21st Century Literature from the Philippines and the World

Quarter II – 21st Century Literature from the World

List of Short Stories

from different parts of the world

The Passionate Shepherd To His Love

God Sees the Truth but Waits
The Birthmark
Anabel Lee
The Fifth Story
Kabuliwala
Swaddling Clothes
Civilian and Soldier
Africa my Africa

Prepared by:
Robinson F. Lualhati, LPT

March 2023

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 Table of Contents

English Literature
The Passionate Shepherd To His Love by Christopher Marlowe…………….……………………. 3
God Sees the Truth but Waits by Leo Tolstoy……………………………………………………… 4

American Literature
The Birthmark by Nathaniel Hawthorne……………………………………………………………. 6
Anabel Lee by Edgar Allan Poe……………………………………………………………………. 14

Latin Literature
The Fifth Story by Clarice Lispector………………………………………………………………... 15

Asian Literature
Kabuliwala by Rabindranath Tagore………………………………………………………………. 17
Swaddling Clothes by Yukio Mishima translated by Ivan Morris ………………………………… 21

African Literature
Civilian and Soldier by Wole Soyinka……………………………………………………………... 24
Africa my Africa by David Diop…………………………………………………………………… 24

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 - Start of English Literature -

The Passionate Shepherd To His Love

By Christopher Marlowe

Published in 1599, six years after the poet's death

In addition to being one of the most well-known love poems in the English language, it is considered one of the earliest
examples of the pastoral style of British poetry in the late Renaissance period. It is composed in iambic tetrameter (four
feet of unstressed/stressed syllables), with seven (sometimes six, depending on the version) stanzas each composed of two
rhyming couplets. It is often used for scholastic purposes for its regular meter and rhythm.

Come live with me, and be my love;

And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,

Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,

And a thousand fragrant posies;
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy-buds,

With coral clasps and amber studs:
An if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

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 God Sees the Truth, But Waits
By Leo Tolstoy

In the town of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Ivan Dmitrich Aksionov. He had two shops and a house of
his own.
Aksionov was a handsome, fair-haired, curly-headed fellow, full of fun, and very fond of singing. When quite a
young man he had been given to drink, and was riotous when he had had too much; but after he married he gave up drinking,
except now and then.
One summer Aksionov was going to the Nizhny Fair, and as he bade good-bye to his family, his wife said to him,
"Ivan Dmitrich, do not start to-day; I have had a bad dream about you."
Aksionov laughed, and said, "You are afraid that when I get to the fair I shall go on a spree."
His wife replied: "I do not know what I am afraid of; all I know is that I had a bad dream. I dreamt you returned
from the town, and when you took off your cap I saw that your hair was quite grey."
Aksionov laughed. "That's a lucky sign," said he. "See if I don't sell out all my goods, and bring you some presents
from the fair."
So he said good-bye to his family, and drove away.
When he had travelled half-way, he met a merchant whom he knew, and they put up at the same inn for the night.
They had some tea together, and then went to bed in adjoining rooms.
It was not Aksionov's habit to sleep late, and, wishing to travel while it was still cool, he aroused his driver before
dawn, and told him to put in the horses.
Then he made his way across to the landlord of the inn (who lived in a cottage at the back), paid his bill, and
continued his journey.
When he had gone about twenty-five miles, he stopped for the horses to be fed. Aksionov rested awhile in the
passage of the inn, then he stepped out into the porch, and, ordering a samovar to be heated, got out his guitar and began to
play.
Suddenly a troika drove up with tinkling bells and an official alighted, followed by two soldiers. He came to
Aksionov and began to question him, asking him who he was and whence he came. Aksionov answered him fully, and said,
"Won't you have some tea with me?" But the official went on cross-questioning him and asking him. "Where did you spend
last night? Were you alone, or with a fellow-merchant? Did you see the other merchant this morning? Why did you leave
the inn before dawn?"
Aksionov wondered why he was asked all these questions, but he described all that had happened, and then added,
"Why do you cross-question me as if I were a thief or a robber? I am travelling on business of my own, and there is no need
to question me."
Then the official, calling the soldiers, said, "I am the police-officer of this district, and I question you because the
merchant with whom you spent last night has been found with his throat cut. We must search your things."
They entered the house. The soldiers and the police-officer unstrapped Aksionov's luggage and searched it.
Suddenly the officer drew a knife out of a bag, crying, "Whose knife is this?"

