab, thus giving a crowning example both of the versatility and of the inconstancy of his talents.

The most fickle of wooers, however, is apt to be caught at last, and so it was with John Vansittart Smith. The more he burrowed his way into Egyptology the more impressed he became by the vast field which it opened to the inquirer, and by the extreme importance of a subject which promised to throw a light upon the first germs of human civilisation and the origin of the greater part of our arts and sciences. So struck was Mr. Smith that he straightway married an Egyptological young lady who had written upon the sixth dynasty, and having thus secured a sound base of operations he set himself to collect materials for a work which should unite the research of Lepsius and the ingenuity of Champollion. The preparation of his magnum opus entailed many hurried visits to the magnificent Egyptian collections of the Louvre, upon the last of which, no longer ago than the middle of last October, he became involved in a most strange and noteworthy adventure.

The trains had been slow and the Channel had been rough, so that the student arrived in Paris in a somewhat befogged and feverish condition. On reaching the Hotel de France, in the Rue Laffitte, he had thrown himself upon a sofa for a couple of hours, but finding that he was unable to sleep, he determined, in spite of his fatigue, to make his way to the Louvre, settle the point which he had come to decide, and take the evening train back to Dieppe. Having come to his conclusion, he donned his greatcoat, for it was a raw rainy day, and made his way across the Boulevard des Italiens and down the Avenue de l'Opera. Once in the Louvre he was on familiar ground, and he speedily made his way to the collection of papyri which it was his intention to consult.

The warmest admirers of John Vansittart Smith could hardly claim for him that he was a handsome man. His high-beaked nose and prominent chin had something of the same acute and incisive character which distinguished his intellect. He held his head in a birdlike fashion, and birdlike, too, was the pecking motion with which, in conversation, he threw out his objections and retorts. As he stood, with the high collar of his greatcoat raised to his ears, he might have seen from the reflection in the glass-case before him that his appearance was a singular one. Yet it came upon him as a sudden jar when an English voice behind him exclaimed in very audible tones, "What a queer-looking mortal!"

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Salvo veintiún gramos de diferencia

Cinco espantosos crímenes perpetrados en menos de tres meses bastaron para que Jack el Destripador, cuya identidad sigue siendo un misterio, aterrorizase a la violenta e impasible Londres. Después, el considerado padre de los asesinos en serie modernos desapareció sin dejar rastro ni certezas.

―Por Dios, Charles, sabes tan bien como yo que este experimento no puede llegar a buen puerto. Es antinatural. Casi abominable. ¡Una mujer deambulando por los pasillos del London Hospital disfrazada de médico!

―Es que es médico.

―No digas sandeces. Puede que haya traído consigo un título, pero ni todas las prestigiosas universidades de Europa juntas lograrían anular un hecho fundamental: Dios la creó mujer. Eso no cambiará simplemente porque se ponga una bata igual a la mía. ¿Acaso crees que los enfermos no se dan cuenta de lo que hay debajo? Su presencia aquí puede turbar a… los pacientes. He sido testigo de demasiadas miradas lascivas en el corto periodo de tiempo que lleva entre nosotros. Me basta para saber que está de más aquí. Tenemos que hacer algo para poner fin a esta violenta situación. Hay que restaurar la armonía perdida. La reputación del hospital está en juego. No podemos permitir que los caprichos de una muchacha testaruda a la que se le ha metido en la cabeza jugar a ser doctora pongan en peligro una institución honorable como ésta. ¡Oh, vamos, Charles! Lo digo por su propio bien. La mujer es un ser delicado; el Señor la creó así. Por eso la obligación del hombre es protegerla. Aun en contra de su propia voluntad si es necesario. Ellas, seres obstinados, rara vez calculan las consecuencias de sus actos. Para eso estamos nosotros, para poner freno a los pájaros que tienen en la cabeza y evitar que se hagan daño. No niego que parece una joven de gran cultura. Y se diría todo lo inteligente que puede llegar a ser su sexo. Pero no es prudente, Charles. No es prudente en absoluto. No sabe cuál es su lugar. Debería casarse. Es bien parecida y no le costaría encontrar marido. Podría elegir a un médico con consulta propia y ayudarle en sus tareas como recepcionista o incluso como enfermera.

