The Tkee
Maria Luisa Bombal
The pianist sits down, coughs from force of habit and concentrates for a
moment. The clusters of lights illuminating the hall gradually dim until
they glow like dying embers, whereupon a musical phrase rises in the
silence, swells: clear, sharp and judiciously capricious.
Mozart, maybe, Brigida thinks to herself. As usual, she has forgot-
ten to ask for the program. Mozart----or perhaps Scarlatti . . . She knew
so little about music! And it was not because she lacked an ear or the
inclination. On the contrary, as a child it had been she who demanded
piano lessons; no one needed to impose them on her, as was the case
with her sisters. Today, however, her sisters could sight-read perfectly,
while she ... she had abandoned her studies after the first year' The
reason for the inconstancy was as simple as it was shameful: she had
never been able, never, to learn the key of E, "I don't understand-my
memory serves me only to the key of C." And her father's indignation!
"Would that I could lay down this burden: a miserable widower with
children to educate! My poor Carmen! How she would have sufiered
with such a daughter! The creature is retarded!"
Brigida was the youngest of six girls-all endowed with different
temperaments. She received little attention from her father because
dealing with the other five daughters reduced him to such a perplexed
and worn-out state that he preferred to ease his burden by insisting on
her feeblemindedness. "I won't struggle any longer-it's useless. lrave
her alone. If she chooses not to study, so be it. If she would rather spend
hcr time in the kitchen listening to ghost stories, that's fine with me. If
shc favors playing with dolls at the age of sixteen, let her play." And so
Ilrigida had kept to her dolls, remaining almost totally ignorant as far
irs lilrmal education was concerned.
a i
-)q
lluria Luisa Bombal
How pleasant it is to be ignorant! Not to know exactly who Mozart
was-to ignore his origins, his influences, the particularities of his tech-
rrique! To simply let oneself be led by the hand, as now . . .
For in truth Mozart leads her-transporting her onto a bridge sus-
pcnded above crystal water running over a bed of pink sand. She is
rlressed in white, tilting on one shoulder an open parasol of Chantilly
llrce, elaborate and fine as a spider's web.
"You look younger every day, Brigida. Yesterday I ran into your
husband-I mean your ex-husband. His hair is now completely white."
But she makes no reply, unwilling to tarry while crossing the bridge
Mozart has fabricated toward the garden of her youth.
Thll blossoming spouts in which the water sings. Her eighteen years;
hcr chestnut braids that, unbound, cascaded to her waist; her golden
complexion; her dark eyes so wide and questioning. A small mouth
rvith full lips; a sweet smile; and the lightest, most gracious body in the
world. Of what was she thinking, seated by the fountain's edge? Of
nothing. "She is as silly as she ...
Although it was so brilliantly finelight like white wi.docxgreg1eden90113
Although it was so brilliantly fine
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you ope
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf came drifting
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel i
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little
eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap
the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
when it was absolutely necessary... Little rog
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her
lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had b
the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It
was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor we
was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to
crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking
roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for
Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she
lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too,
hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he w
Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought
to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd
be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so pa
everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge.
http://www.katherinemansfieldsociety.org
MISS BRILL (1920)
By Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf cam.
Although it was so brilliantly finelight like white wi.docxgalerussel59292
Although it was so brilliantly fine
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you ope
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf came drifting
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel i
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little
eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap
the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
when it was absolutely necessary... Little rog
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her
lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had b
the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It
was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor we
was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to
crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking
roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for
Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she
lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too,
hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he w
Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought
to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd
be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so pa
everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge.
http://www.katherinemansfieldsociety.org
MISS BRILL (1920)
By Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf cam.
1 Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield Although it wa.docxjeremylockett77
1
Miss Brill
by Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like
white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques°-- Miss Brill° was glad that she had decided on
her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill,
like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting--
from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It
was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-
powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been
happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again
from the red eiderdown!...But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all
firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a little dab of black sealing-wax when
the time came--when it was absolutely necessary...Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that
about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on
her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad, exactly--
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band
sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band
played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like someone
playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers
present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped
with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the
green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey"
bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she
lifted her head and smiled.
2
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped
over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on
her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked
forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as
though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked
round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't
been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and
she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole t ...
Katherine MansfieldMiss BrillAlthough it was so brilliantl.docxtawnyataylor528
Katherine Mansfield
Miss Brill
Although it was so brilliantly fine - the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques - Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting - from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! ... But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind - a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came - when it was absolutely necessary ... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad - no, not sad, exactly - something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit - very pretty! - a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
< 2 >
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectac ...
A N C E L E S M A S T R E T T Afrom Big-Eyed WomenAun.docxevonnehoggarth79783
A N C E L E S M A S T R E T T A
from Big-Eyed Women
Aunt Natalia Esparza
One day Natalia Esparza, she of the short legs and round ti$, fell in love
with the sea. She didn't know for sure at what moment that pressing
wish to know the remote and legendary ocean came to her, but it came
with such force that she had to abandon her piano school and take up
the search for the Caribbean, because it was to the Caribbean that her
ancestors had come a century before, and it was from there that what
she'd named the missing piece of her conscience was calling to her with-
out respite.
The call of the sea gave her such strength that her own mother could
not convince her to wait even half an hour. It didn't matter how much
her mother begged her to calm her craziness until the almonds were ripe
for making nougat, until the tablecloth that they were embroidering
with cherries for her sistert wedding was frnished, until her father under-
stood that it wasn't prostitution, or idleness, or an incurable mental ill.
ness that had suddenly made her so determined to leave.
Aunt Natalia grew up in the shadow of the volcanoes, scrutinizing
them day and night. She knew by heart the creases in the breast of the
Sleeping \foman and the daring slope that capped Popocat6petl.* She
had always lived in a land of darkness and cold skies, baking candies
over a slow 6.re and cooking meats hidden beneath the colours of overly
elaborate sauces. She ate offofdecorated plates, drank from crystal gob-
*Popocat6petl: volcanic peak near Mexico City
o
F R O M B I C - E Y E D W O M E N
lets, and spent hours seated before the rain, listening to her mother's
prayers and her grandfather's rales of dragons and winged horses. But she
Ieamed of the sea on the aftemoon when some uncles from Campeche
passed through during her snack ofbread and chocolare, before resum.
ing their joumey to the walled city surrounded by an implacable ocean
of colours.
Seven kinds of blue, three greens, one gold, everything fit in the sea.
The silver that no one could take out of the country: whole under a
cloudy sky. Night challenging rhe courage of the ships, the tranquil con-
sciences of those who govemed. The moming like a crystal dream, mid-
day brilliant as desire.
There, she thought, even the men must be different. Those who lived
near the sea which she'd been imagining without respite since Thursday
snack time would not be factory owners or rice salesmen or millers or
plantation owners or anyone who could keep still under the same light
his whole life long. Her uncle and father had spoken so much of the
pirates of yesteryear and those of today, of Don Lorenzo Patifio, her
mother's grandfather, whom they nicknamed Lorencillo between gibes
when she told them that he had arrived at Campeche in his own brig. So
much had been said of the calloused hands and prodigal bodies that
required that sun and that breeze, so fed up was she with the tablecloth
and the piano, that she took of.
The Story of an Hour Kate Chopin (1894)Knowing that Mrs..docxsarah98765
"The Story of an Hour"
Kate Chopin (1894)
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and.
Although it was so brilliantly finelight like white wi.docxgreg1eden90113
Although it was so brilliantly fine
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you ope
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf came drifting
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel i
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little
eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap
the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
when it was absolutely necessary... Little rog
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her
lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had b
the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It
was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor we
was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to
crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking
roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for
Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she
lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too,
hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he w
Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought
to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd
be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so pa
everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge.
http://www.katherinemansfieldsociety.org
MISS BRILL (1920)
By Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf cam.
Although it was so brilliantly finelight like white wi.docxgalerussel59292
Although it was so brilliantly fine
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you ope
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf came drifting
touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel i
box that afternoon, shaken out the moth
life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little
eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap
the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a
knock, somehow. Never mind
when it was absolutely necessary... Little rog
Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her
lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the
band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had b
the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It
was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor we
was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to
crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at
the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands
clasped over a huge carved walking
roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for
Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite
expert, she thought, at listening as though she
lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too,
hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he w
Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought
to wear spectacles; she knew she needed them; but that it was no good getting any; they'd
be sure to break and they'd never keep on. And he'd been so pa
everything—gold rims, the kind that curved round your ears, little pads inside the bridge.
http://www.katherinemansfieldsociety.org
MISS BRILL (1920)
By Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine—the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of
light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques—Miss Brill was glad that she
had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there
was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and
again a leaf cam.
1 Miss Brill by Katherine Mansfield Although it wa.docxjeremylockett77
1
Miss Brill
by Katherine Mansfield
Although it was so brilliantly fine--the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like
white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques°-- Miss Brill° was glad that she had decided on
her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill,
like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting--
from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It
was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-
powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been
happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again
from the red eiderdown!...But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all
firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a little dab of black sealing-wax when
the time came--when it was absolutely necessary...Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that
about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on
her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking,
she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad, exactly--
something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band
sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band
played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like someone
playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers
present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped
with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the
green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey"
bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she
lifted her head and smiled.
2
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped
over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on
her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked
forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as
though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked
round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't
been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and
she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole t ...
Katherine MansfieldMiss BrillAlthough it was so brilliantl.docxtawnyataylor528
Katherine Mansfield
Miss Brill
Although it was so brilliantly fine - the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques - Miss Brill was glad that she had decided on her fur. The air was motionless, but when you opened your mouth there was just a faint chill, like a chill from a glass of iced water before you sip, and now and again a leaf came drifting - from nowhere, from the sky. Miss Brill put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from the red eiderdown! ... But the nose, which was of some black composition, wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind - a little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came - when it was absolutely necessary ... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad - no, not sad, exactly - something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.
There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there came a little "flutey" bit - very pretty! - a little chain of bright drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head and smiled.
< 2 >
Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert, she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.
She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon. Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And she'd gone on the whole time about how she ought to wear spectac ...
A N C E L E S M A S T R E T T Afrom Big-Eyed WomenAun.docxevonnehoggarth79783
A N C E L E S M A S T R E T T A
from Big-Eyed Women
Aunt Natalia Esparza
One day Natalia Esparza, she of the short legs and round ti$, fell in love
with the sea. She didn't know for sure at what moment that pressing
wish to know the remote and legendary ocean came to her, but it came
with such force that she had to abandon her piano school and take up
the search for the Caribbean, because it was to the Caribbean that her
ancestors had come a century before, and it was from there that what
she'd named the missing piece of her conscience was calling to her with-
out respite.
The call of the sea gave her such strength that her own mother could
not convince her to wait even half an hour. It didn't matter how much
her mother begged her to calm her craziness until the almonds were ripe
for making nougat, until the tablecloth that they were embroidering
with cherries for her sistert wedding was frnished, until her father under-
stood that it wasn't prostitution, or idleness, or an incurable mental ill.
ness that had suddenly made her so determined to leave.
Aunt Natalia grew up in the shadow of the volcanoes, scrutinizing
them day and night. She knew by heart the creases in the breast of the
Sleeping \foman and the daring slope that capped Popocat6petl.* She
had always lived in a land of darkness and cold skies, baking candies
over a slow 6.re and cooking meats hidden beneath the colours of overly
elaborate sauces. She ate offofdecorated plates, drank from crystal gob-
*Popocat6petl: volcanic peak near Mexico City
o
F R O M B I C - E Y E D W O M E N
lets, and spent hours seated before the rain, listening to her mother's
prayers and her grandfather's rales of dragons and winged horses. But she
Ieamed of the sea on the aftemoon when some uncles from Campeche
passed through during her snack ofbread and chocolare, before resum.
ing their joumey to the walled city surrounded by an implacable ocean
of colours.
Seven kinds of blue, three greens, one gold, everything fit in the sea.
The silver that no one could take out of the country: whole under a
cloudy sky. Night challenging rhe courage of the ships, the tranquil con-
sciences of those who govemed. The moming like a crystal dream, mid-
day brilliant as desire.
There, she thought, even the men must be different. Those who lived
near the sea which she'd been imagining without respite since Thursday
snack time would not be factory owners or rice salesmen or millers or
plantation owners or anyone who could keep still under the same light
his whole life long. Her uncle and father had spoken so much of the
pirates of yesteryear and those of today, of Don Lorenzo Patifio, her
mother's grandfather, whom they nicknamed Lorencillo between gibes
when she told them that he had arrived at Campeche in his own brig. So
much had been said of the calloused hands and prodigal bodies that
required that sun and that breeze, so fed up was she with the tablecloth
and the piano, that she took of.
The Story of an Hour Kate Chopin (1894)Knowing that Mrs..docxsarah98765
"The Story of an Hour"
Kate Chopin (1894)
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under her breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and.
6Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)Diary of a MadmanChineseModernismDrhetttrevannion
6
Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)
Diary of a MadmanChineseModernism
"Diary of a Madman" is a famous short story by Lu Xun, who is regarded as a great writer of modern Chinese literature. Lu Xun (surname: Lu, and the pen name of Zhou Shuren) was a short story writer, translator, essayist, and literary scholar. Although Lu was educated in the Confucian tradition when he was young, he later received a modern western education; he studied modern medicine in Japan and was exposed to western literature (including English, German, and Russian literatures). In 1918, "Diary of a Madman" was published in New Youth, a magazine of the New Culture Movement that promoted democracy, egalitarianism, vernacular literature, individual freedom, and women's rights. Inspired by the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol's story of the same title, Lu wrote this story, which is the first western-style story in vernacular Chinese. The cannibalistic society that the madman narrator sees is generally interpreted as a satirical allegory of traditional Chinese society based on Confucianism. Although Lu and his works were associated with leftist ideas (and Mao Zedong favored Lu's works), Lu never joined the Communist Party of China. The English translations of this short story include a version by William A. Lyell, a former professor of Chinese at Stanford University.Consider while reading:What elements of detective fiction does Borges include in "The Garden of Forking Paths"?How does having multiple possible outcomes influence the resolution of the text?How does Borges use the symbolism of the labyrinth?Borges is known for his use of magical realism and his work in the science fiction genre. How does Borges incorporate magical realism into "The Garden of the Forking Paths?" What effect does it create?
Kwon, Kyounghye. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia Press.
CC-BY-SA.
5
10
THE GARDEN PARTY
License: Public Domain
Katherine Mansfield
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect
day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a
cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in
early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and
sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants
had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they
understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties;
the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally
hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.
"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to
you children this year. Forget I ...
6
Katherine Mansfield (1888 - 1923)
The Garden PartyNew ZealanderModernism
Best known for her modernist short stories, Katherine Mansfield was born into a prominent New Zealand family in Wellington in 1888. At 19, she moved to London, where she eventually became part of the Bloomsbury group that included Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf; the two later published Mansfield's short stories through their Hogarth Press. Mansfield struggled to balance her ambitions as a writer with a tumultuous love life; she had numerous love affairs with both men and women, and two brief marriages; at the time of her death, she was married to the prominent editor and critic John Middleton Murry, whom she met in 1911 and married in 1918. The last five years of Mansfield's life were dominated by her efforts to find a successful treatment for the tuberculosis that would end her life at the age of 34.
Mansfield began writing short stories as a teenager in New Zealand. Her early efforts were marked by a sympathetic presentation of the Maori minority, who were often oppressed by the white colonialists. While she traveled back to New Zealand once as a young adult, most of her adult life was spent in London or travelling on the continent, where she pursued her ambition to write professionally. An accomplished cellist, she acknowledged the influence of music on her writing process. Like other modernist writers, Mansfield is less interested in plot than in the psychology of her characters, who are often frustrated, alienated, and isolated. Depicting the rich inner lives of her characters through interior monologues, she also makes use of free indirect discourse. Also a poet, Mansfield's style is characterized by her use of imagery. In the tightly constructed form of the short story, she is also notable for her frequent use, like Joyce and Woolf, of the epiphany, what Woolf refers to as "a moment of being."
Along with "The Daughters of the Late Colonel" and "Miss Brill," "The Garden Party" (1922) is one of Mansfield's best-known short stories. The story is set in Mansfield's home town, Wellington; Laura Sheridan, the protagonist, is preoccupied with all of the details of planning a garden party, including her pleasure in wearing a new hat, when tragedy intervenes in the death of a local tradesman. Even as she considers the poverty in which the carter's wife and family will be left, Sheridan cannot bring herself to cancel the party. Her epiphany at the story's end suggests that she will someday grow more critical of the middle class colonial values that she and her family embody.Consider while reading:How does Mansfield characterize Laura?How would you describe the relationship between Laura and her mother?How is death portrayed in the story?What does Mansfield seem to be suggesting about class distinctions during this period?
Turlington, Anita. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia P ...
The Stream of Consciousness: A Cerebration of PoetryJinglyNama
An amateur prose writer strays into the dangerous wilderness of Verse- and lives to tell the tale.
A gripping narrative on the mysteries and dangers of casual rhyme.
Now I want you to re-read your favorite piece from the term and tell.docxjuliennehar
Now I want you to re-read your favorite piece from the term and tell me why you like it. If it's from early on, tell me how you see it now that you have other ways to think about it. If it's from later, did knowing some things from our assignments influence your enjoyment? Whatever else you say, please include some research. Look for interviews with the author, especially if the piece is specifically mentioned. Maybe you can find a book written about the author or that talks about the story/poem/essay. Maybe your research can be about the topic in its era. A sci-fi piece from the mid-century had certain societal expectations of what our future would look like. A story about the course of true love never running smooth is also a topic that has been viewed differently as society has changed.
Try to speak of your favorite piece with a scholarly enthusiasm rather than just an over-coffee recommendation style. Try to smoothly work the research into your own opinions. Give me two (2) or more pages of your best.
A Wagner Matinée
By WILLA SIBERT CATHER
I RECEIVED one morning a letter, written in pale ink, on glassy, blue-lined note-paper, and bearing the postmark of a little Nebraska village. This communication, worn and rubbed, looking as though it had been carried for some days in a coat-pocket that was none too clean, was from my Uncle Howard. It informed me that his wife had been left a small legacy by a bachelor relative who had recently died, and that it had become necessary for her to come to Boston to attend to the settling of the estate. He requested me to meet her at the station, and render her whatever services might prove necessary. On examining the date indicated as that of her arrival, I found it no later than to-morrow. He had characteristically delayed writing until, had I been away from home for a day, I must have missed the good woman altogether.
The name of my Aunt Georgiana called up not alone her own figure, at once pathetic and grotesque, but opened before my feet a gulf of recollections so wide and deep that, as the letter dropped from my hand, I felt suddenly a stranger to all the present conditions of my existence, wholly ill at ease and out of place amid the surroundings of my study. I became, in short, the gangling farmer-boy my aunt had known, scourged with chilblains and bashfulness, my hands cracked and raw from the corn husking. I felt the knuckles of my thumb tentatively, as though they were raw again. I sat again before her parlor organ, thumbing the scales with my stiff, red hands, while she beside me made canvas mittens for the huskers.
The next morning, after preparing my landlady somewhat, I set out for the station. When the train arrived I had some difficulty in finding my aunt. She was the last of the passengers to alight, and when I got her into the carriage she looked not unlike one of those charred, smoked bodies that firemen lift from the
débris
of a burned building. She had come all the way in a day coac.