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 Aksionov looked, and seeing a blood-stained knife taken from his bag, he was frightened.
"How is it there is blood on this knife?"
Aksionov tried to answer, but could hardly utter a word, and only stammered: "I--don't know--not mine." Then the
police-officer said: "This morning the merchant was found in bed with his throat cut. You are the only person who could
have done it. The house was locked from inside, and no one else was there. Here is this blood-stained knife in your bag and
your face and manner betray you! Tell me how you killed him, and how much money you stole?"
Aksionov swore he had not done it; that he had not seen the merchant after they had had tea together; that he had
no money except eight thousand rubles of his own, and that the knife was not his. But his voice was broken, his face pale,
and he trembled with fear as though he went guilty.
The police-officer ordered the soldiers to bind Aksionov and to put him in the cart. As they tied his feet together
and flung him into the cart, Aksionov crossed himself and wept. His money and goods were taken from him, and he was
sent to the nearest town and imprisoned there. Enquiries as to his character were made in Vladimir. The merchants and other
inhabitants of that town said that in former days he used to drink and waste his time, but that he was a good man. Then the
trial came on: he was charged with murdering a merchant from Ryazan, and robbing him of twenty thousand rubles.
His wife was in despair, and did not know what to believe. Her children were all quite small; one was a baby at her
breast. Taking them all with her, she went to the town where her husband was in jail. At first she was not allowed to see
him; but after much begging, she obtained permission from the officials, and was taken to him. When she saw her husband
in prison-dress and in chains, shut up with thieves and criminals, she fell down, and did not come to her senses for a long
time. Then she drew her children to her, and sat down near him. She told him of things at home, and asked about what had
happened to him. He told her all, and she asked, "What can we do now?"
"We must petition the Czar not to let an innocent man perish."
His wife told him that she had sent a petition to the Czar, but it had not been accepted.
Aksionov did not reply, but only looked downcast.
Then his wife said, "It was not for nothing I dreamt your hair had turned grey. You remember? You should not have
started that day." And passing her fingers through his hair, she said: "Vanya dearest, tell your wife the truth; was it not you
who did it?"
"So you, too, suspect me!" said Aksionov, and, hiding his face in his hands, he began to weep. Then a soldier came
to say that the wife and children must go away; and Aksionov said good-bye to his family for the last time.
When they were gone, Aksionov recalled what had been said, and when he remembered that his wife also had
suspected him, he said to himself, "It seems that only God can know the truth; it is to Him alone we must appeal, and from
Him alone expect mercy."
And Aksionov wrote no more petitions; gave up all hope, and only prayed to God.
Aksionov was condemned to be flogged and sent to the mines. So he was flogged with a knot, and when the wounds
made by the knot were healed, he was driven to Siberia with other convicts.
For twenty-six years Aksionov lived as a convict in Siberia. His hair turned white as snow, and his beard grew long,
thin, and grey. All his mirth went; he stooped; he walked slowly, spoke little, and never laughed, but he often prayed.
In prison Aksionov learnt to make boots, and earned a little money, with which he bought The Lives of the Saints.
He read this book when there was light enough in the prison; and on Sundays in the prison-church he read the lessons and
sang in the choir; for his voice was still good.