***

Acaricia tiernamente la cabeza del ser deforme que se acurruca entre las sombras, en una esquina de la celda. Al principio sus músculos se tensan. Se retrae igual que ante la escasa luz que se filtra entre los barrotes del ventanuco. La teme como al sol, al que debe las pústulas esparcidas por su cuerpo. Sólo su hirsuta cara, gracias a la densa pelambrera que la protege, está libre de esos estigmas. Pero entonces la bella joven empieza a tararear una nana muy dulcemente, apenas en susurros. Una canción de cuna al ritmo de la cual el ser se mece. Sus ojos acuosos la miran con adoración, como si se tratase de una Virgen. Un reguero de baba cae por la comisura de sus labios entreabiertos, tras los cuales se vislumbran unos dientes irregulares y rojizos, incrustados en encías lívidas y atrofiadas. Jadea agradecido, emitiendo un sonido más digno de piedad que de horror. Una especie de gruñido animal desagradable pero necesario; apenas puede respirar a través de esas oquedades purulentas por las que escapa un hilillo de sangre que ella restaña delicadamente con su pañuelo.

Wilkie Collins: A Terribly Strange Bed

Shortly after my education at college was finished, I happened to be staying at Paris with an English friend. We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn. One night we were idling about the neighbourhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. My friend proposed a visit to Frascati's; but his suggestion was not to my taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, merely for amusement's sake, until it was amusement no longer, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house. 'For Heaven's sake,' said I to my friend, 'let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over it all. Let us get away from fashionable Frascati's, to a house where they don't mind letting in a man with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or otherwise.' 'Very well,' said my friend, 'we needn't go out of the Palais Royal to find the sort of company you want. Here's the place just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see.' In another minute we arrived at the door and entered the house.

When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. We did not find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types--lamentably true types--of their respective classes.

We had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse. There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism--here there was nothing but tragedy--mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible. The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often red--never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned great-coat, who had lost his last sou, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer--never spoke. Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I had entered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me was something to weep over. I soon found it necessary to take refuge in excitement from the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on me. Unfortunately I sought the nearest excitement, by going to the table and beginning to play. Still more unfortunately, as the event will show, I won--won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one another that the English stranger was going to break the bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in every city in Europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory of Chances--that philosopher's stone of all gamblers! And a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole from the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement. I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what it was to want money. I never practised it so incessantly as to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket without being thrown off my balance by my good luck. In short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables -- just as I frequented ball-rooms and opera-houses -- because they amused me, and because I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours.

Francisco García Pavón: Televisión del pasado

La primera experiencia pública de la R.T.V. (retrotelevisión) iba a tener lugar en un famoso club de la capital. Los invitados estaban todos muy seleccionados y todas las gestiones y preparativos se llevaron a cabo con gran sigilo. Se trataba de una experiencia demasiado trascendente y convenía medir todos los pasos. El ver el pasado era una experiencia inédita en la historia de la humanidad y convenía que la iniciación tuviera lugar entre personas muy inteligentes y sensibles. Por primera vez, antes que a las jerarquías políticas, se atendió a las jerarquías -digamos- mentales, para su inauguración. Estaban invitados los hombres más destacados intelectualmente de todo el mundo. Era difícil prever lo que podía aparecer en la pantalla retrovisora, así como las consecuencias y medidas que conviniera tomar en un futuro próximo ante tan revolucionaria técnica. Las tristes experiencias a que dio lugar la T.V.I.1 aconsejaban estar en guardia ante cada nuevo paso de la técnica, cada vez de mayor proyección humana. Las últimas estadísticas, a pesar del gran desarrollo cultural experimentado en aquellos años, demostraban que entre los humanos no llegaba al uno por mil el número de inteligencias verdaderamente adultas. Todo nuevo paso había que darlo de acuerdo con esta proporción pesimista.

Las gentes acudieron a la sala de proyección con pleno sentido de la responsabilidad. Todas las caras denotaban preocupación. Nadie parecía tocado de esa superficial alegría que proporciona el snobismo y la autosuficiencia. Eran conscientes que del conocimiento del pasado podrían sacarse útiles consecuencias para el estudio del hombre, de la sociedad, de las relaciones humanas, de las causas de muchos fenómenos todavía confusos... Pero también se intuía que este conocimiento aportaría una idea pesimista de la historia humana y la caída de muchos ídolos y conceptos sobre los que se había basado la civilización todavía imperante.

De otra se sabía que la Historia, la gran historia, había sido construida con materiales tendenciosamente seleccionados, venerativos por la inercia mitologi-zante que domina al hombre, siempre necesitado de idealizar, de engañarse a SÍ mismo, de disimularse la angustia de vivir... Tal vez sería conveniente que el total conocimiento del pasado no fuera popularizado jamás, que quedase en poder de una estricta minoría mundial que poco a poco fuese cambiando la mentalidad del común de las gentes y así hacerles asimilables los cambios de perspectiva.

Edgar Allan Poe: A Predicament

What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?

COMUS.

IT was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they danced. Danced! Could it then be possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say, the- continued- yes, the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression, the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly enviable- nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world- but I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs danced! I- I could not! They frisked- I wept. They capered- I sobbed aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband tied fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite with all.