1
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro
woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was
Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a
little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a
grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping
the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed
meditative, like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached
sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over
her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with
age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree
stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks
were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in
the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, 'Out of my way, all you foxes, owls,
beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! ... Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites ... Keep
the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.'
Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to
rouse up any hiding things.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at,
up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning
dove—it was not too late for him.
The path ran up a hill. 'Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,' she said, in the voice of
argument old people keep to use with themselves. 'Something always take a hold of me on this hill—
pleads I should stay.'
After she got to the top, she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. 'Up
through pines,' she said at length. 'Now down through oaks.'
Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a
bush caught her dress.
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free
in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. 'I in the thorny
bush,' she said. 'Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass—no, sir. Old eyes
thought you was a ...
A Worn PathEudora Welty (1941)iIt was December—a bright froz.docxrock73
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty (1941)
i
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Farout in the country there was an old Negro woman with her headtied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Hername was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and shewalked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from sideto side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of apendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small canemade from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozenearth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in thestill air that seemed meditative, like the chirping of a solitary littlebird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, andan equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket:all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might havefallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes.She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skinhad a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and asthough a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, buta golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheekswere illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the redrag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, stillblack, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenixsaid, "Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits,coons and wild animals! . . . Keep out from under these feet, littlebob-whites . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't letnone of those come running my direction. I got a long way."Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggywhip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hidingthings.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made thepine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the windrocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in thehollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him.
i
The path ran up a hill. "Seem like there is chains about my feet,time I get this far," she said, in the voice of argument old peoplekeep to use with themselves. "Something always take a hold ofme on this hill—pleads I should stay."
5
After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe lookbehind her where she had come. "Up through pines," she said atlength. "Now down through oaks." Her eyes opened their widest,and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom ofthe hill a bush caught her dress.
i
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full andlong, so that before she could pull them free in one place theywere caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress totear. "I in the thorny bush," she said. "Thorns, you doing yourappointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyesthought you was a pretty little green bush." Finally, trembling allover, she stood free, ...
As described in Lecture Note 1, geography is a part of everyday life.docxssusera34210
As described in Lecture Note 1, geography is a part of everyday life and the study of which ranges from how we design our cities to what lies on the ocean floor. One of the more important kinds of geography is political geography, which can involve everything from the creation of local zoning areas to borders between nations. In your opinion, which level of political geography is more important, that at the local level that impacts people’s everyday lives such as the ability to build an addition onto their house or a national one, which may involve disputed territory and result in armed conflict? Be sure to use examples to support your key points.
.
As an extra credit, Must discuss at least one (1) o.docxssusera34210
As an extra credit,
:
Must discuss at least one (1) other student's topic
Student discussion:
Since its emergence in the 1960's, plate tectonic theory has gained wide-spread acceptance as the model of how Earth's land masses shift over time. Plate tectonics developed historically in 1915 when Alfred Wegener proposed his theory of "continental drift." He stated that the continents plowed through crust of ocean basins, which would explain why the outlines of many coastlines, such as South America and Africa, appeared to fit like missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
There are various types of plate boundaries such as: convergent plate boundaries, when two collide; divergent plate boundaries, when they spread apart; and transform boundaries, when they slide past each other.
http://scecinfo.usc.edu/education/k12/learn/plate2.htm
.
As an institution, Walden has long supported days of service and.docxssusera34210
As an institution, Walden has long supported days of service and encouraged students, faculty, and staff to give back to their communities. In the companion Assignment for this module, you are developing a plan for a proposed Global Day of Service project. For this Discussion, you will explain the Global Day of Service project you are proposing for your Assignment and offer feedback and support for your colleagues’ projects.
Important Note:
You will share your ideas regarding your Module 5 Assignment in this Discussion. Be sure to read through the instructions for this Discussion and the Module 5 Assignment prior to beginning work this week.
To prepare:
Review the instructions for the Module 5 Course Project assignment.
Review the Walden University sites regarding social change and Walden’s Global Days of Service. Consider the many meaningful opportunities found in early childhood programs, K–12 schools, and communities for enacting social change. How will the Walden Global Day of Service project you are proposing in this module’s Assignment support social change in your program and field?
Review the Callahan et al. (2012) paper in the Learning Resources. Which of the eight features of social change will be reflected the most in your Day of Service project?
An explanation of the following:
The Day of Service project you are proposing for this module’s Assignment
How your proposed project would support social change in your program and field
Which of the eight features of social change are integrated the most in your Day of Service project
For this Discussion, and all scholarly writing in this course and throughout your program, you will be required to use APA style and provide reference citations.
Learning Resources
Note:
To access this module’s required library resources, please click on the link to the Course Readings List, found in the
Course Materials
section of your Syllabus.
Required Readings
Fullan, M. (2016).
The new meaning of educational change
(5th ed.). New York, NY: Teachers College Press.
Chapter 13, “The Future of Educational Change” (pp. 258–265)
Callahan, D., Wilson, E., Birdsall, I., Estabrook-Fishinghawk, B., Carson, G., Ford, S., . . . Yob, I. (2012).
Expanding our understanding of social change: A report from the definition task force of the HLC Special Emphasis Project
[White paper]. Minneapolis, MN: Walden University.
Social Change Web Maps
[Diagrams]. Adapted from Expanding our understanding of social change, by Callahan, D., Wilson, E., Birdsall, I., Estabrook-Fishinghawk, B., Carson, G., Ford, S., Ouzts, K., & Yob, I., 2008. Baltimore, MD: Walden University. Adapted with permission of Walden University.
Cooper, K. S., Stanulis, R. N., Brondyk, S. K. Hamilton, E. R., Macaluso, M., & Meier, J. A. (2016). The teacher leadership process: Attempting change within embedded systems. Journal of Educational Change, 17(1), 85–113. .
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6Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)Diary of a MadmanChineseModernismDrhetttrevannion
6
Lu Xun (1881 - 1936)
Diary of a MadmanChineseModernism
"Diary of a Madman" is a famous short story by Lu Xun, who is regarded as a great writer of modern Chinese literature. Lu Xun (surname: Lu, and the pen name of Zhou Shuren) was a short story writer, translator, essayist, and literary scholar. Although Lu was educated in the Confucian tradition when he was young, he later received a modern western education; he studied modern medicine in Japan and was exposed to western literature (including English, German, and Russian literatures). In 1918, "Diary of a Madman" was published in New Youth, a magazine of the New Culture Movement that promoted democracy, egalitarianism, vernacular literature, individual freedom, and women's rights. Inspired by the Russian writer Nikolai Gogol's story of the same title, Lu wrote this story, which is the first western-style story in vernacular Chinese. The cannibalistic society that the madman narrator sees is generally interpreted as a satirical allegory of traditional Chinese society based on Confucianism. Although Lu and his works were associated with leftist ideas (and Mao Zedong favored Lu's works), Lu never joined the Communist Party of China. The English translations of this short story include a version by William A. Lyell, a former professor of Chinese at Stanford University.Consider while reading:What elements of detective fiction does Borges include in "The Garden of Forking Paths"?How does having multiple possible outcomes influence the resolution of the text?How does Borges use the symbolism of the labyrinth?Borges is known for his use of magical realism and his work in the science fiction genre. How does Borges incorporate magical realism into "The Garden of the Forking Paths?" What effect does it create?
Kwon, Kyounghye. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia Press.
CC-BY-SA.
5
10
THE GARDEN PARTY
License: Public Domain
Katherine Mansfield
And after all the weather was ideal. They could not have had a more perfect
day for a garden-party if they had ordered it. Windless, warm, the sky without a
cloud. Only the blue was veiled with a haze of light gold, as it is sometimes in
early summer. The gardener had been up since dawn, mowing the lawns and
sweeping them, until the grass and the dark flat rosettes where the daisy plants
had been seemed to shine. As for the roses, you could not help feeling they
understood that roses are the only flowers that impress people at garden-parties;
the only flowers that everybody is certain of knowing. Hundreds, yes, literally
hundreds, had come out in a single night; the green bushes bowed down as
though they had been visited by archangels.
Breakfast was not yet over before the men came to put up the marquee.
"Where do you want the marquee put, mother?"
"My dear child, it's no use asking me. I'm determined to leave everything to
you children this year. Forget I ...
6
Katherine Mansfield (1888 - 1923)
The Garden PartyNew ZealanderModernism
Best known for her modernist short stories, Katherine Mansfield was born into a prominent New Zealand family in Wellington in 1888. At 19, she moved to London, where she eventually became part of the Bloomsbury group that included Virginia Woolf and Leonard Woolf; the two later published Mansfield's short stories through their Hogarth Press. Mansfield struggled to balance her ambitions as a writer with a tumultuous love life; she had numerous love affairs with both men and women, and two brief marriages; at the time of her death, she was married to the prominent editor and critic John Middleton Murry, whom she met in 1911 and married in 1918. The last five years of Mansfield's life were dominated by her efforts to find a successful treatment for the tuberculosis that would end her life at the age of 34.
Mansfield began writing short stories as a teenager in New Zealand. Her early efforts were marked by a sympathetic presentation of the Maori minority, who were often oppressed by the white colonialists. While she traveled back to New Zealand once as a young adult, most of her adult life was spent in London or travelling on the continent, where she pursued her ambition to write professionally. An accomplished cellist, she acknowledged the influence of music on her writing process. Like other modernist writers, Mansfield is less interested in plot than in the psychology of her characters, who are often frustrated, alienated, and isolated. Depicting the rich inner lives of her characters through interior monologues, she also makes use of free indirect discourse. Also a poet, Mansfield's style is characterized by her use of imagery. In the tightly constructed form of the short story, she is also notable for her frequent use, like Joyce and Woolf, of the epiphany, what Woolf refers to as "a moment of being."
Along with "The Daughters of the Late Colonel" and "Miss Brill," "The Garden Party" (1922) is one of Mansfield's best-known short stories. The story is set in Mansfield's home town, Wellington; Laura Sheridan, the protagonist, is preoccupied with all of the details of planning a garden party, including her pleasure in wearing a new hat, when tragedy intervenes in the death of a local tradesman. Even as she considers the poverty in which the carter's wife and family will be left, Sheridan cannot bring herself to cancel the party. Her epiphany at the story's end suggests that she will someday grow more critical of the middle class colonial values that she and her family embody.Consider while reading:How does Mansfield characterize Laura?How would you describe the relationship between Laura and her mother?How is death portrayed in the story?What does Mansfield seem to be suggesting about class distinctions during this period?
Turlington, Anita. (n.d.). Compact Anthology of World Literature: The 17th and 18th Centuries (Part 6). Dahlonega, GA: University of North Georgia P ...
The Stream of Consciousness: A Cerebration of PoetryJinglyNama
An amateur prose writer strays into the dangerous wilderness of Verse- and lives to tell the tale.
A gripping narrative on the mysteries and dangers of casual rhyme.
Now I want you to re-read your favorite piece from the term and tell.docxjuliennehar
Now I want you to re-read your favorite piece from the term and tell me why you like it. If it's from early on, tell me how you see it now that you have other ways to think about it. If it's from later, did knowing some things from our assignments influence your enjoyment? Whatever else you say, please include some research. Look for interviews with the author, especially if the piece is specifically mentioned. Maybe you can find a book written about the author or that talks about the story/poem/essay. Maybe your research can be about the topic in its era. A sci-fi piece from the mid-century had certain societal expectations of what our future would look like. A story about the course of true love never running smooth is also a topic that has been viewed differently as society has changed.
Try to speak of your favorite piece with a scholarly enthusiasm rather than just an over-coffee recommendation style. Try to smoothly work the research into your own opinions. Give me two (2) or more pages of your best.
A Wagner Matinée
By WILLA SIBERT CATHER
I RECEIVED one morning a letter, written in pale ink, on glassy, blue-lined note-paper, and bearing the postmark of a little Nebraska village. This communication, worn and rubbed, looking as though it had been carried for some days in a coat-pocket that was none too clean, was from my Uncle Howard. It informed me that his wife had been left a small legacy by a bachelor relative who had recently died, and that it had become necessary for her to come to Boston to attend to the settling of the estate. He requested me to meet her at the station, and render her whatever services might prove necessary. On examining the date indicated as that of her arrival, I found it no later than to-morrow. He had characteristically delayed writing until, had I been away from home for a day, I must have missed the good woman altogether.
The name of my Aunt Georgiana called up not alone her own figure, at once pathetic and grotesque, but opened before my feet a gulf of recollections so wide and deep that, as the letter dropped from my hand, I felt suddenly a stranger to all the present conditions of my existence, wholly ill at ease and out of place amid the surroundings of my study. I became, in short, the gangling farmer-boy my aunt had known, scourged with chilblains and bashfulness, my hands cracked and raw from the corn husking. I felt the knuckles of my thumb tentatively, as though they were raw again. I sat again before her parlor organ, thumbing the scales with my stiff, red hands, while she beside me made canvas mittens for the huskers.
The next morning, after preparing my landlady somewhat, I set out for the station. When the train arrived I had some difficulty in finding my aunt. She was the last of the passengers to alight, and when I got her into the carriage she looked not unlike one of those charred, smoked bodies that firemen lift from the
débris
of a burned building. She had come all the way in a day coac.
1
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Far out in the country there was an old Negro
woman with her head tied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Her name was
Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a
little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a
grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small cane made from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping
the frozen earth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in the still air that seemed
meditative, like the chirping of a solitary little bird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, and an equally long apron of bleached
sugar sacks, with a full pocket: all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might have fallen over
her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes. She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with
age. Her skin had a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and as though a whole little tree
stood in the middle of her forehead, but a golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheeks
were illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the red rag her hair came down on her neck in
the frailest of ringlets, still black, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenix said, 'Out of my way, all you foxes, owls,
beetles, jack rabbits, coons and wild animals! ... Keep out from under these feet, little bob-whites ... Keep
the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't let none of those come running my direction. I got a long way.'
Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggy whip, would switch at the brush as if to
rouse up any hiding things.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made the pine needles almost too bright to look at,
up where the wind rocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in the hollow was the mourning
dove—it was not too late for him.
The path ran up a hill. 'Seem like there is chains about my feet, time I get this far,' she said, in the voice of
argument old people keep to use with themselves. 'Something always take a hold of me on this hill—
pleads I should stay.'
After she got to the top, she turned and gave a full, severe look behind her where she had come. 'Up
through pines,' she said at length. 'Now down through oaks.'
Her eyes opened their widest, and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom of the hill a
bush caught her dress.
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full and long, so that before she could pull them free
in one place they were caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress to tear. 'I in the thorny
bush,' she said. 'Thorns, you doing your appointed work. Never want to let folks pass—no, sir. Old eyes
thought you was a ...
A Worn PathEudora Welty (1941)iIt was December—a bright froz.docxrock73
A Worn Path
Eudora Welty (1941)
i
It was December—a bright frozen day in the early morning. Farout in the country there was an old Negro woman with her headtied in a red rag, coming along a path through the pinewoods. Hername was Phoenix Jackson. She was very old and small and shewalked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from sideto side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of apendulum in a grandfather clock. She carried a thin, small canemade from an umbrella, and with this she kept tapping the frozenearth in front of her. This made a grave and persistent noise in thestill air that seemed meditative, like the chirping of a solitary littlebird.
She wore a dark striped dress reaching down to her shoe tops, andan equally long apron of bleached sugar sacks, with a full pocket:all neat and tidy, but every time she took a step she might havefallen over her shoelaces, which dragged from her unlaced shoes.She looked straight ahead. Her eyes were blue with age. Her skinhad a pattern all its own of numberless branching wrinkles and asthough a whole little tree stood in the middle of her forehead, buta golden color ran underneath, and the two knobs of her cheekswere illumined by a yellow burning under the dark. Under the redrag her hair came down on her neck in the frailest of ringlets, stillblack, and with an odor like copper.
Now and then there was a quivering in the thicket. Old Phoenixsaid, "Out of my way, all you foxes, owls, beetles, jack rabbits,coons and wild animals! . . . Keep out from under these feet, littlebob-whites . . . Keep the big wild hogs out of my path. Don't letnone of those come running my direction. I got a long way."Under her small black-freckled hand her cane, limber as a buggywhip, would switch at the brush as if to rouse up any hidingthings.
On she went. The woods were deep and still. The sun made thepine needles almost too bright to look at, up where the windrocked. The cones dropped as light as feathers. Down in thehollow was the mourning dove—it was not too late for him.
i
The path ran up a hill. "Seem like there is chains about my feet,time I get this far," she said, in the voice of argument old peoplekeep to use with themselves. "Something always take a hold ofme on this hill—pleads I should stay."
5
After she got to the top she turned and gave a full, severe lookbehind her where she had come. "Up through pines," she said atlength. "Now down through oaks." Her eyes opened their widest,and she started down gently. But before she got to the bottom ofthe hill a bush caught her dress.
i
Her fingers were busy and intent, but her skirts were full andlong, so that before she could pull them free in one place theywere caught in another. It was not possible to allow the dress totear. "I in the thorny bush," she said. "Thorns, you doing yourappointed work. Never want to let folks pass, no sir. Old eyesthought you was a pretty little green bush." Finally, trembling allover, she stood free, ...
As described in Lecture Note 1, geography is a part of everyday life.docxssusera34210
As described in Lecture Note 1, geography is a part of everyday life and the study of which ranges from how we design our cities to what lies on the ocean floor. One of the more important kinds of geography is political geography, which can involve everything from the creation of local zoning areas to borders between nations. In your opinion, which level of political geography is more important, that at the local level that impacts people’s everyday lives such as the ability to build an addition onto their house or a national one, which may involve disputed territory and result in armed conflict? Be sure to use examples to support your key points.
.
As an extra credit, Must discuss at least one (1) o.docxssusera34210
As an extra credit,
:
Must discuss at least one (1) other student's topic
Student discussion:
Since its emergence in the 1960's, plate tectonic theory has gained wide-spread acceptance as the model of how Earth's land masses shift over time. Plate tectonics developed historically in 1915 when Alfred Wegener proposed his theory of "continental drift." He stated that the continents plowed through crust of ocean basins, which would explain why the outlines of many coastlines, such as South America and Africa, appeared to fit like missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
There are various types of plate boundaries such as: convergent plate boundaries, when two collide; divergent plate boundaries, when they spread apart; and transform boundaries, when they slide past each other.
http://scecinfo.usc.edu/education/k12/learn/plate2.htm
.
As an institution, Walden has long supported days of service and.docxssusera34210
As an institution, Walden has long supported days of service and encouraged students, faculty, and staff to give back to their communities. In the companion Assignment for this module, you are developing a plan for a proposed Global Day of Service project. For this Discussion, you will explain the Global Day of Service project you are proposing for your Assignment and offer feedback and support for your colleagues’ projects.
Important Note:
You will share your ideas regarding your Module 5 Assignment in this Discussion. Be sure to read through the instructions for this Discussion and the Module 5 Assignment prior to beginning work this week.
To prepare:
Review the instructions for the Module 5 Course Project assignment.
Review the Walden University sites regarding social change and Walden’s Global Days of Service. Consider the many meaningful opportunities found in early childhood programs, K–12 schools, and communities for enacting social change. How will the Walden Global Day of Service project you are proposing in this module’s Assignment support social change in your program and field?
Review the Callahan et al. (2012) paper in the Learning Resources. Which of the eight features of social change will be reflected the most in your Day of Service project?
An explanation of the following:
The Day of Service project you are proposing for this module’s Assignment
How your proposed project would support social change in your program and field
Which of the eight features of social change are integrated the most in your Day of Service project
For this Discussion, and all scholarly writing in this course and throughout your program, you will be required to use APA style and provide reference citations.