2
 The prison authorities liked Aksionov for his meekness, and his fellow-prisoners respected him: they called him
"Grandfather," and "The Saint." When they wanted to petition the prison authorities about anything, they always made
Aksionov their spokesman, and when there were quarrels among the prisoners they came to him to put things right, and to
judge the matter.
No news reached Aksionov from his home, and he did not even know if his wife and children were still alive.
One day a fresh gang of convicts came to the prison. In the evening the old prisoners collected round the new ones
and asked them what towns or villages they came from, and what they were sentenced for. Among the rest Aksionov sat
down near the newcomers, and listened with downcast air to what was said.
One of the new convicts, a tall, strong man of sixty, with a closely-cropped grey beard, was telling the others what
be had been arrested for.
"Well, friends," he said, "I only took a horse that was tied to a sledge, and I was arrested and accused of stealing. I
said I had only taken it to get home quicker, and had then let it go; besides, the driver was a personal friend of mine. So I
said, 'It's all right.' 'No,' said they, 'you stole it.' But how or where I stole it they could not say. I once really did something
wrong, and ought by rights to have come here long ago, but that time I was not found out. Now I have been sent here for
nothing at all... Eh, but it's lies I'm telling you; I've been to Siberia before, but I did not stay long."
"Where are you from?" asked some one.
"From Vladimir. My family are of that town. My name is Makar, and they also call me Semyonich."
Aksionov raised his head and said: "Tell me, Semyonich, do you know anything of the merchants Aksionov of
Vladimir? Are they still alive?"
"Know them? Of course I do. The Aksionovs are rich, though their father is in Siberia: a sinner like ourselves, it
seems! As for you, Gran'dad, how did you come here?"
Aksionov did not like to speak of his misfortune. He only sighed, and said, "For my sins I have been in prison these
twenty-six years."
"What sins?" asked Makar Semyonich.
But Aksionov only said, "Well, well--I must have deserved it!" He would have said no more, but his companions
told the newcomers how Aksionov came to be in Siberia; how some one had killed a merchant, and had put the knife among
Aksionov's things, and Aksionov had been unjustly condemned.
When Makar Semyonich heard this, he looked at Aksionov, slapped his own knee, and exclaimed, "Well, this is
wonderful! Really wonderful! But how old you've grown, Gran'dad!"
The others asked him why he was so surprised, and where he had seen Aksionov before; but Makar Semyonich did
not reply. He only said: "It's wonderful that we should meet here, lads!"
These words made Aksionov wonder whether this man knew who had killed the merchant; so he said, "Perhaps,
Semyonich, you have heard of that affair, or maybe you've seen me before?"
"How could I help hearing? The world's full of rumours. But it's a long time ago, and I've forgotten what I heard."
"Perhaps you heard who killed the merchant?" asked Aksionov.
Makar Semyonich laughed, and replied: "It must have been him in whose bag the knife was found! If some one else
hid the knife there, 'He's not a thief till he's caught,' as the saying is. How could any one put a knife into your bag while it
was under your head? It would surely have woke you up."