And Pompey, my negro!- sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I had taken Pompey's arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet. He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly- new drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up out of the dirt with both hands.

Edward Frederic Benson: The corner house

Firham-by-sea had long been known to Jim Purley and myself, though we had been careful not to talk about it, and for years we had been accustomed to skulk quietly away from London, either alone or together, for a day or two of holiday at that delightful and unheard-of little village. It was not, I may safely say, any secretive or dog-in-the-manger instinct of keeping a good thing to ourselves that was the cause of this reticence, but it was because if Firham had become known at all the whole charm of it would have vanished. A popular Firham, in fact, would cease to be Firham, and while we should lose it nobody else would gain it. Its remoteness, its isolation, its emptiness were its most essential qualities; it would have been impossible, so we both of us felt, to have gone to Firham with a party of friends, and the idea of its little inn being peopled with strangers, or its odd little nine-hole golf-course with the small corrugated-iron shed for its club-house becoming full of serious golfers would certainly have been sufficient to make us desire never to play there again. Nor, indeed, were we guilty of any selfishness in keeping the knowledge of that golf-course to ourselves, for the holes were short and dull and the fairway badly kept. It was only because we were at Firham that we so often strolled round it, losing balls in furse bushes and marshy ground, and considering it quite decent putting if we took no more than three putts on a green. It was bad golf in fact, and no one in his senses would think of going to Firham to play bad golf, when good golf was so vastly more accessible. Indeed, the only reason why I have spoken of the golf-links is because in an indirect and distant manner they were connected with the early incidents of the story which strung itself together there, and which, to me at any rate, has destroyed the secure tranquillity of our remote little hermitage.

To get to Firham at all from London, except by a motor drive of some hundred and twenty miles, is a slow progress, and after two changes the leisurely railway eventually lands you no nearer than five miles from your destination. After that a switch-back road terminating in a long decline brings you off the inland Norfolk hills, and into the broad expanse of lowland, once reclaimed from the sea, and now protected from marine invasion by big banks and dykes. From the top of the last hill you get your first sight of the village, its brick-built houses with their tiled roofs smouldering redly in the sunset, like some small, glowing island anchored in that huge expanse of green, and, a mile beyond it, the dim blue of the sea. There are but few trees to be seen on that wide landscape, and those stunted and slanted in their growth by the prevailing wind off the coast, and the great sweep of the country is composed of featureless fields intersected with drainage dykes, and dotted with sparse cattle. A sluggish stream, fringed with reed-beds and loose-strife, where moor-hens chuckle, passes just outside the village, and a few hundred yards below it is spanned by a bridge and a sluice-gate. From there it broadens out into an estuary, full of shining water at high tide, and of grey mud-banks at the ebb, and passes between rows of tussocked sand-dunes out to sea.

The road, descending from the higher inlands, strikes across these reclaimed marshes, and after a mile of solitary travel enters the village of Firham. To right and left stand a few outlying cottages, whitewashed and thatched, each with a strip of gay garden in front and perhaps a fisherman's net spread out to dry on the wall, but before they form anything that could be called a street the road takes a sudden sharp-angled turn, and at once you are in the square which, indeed, forms the entire village. On each side of the broad cobbled space is a line of houses, on one side a post office and police-station with a dozen small shops where may be bought the more rudimentary needs of existence, a baker's, a butcher's, a tobacconist's. Opposite is a row of little residences midway between villa and cottage, while at the far end stands the dumpy grey church with the vicarage, behind green and rather dilapidated palings, beside it. At the near end is the "Fisherman's Arms," the modest hostelry at which we always put up, flanked by two or three more small red-brick houses, of which the farthest, where the road leaves the square again, is the Corner House of which this story treats.

Ángel Ganivet: En el sacro monte. Trogloditas

Cuesta del Chapiz arriba íbamos, el viejo y competente paleontólogo D. Juan de Villavieja y yo, departiendo sobre los grandes problemas de la Historia nacional.

-No comprendo -me decía- la oposición que usted hace a mi proyecto de fundar en Granada una «Sociedad de excavaciones profundas», al que he consagrado tantos esfuerzos y vigilias.

-Pero, amigo mío, si aquí no hace falta excavar profundamente; ni siquiera arañar en la superficie; si aquí está a flor de tierra la Prehistoria y basta abrir los ojos para ver ejemplares vivos del hombre primitivo, habitante de las cavernas. Yo no veo la necesidad de gastar nuestros escasos haberes en picos y azadones.

-Pues, señor mío, con ayuda de esos picos y de esos azadones hemos reconstruido en sus partes principales la vida del español autóctono, del que poblaba nuestro país, antes de que vinieran a él los invasores extraños, iberos, celtas y vascones. Hoy son conocidos los rasgos principales del español troglodita y aún hay indicios para creer que aquí existió la especie humana en el período terciario. (Pausa oratoria).