Learning Resources
Note:
To access this module’s required library resources, please click on the link to the Course Readings List, found in the
Course Materials
section of your Syllabus.
Required Readings
Fullan, M. (2016).
The new meaning of educational change
(5th ed.). New York, NY: Teachers College Press.
Chapter 13, “The Future of Educational Change” (pp. 258–265)
Callahan, D., Wilson, E., Birdsall, I., Estabrook-Fishinghawk, B., Carson, G., Ford, S., . . . Yob, I. (2012).
Expanding our understanding of social change: A report from the definition task force of the HLC Special Emphasis Project
[White paper]. Minneapolis, MN: Walden University.
Social Change Web Maps
[Diagrams]. Adapted from Expanding our understanding of social change, by Callahan, D., Wilson, E., Birdsall, I., Estabrook-Fishinghawk, B., Carson, G., Ford, S., Ouzts, K., & Yob, I., 2008. Baltimore, MD: Walden University. Adapted with permission of Walden University.
Cooper, K. S., Stanulis, R. N., Brondyk, S. K. Hamilton, E. R., Macaluso, M., & Meier, J. A. (2016). The teacher leadership process: Attempting change within embedded systems. Journal of Educational Change, 17(1), 85–113. .
As computer and internet technologies have advanced and become m.docxssusera34210
As computer and internet technologies have advanced and become more easily accessible across the world, we are seeing an explosion of social activists, government agencies and terrorists using these technologies to further their efforts. Government and non-government entities use the internet to spread propaganda and information, recruit support and demonize opponents. The efforts of some radical groups, like ISIS, to shut down US infrastructure and thwart military activity can clearly be labeled as cyberterrorism. However, some groups, such as the loosely associated international network of self-proclaimed “hacktivists” identified as Anonymous, are blurring the lines between what constitutes terrorism and what is simply social activism. As technology continues to advance and further our capabilities, we are continuously presented with new and intriguing moral questions.
After reading the module notes and all of the supplemental materials, respond to the following:
Briefly define cyberterrorism. Define hacktivism. Illustrate examples of each in current events within the last decade.
What is the fundamental difference between these two?
How has technology helped to advance these groups?
How do you think our government’s response to such groups has changed our attitudes towards our own freedoms?
In your opinion, do you think Hacktivism is justified or is it just a subset of cyberterrorism? Give some examples to support your stance.
Support your position using appropriate sources that are properly cited.
.
As cultural and literary scholar Louis Henry Gates claims, Repetit.docxssusera34210
As cultural and literary scholar Louis Henry Gates claims, "Repetition and revision are fundamental to black artistic forms, from painting and sculpture to music and language use." This "Signifyin(g)" is a dynamic noted throughout hip-hop music because its foundation is rooted in "sampling" music that came before. But the content of rap also expresses a Black experience. Therefore, in your final response this week, discuss three significant subjects or themes that hip-hop artists Signify on in the African American literary tradition as they express their own notions of Blackness in lyrical rap music.
.
As an African American male, social issues are some that seem to.docxssusera34210
As an African American male, social issues are some that seem to be a part of our everyday life at the time of birth. Whether it’s our skin being threatening towards other groups of society, police brutality, not receiving the same education, jobs, or housing as those of other cultures; it’s something that burned into our part of growing up and learning how to maneuver the world around us. Being that this is something that is thrown in our face time and time again, I would like to talk about the trust or lack thereof, between “professional helpers” and African American males. You must first stop and take a look at the deep roots of past and current events that lead to African Americans not trusting the help that’s provided by doctors, lawyers, therapists, etc. For example, historical adversity, which includes slavery, sharecropping, and race-based exclusion from health, educational, social, and economic resources, translates into socioeconomic disparities experienced by Black and African American people today. Socioeconomic status, in turn, is linked to mental health: People who are impoverished, homeless, incarcerated, or have substance use problems are at higher risk for poor mental health.
Despite progress made over the years, racism continues to have an impact on the mental health of Black and African American people. Negative stereotypes and attitudes of rejection have decreased, but continue to occur with measurable, adverse consequences. Historical and contemporary instances of negative treatment have led to a mistrust of authorities, many of whom are not seen as having the best interests of Black and African Americans in mind. The culture from which many African Americans are raised, has a greater distrust of the medical helpers and medical offices alike, from the belief of racial bias. A great example is that of the Tuskegee experiment, where the abuses of slaves by white doctors, simply for the use of medical experimentation. There was no sense of consent or refusal from the African American participants to participate, just because of their lower level in society and the mass discrimination during that time. It’s those issues of the past, that resist black males from seeking the help they truly need, in order to bring them back to the feeling of self and self-worth; and to add a more recent impact, just look at the COVID vaccine, many are skeptical of receiving it, just because of what happens at Tuskegee. Despite progress made over the years, racism continues to have an impact on the mental health of Black and African American people. Negative stereotypes and attitudes of rejection have decreased, but continue to occur with measurable, adverse consequences. Historical and contemporary instances of negative treatment have led to a mistrust of authorities, many of whom are not seen as having the best interests of Black and African Americans in mind.
Most importantly, one must be willing to understand how having a multicultu.
As a work teamDecide on the proto personas each team member .docxssusera34210
As a work team
Decide on the proto personas each team member will create.
● Begin with your user assumptions worksheet
● Individually, create a list of audience attributes/characteristics (your own views on the user) on sticky notes
● cluster these into 3 - 8 profiles (Take a photo)
● discuss your clusters and move around notes as needed.
● decide as a team, which clusters will be turned into your proto personas.
Each team of three should have at least 3 different user types that you think will use your site. (4 if you are in a team of 4).
Individually
● Create two personas
o PROTO-PERSONA
The first should be one of the proto-personas agreed by your team members in the process above
▪ Use the information from the Lean UX reading and learning materials to help you create your persona
▪ This can be hand drawn and included in your final document as a photograph.
o TRADITIONAL PERSONA
The second is a traditional persona (NOT related to your project website). Use the student data & template provided:
▪ The persona needs to represent the statistical data provided
▪ Use the given ppt template to create the traditional persona or find your own and use that.
.
As an astute social worker and professional policy advocate, on.docxssusera34210
As an astute social worker and professional policy advocate, once you have selected a social problem, you begin the process of creating and implementing a policy that addresses that social problem.
Address the following items within your group's Wiki page for Part 2:
Topic is Immigration
Is the policy identified by your group dictated by local, state, or federal statute—or a combination thereof?
APA FORMAT
2 REFERENCES
.
As a special education professional, it is important to be aware of .docxssusera34210
As a special education professional, it is important to be aware of how social and cultural influences can impact the assessment process. Lack of awareness can lead to charges of discrimination and possible litigation.
Using support from the required readings, the Instructor Guidance, supplemental information derived from outside sources and your discussion, and information from the scenario below, you will (a) use information you have learned about Manuel to complete the
Child Study Team Referral Form
found in the
Week Three Instructor Guidance
, and (b) write a 3 page report with your recommendations for Tier Two RTI interventions that take Manuel's social and cultural background into account.
Scenario:
Manuel is becoming more and more listless in class and is still not doing well with his assignments. You have noticed though, that he seems to be making friends, as outside of class each morning you notice him joking and talking with a group of boys. They talk about BMX bikes and an online computer game that they all play. You are aware that some of the boys in that group are involved in the school robotics team and you begin to wonder how you could use his newly formed friendships and your insights into his interests to support his language arts skills.
You and Mr. Franklin are also excited about a workshop you just attended with Dr. Janette Klingner who talked about
how to realize the potential of RTI (Links to an external site.)
(Klingner, J, 2011) with culturally and linguistically diverse learners. The Child Study Team has been doing diagnostic work to see if there are other variables within the classroom and/or school environment that may be affecting Manuel's performance. What the Child Study Team discovers is that Manuel feels embarrassed by his slow reading compared to his classmates and does not see the relevance of classes that are not related to his intended career goal, engineering. The team also notes that Manuel is able to write well, but he often does not finish in-class assignments and tests, and his homework written assignments are very short. The lack of length in his assignments consistently costs him points.
When you talk to Manuel he shows pride when you compliment him on his bilingual ability and ask for his help in translating for a new student from Guatemala. Finally, the team becomes aware that Manuel does not want to be labeled "dumb" and is worried that he will be made fun of if he is pulled out of his regular classes for more intensive support. Manuel’s vision and hearing test were both are normal and his medical exam does not reveal any medical issues.
As a member of the Child Study Team (CST) and taking into account Manuel's interests and the social and cultural influences that may be affecting Manuel's school performance, you and the CST are planning your next steps. You and Mr. Franklin discuss what interventions would take into account Manuel’s cultural and linguistic background. .
As an incoming CEO, how would you have approached the senior leaders.docxssusera34210
As an incoming CEO, how would you have approached the senior leadership team that neglected to stop the bleeding and encouraged the toxicity? Where would you say your organization lands on Deloitte's Six Personas of Change? Which of the six signature traits are you most comfortable with? And which requires more of a stretch for you?
.
As a prison administrator (wardensuperintendent), what would your r.docxssusera34210
As a prison administrator (warden/superintendent), what would your recommendation be for HIV testing within the prison system? Why or why not? If so, when should it take place (e.g. during admission, anytime during incarceration, just prior to release)? Should the offenders who are HIV/AIDS positive be segregated? Would it be a violation of the offender’s rights to be segregated from the general population? reaponse must be 400- 500 words
.
As a helpful tool for schools, organizations, and agencies working w.docxssusera34210
As a helpful tool for schools, organizations, and agencies working with families to have on hand to refer families to services that might be needed to assist the child and/or family.
Create a resource guide for your community (Mississippi) on services available that might help children and or families. This does not have to be an extensive list, but a representation of what should be included in an in-depth guide.
.
Article
Interspecies ChimerismwithMammalian Pluripotent
Stem Cells
Graphical Abstract
Highlights
d Naive rat PSCs robustly contribute to live rat-mouse
chimeras
d A versatile CRISPR-Cas9 mediated interspecies blastocyst
complementation system
d Naive rodent PSCs show no chimeric contribution to post-
implantation pig embryos
d Chimerism is observed with some human iPSCs in post-
implantation pig embryos
Wu et al., 2017, Cell 168, 473–486
January 26, 2017 ª 2017 Elsevier Inc.
http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cell.2016.12.036
Authors
Jun Wu, Aida Platero-Luengo,
Masahiro Sakurai, ..., Emilio A. Martinez,
Pablo Juan Ross,
Juan Carlos Izpisua Belmonte
Correspondence
[email protected]
In Brief
Human pluripotent stem cells robustly
engraft into both cattle and pig pre-
implantation blastocysts, but show
limited chimeric contribution to post-
implantation pig embryos.
mailto:[email protected]
http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cell.2016.12.036
http://crossmark.crossref.org/dialog/?doi=10.1016/j.cell.2016.12.036&domain=pdf
Article
Interspecies Chimerism
with Mammalian Pluripotent Stem Cells
Jun Wu,1 Aida Platero-Luengo,1 Masahiro Sakurai,1 Atsushi Sugawara,1 Maria Antonia Gil,2 Takayoshi Yamauchi,1
Keiichiro Suzuki,1 Yanina Soledad Bogliotti,3 Cristina Cuello,2 Mariana Morales Valencia,1 Daiji Okumura,1,7
Jingping Luo,1 Marcela Vilariño,3 Inmaculada Parrilla,2 Delia Alba Soto,3 Cristina A. Martinez,2 Tomoaki Hishida,1
Sonia Sánchez-Bautista,4 M. Llanos Martinez-Martinez,4 Huili Wang,3 Alicia Nohalez,2 Emi Aizawa,1
Paloma Martinez-Redondo,1 Alejandro Ocampo,1 Pradeep Reddy,1 Jordi Roca,2 Elizabeth A. Maga,3
Concepcion Rodriguez Esteban,1 W. Travis Berggren,1 Estrella Nuñez Delicado,4 Jeronimo Lajara,4 Isabel Guillen,5
Pedro Guillen,4,5 Josep M. Campistol,6 Emilio A. Martinez,2 Pablo Juan Ross,3 and Juan Carlos Izpisua Belmonte1,8,*
1Salk Institute for Biological Studies, 10010 N. Torrey Pines Road, La Jolla, CA 92037, USA
2Department of Animal Medicine and Surgery, University of Murcia Campus de Espinardo, 30100 Murcia, Spain
3Department of Animal Science, University of California Davis, One Shields Avenue, Davis, CA 95616, USA
4Universidad Católica San Antonio de Murcia (UCAM) Campus de los Jerónimos, N� 135 Guadalupe 30107 Murcia, Spain
5Clinica Centro Fundación Pedro Guillén, Clı́nica CEMTRO, Avenida Ventisquero de la Condesa 42, 28035 Madrid, Spain
6Hospital Clı́nico de Barcelona-IDIBAPS, Universitat de Barcelona, 08007 Barcelona, Spain
7Present address: Graduate School of Agriculture, Department of Advanced Bioscience, Kinki University, 3327-204 Nakamachi,
Nara 631-8505, Japan
8Lead Contact
*Correspondence: [email protected]
http://dx.doi.org/10.1016/j.cell.2016.12.036
SUMMARY
Interspecies blastocyst complementation enables
organ-specific enrichment of xenogenic pluripotent
stem cell (PSC) derivatives. Here, we establish a ver-
satile blastocyst complementation platform based
on CRISPR-Cas9-mediated zygote genome editin.
As a future leader in the field of health care administration, you m.docxssusera34210
As a future leader in the field of health care administration, you may face many chronic health threats to various systems. As you work to combat these threats and ensure community wellness, you are likely to become an agent of social change. This objective may be more challenging and critical to achieve in matters such as health emergencies and outbreaks. For leaders, outbreaks, epidemics, and pandemics elicit critical and timely attention to situations in health care administration.
In this week’s article by Gostin, Lucey, & Phelan (2014), the authors highlight the challenges present with an Ebola epidemic on a global scale. Using this Learning Resource from this week as well as 2–4 additional resources you may find from the Walden Library, current events, etc., consider your leadership perspective during an outbreak, epidemic, or pandemic.
As you collaborate with your group, individually select one of the following leadership roles that would respond during this outbreak:
Director, FEMA
Director, CDC
Governor of an afflicted state
Incident Response Commander
Response Leader, American Red Cross (or other nongovernmental organization)
***Health Care Administrator for a large medical center (
I HAVE SELECTED THIS ROLE
)****
After selecting your leadership role, use a systems approach to work with your group to establish an immediate response in preventing another pandemic.
The Assignment—Part 1:Individual Case Analysis (1–2 pages):
Based on the leadership role you selected for the Assignment, include the following:
A summary of the leadership challenges this leader would face in assuring the system changes necessary to be prepared for the next outbreak, epidemic, or pandemic
An explanation of how your leadership challenges as this leader relate to challenges of the other leaders listed above
Note:
The leadership challenges that you describe should be those you would face as an individual in the role of your selected leader, rather than the functional challenges of the agency this individual leads.
The Assignment—Part 2:Group Case Study Analysis (2–3 pages):
Then, using your leadership Assignment for the Case Study, collaborate with your colleagues to create a Group Case Study Analysis that includes:
An explanation of how the challenges identified in the individual case analyses collectively affect crisis response by the system and the individuals within it
An explanation of how transformational and transactional leaders might influence outcomes within this case
A summary of how poor leadership might affect the outcome of the case
.
Article Title and Date of the Article .docxssusera34210
Article
Title
and
Date
of
the
Article
The
Economist
“Insider
dealing:
euro
outs
fear
that
euro
ins
might
do
them
down”
October
17,
2015
Summary
This
article
posted
as
a
special
news
report
by
The
Economist,
is
focused
on
the
Eurozone
and
European
Union,
and
how
they
are
experiencing
some
problems
that
might
hurt
both
the
euro
currency
and
relations
with
non-‐-‐-‐euro
zone
countries.
At
the
moment,
in
Europe
there
are
two
types
of
observers:
the
Europhiles
and
Euroskeptics.
The
Europhiles
are
those
who
admire
Europe
and
favor
the
participation
of
the
European
Union,
while
on
the
other
side
of
the
spectrum
are
the
Euroskeptics,
who
are
those
who
are
opposed
to
increasing
the
powers
of
the
European
Union.
Currently,
the
alarming
political
issue
that
has
been
growing
in
Europe
is
the
negative
relationship
between
those
countries
that
belong
to
the
European
Union
and
Eurozone,
against
those
who
are
members
of
the
European
Union
but
not
the
Eurozone.
The
argument
here
is
that
those
members
belonging
to
the
Eurozone
have
been
meeting
together,
while
excluding
non-‐-‐-‐Eurozone
members
and
making
decisions
such
as
bails,
which
affect
all
countries
within
the
European
Union.
The
Eurozone
countries
believe
that
that
only
those
countries
that
are
members
of
the
Eurozone
should
be
allowed
to
voice
their
opinions
and
make
decisions
on
everything
regarding
the
euro,
since
they
are
the
ones
directly
affected
by
it.
On
the
other
hand,
the
non-‐-‐-‐Eurozone
countries
feel
like
the
euro
members
are
“ganging
up”
on
them,
meaning
that
they
feel
like
those
countries
in
the
Eurozone
are
making
decisions
regarding
their
own
interests,
and
not
the
collective
interests
of
all
members
of
the
European
Union.
Association
to
specific
chapter
material
and
concepts
2.4
A
Single
Currency
for
Europe:
The
Euro
(40)
Chapter
2
discusses
the
global
financial
environment
including
the
European
Union,
the
Euro.
Article The Effects of Color on the Moods of College .docxssusera34210
Article
The Effects of Color on the Moods
of College Students
Sevinc Kurt1 and Kelechi Kingsley Osueke2
Abstract
This research aims to discover the psychological effects of colors on individuals, using the students’ union complex in a
university campus. This building was chosen due to its richness in color variances. The research method is survey, and
questionnaires were drawn up and distributed to an even range of students, comprising both international and local
students; undergraduate and graduate. Questionnaires have been collected and analyzed to find out the effects different
colors had on students’ moods in different spaces of the students’ union complex. This research would contribute to
understand more about colors and how they affect our feelings and therefore to make better decisions and increase the
use of spaces when choosing colors for different spaces to suit the purpose for which they are designed.
Keywords
color, mood, architectural space
Introduction
We live in a world of color (Huchendorf, 2007, p. 1).
According to the various researches, the color that
surrounds us in our daily lives has a profound effect on our
mood and on our behavior (e.g., Babin, Hardesty, & Suter,
2003; Kwallek, Lewis, & Robbins, 1988; Kwallek,
Woodson, Lewis, & Sales, 1997; Rosenstein, 1985). In
clothing, interiors, landscape, and even natural light, a color
can change our mood from sad to happy, from confusion to
intelligence, from fear to confidence. It can actually be used
to “level out” emotions or to create different moods (Aves
& Aves, 1994, p. 120). The design of an environment
through a variety of means such as temperature, sounds,
layout, lighting, and colors can stimulate perceptual and
emotional responses in consumers and affect their behavior
(Kotler, 1973 in Yildirim, Akalinbaskaya, & Hidayetoglu,
2007, p. 3233). Therefore, it may follow that if we could
measure it, we may get a clue as to how our mood varies
when in any enclosed space. The ambiance of the interior
space affects the users’ behaviors and perception of that
place by influencing their emotional situation. In this
context, it is believed that the various physical components
including light and color have a great importance on the
environmental characteristics of space, especially in public
use like students’ union centers.