3
 When Aksionov heard these words, he felt sure this was the man who had killed the merchant. He rose and went
away. All that night Aksionov lay awake. He felt terribly unhappy, and all sorts of images rose in his mind. There was the
image of his wife as she was when he parted from her to go to the fair. He saw her as if she were present; her face and her
eyes rose before him; he heard her speak and laugh. Then he saw his children, quite little, as they: were at that time: one
with a little cloak on, another at his mother's breast. And then he remembered himself as he used to be-young and merry.
He remembered how he sat playing the guitar in the porch of the inn where he was arrested, and how free from care he had
been. He saw, in his mind, the place where he was flogged, the executioner, and the people standing around; the chains, the
convicts, all the twenty-six years of his prison life, and his premature old age. The thought of it all made him so wretched
that he was ready to kill himself.
"And it's all that villain's doing!" thought Aksionov. And his anger was so great against Makar Semyonich that he
longed for vengeance, even if he himself should perish for it. He kept repeating prayers all night, but could get no peace.
During the day he did not go near Makar Semyonich, nor even look at him.
A fortnight passed in this way. Aksionov could not sleep at night, and was so miserable that he did not know what
to do.
One night as he was walking about the prison he noticed some earth that came rolling out from under one of the
shelves on which the prisoners slept. He stopped to see what it was. Suddenly Makar Semyonich crept out from under the
shelf, and looked up at Aksionov with frightened face. Aksionov tried to pass without looking at him, but Makar seized his
hand and told him that he had dug a hole under the wall, getting rid of the earth by putting it into his high-boots, and
emptying it out every day on the road when the prisoners were driven to their work.
"Just you keep quiet, old man, and you shall get out too. If you blab, they'll flog the life out of me, but I will kill you first."
Aksionov trembled with anger as he looked at his enemy. He drew his hand away, saying, "I have no wish to escape,
and you have no need to kill me; you killed me long ago! As to telling of you--I may do so or not, as God shall direct."
Next day, when the convicts were led out to work, the convoy soldiers noticed that one or other of the prisoners
emptied some earth out of his boots. The prison was searched and the tunnel found. The Governor came and questioned all
the prisoners to find out who had dug the hole. They all denied any knowledge of it. Those who knew would not betray
Makar Semyonich, knowing he would be flogged almost to death. At last the Governor turned to Aksionov whom he knew
to be a just man, and said:
"You are a truthful old man; tell me, before God, who dug the hole?"
Makar Semyonich stood as if he were quite unconcerned, looking at the Governor and not so much as glancing at
Aksionov. Aksionov's lips and hands trembled, and for a long time he could not utter a word. He thought, "Why should I
screen him who ruined my life? Let him pay for what I have suffered. But if I tell, they will probably flog the life out of
him, and maybe I suspect him wrongly. And, after all, what good would it be to me?"
"Well, old man," repeated the Governor, "tell me the truth: who has been digging under the wall?"
Aksionov glanced at Makar Semyonich, and said, "I cannot say, your honour. It is not God's will that I should tell!
Do what you like with me; I am your hands."
However much the Governor! tried, Aksionov would say no more, and so the matter had to be left.
That night, when Aksionov was lying on his bed and just beginning to doze, some one came quietly and sat down
on his bed. He peered through the darkness and recognised Makar.
"What more do you want of me?" asked Aksionov. "Why have you come here?"
Makar Semyonich was silent. So Aksionov sat up and said, "What do you want? Go away, or I will call the guard!"
Makar Semyonich bent close over Aksionov, and whispered, "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!"
4
 "What for?" asked Aksionov.
"It was I who killed the merchant and hid the knife among your things. I meant to kill you too, but I heard a noise
outside, so I hid the knife in your bag and escaped out of the window."
Aksionov was silent, and did not know what to say. Makar Semyonich slid off the bed-shelf and knelt upon the
ground. "Ivan Dmitrich," said he, "forgive me! For the love of God, forgive me! I will confess that it was I who killed the
merchant, and you will be released and can go to your home."
"It is easy for you to talk," said Aksionov, "but I have suffered for you these twenty-six years. Where could I go to
now?... My wife is dead, and my children have forgotten me. I have nowhere to go..."
Makar Semyonich did not rise, but beat his head on the floor. "Ivan Dmitrich, forgive me!" he cried. "When they
flogged me with the knot it was not so hard to bear as it is to see you now ... yet you had pity on me, and did not tell. For
Christ's sake forgive me, wretch that I am!" And he began to sob.
When Aksionov heard him sobbing he, too, began to weep. "God will forgive you!" said he. "Maybe I am a hundred
times worse than you." And at these words his heart grew light, and the longing for home left him. He no longer had any
desire to leave the prison, but only hoped for his last hour to come.
In spite of what Aksionov had said, Makar Semyonich confessed, his guilt. But when the order for his release came,
Aksionov was already dead.