-Esto último es para mí artículo de fe. Yo soy de los que opinan que el hombre no apareció sobre la tierra hasta el período cuaternario; pero por excepción admito en España, y particularmente en Granada, algunos hombres terciarios o sietemesinos prehistóricos. En España son precoces todas las manifestaciones de la vida y nuestras mujeres nos ofrecen todavía frecuentes ejemplos de generación precoz, en esos embarazos de siete meses y aun menos... Y ahora hablando con seriedad, como a usted le gusta, tengo curiosidad por conocer esos datos importantes que la Prehistoria nos da acerca de los simpáticos trogloditas.

-Nos dice que habitaban en las cavernas en el período en que habitaba también en éstas el oso primitivo o ursus spelus, puesto que los huesos de ambas especies han sido hallados en pacífica mezcolanza; nos dice que cubrían sus cuerpos con telas de esparto crudo; que sabían trabajar los metales y tallar armas de piedra y levantar altares a la divinidad en esos dólmenes, semidólmenes, trilitos y piedras horadadas que ciertos sabios obtusos han atribuido a los celtas.

-Al llegar a este punto nos hallábamos a la entrada del camino del Monte, en el vecinazgo de los famosos trogloditas granadinos y se me ocurrió incitar a mi acompañante a una breve investigación de Prehistoria contemporánea.

-Aquí tiene usted, amigo mío, trogloditas auténticos. Estas cavernas o cuevas, blanqueadas a ratos por la civilización, son el eterno tonel de Diógenes, habitado siempre por hombres primitivos. No encontrará usted el ursus speleus, porque la especie se extinguió ya; pero lo sustituyen con ventaja el borrico, el marranillo, el pavo y la gallina. El antiguo troglodita se contentaba con cazar animales salvajes; el de hoy ha progresado; ha aprendido a apropiarse los animales domésticos y a vivir con ellos en familia.

Y diciendo esto, se acercaba a pedirnos limosna una chiquilla muy mona, tuertecilla la pobre.

Örkény István: Az autóvezető

Pereszlényi József anyagmozgató, CO 75-14 rendszámú Wartburg kocsijával megállt a sarki újságárusnál.

- Kérek egy Budapesti Híreket.

- Sajnos, elfogyott.

- Akkor egy tegnapi is jó lesz.

- Az is elfogyott. De véletlenül van már egy holnapim.

- Abban is közlik a moziműsort?

- Az mindennap benne van a lapban.

- Hát akkor adja ide azt a holnapit - mondta az anyagmozgató.

Visszaült a kocsijába. Föllapozta a moziműsort. Némi keresgélés után talált egy csehszlovák filmet - Egy szöszi szerelmei -, melyet dicsérni hallott. A Stáció utcai Kék Barlang moziban játszották, és fél hatkor kezdődött az előadás.

Éppen jókor. Még volt egy kis ideje. Továbblapozott a másnapi újságban. Szemébe ötlött egy napihír Pereszlényi József anyagmozgatóról, aki CO 75-14 rendszámú Wartburg személy­gépkocsijával a megengedettnél gyorsabban haladt a Stáció utcában, és nem messze a Kék Barlang mozitól belerohant egy szembejövő teherautóba. Az elővigyázatlan anyagmozgató szörnyethalt.

- Még ilyet! - mondta magában Pereszlényi.

Maurizio Nati: Fiat voluntas tua

«L'elicottero è pronto, Santità» annunciò dal videocitofono il giovane sacerdote dall'aria efebi­ca, e la sua voce spezzò brutalmente il silenzio all'interno della stanzetta disadorna in cui Giovanni XXIV si era isolato a meditare. Una cella da monastero medievale che tradiva i trascorsi religiosi dell'anziano pontefice e le sue tendenze ideologiche. Arredo ridotto all'essen­ziale, un grosso crocifisso di legno a una parete, lo schermo del videocitofono mimetizzato per quanto possibile sopra un tavolinetto nell'angolo, una finestrella lunga e stretta dalla quale si scorgeva uno spicchio del cielo grigio di Roma.

Giovanni XXIV si rialzò non senza fatica dal­l'inginocchiatoio imbottito, notando che l'in­dolenzimento delle giunture era più forte che in altre occasioni. Segno che era rimasto inginoc­chiato più a lungo del solito, e per di più senza ricavarne i risultati sperati. Era più confuso di prima.

Premette il tasto del videocitofono e subito si visualizzò l'immagine a mezzo busto del giovane sacerdote. «Don Roberto, dica al Cardinale Segretario di Stato di raggiungermi appena possi­bile.»

«Subito, Santità.»