Hence, using the appropriate color in design is important
in such buildings. It is also significant to draw cognitive
map and way finding in interiors. Environmental
interventions that promote way finding can be implemented
on two levels: the design of the floor plan typology and
environmental cues, which comprise signage, furnishings,
lighting, colors, and so on. Vivid color coding may enhance
short-term memory and improve functional ability (Cernin,
Keller, & Stoner, 2003). So the use of color is one of the
crucial elements in designing the appropriate circulation of
public interiors. Furtherm.
Art museums and art galleries are two different types of entitie.docxssusera34210
Art museums and art galleries are two different types of entities.
The primary difference is that while one goes to an art museum to view art and learn about art from an educational or cultural experience; one goes to an art gallery to view art, discover new artists, possibly from the perspective of purchasing the art.
Most museums are funded by governments, foundations, and corporate and private donors, and they are operated on a non-for-profit basis. Galleries seek to make profit and gain exposure for themselves and the artists they represent.Art galleries, are usually small businesses or centers that exhibit art for the purposes of promoting and selling art. One would typically visit an art gallery to discover an artist, possibly with an interest in buying the art. Art museums, on the other hand, are larger and are intended for education and cultural experiences. One would typically visit an art museum to view and study its permanent collection or to visit a touring exhibit of works on loan from another museum or institution.
There are 2 parts
to your Museum Critical Review assignment to be completed after visiting one or more of the following museum websites*
:
Dallas Museum of Art
https://dma.org/
Nasher Sculpture Center
https://www.nashersculpturecenter.org/
Meadows Museum of Art
www.meadowsmuseumdallas.org/
Crow Collection
www.crowcollection.org
Kimbell Art Museum
www.kimbellart.org
Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth
www.themodern.org
Amon Carter Museum of American Art
www.cartermuseum.org
Google Arts and Culture Collections
https://artsandculture.google.com/partner
*Not all of the museums will have the diversity of time periods that you will need to complete the assignment. You may have to visit more than one of the listed museum websites if you choose one of the more time or region specific museums.
ARTS 1301 NLC Art Appreciation Museum Critical Review Assignment and Worksheet
I hope you are inspired by your visit to the museum websites.
This assignment is designed to meet both
Communication and Social Responsibility Student Learning Objectives.
There are 2 parts
to your Museum Critical Review assignment to be completed after visiting one or more of the following museum websites*
:
· Dallas Museum of Art
www.dma.org
· Nasher Sculpture Center
www.nashersculpturecenter.org
· Meadows Museum of Art
www.meadowsmuseumdallas.org/
· Crow Collection
www.crowcollection.org
· Kimbell Art Museum
www.kimbellart.org
· Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth
www.themodern.org
· Amon Carter Museum of American Art
www.cartermuseum.org
· Google Arts and Culture Collections
https://artsandculture.google.com/partner
*Not all of the museums will have the diversity of time periods that you will need to complete the assignment. You may have to visit more than one of the listed museum websites if you choose to go to one of the more time or region specific museums. Your instructor may choose to.
As a clinical social worker it is important to understand group .docxssusera34210
As a clinical social worker it is important to understand group typology in order to choose the appropriate group method for a specific population or problem. Each type of group has its own approach and purpose. Two of the more frequently used types of groups are task groups and intervention groups.
For this Assignment, review the “Cortez Multimedia” case study, and identify a target behavior or issue that needs to be ameliorated, decreased, or increased. In a 2- to 4-page report, complete the following:
Choose either a treatment group or task group as your intervention for Paula Cortez.
Identify the model of treatment group (i.e., support, education, teams, or treatment conferences).
Using the typologies described in the Toseland & Rivas (2017) piece, describe the characteristics of your group. For instance, if you choose a treatment group that is a support group, what would be the purpose, leadership, focus, bond, composition, and communication?
Include the advantages and disadvantages of using this type of group as an intervention.
REQUIRED resource for assignment
A Meeting of an Interdisciplinary Team
Paula has just been involuntarily hospitalized and placed on the psychiatric unit, for a minimum of 72 hours, for observation. Paula was deemed a suicidal risk after an assessment was completed by the social worker. The social worker observed that Paula appeared to be rapidly decompensating, potentially placing herself and her pregnancy at risk.
Paula just recently announced to the social worker that she is pregnant. She has been unsure whether she wanted to continue the pregnancy or terminate. Paula also told the social worker she is fearful of the father of the baby, and she is convinced he will try to hurt her. He has started to harass, stalk, and threaten her at all hours of the day. Paula began to exhibit increased paranoia and reported she started smoking again to calm her nerves. She also stated she stopped taking her psychiatric medications and has been skipping some of her
HIV
medications.
The following is an interdisciplinary team meeting being held in a conference room at the hospital. Several members of Paula’s team (HIV doctor, psychiatrist, social worker, and OB nurse) have gathered to discuss the precipitating factors to this hospitalization. The intent is to craft a plan of action to address Paula's noncompliance with her medications, increased paranoia, and the pregnancy.
Click one the above images to begin the conversation.
Physician
Dialogue 1
Paula is a complicated patient, and she presents with a complicated situation. She is HIV positive, has Hepatitis C, and multiple foot ulcers that can be debilitating at times. Paula has always been inconsistent with her HIV meds—no matter how often I explain the need for consistent compliance in order to maintain her health. Paula has exhibited a lack of insight into her medical conditions and the need to follow instructions. Frankly, I was astonished an.
artsArticleCircling Round Vitruvius, Linear Perspectiv.docxssusera34210
arts
Article
Circling Round Vitruvius, Linear Perspective, and the
Design of Roman Wall Painting
Jocelyn Penny Small †
Department of Art History, Rutgers University, New Brunswick, NJ 08901, USA; [email protected]
† Mail: 890 West End Avenue, Apartment 4C, New York, NY 10025-3520, USA.
Received: 1 April 2019; Accepted: 2 September 2019; Published: 14 September 2019
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Abstract: Many scholars believe that linear perspective existed in classical antiquity, but a fresh
examination of two key texts in Vitruvius shows that 1.2.2 is about modularity and symmetria,
while 7.Pr.11 describes shading (skiagraphia). Moreover, these new interpretations are firmly based on
the classical understanding of optics and the history of painting (e.g., Pliny the Elder). A third text
(Philostratus, Imagines 1.4.2) suggests that the design of Roman wall painting depends on concentric
circles. Philostratus’ system is then used to successfully make facsimiles of five walls, representing
Styles II, III, and IV of Roman wall painting. Hence, linear perspective and its relatives, such as
Panofsky’s vanishing vertical axis, should not be imposed retrospectively where they never existed.
Keywords: linear perspective; skenographia; skiagraphia; Greek and Roman painting; Roman fresco;
Vitruvius; Philostratus
Two systems for designing Pompeian wall paintings have dominated modern scholarship: a
one- or center-point perspective and a vanishing vertical axis.1 Neither method works for all the
variations seen on the walls of Styles II–IV. The vanishing vertical axis is considered a precursor of
linear perspective, whereas center-point construction is a form of linear perspective. Many scholars
believe that linear perspective was invented by the Greeks, only to be forgotten during the Middle
Ages and “reinvented” in the Renaissance.2 In contrast, I propose that linear perspective was not
known in any form in antiquity but, rather, was an invention of the Renaissance, which also created its
putative ancient pedigree.
1. Background
1.1. Definitions
First, it is important to define four key terms.
“Perspective” applies loosely to a wide range of systems that convert a three-dimensional scene
to two dimensions. Most scholars, however, mean “linear perspective” when they use the unqualified
term “perspective”. No standard definition exists for linear perspective, but only linear perspective
obeys the rules of projective geometry. Formal definitions refer to “station points” (the point or
place for the “eye” of the “viewer” and/or “artist”), vanishing points, horizon lines, and picture
planes, among other aspects. Horizontal lines converge to the “center point” or, in the case of
1 This topic is remarkably complex with a massive bibliography. Small (2013) provides a reasonable summary of the
scholarship to its date of publication. Since then, I have realized that the standard interpretations of key texts and objects
needs to be totally rethought. This artic.
Artists are often involved in national social movements that result .docxssusera34210
Artists are often involved in national social movements that result in the transformation not only of the art world, but also of society at large. Discuss the transformations that occurred as a result of any of the following civil rights movements (African American, Chicano/a, Native American, gay/lesbian) or the feminist movement. Use a specific example of a work of art in your discussion.
.
The Indian economy is classified into different sectors to simplify the analysis and understanding of economic activities. For Class 10, it's essential to grasp the sectors of the Indian economy, understand their characteristics, and recognize their importance. This guide will provide detailed notes on the Sectors of the Indian Economy Class 10, using specific long-tail keywords to enhance comprehension.
For more information, visit-www.vavaclasses.com
We all have good and bad thoughts from time to time and situation to situation. We are bombarded daily with spiraling thoughts(both negative and positive) creating all-consuming feel , making us difficult to manage with associated suffering. Good thoughts are like our Mob Signal (Positive thought) amidst noise(negative thought) in the atmosphere. Negative thoughts like noise outweigh positive thoughts. These thoughts often create unwanted confusion, trouble, stress and frustration in our mind as well as chaos in our physical world. Negative thoughts are also known as “distorted thinking”.
Palestine last event orientationfvgnh .pptxRaedMohamed3
An EFL lesson about the current events in Palestine. It is intended to be for intermediate students who wish to increase their listening skills through a short lesson in power point.
The Roman Empire A Historical Colossus.pdfkaushalkr1407
The Roman Empire, a vast and enduring power, stands as one of history's most remarkable civilizations, leaving an indelible imprint on the world. It emerged from the Roman Republic, transitioning into an imperial powerhouse under the leadership of Augustus Caesar in 27 BCE. This transformation marked the beginning of an era defined by unprecedented territorial expansion, architectural marvels, and profound cultural influence.
The empire's roots lie in the city of Rome, founded, according to legend, by Romulus in 753 BCE. Over centuries, Rome evolved from a small settlement to a formidable republic, characterized by a complex political system with elected officials and checks on power. However, internal strife, class conflicts, and military ambitions paved the way for the end of the Republic. Julius Caesar’s dictatorship and subsequent assassination in 44 BCE created a power vacuum, leading to a civil war. Octavian, later Augustus, emerged victorious, heralding the Roman Empire’s birth.
Under Augustus, the empire experienced the Pax Romana, a 200-year period of relative peace and stability. Augustus reformed the military, established efficient administrative systems, and initiated grand construction projects. The empire's borders expanded, encompassing territories from Britain to Egypt and from Spain to the Euphrates. Roman legions, renowned for their discipline and engineering prowess, secured and maintained these vast territories, building roads, fortifications, and cities that facilitated control and integration.
The Roman Empire’s society was hierarchical, with a rigid class system. At the top were the patricians, wealthy elites who held significant political power. Below them were the plebeians, free citizens with limited political influence, and the vast numbers of slaves who formed the backbone of the economy. The family unit was central, governed by the paterfamilias, the male head who held absolute authority.
Culturally, the Romans were eclectic, absorbing and adapting elements from the civilizations they encountered, particularly the Greeks. Roman art, literature, and philosophy reflected this synthesis, creating a rich cultural tapestry. Latin, the Roman language, became the lingua franca of the Western world, influencing numerous modern languages.
Roman architecture and engineering achievements were monumental. They perfected the arch, vault, and dome, constructing enduring structures like the Colosseum, Pantheon, and aqueducts. These engineering marvels not only showcased Roman ingenuity but also served practical purposes, from public entertainment to water supply.
Unit 8 - Information and Communication Technology (Paper I).pdfThiyagu K
This slides describes the basic concepts of ICT, basics of Email, Emerging Technology and Digital Initiatives in Education. This presentations aligns with the UGC Paper I syllabus.
Instructions for Submissions thorugh G- Classroom.pptxJheel Barad
This presentation provides a briefing on how to upload submissions and documents in Google Classroom. It was prepared as part of an orientation for new Sainik School in-service teacher trainees. As a training officer, my goal is to ensure that you are comfortable and proficient with this essential tool for managing assignments and fostering student engagement.
This is a presentation by Dada Robert in a Your Skill Boost masterclass organised by the Excellence Foundation for South Sudan (EFSS) on Saturday, the 25th and Sunday, the 26th of May 2024.
He discussed the concept of quality improvement, emphasizing its applicability to various aspects of life, including personal, project, and program improvements. He defined quality as doing the right thing at the right time in the right way to achieve the best possible results and discussed the concept of the "gap" between what we know and what we do, and how this gap represents the areas we need to improve. He explained the scientific approach to quality improvement, which involves systematic performance analysis, testing and learning, and implementing change ideas. He also highlighted the importance of client focus and a team approach to quality improvement.
2024.06.01 Introducing a competency framework for languag learning materials ...Sandy Millin
http://sandymillin.wordpress.com/iateflwebinar2024
Published classroom materials form the basis of syllabuses, drive teacher professional development, and have a potentially huge influence on learners, teachers and education systems. All teachers also create their own materials, whether a few sentences on a blackboard, a highly-structured fully-realised online course, or anything in between. Despite this, the knowledge and skills needed to create effective language learning materials are rarely part of teacher training, and are mostly learnt by trial and error.
Knowledge and skills frameworks, generally called competency frameworks, for ELT teachers, trainers and managers have existed for a few years now. However, until I created one for my MA dissertation, there wasn’t one drawing together what we need to know and do to be able to effectively produce language learning materials.
This webinar will introduce you to my framework, highlighting the key competencies I identified from my research. It will also show how anybody involved in language teaching (any language, not just English!), teacher training, managing schools or developing language learning materials can benefit from using the framework.
The TkeeMaria Luisa BombalThe pianist sits down, cough.docx
1. The Tkee
Maria Luisa Bombal
The pianist sits down, coughs from force of habit and
concentrates for a
moment. The clusters of lights illuminating the hall gradually
dim until
they glow like dying embers, whereupon a musical phrase rises
in the
silence, swells: clear, sharp and judiciously capricious.
Mozart, maybe, Brigida thinks to herself. As usual, she has
forgot-
ten to ask for the program. Mozart----or perhaps Scarlatti . . .
She knew
so little about music! And it was not because she lacked an ear
or the
inclination. On the contrary, as a child it had been she who
demanded
piano lessons; no one needed to impose them on her, as was the
case
with her sisters. Today, however, her sisters could sight-read
perfectly,
while she ... she had abandoned her studies after the first year'
The
reason for the inconstancy was as simple as it was shameful: she
had
never been able, never, to learn the key of E, "I don't
understand-my
memory serves me only to the key of C." And her father's
indignation!
2. "Would that I could lay down this burden: a miserable widower
with
children to educate! My poor Carmen! How she would have
sufiered
with such a daughter! The creature is retarded!"
Brigida was the youngest of six girls-all endowed with different
temperaments. She received little attention from her father
because
dealing with the other five daughters reduced him to such a
perplexed
and worn-out state that he preferred to ease his burden by
insisting on
her feeblemindedness. "I won't struggle any longer-it's useless.
lrave
her alone. If she chooses not to study, so be it. If she would
rather spend
hcr time in the kitchen listening to ghost stories, that's fine with
me. If
shc favors playing with dolls at the age of sixteen, let her play."
And so
Ilrigida had kept to her dolls, remaining almost totally ignorant
as far
irs lilrmal education was concerned.
a i
-)q
lluria Luisa Bombal
How pleasant it is to be ignorant! Not to know exactly who
Mozart
was-to ignore his origins, his influences, the particularities of
his tech-
rrique! To simply let oneself be led by the hand, as now . . .
3. For in truth Mozart leads her-transporting her onto a bridge sus-
pcnded above crystal water running over a bed of pink sand. She
is
rlressed in white, tilting on one shoulder an open parasol of
Chantilly
llrce, elaborate and fine as a spider's web.
"You look younger every day, Brigida. Yesterday I ran into
your
husband-I mean your ex-husband. His hair is now completely
white."
But she makes no reply, unwilling to tarry while crossing the
bridge
Mozart has fabricated toward the garden of her youth.
Thll blossoming spouts in which the water sings. Her eighteen
years;
hcr chestnut braids that, unbound, cascaded to her waist; her
golden
complexion; her dark eyes so wide and questioning. A small
mouth
rvith full lips; a sweet smile; and the lightest, most gracious
body in the
world. Of what was she thinking, seated by the fountain's edge?
Of
nothing. "She is as silly as she is pretty," they used to say. But
she did
not mind being silly, nor acting the dunce at parties. One by
one, her
sisters received proposals of marriage. No one asked her.
Mozart! Now he conducts her to a blue marble staircase on
which
she descends between two rows of ice lilies. And now he opens
a
4. wrought-iron gate of spikes with golden tips so that she may
throw her-
sclf on Luis, her father's intimate friend. From childhood, she
would
lun to Luis when everyone else abandoned her. He would pick
her up
rrnd she would encircle his neck between giggles that were like
tiny bird
cries; she would fling kisses like disorderly raindrops on his
eyes, his
Iorehead and his hair-which even then was graying (had he
never been
voung?). "You are a necklace," Luis would say. "You are like a
necklace
ol'sparrows."
That is why she had married him. Because at the side of that
solemn
rrnd taciturn man she felt less guilty for being what she was:
foolish,
playful and indolent. Yes-now, after so many years, she realizes
that
she had not married Luis for love; yet she cannot put her finger
on why,
why she left him so suddenly one day.
But at this moment Mozart takes her nervously by the hand,
drawing
hcr into a rhythm second by second more urgent- compelling her
to
retrace her steps across the garden and onto the bridge at a pace
that is
rrlmost like fleeing. And after stripping her of the parasol and
the trans-
parent crinoline, he closes the door on her past with a note at
once firm
5. rrnd sweet-leaving her in the concert hall, dressed in black,
applauding
35
3 6 The Tiee
mechanically as the artificial lights rekindle their flame.
Again shadows, and the prelude of silence.
And now Beethoven begins to stir the lukewarm tide of his
notes
beneath a summer moon. How far the sea has retreated! Brigida
walks
seaward, down the beach toward the distant, bright, smooth
water; but
all at once the sea rises, flowing placidly to meet and envelop
her-the
gentle waves pushing at her back until they press her cheek
against the
body of a man. And then the waves recede, leaving her stranded
on
Luis's chest.
"You have no heart, you have no heart," she used to say to him.
His heartbeat was so faint that she could not hear it except in
rare and
unexpected moments. "You are never with me when you are by
my
side," she would protest in their bedroom when, before going to
sleep,
he would ritually open the evening paper. "Why did you marry
me?"
6. "Because you have the eyes of a startled fawn," he would reply,
giv-
ing her a kiss. And she, abruptly cheerful, would proudly accept
the
weight of his gray head on her shoulder. Oh, that silvery,
radiant hair!
"Luis, you have never told me exactly what color your hair was
when
you were a boy. Or how your mother felt when you began going
gray at
the age of fifteen. What did she say? Did she laugh? Cry? And
you-
were you proud or ashamed? And at school-what did your
classmates
say? Tell me, Luis, tell me ... "
"Tomorrow. I am sleepy, Brigida. Very tired. Tirrn off the
light."
Unconsciously, he would turn away from her in sleep; just as
she
unconsciously sought her husband's shoulder all night long,
searching
for his breath, groping blindly for protection as an enclosed and
thirsty
plant bends its tendrils toward warmth and moisture.
In the mornings, when the maid would open the Venetian blinds,
Luis was no longer next to her. He had departed quietly without
so
much as a salutation, for fear the necklace of sparrows would
fasten
obstinately around his neck. "Five minutes, five minutes, no
more. Your
7. office will not disappear if you are five minutes late, Luis."
Her awakenings. Ah, how sad her awakenings! But-it was curi-
ous-no sooner had she entered her boudoir than the sadness
vanished
as if by an enchantment.
Waves crash, clashing far away, murmuring like a sea of leaves.
Beet-
hovcn? No.
It is the tree outside her dressing-room window. She had only to
en-
te r thc room to experience an almost overpowering sense of
well-being.
llurfa Luisa Bombal
I low hot the bedroom always was in the morning! And what
harsh light!
lly contrast, in the dressing-room even her eyes felt rested,
refreshed.
l'lre faded cretonne curtains; the tree casting shadows that
undulated on
tlrc walls like cold, moving water; the mirrors refracting
foliage, creat-
ing the illusion of a green and infinite forest. How enjoyable
that room
rvirs! It seemed a world submerged in an aquarium. And how
that huge
rubber tree chattered! AII the birds in the neighborhood took
refuge in
it. It was the only tree on that narrow, falling street that sloped
from
one side of the city directly to the river.
8. "I am busy. I can't be with you ... Lots of work to do, I won't be
l r o m e f o r l u n c h . . . H e l l o . . . y € S , I a m a t t h
e c l u b . A n e n g a g e m e n t . E a t
rrnd go to bed .. . No. I don't know. Better not wait for me,
Brigida."
"If I only had friends!" she would sigh. But she bored everyone.
"lf I tried to be a little less foolish! Yet how does one recover
so much
krst ground at a single stroke? To be intelligent, you must start
very
young-isn't that true?"
Her sisters'husbands took them eve4nvhere, but Luis-why had
she
tlenied it to herself?-had been ashamed of her, of her ignorance,
her
shyness, even of her eighteen years. Had he not urged her to
pretend
that she was at least twenty-one, as though her youth were an
embar-
rassing secret they alone shared?
And at night-he always came to bed so weary! Never paying full
irttention to what she said. He smiled, yes-a mechanical smile.
His ca-
resses were plentiful, but bestowed absentmindedly. Why had he
mar-
ried her? To continue their acquaintance, perhaps simply to put
the
crowning touch on his old friendship with her father.
Maybe life for men was based on a series of established and
contin-
uous customs. Rupturing this chain would probably produce
disorder,
9. chaos. And after, men would stumble through the streets of the
city,
roosting on park benches, growing shabbier and more unshaven
with
each passing day. Luis's life, therefore, was patterned on
keeping oc-
cupied every minute of the day. Why had she failed to see this
sooner?
Her father had been right: she was retarded.
"I would like to see snow sometime. Luis."
"This summer I will take you to Europe, and since it will be
winter
there, you shall have your snow."
"I am quite aware that winter in Europe coincides with our
summer.
I am not that stupid!"
At times, to rouse him to the rapture of true love, she would
throw
herself on him and cover him with kisses: weeping, calling,
"Luis, Luis,
3 7
38 The Tiee
L u i s . . . "
"What? What is the matter? What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"Why do you cry out my name like that, then?"
"No reason. To say your name. I like to say your name."
10. And he would smile benevolently, pleased with the new game.
Summer came-her first summer as a married woman. Several
new
business ventures forced Luis to postpone the promised
European trip.
"Brigida, the heat will be terrible in Buenos Aires shortly. Why
don't
you spend the summer on your father's ranch?"
"Alone?"
"I would visit you every week, from Saturday to Monday."
She sat down on the bed, primed to insult him. But she could
not
find the hurting words. She knew nothing, nothing-not even how
to
offend.
"What is wrong with you? What are you thinking of, Brigida?"
He was leaning over her, worried, for the first time in their
marriage
and unconcerned about violating his customary punctu- ality at
the of-
fice.
"I am sleepy," Brigida had replied childishly, hiding her face in
the
pillow.
For once, he rang her up at lunchtime from his club. But she had
refused to come to the phone, angrily wielding a weapon she
had dis-
covered without thinking: silence.
11. That same evening she dined across from him with lowered eyes
and
nerves strung tight.
'Are you still angry, Brfgida?"
But she did not answer.
"You know perfectly well that I love you. But I can't be with
you all
the time. I am a very busy man. When you reach my age, you
become a
slave to a thousand obligations."
"Shall we so out tonisht?"
"No? Very well, I will be patient. Tell me, did Roberto call
from
Montevideo?"
"What a lovelv dress! Is it new?"
"ls it new, Brigida? Answer me. Say something."
Marta Luisa Bombal
But she refused to break her silence.
And then the unexpected, the astonishing, the absurd. Luis rises
lrom his chair and slaps his napkin on the table, slamming the
door as
hc stomps from the house.
She, too, had gotten to her feet, stunned, trembling with
indigna-
tion at such injustice. "And I ... and I... " she stammered, "I,
who
12. lirr almost an entire year . .. when for the first time I take the
liberty of
Iodging a complaint . . . ah, I am leaving-I am leaving this very
night! I
shall never set foot in this house again . . . " And she jerked
open the ar-
moires in her dressing room, strewing clothes furiously in all
directions.
It was then that she heard a banging against the windowpane.
She ran to the window and opened it, not knowing how or from
where the courage came. It was the rubber tree, set in motion by
the
storm, knocking its branches on the glass as though calling her
to wit-
ness how it nvisted and contorted like a fierce black flame
under the
burning sky of that summer night.
Heavy rain soon began to lash its cold leaves. How lovely! All
night
long she could hear the rain thrashing, splashing through the
leaves of
the rubber tree like a thousand tiny rivers sliding down
imaginary canals.
All night long she heard the ancient trunk creak and moan, the
storm
raging outside while she curled into a ball between the sheets of
the
wide bed, very close to Luis.
Handfuls of pearls raining on a silver roof. Chopin. Etudes by
Fr6d6ric Chopin.
How many mornings had she awakened as soon as she sensed
that
13. her husband, now likewise maintaining an obstinate silence, had
slipped
from bed?
Her dressing room: the window thrown wide, the odor of river
and
grass floating in that hospitable chamber, and the mirrors
wearing a veil
of fog.
Chopin intermingles in her turbulent memory with rain hissing
through the leaves of the rubber tree like some hidden waterfall-
so
palpable that even the roses on the curtains seem moist.
What to do in summer when it rains so often? Spend the day in
her room feigning sadness, a convalescence? One afternoon
Luis had
entered timidly. Had sat down stiffiy. There was a long silence.
"Then it is true, Brigida? You no longer love me?"
A sudden joy seized her. She might have shouted, "No, no. I
love
you Luis, I love you," if he had given her time, if he had not
almost
immediately added, with his habitual calm, "In any case, I do
not think
39
The Tiee
it would be convenient for us to separate, Brfgida. Such a move
14. requires
much thought."
Her impulse sank as fast as it had surfaced. What was the use of
exciting herself! Luis loved her tenderly, with moderation; if he
ever
came to hate her, it would be a just and prudent hatred. And that
was
life. She walked to the window and placed her forehead against
the
cold glass. There was the rubber tree, serenely accepting the
pelting
rain. The room was fixed in shadow, quiet and ordered.
Everything
seemed to be held in an eternal and very noble equilibrium.
That was
life. And there was a certain grandeur in accepting it thus:
mediocre,
like something definite and irremediable. While underneath it
all there
seemed to rise a melody of grave and slow words that transfixed
her:
"Always. Never ... "
And in this way the hours, days and years pass. Always! Never!
Life!
Life!
Collecting herself, she realized that her husband had stolen
from the
room.
"Always! Never! ... " And the rain, secret and steady, still whis-
pered in Chopin.
Summer stripped the leaves from its burning calendar.
15. Luminous
and blinding pages fell like golden swords; pages also of
malignant damp-
ness like breeze from a swamp; pages of furious and brief
storms, of hot
wind-the wind that carries the "carnation of the air" and hangs it
on
the huge rubber tree.
Some children used to play hide-and-seek among the enormous,
twisted roots that pushed up the paving stones on the sidewalk,
and the
tree overflowed with laughter and whispering. On those days
she would
look from the window and clap her hands; but the children
dispersed
in fear, without noticing the childlike smile of a girl who
wanted to join
the game.
Alone, she would lean on her elbows at the window for a long
time,
watching the foliage swaying-a breeze blew along that street
which
sloped directly to the river-and it was like staring deep into
moving
water or the dancing flames in a fireplace. One could kill time
in this
fashion, no need for thought made foolish by peace of mind.
She lit the first lamp just as the room began to fill with twilight
smoke, and the first lamp flickered in the mirrors, multiplying
like fire-
flies eager to hasten the night.
Maria Luisa Bombal
16. And night after night she dozed beside her husband, suffering at
rn-
tervals. But when her pain tightened so that it pierced like a
knife thrust,
when she was besieged by the desire to wake Luis-to hit him or
caress
him-she tiptoed to her dressing room and opened the window.
Imme-
diately the room came alive with discreet sounds and discreet
presences,
with mysterious footsteps, the fluttering of wings, the sudden
rustling of
vegetation, the soft chirping of a cricket perched on the bark of
the rub-
ber tree under the stars of a hot summer night.
Little by little her fever went down as her bare feet grew cold
on the
reed mat. She did not know why it was so easy to suffer in that
room.
Chopin's melancholy stringing of one Etude after another,
stringing
of one melancholy after another, imperturbably.
And autumn came. The dry leaves hovered an instant before
settling
on the grass of the narrow garden, on the sidewalk of that
sloping street.
The leaves came loose and fell . . . The top of the rubber tree
remained
green but underneath it turned red, darkened like the worn-out
lining of
a sumptuous evening cape. And now the room seemed to be
submerged
17. in a goblet of dull gold.
Lying on the divan, she waited patiently for the dinner hour and
the improbable arrival of Luis. She had resumed speaking to
him, had
become his again without enthusiasm or anger. She no longer
loved
him. But she no longer suffered. On the contrary, an unexpected
feeling
of fulfillment and placidity had taken hold of her. Nothing, no
one could
hurt her now. It may be that true happiness lies in the
conviction that
one has irrevocably lost happiness. It is only then that we can
begin to
live without hope or fear, able finally to enjoy all the small
pleasures,
which are the most lasting.
A thunderous noise, followed by a flash of light from which she
re-
coils, shaking.
The intermission? No. The rubber tree.
Having started to work early in the morning without her
knowledge,
they had felled it with a single stroke of the axe. "The roots
were break-
ing up the sidewalk and, naturally, the neighborhood committee
... "
Dazed, she has shielded her eyes with her hands. When she
recovers
her sight, she stands and looks around. What does she see?
18. The concert hall suddenly ablaze with light, the audience filing
out?
No. She is imprisoned in the web of her past, trapped in the
dressing
room-which has been invaded by a terrifying white light. It was
as if
they had ripped offthe roof; a crude light entering from every
direction,
4 l
The Tiee
seeping through her very pores, burning her with its coldness.
And she
saw everything bathed in that cold light: Luis, his wrinkled
face, his
hands crisscrossed with ropy discolored veins and the gaudy
cretonnes.
Frightened, she runs to the window. The window now opens
directly
on a narrow street, so narrow that her room almost brushes
against a
shiny skyscraper. On the ground floor, shop windows and more
shop
windows, full of bottles. At the corner, a row of automobiles
lined up
in front of a service station painted red. Some boys in their
shirtsleeves
are kicking a ball in the middle of the street.
And all that ugliness lay embedded in her mirrors, alongwith
19. nickel-
plated balconies, shabby clotheslines and canary cages.
They had stolen her intimacy, her secret; she found herself
naked
in the middle of the street, naked before an old husband who
turned
his back on her in bed, who had given her no children. She does
not
understand why, until then, she had not wanted children, how
she had
resigned herself to the idea of a life without children. Nor does
she
comprehend how for a whole year she had tolerated Luis's
laughter,
that overcheerful laughter, that false laughter of a man who has
trained
himself in joviality because it is necessary to laugh on certain
occasions.
Lies! Her resignation and serenity were lies; she wanted love,
yes,
love, and trips and madness and love, love ...
"But, Brigida ... why are you leaving? Why did you stay so
long?"
Luis had asked. Now she would have to know how to answer
him.
"The tree, Luis, the tree! They have cut down the rubber tree.,'
Tianslated by Richard Cunninghafti and Lucia Guerra
Culinary Lesson
Rosario Castellanos
20. Th" kit"h"n is resplendent with whiteness. A shame to have to
dirty it
with use. One should rather sit down to admire it, describe it,
closing
one's eyes, to evoke it. On examining this cleanliness, such
beauty lacks
the dazzling excess that makes one shiver in the sanatoriums. Or
is it the
halo of disinfectants, the cushioned steps of the nurses, the
hidden pres-
ence of sickness and death that does it? What does it matter to
me? My
place is here. From the beginning of time it has been here. In
the Ger-
man proverb woman is synonymous with Kiiche, Kinder,
Kirche. I wan-
dered lost in classrooms, in streets, in offices, in caf6s; wasting
my time
in skills that I now need to forget in order to acquire others. For
exam-
ple, to decide on a menu. How is one to carry out such an
arduous task
without society's and history's cooperation? On a special shelf
adjusted
to my height are lined up my guardian spirits, those admirable
acrobats
who reconcile in their recipes the most irreducible opposites:
slimness
and gluttony, decoration and economy, rapidity and succulence.
With
21. theirinfinite combinations: thinness and economy, swiftness and
visual
harmony, taste and ... What do you recommend for today's meal,
ex-
perienced housewife, inspiration for mothers absent and present,
voice
of tradition, open secret of the supermarkets? I open a cookbook
by
chance and read: "Don Quijote's Dinner." Literary but not very
satis-
factory. Because Don Quijote was more of a crackpot than a
gourmet'
Although an analysis of the text reveals that, etc., etc., etc. Uf.
More ink
has run about this figure than water under the bridges. "Little
birds of
the face's center." Esoteric. Center of what? Does the face of
someone
or something have a center? If it had, it wouldn't be very
appetizing'
"Bigos, Rumanian Style." But who do you think I am? If I knew
what
tarragon and anan6s were, I wouldn't be consulting this book,
because I
42
+ J
22. Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
Elena Garro
Nacha listened, motionless; someone was knocking at the back
door.
When again they persisted, she opened the door cautiously and
looked
out into the night. Sefrora Laura appeared, shushing her with a
finger
at her lips. She was still wearing the white dress, singed and
caked with
dirt and blood.
"Sefrora ... !" Nacha murmured.
Sefiora Laura tiptoed in and looked at the cook, her eyes
puzzled.
Then, feeling more assured, she sat next to the stove and looked
at her
kitchen as if she'd never seen it before.
"Nachita, give me some coffee. ['m freezing."
"Missus, your husband ... your husband is going to kill you.
We'd
already given you up for dead."
"For dead?"
Laura looked at the white tiles of the kitchen with amazement,
put
her legs up on the chair, hugged her knees. She grew thoughtful.
Nacha
put water on and watched her mistress out of the corner of her
eye; she
23. couldn't think of a single thing to say. The sefrora rested her
head on
her knees; she seemed so sad.
"You know, Nacha, you can blame the Tlaxcaltecs.l'
Nacha didn't answer; she chose to watch the pot, which hadn't
boiled.
Outside, night had blurred the roses in the garden and cast
shadows
across the fig trees. The lighted windows of neighboring houses
shone
far beyond the branches. The kitchen was kept separate from the
world
by an invisible wall of sadness, by no more than a bar rest.
"Don't you agree, Nacha?"
t t Y e s ,
m a ' a m . . . "
"I'm no different from them. I'm a traitor," Laura said,
mournfully.
The cook folded her arms, waiting for the water to start
bubbling.
74
Elena Garro
"And you, Nacha, are you a traitor?"
She looked at her, hopefully. If Nacha shared with her this
capac-
ity for betrayal, then Nacha would understand her, and tonight
Laura
needed someone to understand her.
24. Nacha thought about it for a moment and went back to watching
the water that now boiled noisily. She poured it over the coffee
and its
warm smell made her feel attuned to her mistress.
"Yes, I'm a traitor too, Sefrora Laurita."
She poured the coffee, happily, into a little cup, put in two
cubes of
sugar and set it in front of the sefrora. And she, in turn lost in
her own
thoughts, took a few sips.
"You know, Nachita, now I know why we had so many accidents
on
our famous trip to Guanajuato. At Mil Cumbres we ran out of
gas.
Margarita got frightened because it was getting dark. A truck
driver
gave us some gas to get us to Morelia. In Cuitzeo, when we
were cross-
ing the white bridge, the car stopped suddenly. Margarita was
annoyed
with me. You know how lonely roads and the eyes of Indians
frighten
her. When a car full of tourists came by, she went into town to
look
for a mechanic and I was stuck in the middle of the white bridge
that
crosses the dry lake and its bed of flat white rocks. The light
was very
white and the bridge, the rocks and the car began to float in it.
Then
the light broke into pieces until it became thousands of small
dots and
25. began towhirl until itwas fixed in place like a picture. Time had
entirely
turned around, like it does when you see a postcard and then
turn it to
see what's written on the other side. That's how, at Cuitzeo
Lake, I got
to the child I'd been. The light brings about crises like that,
when the
sun turns white and you are in the very center of its rays.
Thoughts, too,
become thousands of small dots, and you get dizzy. At that
moment I
looked at the fabric of my white dress and, just then, heard his
steps. I
wasn't surprised. I looked up and saw him coming. In that same
instant
I remembered how serious my treachery had been; I was
frightened and
wanted to escape. But time closed in around me, it became
singular and
transitory, and I couldn't move from the seat of my car. When I
was a
child I was told, 'Some day you will find yourself faced with
your acts
turned to stones that are as irrevocable as that one,' and they
showed
me the statue of some god, though I can't remember now which
one it
was. We forget everything, don't we, Nachita, although we only
forget
for a time. In those days, even words seemed to be of stone,
although of
a stone that was liquid and clear. The stone hardened as each
word was
pronounced, and it was written for always in time. Weren't the
words
26. 75
76 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
of your grown-ups like that?"
Nacha thought about it for a moment, then agreed, fully
convinced.
"They were, Sefrora Laurita."
"The terrible thing is-and I discovered it that very moment-that
everything that is unbelievable is true. He was coming, along
the side
of the bridge, sunburned and carrying the weight of defeat on
his naked
shoulders. His eyes shone. Their black sparks reached me from
the dis-
tance and his black hair curled in the white light of our meeting.
Before
I could do anything about it, he was in front of me. He stopped,
held on
to the car door and looked at me. He had a cut in his left hand
and the
blood that spurted from the wound in his shoulder was so red it
seemed
black. He didn't say anything to me. But I knew he was
escaping, and
that he had been beaten. He wanted to tell me I deserved to die,
and at
the same time, that my death would bring about his own. As
wounded
as he was, he was looking for me.
"You can blame the Tlaxcaltecs." I told him.
27. He turned to look up at the sky. Then he focused his eyes on
mine
again.
"What are you doing to yourself," he asked, in a deep voice. I
couldn't tell him I'd married, because I am married to him.
There are
things that just can't be said, you know that, Nachita.
'And the others?" I asked him.
"The ones who got out alive are in the same shape I am." I saw
that
each word pained his mouth and I hushed, realizing the
shamefulness
of my treachery.
"You know I'm frightened and that's why I betray you . . . "
"I know," he answered, and bowed his head. He's known me
since
I was a girl, Nacha. His father and mine were brothers and so
we are
cousins. He always loved me, at least that's what he said and
that's what
we all believed. At the bridge, I was embarrassed. The blood
kept on
flowing down his chest. I took a small handkerchief from my
bag and,
without saying aword, began to wipe the blood. I always loved
him too,
Nachita, because he is the very opposite of me. He's not fearful
and
he's not a traitor. He took my hand and looked at it.