Il vecchio pontefice si diresse a passi lenti verso la stanza adiacente, che costituiva una si­gnificativa porzione dei suoi alloggi privati, con­venientemente ridotti al minimo indispensabile. Non ho bisogno di tutto questo spazio, si era detto appena eletto papa, quindici anni prima. E nem­meno di tutto questo sfarzo. Sono un servo di Dio, non un principe regnante.

Non fece in tempo ad arrivare al suo scrittoio che qualcuno bussò alla porta ed entrò prima ancora che lui avesse avuto il tempo di rispon­dere. Apparve un porporato piccolo e rinsecchito, con due occhietti neri e vispi e un'aria gioviale sul volto accuratamente sbarbato.

«Mi volevi, Giovanni?» disse, restando defe-rentemente in piedi accanto a una delle due sedie al di là dello scrittoio.

Giovanni XXIV si accasciò sulla sua poltrona e fece cenno all'altro di accomodarsi.

«Sto per andare al mio appuntamento» gli disse con un filo di voce. «Ma ancora non sono sicuro di essere preparato.» Lo fissò con l'aria quasi smarrita, in cerca di una risposta.

«Giovanni, io... devo ricordarti che ho già espresso con franchezza tutta la mia perplessità. Sono ancora convinto che tu non debba andare a quell'appuntamento.»

Il Santo Padre sembrò deluso. Sperava che il Cardinale Segretario di Stato avesse cambiato idea. Faceva molto affidamento sul suo senso pratico e sulla sua intelligenza acuta, e avrebbe voluto averlo dalla sua parte anche in quest'occa­sione. Soprattutto in quest'occasione.

«Lo so, Angelo. So come la pensi. E so anche che probabilmente dovrei darti ragione. Ma il cuore mi dice che devo andare. Io sento che è tutto vero, che non è una mistificazione. Non posso dire di no a Nostro Signore!»

Edgar Allan Poe: The Balloon-Hoax

SUN OFFICE

April 13, 10 o'clock A.M.

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ASTOUNDING NEWS! BY EXPRESS VIA NORFOLK:

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THE ATLANTIC CROSSED IN THREE DAYS!

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SIGNAL TRIUMPH OF MR. MONCK MASON'S FLYING MACHINE!!!

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Arrival at Sullivan's Island, near Charlestown, S. C., of Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four others, in the mm.

STEERING BALLOON "VICTORIA," AFTER A PASSAGE OF SEVENTY-FIVE HOURS FROM LAND TO LAND.

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FULL PARTICULARS OF THE VOYAGE!!!

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The great problem is at length solved. The air, as well as the earth and the ocean, has been subdued by science, and will become a common and convenient highway for mankind. The Atlantic has been actually crossed in a Balloon; and this too without difficulty -- without any great apparent danger -- with thorough control of the machine -- and in the inconceivably brief period of seventy-five hours from shore to shore! By the energy of an agent at Charleston, S.C., we are enabled to be the first to furnish the public with a detailed account of this most extraordinary voyage, which was performed between Saturday, the 6th instant, at 11, A.M., and 2, P.M., on Tuesday the 9th inst.: by Sir Everard Bringhurst; Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Bentinck's; Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Robert Holland, the well-known aeronauts; Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, author of "Jack Sheppard," &c.; and Mr. Henson, the projector of the late unsuccessful flying machine -- with two seamen from Woolwich -- in all, eight persons. The particulars furnished below may be relied on as authentic and accurate in every respect, as, with slight exception, they are copied verbatim from the joint diaries of Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, to whose politeness our agent is also indebted for much verbal information respecting the balloon itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of throwing the hurried account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a connected and intelligible form.

THE BALLOON.

Two very decided failures, of late -- those of Mr. Henson and Sir George Cayley -- had much weakened the public interest in the subject of aerial navigation. Mr. Henson's scheme (which at first was considered very feasible even by men of science,) was founded upon the principle of an inclined plane, started from an eminence by an extrinsic force, applied and continued by the revolution of impinging vanes, in form and number resembling the vanes of a windmill. But, in all the experiments made with models at the Adelaide Gallery, it was found that the operation of these fans not only did not propel the machine, but actually impeded its flight. The only propelling force it ever exhibited, was the mere impetus acquired from the descent of the inclined plane; and this impetus carried the machine farther when the vanes were at rest, than when they were in motion -- a fact which sufficiently demonstrates their inutility; and in the absence of the propelling, which was also the sustaining power, the whole fabric would necessarily descend. This consideration led Sir George Cayley to think only of adapting a propeller to some machine having of itself an independent power of support -- in a word, to a balloon; the idea, however, being novel, or original, with Sir George, only so far as regards the mode of its application to practice. He exhibited a model of his invention at the Polytechnic Institution. The propelling principle, or power, was here, also, applied to interrupted surfaces, or vanes, put in revolution. These vanes were four in number, but were found entirely ineffectual in moving the balloon, or in aiding its ascending power. The whole project was thus a complete failure.