28. "It's very pale; it looks like their hands," he told me.
"I haven't gotten any sun for a while." He lowered his eyes and
let
my hand drop. We stayed like that, in silence, listening to the
blood
flow down his chest. He didn't reproach me for anything; he
knows
what I'm capable of. But the little threads of blood wrote a
message on
his chest, that his heart had preserved my words and my body.
That's
Elena Garro
when I knew, Nachita, that time and love are the same thing.
"And my house?" I asked.
"We'll go see it." He held me with his hot hand the way he
would
hold his shield, and I realized he wasn't carrying it. "He lost it
when
he was escaping," I told myself, and I let him guide me. In the
light
of Cuitzeo, his footsteps sounded the way they had in the other
light:
muffied and soft. We walked through the city that blazed on the
water's
edge. I closed my eyes. I already told you I'm a coward, Nacha.
Or
perhaps it was the smoke and the dust that made my eyes water.
I sat
on a stone and covered my face with my hands.
"I can't walk any more," I told him.
"We're almost there," he answered. He knelt by me and caressed
29. my white dress with his fingertips.
"If you don't want to see what happened, don't look," he told
me,
quietly.
His black hair shadowed me. FIe wasn't angry, only sad. I
would
never have dared to embrace him before, but now I've learned I
don't
have to be respectful of the man, so I embraced his neck and
kissed him
on the mouth.
"You've always been dearest of all things to my heart," he said.
He
lowered his head and looked at the earth, so full of dry stones.
With
one of them he drew two parallel lines and then lengthened
them until
they met and became one.
"These are you and me," he said without looking up. I was left
at a
loss for words, Nachita.
"There's only a little left for time to be over and for us to be
one.
That's why I was looking for you." I had forgotten, Nacha, that
when
time is all spent, the two of us will remain, one in the other, to
enter true
time as one. When he said that to me, I looked in his eyes.
Before I had
only dared to look in them when he was taking me, but, as I told
30. you,
I've learned not to respect the man's eyes. It's also true that I
didn't
want to see what was happening around me ... I'm such a
coward. I
remembered the shrieks and I heard them again, strident,
flaming in
the middle of the morning. I also saw the stones whizz over my
head
and heard them crashing. He knelt in front of me and raised his
arms
and crossed them to make a little roof over my head.
"This is the end of man," I said.
"That's true," he said, with his voice over mine. And I saw
myself
in his eyes and in his body. Could he be a deer come to carry
me to
its hillside? Or a star, flinging me out to trace signs in the sky?
His
1 1
78 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
voice traced signs of blood on my breast, and my white dress
turned
tiger-striped in red and white.
"I'll return tonight; wait for me," he whispered. He grasped his
shield and looked at me from high above.
"Soon we'll be one," he added, with his usual politeness. After
31. he
left, I began to hear battle cries again and I ran out in the
middle of the
rain of stones and was lost all the way to the car, parked on the
cuitzeo
Lake Bridge.
"What's the matter? Are you wounded?" Margarita shouted at
me
when she arrived. Frightened, she touched the blood on mywhite
dress
and pointed to the blood on my lips and the dirt that had matted
in my
hair. The dead eyes of the cuzco mechanic stared at me from the
other
car.
"Indian savages! A woman can't be left alone," he muttered as
he
leapt from the car as if to help me.
"We arrived at Mexico City at nightfall. How it had changed,
Na_
chita, I couldn't believe it! At noon the warriors had been there,
but
now there wasn't even a trace of them. There was no rubble left
either.
We passed the sad and silent Zocalo; nothing-nothing!-remained
of
the other plaza. Margarita watched me out of the corner of her
eye.
When we got home you opened the door. Remember?,'
Nacha nodded her head, agreeing. It was quite true that, barely
two months before, Sefrora Laurita and her mother-in-law had
gone to
32. Guanajuato on avisit. The night they returned they, Josefina the
cham-
ber maid and she herself, had noticed the blood on the dress and
the
sefrora's vacant gaze. Margarita, the older lady, motioned them
to keep
quiet. She seemed very worried. Josefina told her later that. at
din-
ner, the master stared at his wife in annoyance and said, .,Why
don,t
you change your clothes? Do you enjoy returning to unpleasant
mem-
ories?"
Sefrora Margarita, his mother, had already told him what
happened
and motioned to him, as if to say "Hush, have a little
consideialion."
Seflora Laurita didn't answer; she stroked her lips and smiled as
if she
knew something. Then the master went back to talking about
president
L5pez Mateo.
"You know how he's always talking about that man,,' Josefina
had
added, contemptuously.
In their hearts, they were sure that Sefrora Laurita was bored
with
so much talk about the President and his official visits.
"How odd things are, Nachita, I'd never noticed until that night
how
Elena Garro
33. bored I could be with Pablo," the mistress noted, hugging her
knees
affectionately, and subtly acknowledging that Josefina and
Nachita were
right.
The cook folded her arms and nodded in agreement.
"From the time I entered the house, the furniture, the vases and
the
mirror toppled over on me and left me sadder than I was. How
many
days, how many years will I have to wait before my cousin
comes to
fetch me? That's what I told myself, and I regretted my
treachery. As
we dined, I noticed that Pablo did not speak in words but in
letters. I
started to count them while I watched his thick mouth and dead
eye.
Suddenly, he was silent. You know he forgets everything. He
stood
there with his arms by his side. This new husband has no
memory and
all he knows are the day in, day out things."
"You have a troubled and confused husband," he told me,
looking
at the stains on my dress again. My poor mother-in-law got
confused
and, as we were drinking coffee, she got up to play a twist.
"To cheeryou up," she told us, pretending to smile because she
could
tell trouble was brewing.
34. "We didn't talk. The house filled up with noise. I looked at
Pablo.
'He looks like . . . ' and I didn't care to say his name because I
was afraid
that they would read my mind. It's true that they look alike,
Nacha.
Both of them like rain and cool houses. The two of them look at
the sky
in the afternoon and have black hair and white teeth. But Pablo
talks in
fits and starts, he gets angry about anything, and is always
asking,'What
are you thinking?' My cousin husband doesn't do or say
anything like
that."
"That's for sure. It's true that the boss is a pain in the neck,"
Nacha
said with annoyance.
Laura sighed and looked with a sense of relief at her cook. At
least
she could confide in her.
'At night, while Pablo kissed me, I kept repeating to myself,
'When
will he come for me?' And I almost cried, recalling the blood
streaming
from the wound in his shoulder. Neither could I forget his arms
folded
over my head that made a little roof for me. At the same time I
was
afraid that Pablo would notice that my cousin had kissed me
that morn-
35. ing. But he didn't notice a thing, and if it hadn't been that
Josefina had
frightened me in the morning, Pablo would never have known."
Nachita agreed. That Josefina loved to start trouble; she was to
blame. Nacha had told her, "Be quiet, be quiet, for God's sake.
There
must have been a reason they didn't hear us scream." But it was
useless.
79
80 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
No sooner had Josefina come into the bosses' room with the
breaKast
tray than she told what she should have kept to herself.
"Missus, last night a man was peeking through your bedroom
win-
dow. Nacha and I screamed and screamed!"
"We didn't hear anything," the master said. He was shocked.
"It was he," that fool of a mistress screeched.
"Who is he?" the master asked, looking at the sefrora as if
hewanted
to kill her. At least that's what Josefina said later.
The sefrora was really scared. She covered her mouth with her
hand,
and when the boss asked her the same question again-he was
getting
angrier and angrier-she answered, "The Indian, the Indian who
36. fol-
lowed me from Cuitzeo to Mexico City."
That's how Josefina found out the business about the Indian and
that's how she told Nachita.
"We have to let the police know immediately!" the boss yelled.
Josefina showed them the window the stranger had been looking
through and Pablo examined it closely. There were almost-fresh
blood
stains on the window sill.
"He's wounded," seflor Pablo said in a worried tone. He took a
few
steps around the bedroom and stopped in front of his wife.
"It was an Indian, sir," Josefina said, just as Laura had said.
Pablo saw the white dress thrown over a chair and picked it up
rough-
ly.
"Can you tell me where these stains came from?"
The sefrora was silent, looking at the blood stains on the bodice
of
the dress while the master punched the chest of drawers with his
fist.
Then he went to his wife and slapped her. Josefina saw and
heard all
that.
"He's rough and his actions are as confused as his thoughts. It's
not
my fault he accepted defeat," Laura said disdainfully.
37. "That's true," Nachita agreed.
There was a long silence in the kitchen. Laura stuck the tip of
her
finger in the bottom of the cup to stir the black grounds that had
settled,
and when Nacha saw this, she poured her a nice fresh cup of hot
coffee.
"Drink your coffee, Sefrora," she said, feeling sorry for her
mistress'
unhappiness. After all, what was the boss complaining about?
You
could see from miles away that Sefrora Laurita wasn't meant for
him.
"I fell in love with Pablo on a road, during a moment when he
re-
minded me of someone I knew, someone I couldn't remember.
And
later, just sometimes, I recaptured the moment when it seemed
that he
Elena Garro
would become the one he resembled. But it wasn't true. He
became
absurd again, without a memory, and he only repeated the
gestures of
all the men of Mexico City. How did you expect me not to
notice the
deception? When he's angry, he doesn't allow me to leave the
house.
You knew it's true. How many times has he started arguments at
the
movies or at restaurants! You know, Nachita. On the other hand,
38. my
cousin husband never gets angry at his wife."
Nacha knew what the sefrora was saying was true, and that was
why
that morningwhen Josefina had come in the kitchen, scared and
scream-
ing, "Wake up Seflora Margarita, the master is beating the
mistress,"
Nacha, had run to the older woman's bedroom.
His mother's presence calmed Sefror Pablo. Margarita was very
sur-
prised to hear the business about the Indian, since she hadn't
seen him
at Cuitzeo Lake and had only seen the blood, as we all had.
"Perhaps you suffered from sunstroke at the lake, Laura, and
had a
nosebleed. We had the top down on the car, you know, son."
She talked
almost without knowing what to say.
Seflora Laura flung herself face down on the bed and was lost
in her
own thoughts while her husband and her mother-in-law argued.
"Do you know what I was thinking this morning, Nachita?
Suppose
he saw me last night when Pablo was kissing me. And I felt like
cry-
ing. Just then I remembered that when a man and a woman love
each
other and they have no children, they are condemned to become
one.
That's what my other father told me when I brought him a drink
39. of wa-
ter and he looked at the door behind which my cousin husband
and I
slept. Everything my other father had told me was coming true.
I could
hear Pablo and Margarita's words from my pillow and they were
talk-
ing foolishness. 'I'm going to fetch him,' I told myself. 'But,
where?'
Later, when you returned to my room to ask me what we were
going to
do about dinner, a thought came to my head, 'Go to the Thcuba
Caf6.'
And I didn't even know that caf6, Nachita, I'd only heard it
mentioned."
Nacha remembered the sefiora as if she could see her now,
putting
on her white, blood-stained dress, the same one she was wearing
in the
kitchen now.
"For God's sakes, Laura, don't put that dress on," her mother-in-
law said. But she didn't pay any attention. To hide the stains,
she put
a white sweater on over it, buttoned up to the neck, and left for
the
street without saying goodbye. The worst came later. No, not
the worst.
The worst was about to happen now in the kitchen, if Seffora
Margarita
happened to wake up.
8 1
40. 82 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
There was no one in the Tacuba Caf6,. That place is dismal,
Nachita.
Awaiter came up to me. "What would you like?" I didn't want
anything
but I had to ask for something. "Some coconut nougat." My
cousin and
I ate coconut when we were small. A clock in the caf6 told time.
"In all
the cities, there are clocks telling time; it must be wearing away
bit by
bit. When it only exists as a transparent layer, he will arrive and
the two
lines he traced will become one and I will live in the dearest
chamber of
his heart." That's what I told myself as I ate the nougat.
"What time is it." I asked the waiter.
"Twelve. Miss."
"Pablo arrives at one," I told myself. "If I have a taxi take me
outside
of town, I can wait a little longer." But I didn't wait and I went
out on
the street. The sun was silver. My thoughts turned into shining
dust and
there was no present, past nor future. My cousin was on the
sidewalk.
He stood in front of me. He looked at me for a long time with
his sad
eyes.
"What are you doing?" he asked me in his deep voice.
"I was waiting for you."
41. He was as still as a panther. I saw his black hair and the wound
on
his shoulder.
"Weren't you afraid to be here all by yourself?"
The stones and the shouts buzzed around us again and I felt
some-
thing burn against my back. "Don't look," he told me.
He knelt on the ground and put out the flame that had started to
blaze on my dress. I saw the despair in his eyes.
"Get me out of here!" I screamed with all my might, because I
re-
membered I was in front of my father's house, that the house
was burn-
ing and that my parents were in the back and my little brothers
were
dead. I could see everything reflected in his eyes while he knelt
in the
dirt putting out the fire on my dress. I allowed myself to fall on
him and
he gathered me in his arms. He covered my eyes with his hot
hand.
"This is the end of man," I told him, my eyes still under his
hand.
"Don't look at it!"
He held me against his heart. I could hear it pound like thunder
rolling in the mountains. How long would it be before time was
over
and I would hear him forever. My tears cooled his hand, still
burning
from the fire in the cify. The shrieks and the stones surrounded
42. us, but
I was safe against his breast.
"Sleep with me," he said in a very low voice.
"Did vou see me last night?" I asked him.
Elena Gano
"I saw you."
"We fell asleep in the morning light, in the heat of the fire.
When
we remembered, he got up and grabbed his shield."
"Hide until morning. I'll come for you."
"FIe ran off quickly, his legs still naked. And I slipped away
again,
Nachita, because I was frightened when I was alone."
"Are you feeling bad, Miss?"
'Avoice just like Pablo's approached me on the middle of the
street.',
"How dare you? Leave me alone."
"I took a taxi that drove by the outskirts to bring me home and I
got
here."
Nacha remembered her arrival. She had opened the door herself,
and it was she who gave her the news. Josefina came down
later, almost
diving down the stairs.
"Missus, the master and Sefrora Margarita are at the police
station."
Laura stared at her, wordless in amazement.
"Where were you, Missus?"
43. "I went to the Tacuba Caf6."
"But that was two days ago."
Josefina hadTbday's News with her. She read in a loud voice,
"Mrs.
Aldama's whereabouts remain unknown. It is believed that the
sinis-
ter, Indian-looking man who followed her from Cuitzeo may be
a psy-
chopath. The police in the states of Michoacan and Guanajuato
are
investigating the event."
Sefrora Laurita grabbed the newspaper from Josefina's hands
and
tore it angrily. Then she went to her room. Nacha and Josefina
followed
her; it was best not to leave her alone. They saw her throw
herself on
the bed and start dreaming with her eyes wide open. The nrro
had the
very same thought and told each other so in the kitchen. 'As far
as I'm
concerned, Sefrora Laurita is in love." When the master arrived
they
were still in their mistress'room.
"Laura!" he shouted. He rushed to the bed and took his wife in
his
arms.
"Fleart of my heart," the man sobbed.
For a moment, Seflora Laurita seemed to soften towards him.
"Sefror," Josefina blustered. "The Sefrora's dress is completely
scorched!"
44. Nacha looked at her, disapprovingly. The master checked over
the
sefrora's dress and legs.
83
84 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
"It's true. Even the soles of her shoes are singed. What
happened,
my love, where were you?"
'At the Thcuba Caf€," the seflora answered calmly.
Sefrora Margarita twisted her hands and approached her
daughter-
in-law.
"We know you were there and that you had some nougat. What
happened then?"
"I took a taxi and drove home past the outskirts of town."
Nacha lowered her eyes. Josefina opened her mouth as if to say
something, and Sefrora Margarita bit her lip. Pablo reacted
differently;
he grabbed his wife by her shoulders and shook her violently.
"Stop acting like an idiot! Where were you for two days? Why
is
your dress burned?"
"Burned? But he extinguished it ... " The words slipped out of
Seflora Laura's mouth.
45. "He? That filthy Indian?" Pablo went back to shaking her in
anger.
"I met him at the door to the ThcubaCaf€,," the sefiora sobbed,
half
dead of fear.
"[ didn't think you'd stoop so low," the boss said and pushed her
onto the bed.
"Tell us who he is," her mother-in-law said, softening her voice.
"I couldn't tell them that he was my husband, could I, Nacha?"
Lau-
ra asked, wanting the cook's approval.
Nacha approved of the seftora's discretion and remembered
how, at
noontime, and, saddened by what her mistress'was going
through, she
had said, "Perhaps the Cuitzeo Indian is a witch man."
But Sefrora Margarita had turned towards her with her eyes
blazing,
to scream an answer, 'A witch man! You mean a murderer!"
After that, they kept Seflora Laura in the house for days. The
mas-
ter ordered them to watch the doors and windows. They, the
maids,
went in and out of the room continuously to check on her.
Nacha never
discussed the situation or the odd, surprising things she'd seen.
But who
could silence Josefina?
46. "Master, this morning at dawn the Indian was by the window
again,"
she announced when she took in the breaKast tray.
The master rushed to the window and again found a trace of
fresh
blood. The sefrora began to cry.
"My poor little one, my poor little one," she sobbed.
It was that afternoon that the master brought a doctor. After
that,
the doctor came every afternoon.
Elena Garro
"He asked me about my childhood, about my father and mother.
But, Nachita, I didn't know which childhood he meant, or which
father
or mother he wanted to know about. That's why I talked to him
about
the conquest of Mexico. You understand me, don't you?" Laura
asked,
keeping her eyes on the yellow bowls.
"Yes, ma'am," and Nachita, feeling nervous, examined the
garden
through the window glass. Night was just beginning to announce
its
presence in the deepening shadows. She remembered the
master's list-
less face and his mother's distressed glances at dinner.
"Laura asked the doctor for Bernal Diaz del Castillo's History.
She
said that that's the only thing that interests her."
47. Sefrora Margarita dropped her fork. "My poor son, your wife is
mad."
"The only thing she talks about is the fall of the great
Tenochtitl6n,"
Sefior Pablo added somberly.
TWo days later, the doctor, Sefiora Margarita and Sefror Pablo
de-
cided that locking Laura in made her depression worse. She
should have
some contact with the world and face her responsibilities. From
then
on, the boss sent for the car so his wife could take short rides
around
Chapultepec Park. The seflora was accompanied by her mother-
in-law,
and the chauffeur had orders to watch them closely.
Unfortunately
the eucalyptusJaden atmosphere didn't improve her condition,
and no
soonerwould Sefrora Laurita get back home then she would lock
herself
up in her room to read Bernal Diaz' Conquest of Mexico.
One morning, Seflora Margarita came back from Chapultepec
Park
alone and frantic. "That crazy woman ran ow{," she shouted in a
huge
voice.
"I-ook, Nacha, I sat on the same bench as usual and told myself,
'He
won't forgive me. A man can forgive one, two, three, four
48. betrayals
but not constant betrayal.' This made me very sad. It was very
hot and
Margarita bought herself some vanilla ice cream. I didn't want
any and
she got into the car to eat it. I realized that she was as bored of
me as I
was of her. I don't like being watched and I tried to look at
other things
so I wouldn't see her eating her cone and watching me. I noticed
the
grayish foliage that hung from the ahuehuete trees and, I don't
know
why, but the morning became as sad as those trees. 'They and I
have
seen the same crises,' I told myself. During the lonely hours,
alone on an
empty path. My husband had watched my constant betrayal
through the
window and had abandoned me to this path made of non-
existent things.
I remembered the smell of corn leaves and the hushed murmur
of his
85
86 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
steps. 'This is the way he walked, with the rhythm of dry leaves
when
the February wind carries them over the stones. At that time I
didn't
have to turn my head to know that he was watching me from
behind.' I
49. was meandering among those sad thoughts when I heard the sun
spill
and the dry leaves begin to shift. His breathing came close
behind me,
then he stood in front of me. I saw his naked feet in front of
mine. He
had a scratch on his knee. I lifted my eyes and found myself
under his.
We stood there a long time without speaking. Out of respect, I
waited
for his word."
"What are you doing to yourself," he asked me.
I saw that he wasn't moving and that he seemed sadder than
ever.
"I was waiting for you," I answered.
"The last day is almost here."
"I thought that his voice came from the depth of time' Blood
still
surged from his shoulder. I was embarrassed and lowered my
eyes. I
opened my bag, and took out a small handkerchief to wipe his
chest.
Then I put it away again. He followed, watching me quietly."
"Let us go to the Thcuba door ... There are many betrayals."
"He grasped my hand and we walked among the people, who
screamed and moaned. Many bodies floated in the water of the
canals.
Pestilence rose up around us and children cried, running from
here to
there, lost and looking for their parents. I looked at everything
with-
50. out wanting to see it. The shattered canoes didn't carry anything
but
sadness. The husband sat me under a broken tree. He knelt on
the
earth and watched what happened around us. He wasn't afraid.
Then
he looked at me."
"I know you're a traitor and that you mean well. The good
grows
alongside the bad."
"The children were screaming so loudly I could hardly hear him.
The sound came from far off, but it was so loud that it shattered
the
daylight. It seemed like the last time they would cry."
"It's the children," he told me.
"This is the end of man," I repeated, because I couldn't think of
anything else to say.
He put his hands over my ears and then held me against his
chest.
"You were a traitor when I met you, and I loved you that way."
"You were born without luck," I told him. I ernbraced him. My
cousin husband closed his eyes to keep the tears from flowing.
We lay
ourselves on the broken branches of the piru. The shouts of the
war-
riors, the stones and the weeping of the children reached us
even there.
Elena Gano
51. "Time is almost over," my husband sighed.
"The women who didn't want to die that day were escaping
through
a crevice. Rows of men fell one after the other, as if clasping
hands as
a single blow felled them all at once. Some of them let out such
loud
cries that the sound echoed long after their death.
"It wasn't long before we became one that my cousin got up,
joined
some branches together and made me a little cave.
"Wait for me here."
"He looked at me and went back to the fray, hoping to turn
aside de-
feat. I stayed there, curled up. I didn't want to see the people
escaping,
so I wouldn't be tempted, and I didn'twant to see the bodies
floating in
the water, so I wouldn't cry. I began to count the little fruits
that hung
from the cut branches; they were dry and when I touched them
with
my fingers, the red husks fell from them. I don't know why I
thought
they were bad luck and decided to watch the sky as it began to
darken.
First it turned grey, then it began to take on the color of the
drowned
bodies in the canal. I recalled the colors of other afternoons-
But the
evening grew more and more bruised, swelling as if itwould
soon burst,
52. and I understood that time was over. What would happen to me
if my
cousin didn't return? He might have died in battle. I didn't care
what
happened to him, I ran out of there as fast as I could, with fright
on
my heels. 'When he comes back to look for me ... ' I didn't have
time
to finish my thought because I found myself in the Mexico City
dusk.
'Margarita must have finished her ice cream and Pablo is
probably an-
gry.' A taxi drove along the outskirts to bring me home. And
you know,
Nachita, the outskirts were the canals, clogged with bodies.
That's why
I was so sad when I got home. Now, Nachita, don't tell the
master that
I spent the afternoon with my husband."
Nachita arranged her arms on her purple skirt.
"Sefror Pablo went to Acapulco ten days ago. He got very thin
dur-
ing all the weeks of the investigation," Nacha explained, feeling
self-
satisfied.
Laura looked at her without any surprise and sighed with relief.
"But Seflora Margarita is upstairs," Nacha added, turning her
eyes
up to the kitchen ceiling.
Laura hugged her knees and looked through the window glass at
the
53. roses, blurred by the night shadows, and at the lights in the
neighboring
windows that had begun to go out.
Nacha sprinkled salt on the back of her hand and licked it
eagerly.
87
88 Blame the Tlaxcaltecs
"So many coyotes! The whole pack is in an uproar," she said,
her
voice full of salt.
Laura listened for a moment. "Damn animals! You should have
seen them this afternoon," she said.
'As long as they don't get in the seflor's path or make him lose
his
way," Nacha said, fearfully.
"Why should he be afraid of them tonight, he was never afraid
of
them before?" Laura said in annoyance.
Nacha drew closer to strengthen the intimacy that had suddenly
sprung up between them. "They're punier than the Tlaxcaltecs,"
she
told her in a soft voice.
The two women were silent. Nacha, licking bit by bit the salt on
her
hand, and Laura, who was worried, were both listening to the
54. coyote
howls that filled the night. It was Nacha who saw him arrive
and opened
the window to him.
"Sefiora, he's come for you," she whispered in a voice so low
only
Laura could hear.
Afterwards, when Laura had left with him for good, Nacha
wiped
the blood from the window and frightened away the coyotes,
who had
entered the century that was just then waning. Straining her
ancient
eyes, Nacha checked to see that everything was in order. She
washed
the coffee cup, threw the red lipstick-stained butts away in the
garbage
can, put the coffee pot away in the cupboard and shut off the
light.
"I say Sefrora Laurita didn't belong to this time, and not to the
mas-
ter either," she said that morning when she took breakfast to
Sefrora
Margarita.
"I won't work at the Aldama house any more. I'm looking for
some-
thing else," she told Josefina. And, because of the chamber
maid's care-
lessness, Nacha left without even collecting her salary.
Tianslated by lna Cumpiano
55. The Last Emigrant
Nora Glickmann
Otd rci."rman is dead, the emigrant, Baruch Leiserman. The
news
shook loose memories of my hometown in the province of La
pampa. I
remembered how much closer he was than my grandfather, or
any uncle
for that matter.
As the days grew longer, Mama would take me along on visits
to see
him and his wife, Sara. Around five, Dad might be engaging a
customer
in some interminable discussion about renewing an insurance
policy and
Mama would take advantage of the opportunity to escape from
the of-
fice and would go to look for me at home.
It was just a few blocks away, we walked. Lanuse's bar exhaled
it's
beery and smoky breath that followed us as far as the corner.
The Viners
and the Shames would set up their wicker chairs next to the
entrances of
their respective stores to be able to kibitz with each other. The
women
seemed older than the men; they rocked slowly and chatted in
yiddish
mixed with Spanish. Then we would pass Litner's bakery where
a furry,
dirty dog stretched out and blocked the sidewalk, undoubtedly
para-
56. lyzed by the languid, penetrating aroma of freshly-baked loaves.
Or
perhaps by age. Anyway, Mamawould buy a few pastries there
and Mrs.
Litner would keep her posted on the rheumatism that was
swelling her
knees as well as on her mother who lay dying in the room in
back. Mama
always listened quietly: things seemed to worsen at a
comfortable rate,
and there would be months and months to enjoy the same
pastries and
same conversation.
Sara Leiserman would treat us to a tureen full of toasted
sunflower
seeds, with leicash and Russian tea, prekuske, and we bit on
lumps of
sugar as we drank the tea. I liked to dip the sugar a little bit at a
time
and watch it turn brown in the hot tea. Then Sara would take a
nap.
89
J U A N R U L F O
L u v i n a
o
L U V I N A
hear it moming and night, hour after hour without stopping,
57. scraping
the walls, tearing off strips of earth, digging with its sharp
shovel under
the doors, until you feel it boiling inside of you as if it was
going to
remove the hinges of your very bones. You'll see."
The man speaking was quier for a bit, while he looked outside.
The noise of the river reached them, passing its swollen waters
through the fig-tree branches, the noise of the air gently rustling
the
leaves of the almond trees, and the shouts of the children
playing in the
small space illumined by the light that came from the store.
The flying ants entered and collided with the oil lamp, falling to
the
ground with scorched wings. And outside night kept on
advancing.
"Hey, Camilo, two more beers!" the man said again. Then he
added,
"There's another thing, mister. You'll never see a blue sky in
Luvina.
The whole horizon there is always a dingy colour, always
clouded over
by a dark stain that never goes. away. All the hills are bare and
treeless,
without one green thing to rest your eyes on; everything is
wrapped in
an ashy smog. You'll see what it's like-those hills silent as if
they were
dead and Luvina crowning the highest hill with its white houses
like a
crown of the dead-"
58. The children's shouts came closer until they penetrated the
store.
That made the man get up, go ro rhe door and yell at them, "Go
away!
Don't bother us! Keep on playing, but without so much racket."
Then, coming back to the table, he sat down and said, "Well, as
I was
saying, it doesn't rain much there. In the middle of the year they
get a
few storms that whip the earth and tear it away, just leaving
nothing but
the rocks floating above the stony crust. It's good to see then
how the
clouds crawl heavily about, how they march from one hill to
anorher
jumping as if they were inflated bladders, crashing and
thundering just as
if they were breaking on the edge of the barrancas. But after ten
or
twelve days they go away and don't come back until the next
year, and
sometimes they don't come back for several years-No, it doesn't
rain
much. Hardly at all, so that the earth, besides being all dried up
and
shrivelled like old leatheq gets filled with cracks and hard clods
of earth
like sharp stones, that prick your feet as you walk along, as if
the earth
itself had grown thoms there. That's what it's like."
He downed his beer until only bubbles of foam remained in the
bottle, then he went on: "'l7herever you look in Luvina, it's a
very sad
59. of the mountains in the south Luvina is the highest and the
rockiest. It,s
infested with that grey stone they make rime from, but in
Luvina they
don't make lime from it or get any good out of it. They call it
crude stone
there, and the hill that climbs up towards Luvina they call the
crude
stone Hill. The sun and the air have taken it on themselves to
make ir
crumble away, so that the eanh around there is always white and
bril-
liant, as if it were always sparkling with the moming dew,
though this is
just pure talk, because in Luvina the days are cold as the nights
and the
dew thickens in the sky before it can fall to the earth.
And the ground is steep and slashed on all sides by deep
barrancas, so
deep you can'r make out the bottom. They say in Luvina that
one's
dreams come up from those barrancas; but the only thing I've
seen come
up out of them was the wind, whistling as if down Lelow they
had
squeezed it into reed pipes. A wind that doesn't even let the
dulcamaras
grow: those sad little plants that can live with just a bit of earth,
clutch-
ing with all their hands at the mountain cliffsides. only once in
a while,
where there's a little shade, hidden among the rocks, the
chicalote blos-
soms with its white poppies. But the chicalote soon withers.
60. Then you
hear it scratching the air with its spiny branches, making a noise
like a
knife on a whetstone.
"You'll be seeing that wind that blows over Luvina. It's dark.
They say
because it's fulI of volcano sand; anyway, it's a black air. you'[
see it. It
takes hold of things in Luvina as if it was going to bite them.
And there
are lots of days when it takes the roofs off the houses as if they
were hats,
leaving the bare walls uncovered. Then it scratches like it had
nails: you
J U A N R U L F O
place. You're going there, so you'll find out. I would say it's the
place
where sadness nests.
'Where
smiles are unknown as if people's faces hac
been frozen. And, if you like, you can see that sadness just any
time. The
breeze that blows there moves it around but never takes it away.
It seems
like it was bom there. And you can almost taste and feel it,
because it's
61. always over you, against you, and because it's heavy like a large
plaster
weighing on the living flesh of the heart.
"The people from there say that when the moon is full they
clearly
see the figure of the wind sweeping about Luvina's streets,
bearing
behind it a black blanket; but what I always mandged to see
when there
was a moon in Luvina was the image of despair-always.
"But drink up your beer. I see you haven't even tasted it. Go
ahead
and drink. Or maybe you don't like it warm like that. But that's
the
only kind we have here. I know it tastes bad, something like
donkey's
piss. Here you get used to it. I swear that there you won't even
get this.
U7hen you go to Luvina you'll miss it. There all you can drink
is a liquor
they make from a plant called hojas6, and after the frrst
swallows your
head'll be whirling around like crazy, feeling like you had
banged it
62. against something. So better drink your beer. I know what l'm
talking
about."
You could still hear the struggle of the river from outside. The
noise
of the air. The children playing. It seemed to be still early in the
evening.
The man had gone once more to the door and then retumed,
saying:
"It's easy to see things, brought back by memory from here
where there's
nothing like it. But when it's about Luvina I don't have ahy
rouble
going right on talking to you about what I know I lived there. I
left my
life there-I went to that place full of illusions and retumed old
and
wom out. And now you're going there-All right. I seem to
remember
the beginning. I'll put myself in your place and think-Look,
when I
got to Luvina the first time-But will you let me have a drink of
your
beer first? I see you aren't paying any attention to it. And it
63. helps me a
lot. It relieves me, makes me feel like my head had been rubbed
with
camphor oil-Uell, I was telling you that when I reached Luvina
the
first time, the mule driver who took us didn't even want to let
his ani-
mals rest. As soon as he let us off, he tumed half around.
'I'm going
back,'he said.
L U V I N A
"''$Vait, aren't you going to let your animals take a rest? They
are all
wom out.'
"'They'd be in worse shape here,'he said. 'I'd better go back.'
"And away he went, rushing down Crude Stone Hill, spurring
his
animals on as if he was leaving some place haunted by the
devil.
"My wife, my three children, and I stayed there, standing in the
middle of the plaza, with all out belongings in our arms. In the
middle of
that place where all you could hear was the wind . . .
'Just
a plaza, without a single plant to hold back the wind. There we
64. were.
"Then I asked my wife, 'What cotrntry are we in, Agripina?'
"And she shrugged her shoulders.
"''Well, if you don't care, go look for a place where we can eat
and
spend the night. We'Il wait for you here,' I told her.
"She took the youngest child by the hand and left. But she didn't
come back.
"At nightfall, when the sun was lighting up just the tops of the
moun-
tains, we went to look for her. We walked along Luvina's
narrow streets,
until we found her in the church, seated right in the middle of
that
lonely church, with the child asleep between her legs.
"'SV'hat are you doing here, Agripina?'
"'I came to pray,'she told us.
"'!Uhy?' I asked her.
"She shrugged her shoulders.
"Nobody was there to pray to. It was a vacant old shack without
any
doors, just some open galleries and a roof full of cracks where
the air
came through like a sieve.
"'(/here's the restaurant?'
"'There isntt any restaurant.'
"'And the inn?'
65. "'There isn't any inn.'
"'Did you see anybody? Does anybody live here?' I asked her.
"'Yes, there across the s1sss1-$srns 1ry61nsn-l can still see
them.
Look, there behind the cracks in *rat door I see some eyes
shining,
watching us-They have been looking over here-Look at them. I
see
the shining balls of their eyes-But they don't have anything to
give us
to eat. They told me without sticking out their heads that there
was
J U A N R U L F O
nothing to eat in this town-Then I came in here ro pray, to ask
God to
help us.'
"'!Uhy didn't you go back to the plazal We were waiting for
you.'
"'l came in here to pray. I haven't finished yet.'
"'!(/hat country is this, Agripinal'
"And she shrugged her shoulders again.
"That night we seuled down to sleep in a comer of the church
behind the dismantled altar. Even there the wind reached, but it
wasn't
quite as strong. r07e listened to it passing over us with long
howls, we lis-
66. tened to it come in and out of the hollow caves of the doors
whipping
the crosses of the stations of the cross with its hands full of air-
large
rough crosses of mesquite wood hanging from the walls the
length of the
church, tied together with wires that twanged with each gust of
wind
like the gnashing of teeth.
"The children cried because they were too scared to sleep. And
my
wife, trying to hold all of them in her arms. Embracing her
handful of
children. And me, I didn't know what to do.
"A little before dawn the wind calmed down. Then it retumed.
But
there was a moment during that moming when everything was
still, as if
the sky had joined the earth, crushing all noise with its weight-
You
could hear the breathing of the children, who now were resting.
I lis.
tened to my wife's heavy breath there at my side.
"'Uhat is it?'she said to me.
"'7hat's what?' I asked her.
"'That, that noise.'
"'It's the silence. Go to sleep. Rest a little bit anyway, because
it's
going to be day soon.'
"But soon I heard it too. It was like bats flitting through the
darkness
67. very close to us. Bats with big wings that grazed against the
ground. I got
up and the beating of wings was srronger, as if the flock of bats
had been
frightened and were flying towards the holes of the doors. Then
I walked
on tiptoes over there, feeling that dull murmur in front of me. I
stopped
at the door and saw them. I saw all the women of Luvina with
their
water jugs on their shoulders, their shawls hanging from their
heads and
their black figures in the black background of the night.
"'What do you want?' I asked them. 'What are you looking for at
this
time of night?'
t U V I N A
"One of them answered, '!(/e're going for water.'
"I saw them standing in front of me, looking at me. Then, as if
they
were shadows, they started walking down the street with their
black
water jugs.
"No, I'll never forget that first night I spent in Luvina.
"Don't you think this deserves another drink? Even if it's just to
take
away the bad taste of my memories."
"It seems to me you asked me how many years I was in Luvina,
didn't
68. you? The truth is, I don't know. I lost the notion of time since
the fevers
got it all mixed up for me, but it must have been an etemity-
Time is
very long there. Nobody counts the hours and nobody cares how
the
years go mounting up. The days begin and end. Then night
comes. Just
day and night until the day of death, which for them is a hope.
"You must think I'm harping on the same idea. And I am, yes,
mister-To be sitting at the threshold of the dooE watching the
rising
and the setting of the sun, raising and lowering your head, until
the
springs go slack and then everything gers srill, timeless, as if
you had
always lived in etemity. That's what the old folks do there.
"Because only real old folks and those who aren't bom yet, as
they
say, live in Luvina-And weak women, so thin they are just skin
and
bones. The children bom there have all gone away-They hardly
see
the light of day and they're already grown up. As they say, they
jump
from their mothers'breasts to the hoe and disappear from
Luvina. That's
the way it is in Luvina.
"There are just old folks left there and lone women, or with a
hus-
band who is off God knows where-They appear every now and
then
69. when the storrns come I was telling you about; you hear a
rusrling all
through the town when they retum and something like a
grumbling
when they go away again-They leave a sack of provisions for
the old
folk and plant another child in the bellies of their women, and
nobody
knows anything more of them until the next year, and
sometimes
never-It's the custom. There they thlnk that's the way the law is,
but
it's all the same. The children spend their lives working for their
parents
as their parents worked for theirs and who knows how many
generations
back performed this obligation . . .
"Meanwhile, the old people wait for them and for death, seated
in
The Tkee
Maria Luisa Bombal
The pianist sits down, coughs from force of habit and
concentrates for a
moment. The clusters of lights illuminating the hall gradually
70. dim until
they glow like dying embers, whereupon a musical phrase rises
in the
silence, swells: clear, sharp and judiciously capricious.
Mozart, maybe, Brigida thinks to herself. As usual, she has
forgot-
ten to ask for the program. Mozart----or perhaps Scarlatti . . .