Álvaro Cunqueiro: El caballo de don León

El herrador, sudoroso, tiró martillo y clavos en el cajón, y metió la cabeza bajo el chorro del pilón, y se dejó estar por unos instantes a su caricia. Se mal secó con un delantal viejo, que le quedaron goteando barba y pelo, y de éste venían los hilillos de agua que le caían por la frente.

– Ya se ve -le dijo a don León- que entiendes mucho de caballos, y me gusta mucho el tuyo, cuya raza no conozco ni creo haber visto nunca otro semejante, que lleve el lucero dorado, y la cola negra azulada, que es lo más insólito que presenta. Mis abuelos estuvieron en Troya herrando los caballos de los aqueos, y mi padre viajó hacia Poniente, enseñando a aquellos bárbaros atlánticos el arte de la herradura, que ignoraban, y yo herré, de mozo, para el César de Roma, y nunca, hasta que me trajiste tu caballo, supe que se ayudaba a un feliz viaje clavando una herradura de plata en la mano de cabalgar del corcel. ¡Todos los días se aprende algo! Y te felicito porque puedes permitirte este gasto, que una herradura de plata se va en pocas leguas.

– Mi caballo -explicó don León- es, si puede decirse esto de caballos, de raza divina. Sabrás que en cierta isla de Levante apareció un día en la playa, como resto de un naufragio, un caballo labrado en madera, policromado, que seguramente ejerciera de mascarón de proa en una nave. Y el tal caballo era de cuerpo entero y debía encajar en la proa por los cascos traseros, levantándose sobre las olas encabritado. Era de una talla perfecta y lo más al natural que puedas imaginarte. Lo recogieron los isleños, y a hombros, y relevándose, lo llevaron al atrio del alcalde, quien salió con su mujer de la mano a admirarlo, y quedó con los ancianos en decidir qué se haría con aquel presente de las olas.

– ¿Estará vivo? -preguntaba la alcaldesa, que era casi una niña, muy ensortijada y con un ramo de flores en la cintura.

– Hubo que convencerla de que no -prosiguió don León- acercando el torrero del faro una mecha encendida a las bragas del caballo, que no se movió. Quedó en el atrio el caballo en espera de una decisión, sin guarda de vista, que aquella es una isla pacífica en un mar solitario. Y no se sabe cómo a las yeguas de aquellas gentes les llegó la noticia del bayo y su hermosura, y como las dejaban sueltas al aire libre en las eras, porque era tiempo de verano, sin ponerse de acuerdo, que se sepa, llegaron todas a un tiempo al atrio a admirar el noble bruto, yeguas viejas y yeguas mozas. Lo que pasó cuando las yeguas comenzaron a rozarse con el caballo y a lamerlo no se sabe bien, que el alcalde despertó cuando su atrio era una feria de relinchos, y ya el caballo de madera, se ignora de cuál espíritu vivificado, cubría la yegua del abad mitrado de Santa Catalina, que la habían mandado del monasterio a la granja del monte a reponerse de un catarro, y las otras yeguas, decepcionadas, mordían y coceaban a la elegida. Gritó el alcalde, salió a la ventana en camisón la alcaldesa, y corrió el alguacil a encender un farol, y cuando lo hubo encendido se vio el cuadro que dije. El caballo, al darse por descubierto, como ya había terminado la cobertura, salió galopando hacia el mar. La yegua del abad quedó preñada; y de la cría que hubo desciende mi caballo, que saca en su capa los colores del decorado de su abuelo. El abad, que aunque gordo era letrado, explicaba la elección de su yegua por el aroma de incienso que despedía, que le quedaba a la montura suya de llevarla en las procesiones, y añadió en una homilía que algunas reglas ascéticas tenían prohibido el incienso por afrodisíaco, argumentando que sí Salomón violentó a la reina de Saba fue porque ésta le presentó una caja de plata llena de incienso en cuadradillos.

Guy de Maupassant: L'Auberge

Pareille à toutes les hôtelleries de bois plantées dans les Hautes-Alpes, au pied des glaciers, dans ces couloirs rocheux et nus qui coupent les sommets blancs des montagnes, l'auberge de Schwarenbach sert de refuge aux voyageurs qui suivent le passage de la Gemmi.

Pendant six mois elle reste ouverte, habitée par la famille de Jean Hauser; puis, dès que les neiges s'amoncellent, emplissant le vallon et rendant impraticable la descente sur Loëche, les femmes, le père et les trois fils s'en vont, et laissent pour garder la maison le vieux guide Gaspard Hari avec le jeune guide Ulrich Kunsi, et Sam, le gros chien de montagne.

Les deux hommes et la bête demeurent jusqu'au printemps dans cette prison de neige, n'ayant devant les yeux que la pente immense et blanche du Balmhorn, entourés de sommets pâles et luisants, enfermés, bloqués, ensevelis sous la neige qui monte autour d'eux, enveloppe, étreint, écrase la petite maison, s'amoncelle sur le toit, atteint les fenêtres et mure la porte.

C'était le jour où la famille Hauser allait retourner à Loëche, l'hiver approchant et la descente devenant périlleuse.

Trois mulets partirent en avant, chargés de hardes et de bagages et conduits par les trois fils. Puis la mère, Jeanne Hauser et sa fille Louise montèrent sur un quatrième mulet, et se mirent en route à leur tour.

Le père les suivait accompagné des deux gardiens qui devaient escorter la famille jusqu'au sommet de la descente.

Ils contournèrent d'abord le petit lac, gelé maintenant au fond du grand trou de rochers qui s'étend devant l'auberge, puis ils suivirent le vallon clair comme un drap et dominé de tous côtés par des sommets de neige.

Une averse de soleil tombait sur ce désert blanc éclatant et glacé, l'allumait d'une flamme aveuglante et froide; aucune vie n'apparaissait dans cet océan des monts; aucun mouvement dans cette solitude démesurée; aucun bruit n'en troublait le profond silence.

Peu à peu, le jeune guide Ulrich Kunsi, un grand Suisse aux longues jambes, laissa derrière lui le père Hauser et le vieux Gaspard Hari, pour rejoindre le mulet qui portait les deux femmes.

La plus jeune le regardait venir, semblait l'appeler d'un oeil triste. C'était une petite paysanne blonde, dont les joues laiteuses et les cheveux pâles paraissaient décolorés par les longs séjours au milieu des glaces.

Quand il eut rejoint la bête qui la portait, il posa la main sur la croupe et ralentit le pas. La mère Hauser se mit à lui parler, énumérant avec des détails infinis toutes les recommandations de l'hivernage. C'était la première fois qu'il restait là-haut, tandis que le vieux Hari avait déjà quatorze hivers sous la neige dans l'auberge de Schwarenbach.

Ulrich Kunsi écoutait, sans avoir l'air de comprendre, et regardait sans cesse la jeune fille. De temps en temps il répondait: "Oui, madame Hauser." Mais sa pensée semblait loin et sa figure calme demeurait impassible.

Ils atteignirent le lac de Daube, dont la longue surface gelée s'étendait, toute plate, au fond du val. A droite, le Daubenhorn montrait ses rochers noirs dressés à pic auprès des énormes moraines du glacier de Loemmern que dominait le Wildstrubel.

Elia Baceló: La estrella

Estábamos todos allí. Lana, como una muñeca rubia colgada de sus cuerdas, con una incongruente faldita roja y el hilo de saliva brillando en su cara pálida; Lon, sus ojos inmensos y oscuros en un rostro casi inexistente; Sadie, moviendo vertiginosamente sus alas, lo que la hacía oscilar a unos centímetros del suelo, mientras mas­ticaba en un gesto de robótica eficiencia esa sustancia verde que tanto le gusta; Tras, encogiendo hasta casi la desaparición su frágil cuerpecillo, su deseo clavado en el cielo, y yo, número cinco, el cie­rre de la estrella, temblando como un carámbano de luz, focali­zando el anhelo. Todos allí, esperando.

Habíamos esperado mucho tiempo. No había ninguna razón para estar ahora más nerviosos que otras veces, pero la tensión se había hecho diferente y sentíamos que lo que ahora esperábamos se estaba acercando. Podríamos haber desaparecido, por supuesto, sobre todo yo, pero éramos la estrella de contacto y no queríamos perdernos en la espera como habían hecho otros antes que noso­tros.

Aún no estábamos seguros de qué íbamos a ofrecerles; hacía tanto tiempo que habíamos perdido el contacto que no sabíamos ya de su deseo ni de su espera. «Somos sabios y hermosos», había dicho Sadie, pero yo entre todos ellos conocía el concepto de la rea­lidad única y sabía que podía ser doloroso para ellos.

-Lento -murmuró Lana, la más verbal después de mí.

-Sí -contesté. Sabía que le gustaba expresar en palabras lo que lodos sabíamos en cualquier caso.

Sentí el deseo de Lon y comencé a focalizar una imagen para sus ojos y los nuestros: la negrura infinita de lo que está fuera y un ar­tefacto de realidad única, objetivamente blanco, deslizándose sua­vemente hacia nuestra espera. Lento. Lleno de realidades múltiples sin focalización.

-Lento -volví a decir para ayudar a Lana.