She knew
so little about music! And it was not because she lacked an ear
or the
inclination. On the contrary, as a child it had been she who
demanded
piano lessons; no one needed to impose them on her, as was the
case
with her sisters. Today, however, her sisters could sight-read
perfectly,
while she ... she had abandoned her studies after the first year'
The
reason for the inconstancy was as simple as it was shameful: she
had
never been able, never, to learn the key of E, "I don't
understand-my
memory serves me only to the key of C." And her father's
indignation!
"Would that I could lay down this burden: a miserable widower
with
children to educate! My poor Carmen! How she would have
sufiered
with such a daughter! The creature is retarded!"
Brigida was the youngest of six girls-all endowed with different
temperaments. She received little attention from her father
because
dealing with the other five daughters reduced him to such a
perplexed
71. and worn-out state that he preferred to ease his burden by
insisting on
her feeblemindedness. "I won't struggle any longer-it's useless.
lrave
her alone. If she chooses not to study, so be it. If she would
rather spend
hcr time in the kitchen listening to ghost stories, that's fine with
me. If
shc favors playing with dolls at the age of sixteen, let her play."
And so
Ilrigida had kept to her dolls, remaining almost totally ignorant
as far
irs lilrmal education was concerned.
a i
-)q
lluria Luisa Bombal
How pleasant it is to be ignorant! Not to know exactly who
Mozart
was-to ignore his origins, his influences, the particularities of
his tech-
rrique! To simply let oneself be led by the hand, as now . . .
For in truth Mozart leads her-transporting her onto a bridge sus-
pcnded above crystal water running over a bed of pink sand. She
is
rlressed in white, tilting on one shoulder an open parasol of
Chantilly
llrce, elaborate and fine as a spider's web.
"You look younger every day, Brigida. Yesterday I ran into
your
husband-I mean your ex-husband. His hair is now completely
white."
72. But she makes no reply, unwilling to tarry while crossing the
bridge
Mozart has fabricated toward the garden of her youth.
Thll blossoming spouts in which the water sings. Her eighteen
years;
hcr chestnut braids that, unbound, cascaded to her waist; her
golden
complexion; her dark eyes so wide and questioning. A small
mouth
rvith full lips; a sweet smile; and the lightest, most gracious
body in the
world. Of what was she thinking, seated by the fountain's edge?
Of
nothing. "She is as silly as she is pretty," they used to say. But
she did
not mind being silly, nor acting the dunce at parties. One by
one, her
sisters received proposals of marriage. No one asked her.
Mozart! Now he conducts her to a blue marble staircase on
which
she descends between two rows of ice lilies. And now he opens
a
wrought-iron gate of spikes with golden tips so that she may
throw her-
sclf on Luis, her father's intimate friend. From childhood, she
would
lun to Luis when everyone else abandoned her. He would pick
her up
rrnd she would encircle his neck between giggles that were like
tiny bird
cries; she would fling kisses like disorderly raindrops on his
eyes, his
Iorehead and his hair-which even then was graying (had he
73. never been
voung?). "You are a necklace," Luis would say. "You are like a
necklace
ol'sparrows."
That is why she had married him. Because at the side of that
solemn
rrnd taciturn man she felt less guilty for being what she was:
foolish,
playful and indolent. Yes-now, after so many years, she realizes
that
she had not married Luis for love; yet she cannot put her finger
on why,
why she left him so suddenly one day.
But at this moment Mozart takes her nervously by the hand,
drawing
hcr into a rhythm second by second more urgent- compelling her
to
retrace her steps across the garden and onto the bridge at a pace
that is
rrlmost like fleeing. And after stripping her of the parasol and
the trans-
parent crinoline, he closes the door on her past with a note at
once firm
rrnd sweet-leaving her in the concert hall, dressed in black,
applauding
35
3 6 The Tiee
mechanically as the artificial lights rekindle their flame.
74. Again shadows, and the prelude of silence.
And now Beethoven begins to stir the lukewarm tide of his
notes
beneath a summer moon. How far the sea has retreated! Brigida
walks
seaward, down the beach toward the distant, bright, smooth
water; but
all at once the sea rises, flowing placidly to meet and envelop
her-the
gentle waves pushing at her back until they press her cheek
against the
body of a man. And then the waves recede, leaving her stranded
on
Luis's chest.
"You have no heart, you have no heart," she used to say to him.
His heartbeat was so faint that she could not hear it except in
rare and
unexpected moments. "You are never with me when you are by
my
side," she would protest in their bedroom when, before going to
sleep,
he would ritually open the evening paper. "Why did you marry
me?"
"Because you have the eyes of a startled fawn," he would reply,
giv-
ing her a kiss. And she, abruptly cheerful, would proudly accept
the
weight of his gray head on her shoulder. Oh, that silvery,
radiant hair!
"Luis, you have never told me exactly what color your hair was
when
you were a boy. Or how your mother felt when you began going
75. gray at
the age of fifteen. What did she say? Did she laugh? Cry? And
you-
were you proud or ashamed? And at school-what did your
classmates
say? Tell me, Luis, tell me ... "
"Tomorrow. I am sleepy, Brigida. Very tired. Tirrn off the
light."
Unconsciously, he would turn away from her in sleep; just as
she
unconsciously sought her husband's shoulder all night long,
searching
for his breath, groping blindly for protection as an enclosed and
thirsty
plant bends its tendrils toward warmth and moisture.
In the mornings, when the maid would open the Venetian blinds,
Luis was no longer next to her. He had departed quietly without
so
much as a salutation, for fear the necklace of sparrows would
fasten
obstinately around his neck. "Five minutes, five minutes, no
more. Your
office will not disappear if you are five minutes late, Luis."
Her awakenings. Ah, how sad her awakenings! But-it was curi-
ous-no sooner had she entered her boudoir than the sadness
vanished
as if by an enchantment.
Waves crash, clashing far away, murmuring like a sea of leaves.
Beet-
hovcn? No.
76. It is the tree outside her dressing-room window. She had only to
en-
te r thc room to experience an almost overpowering sense of
well-being.
llurfa Luisa Bombal
I low hot the bedroom always was in the morning! And what
harsh light!
lly contrast, in the dressing-room even her eyes felt rested,
refreshed.
l'lre faded cretonne curtains; the tree casting shadows that
undulated on
tlrc walls like cold, moving water; the mirrors refracting
foliage, creat-
ing the illusion of a green and infinite forest. How enjoyable
that room
rvirs! It seemed a world submerged in an aquarium. And how
that huge
rubber tree chattered! AII the birds in the neighborhood took
refuge in
it. It was the only tree on that narrow, falling street that sloped
from
one side of the city directly to the river.
"I am busy. I can't be with you ... Lots of work to do, I won't be
l r o m e f o r l u n c h . . . H e l l o . . . y € S , I a m a t t h
e c l u b . A n e n g a g e m e n t . E a t
rrnd go to bed .. . No. I don't know. Better not wait for me,
Brigida."
"If I only had friends!" she would sigh. But she bored everyone.
"lf I tried to be a little less foolish! Yet how does one recover
so much
krst ground at a single stroke? To be intelligent, you must start
very
77. young-isn't that true?"
Her sisters'husbands took them eve4nvhere, but Luis-why had
she
tlenied it to herself?-had been ashamed of her, of her ignorance,
her
shyness, even of her eighteen years. Had he not urged her to
pretend
that she was at least twenty-one, as though her youth were an
embar-
rassing secret they alone shared?
And at night-he always came to bed so weary! Never paying full
irttention to what she said. He smiled, yes-a mechanical smile.
His ca-
resses were plentiful, but bestowed absentmindedly. Why had he
mar-
ried her? To continue their acquaintance, perhaps simply to put
the
crowning touch on his old friendship with her father.
Maybe life for men was based on a series of established and
contin-
uous customs. Rupturing this chain would probably produce
disorder,
chaos. And after, men would stumble through the streets of the
city,
roosting on park benches, growing shabbier and more unshaven
with
each passing day. Luis's life, therefore, was patterned on
keeping oc-
cupied every minute of the day. Why had she failed to see this
sooner?
Her father had been right: she was retarded.
"I would like to see snow sometime. Luis."
78. "This summer I will take you to Europe, and since it will be
winter
there, you shall have your snow."
"I am quite aware that winter in Europe coincides with our
summer.
I am not that stupid!"
At times, to rouse him to the rapture of true love, she would
throw
herself on him and cover him with kisses: weeping, calling,
"Luis, Luis,
3 7
38 The Tiee
L u i s . . . "
"What? What is the matter? What do you want?"
"Nothing."
"Why do you cry out my name like that, then?"
"No reason. To say your name. I like to say your name."
And he would smile benevolently, pleased with the new game.
Summer came-her first summer as a married woman. Several
new
business ventures forced Luis to postpone the promised
European trip.
"Brigida, the heat will be terrible in Buenos Aires shortly. Why
don't
you spend the summer on your father's ranch?"
"Alone?"
79. "I would visit you every week, from Saturday to Monday."
She sat down on the bed, primed to insult him. But she could
not
find the hurting words. She knew nothing, nothing-not even how
to
offend.
"What is wrong with you? What are you thinking of, Brigida?"
He was leaning over her, worried, for the first time in their
marriage
and unconcerned about violating his customary punctu- ality at
the of-
fice.
"I am sleepy," Brigida had replied childishly, hiding her face in
the
pillow.
For once, he rang her up at lunchtime from his club. But she had
refused to come to the phone, angrily wielding a weapon she
had dis-
covered without thinking: silence.
That same evening she dined across from him with lowered eyes
and
nerves strung tight.
'Are you still angry, Brfgida?"
But she did not answer.
"You know perfectly well that I love you. But I can't be with
you all
the time. I am a very busy man. When you reach my age, you
become a
80. slave to a thousand obligations."
"Shall we so out tonisht?"
"No? Very well, I will be patient. Tell me, did Roberto call
from
Montevideo?"
"What a lovelv dress! Is it new?"
"ls it new, Brigida? Answer me. Say something."
Marta Luisa Bombal
But she refused to break her silence.
And then the unexpected, the astonishing, the absurd. Luis rises
lrom his chair and slaps his napkin on the table, slamming the
door as
hc stomps from the house.
She, too, had gotten to her feet, stunned, trembling with
indigna-
tion at such injustice. "And I ... and I... " she stammered, "I,
who
lirr almost an entire year . .. when for the first time I take the
liberty of
Iodging a complaint . . . ah, I am leaving-I am leaving this very
night! I
shall never set foot in this house again . . . " And she jerked
open the ar-
moires in her dressing room, strewing clothes furiously in all
directions.
It was then that she heard a banging against the windowpane.
She ran to the window and opened it, not knowing how or from
81. where the courage came. It was the rubber tree, set in motion by
the
storm, knocking its branches on the glass as though calling her
to wit-
ness how it nvisted and contorted like a fierce black flame
under the
burning sky of that summer night.
Heavy rain soon began to lash its cold leaves. How lovely! All
night
long she could hear the rain thrashing, splashing through the
leaves of
the rubber tree like a thousand tiny rivers sliding down
imaginary canals.
All night long she heard the ancient trunk creak and moan, the
storm
raging outside while she curled into a ball between the sheets of
the
wide bed, very close to Luis.
Handfuls of pearls raining on a silver roof. Chopin. Etudes by
Fr6d6ric Chopin.
How many mornings had she awakened as soon as she sensed
that
her husband, now likewise maintaining an obstinate silence, had
slipped
from bed?
Her dressing room: the window thrown wide, the odor of river
and
grass floating in that hospitable chamber, and the mirrors
wearing a veil
of fog.
Chopin intermingles in her turbulent memory with rain hissing
82. through the leaves of the rubber tree like some hidden waterfall-
so
palpable that even the roses on the curtains seem moist.
What to do in summer when it rains so often? Spend the day in
her room feigning sadness, a convalescence? One afternoon
Luis had
entered timidly. Had sat down stiffiy. There was a long silence.
"Then it is true, Brigida? You no longer love me?"
A sudden joy seized her. She might have shouted, "No, no. I
love
you Luis, I love you," if he had given her time, if he had not
almost
immediately added, with his habitual calm, "In any case, I do
not think
39
The Tiee
it would be convenient for us to separate, Brfgida. Such a move
requires
much thought."
Her impulse sank as fast as it had surfaced. What was the use of
exciting herself! Luis loved her tenderly, with moderation; if he
ever
came to hate her, it would be a just and prudent hatred. And that
was
life. She walked to the window and placed her forehead against
the
cold glass. There was the rubber tree, serenely accepting the
83. pelting
rain. The room was fixed in shadow, quiet and ordered.
Everything
seemed to be held in an eternal and very noble equilibrium.
That was
life. And there was a certain grandeur in accepting it thus:
mediocre,
like something definite and irremediable. While underneath it
all there
seemed to rise a melody of grave and slow words that transfixed
her:
"Always. Never ... "
And in this way the hours, days and years pass. Always! Never!
Life!
Life!
Collecting herself, she realized that her husband had stolen
from the
room.
"Always! Never! ... " And the rain, secret and steady, still whis-
pered in Chopin.
Summer stripped the leaves from its burning calendar.
Luminous
and blinding pages fell like golden swords; pages also of
malignant damp-
ness like breeze from a swamp; pages of furious and brief
storms, of hot
wind-the wind that carries the "carnation of the air" and hangs it
on
the huge rubber tree.
Some children used to play hide-and-seek among the enormous,
twisted roots that pushed up the paving stones on the sidewalk,
84. and the
tree overflowed with laughter and whispering. On those days
she would
look from the window and clap her hands; but the children
dispersed
in fear, without noticing the childlike smile of a girl who
wanted to join
the game.
Alone, she would lean on her elbows at the window for a long
time,
watching the foliage swaying-a breeze blew along that street
which
sloped directly to the river-and it was like staring deep into
moving
water or the dancing flames in a fireplace. One could kill time
in this
fashion, no need for thought made foolish by peace of mind.
She lit the first lamp just as the room began to fill with twilight
smoke, and the first lamp flickered in the mirrors, multiplying
like fire-
flies eager to hasten the night.
Maria Luisa Bombal
And night after night she dozed beside her husband, suffering at
rn-
tervals. But when her pain tightened so that it pierced like a
knife thrust,
when she was besieged by the desire to wake Luis-to hit him or
caress
him-she tiptoed to her dressing room and opened the window.
Imme-
diately the room came alive with discreet sounds and discreet
presences,
85. with mysterious footsteps, the fluttering of wings, the sudden
rustling of
vegetation, the soft chirping of a cricket perched on the bark of
the rub-
ber tree under the stars of a hot summer night.
Little by little her fever went down as her bare feet grew cold
on the
reed mat. She did not know why it was so easy to suffer in that
room.
Chopin's melancholy stringing of one Etude after another,
stringing
of one melancholy after another, imperturbably.
And autumn came. The dry leaves hovered an instant before
settling
on the grass of the narrow garden, on the sidewalk of that
sloping street.
The leaves came loose and fell . . . The top of the rubber tree
remained
green but underneath it turned red, darkened like the worn-out
lining of
a sumptuous evening cape. And now the room seemed to be
submerged
in a goblet of dull gold.
Lying on the divan, she waited patiently for the dinner hour and
the improbable arrival of Luis. She had resumed speaking to
him, had
become his again without enthusiasm or anger. She no longer
loved
him. But she no longer suffered. On the contrary, an unexpected
feeling
of fulfillment and placidity had taken hold of her. Nothing, no
one could
86. hurt her now. It may be that true happiness lies in the
conviction that
one has irrevocably lost happiness. It is only then that we can
begin to
live without hope or fear, able finally to enjoy all the small
pleasures,
which are the most lasting.
A thunderous noise, followed by a flash of light from which she
re-
coils, shaking.
The intermission? No. The rubber tree.
Having started to work early in the morning without her
knowledge,
they had felled it with a single stroke of the axe. "The roots
were break-
ing up the sidewalk and, naturally, the neighborhood committee
... "
Dazed, she has shielded her eyes with her hands. When she
recovers
her sight, she stands and looks around. What does she see?
The concert hall suddenly ablaze with light, the audience filing
out?
No. She is imprisoned in the web of her past, trapped in the
dressing
room-which has been invaded by a terrifying white light. It was
as if
they had ripped offthe roof; a crude light entering from every
direction,
4 l
87. The Tiee
seeping through her very pores, burning her with its coldness.
And she
saw everything bathed in that cold light: Luis, his wrinkled
face, his
hands crisscrossed with ropy discolored veins and the gaudy
cretonnes.
Frightened, she runs to the window. The window now opens
directly
on a narrow street, so narrow that her room almost brushes
against a
shiny skyscraper. On the ground floor, shop windows and more
shop
windows, full of bottles. At the corner, a row of automobiles
lined up
in front of a service station painted red. Some boys in their
shirtsleeves
are kicking a ball in the middle of the street.
And all that ugliness lay embedded in her mirrors, alongwith
nickel-
plated balconies, shabby clotheslines and canary cages.
They had stolen her intimacy, her secret; she found herself
naked
in the middle of the street, naked before an old husband who
turned
his back on her in bed, who had given her no children. She does
not
understand why, until then, she had not wanted children, how
she had
88. resigned herself to the idea of a life without children. Nor does
she
comprehend how for a whole year she had tolerated Luis's
laughter,
that overcheerful laughter, that false laughter of a man who has
trained
himself in joviality because it is necessary to laugh on certain
occasions.
Lies! Her resignation and serenity were lies; she wanted love,
yes,
love, and trips and madness and love, love ...
"But, Brigida ... why are you leaving? Why did you stay so
long?"
Luis had asked. Now she would have to know how to answer
him.
"The tree, Luis, the tree! They have cut down the rubber tree.,'
Tianslated by Richard Cunninghafti and Lucia Guerra
Culinary Lesson
Rosario Castellanos
Th" kit"h"n is resplendent with whiteness. A shame to have to
dirty it
with use. One should rather sit down to admire it, describe it,
closing
one's eyes, to evoke it. On examining this cleanliness, such
beauty lacks
the dazzling excess that makes one shiver in the sanatoriums. Or
is it the
halo of disinfectants, the cushioned steps of the nurses, the
89. hidden pres-
ence of sickness and death that does it? What does it matter to
me? My
place is here. From the beginning of time it has been here. In
the Ger-
man proverb woman is synonymous with Kiiche, Kinder,
Kirche. I wan-
dered lost in classrooms, in streets, in offices, in caf6s; wasting
my time
in skills that I now need to forget in order to acquire others. For
exam-
ple, to decide on a menu. How is one to carry out such an
arduous task
without society's and history's cooperation? On a special shelf
adjusted
to my height are lined up my guardian spirits, those admirable
acrobats
who reconcile in their recipes the most irreducible opposites:
slimness
and gluttony, decoration and economy, rapidity and succulence.
With
theirinfinite combinations: thinness and economy, swiftness and
visual
harmony, taste and ... What do you recommend for today's meal,
ex-
perienced housewife, inspiration for mothers absent and present,
voice
of tradition, open secret of the supermarkets? I open a cookbook
by
chance and read: "Don Quijote's Dinner." Literary but not very
satis-
90. factory. Because Don Quijote was more of a crackpot than a
gourmet'
Although an analysis of the text reveals that, etc., etc., etc. Uf.
More ink
has run about this figure than water under the bridges. "Little
birds of
the face's center." Esoteric. Center of what? Does the face of
someone
or something have a center? If it had, it wouldn't be very
appetizing'
"Bigos, Rumanian Style." But who do you think I am? If I knew
what
tarragon and anan6s were, I wouldn't be consulting this book,
because I
42
+ J