Nos disolvimos. El paisaje comenzó a volverse azul y anaranja­do, melancólico en cierta forma, como es Tras. Suave. Antiguo,

Nos deslizamos en su percepción y empezaron a surgir las torres plateadas y una música de cristal y campanillas. Sadie bailaba y yo notaba por encima de todos ellos neutralizando la espera. Nos di­rigimos a una torre blanca que se alzaba a varios metros del suelo subjetivo general y penetramos en ella, yo a través del tejado, los otros por las puertas y ventanas, por las paredes. Lana dijo:

-Calor -y todos nos reímos, aliviando la espera. La sala nos dio calor, y Lon hizo caer una ligera lluvia burbujeante que se quedaba colgada de los cuerpos y se iba transformando según los deseos de la estrella. Surgían flores, clavos, luces, sustancias pegajosas y sala­das sobre el cuerpo de Lana que Tras recogía delicadamente con una inmensa lengua azul, globos traslúcidos que contenían imá­genes de realidades muertas y que Lon me enviaba flotando so­bre las alas de Sadie, mientras giraba enloquecidamente cambian­do de forma y de color.

-Estrella pregunta -cantó Lana-. Canaliza, Vai. -Estrella no verbal, Lana. Canaliza, Tras.

Tras recogió la lengua y la convirtió a medio camino en una es­tela de colores. Creó una pirámide de perfumes y los mandó trans­formados en minúsculas bolitas de colores a través de una ven­tana;

Espera. Lentitud. Necesidad del tiempo. No liemos olvidado. Espe­rantos. Esperamos.

Nos envolvió un torrente de especulación procedente de otra es­trella y nos dejamos llevar por el discurso.

Quieren. Qué. No tenemos. No podemos. Para ellos. No es acepta­ble. No somos aceptables. Para ellos. Risas. Risas y cambios y cam­bios y transformaciones. La falda de Lana hinchándose hasta lle­nar nuestro espacio de hilos de suavidad entretejida. Construir una realidad única. Cuando lleguen. Más risas. Cuál. No podemos. Sí podemos. Tedio. Tedio, Tedio. Realidad única.. Absurdo y monstruo­sidad. Hasta cuándo. Curiosidad. Por qué no. Intentar. Esfuerzo común. Risas. Risas. Un juego. Para qué. Para ellos. Demasiado es­fuerzo. Tedioso. No comprenden.

Ursula K. Le Guin: The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas

With a clamor of bells that set the swallows soaring, the Festival of Summer came to the city Omelas, bright-towered by the sea. The rigging of the boats in harbor sparkled with flags. In the streets between houses with red roofs and painted walls, between old moss-grown gardens and under avenues of trees, past great parks and public buildings, processions moved. Some were decorous: old people in long stiff robes of mauve and grey, grave master workmen, quiet, merry women carrying their babies and chatting as they walked. In other streets the music beat faster, a shimmering of gong and tambourine, and the people went dancing, the procession was a dance. Children dodged in and out, their high calls rising like the swallows’ crossing flights over the music and the singing. All the processions wound towards the north side of the city, where on the great water-meadow called the Green Fields boys and girls, naked in the bright air, with mud-stained feet and ankles and long, lithe arms, exercised their restive horses before the race. The horses wore no gear at all but a halter without bit. Their manes were braided with streamers of silver, gold, and green. They flared their nostrils and pranced and boasted to one another; they were vastly excited, the horse being the only animal who has adopted our ceremonies as his own. Far off to the north and west the mountains stood up half encircling Omelas on her bay. The air of morning was so clear that the snow still crowning the Eighteen Peaks burned with white-gold fire across the miles of sunlit air, under the dark blue of the sky. There was just enough wind to make the banners that marked the racecourse snap and flutter now and then. In the silence of the broad green meadows one could hear the music winding through the city streets, farther and nearer and ever approaching, a cheerful faint sweetness of the air that from time to time trembled and gathered together and broke out into the great joyous clanging of the bells.

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us. The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy. How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children—though their children were, in fact, happy. They were mature, intelligent, passionate adults whose lives were not wretched. O miracle! but I wish I could describe it better. I wish I could convince you. Omelas sounds in my words like a city in a fairy tale, long ago and far away, once upon a time. Perhaps it would be best if you imagined it as your own fancy bids, assuming it will rise to the occasion, for certainly I cannot suit you all. For instance, how about technology? I think that there would be no cars or helicopters in and above the streets; this follows from the fact that the people of Omelas are happy people. Happiness is based on a just discrimination of what is necessary, what is neither necessary nor destructive, and what is destructive. In the middle category, however—that of the unnecessary but undestructive, that of comfort, luxury, exuberance, etc.—they could perfectly well have central heating, subway trains, washing machines, and all kinds of marvelous devices not yet invented here, floating light-sources, fuelless power, a cure for the common cold. Or they could have none of that; it doesn’t matter.