- End of English Literature -

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 - Start of American Literature -

The Birthmark
by Nathaniel Hawthorne
In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural
philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any
chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke,
washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the
comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of
miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher
intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of
their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should
lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer
possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to
scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger
of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to his
own.
Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive
moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew
stronger until he spoke.
"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?"
"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth it
has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."
"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so
nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a
beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection."
"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into
tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you!"
To explain this conversation it must be mentioned that in the centre of Georgiana's left cheek there was a singular
mark, deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state of her complexion--a
healthy though delicate bloom--the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the
surrounding rosiness. When she blushed it gradually became more indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush
of blood that bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting motion caused her to turn pale there was the
mark again, a crimson stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape bore
not a little similarity to the human hand, though of the smallest pygmy size. Georgiana's lovers were wont to say that some
fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand upon the infant's cheek, and left this impress there in token of the magic
endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege
of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by this fairy
sign manual varied exceedingly, according to the difference of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious persons--but
they were exclusively of her own sex--affirmed that the bloody hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the effect of
Georgiana's beauty, and rendered her countenance even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one of those small
blue stains which sometimes occur in the purest statuary marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine
observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration, contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world

6
might possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness without the semblance of a flaw. After his marriage,--for he thought
little or nothing of the matter before,--Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.
Had she been less beautiful,--if Envy's self could have found aught else to sneer at,--he might have felt his affection
heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now stealing forth again and glimmering
to and fro with every pulse of emotion that throbbed within her heart; but seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one
defect grow more and more intolerable with every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity which
Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions, either to imply that they are temporary and
finite, or that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The crimson hand expressed the ineludible gripe in which
mortality clutches the highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with the lowest, and even with the
very brutes, like whom their visible frames return to dust. In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of his wife's liability to
sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmer's sombre imagination was not long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object,
causing him more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him delight.
At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably and without intending it, nay, in spite of a
purpose to the contrary, reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first appeared, it so connected itself with
innumerable trains of thought and modes of feeling that it became the central point of all. With the morning twilight Aylmer
opened his eyes upon his wife's face and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at the evening
hearth his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood fire, the spectral hand
that wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a
glance with the peculiar expression that his face often wore to change the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness, amid
which the crimson hand was brought strongly out, like a bass-relief of ruby on the whitest marble.
Late one night when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly to betray the stain on the poor wife's cheek, she
herself, for the first time, voluntarily took up the subject.
"Do you remember, my dear Aylmer," said she, with a feeble attempt at a smile, "have you any recollection of a dream last
night about this odious hand?"
"None! none whatever!" replied Aylmer, starting; but then he added, in a dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing
the real depth of his emotion, "I might well dream of it; for before I fell asleep it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy."
"And you did dream of it?" continued Georgiana, hastily; for she dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had
to say. "A terrible dream! I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible to forget this one expression?--'It is in her heart now;
we must have it out!' Reflect, my husband; for by all means I would have you recall that dream."
The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her
sway, but suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer
now remembered his dream. He had fancied himself with his servant Aminadab, attempting an operation for the removal of
the birthmark; but the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have caught
hold of Georgiana's heart; whence, however, her husband was inexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away.
When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory, Aylmer sat in his wife's presence with a guilty feeling.
Truth often finds its way to the mind close muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with uncompromising directness of
matters in regard to which we practise an unconscious self-deception during our waking moments. Until now he had not
been aware of the tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in his
heart to go for the sake of giving himself peace.
"Aylmer," resumed Georgiana, solemnly, "I know not what may be the cost to both of us to rid me of this fatal birthmark.
Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deformity; or it may be the stain goes as deep as life itself. Again: do we know that
there is a possibility, on any terms, of unclasping the firm gripe of this little hand which was laid upon me before I came
into the world?"

7
"Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject," hastily interrupted Aylmer. "I am convinced of the perfect
practicability of its removal."
"If there be the remotest possibility of it," continued Georgiana, "let the attempt be made at whatever risk. Danger is nothing
to me; for life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror and disgust,--life is a burden which I would fling
down with joy. Either remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life! You have deep science. All the world bears
witness of it. You have achieved great wonders. Cannot you remove this little, little mark, which I cover with the tips of
two small fingers? Is this beyond your power, for the sake of your own peace, and to save your poor wife from madness?"
"Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife," cried Aylmer, rapturously, "doubt not my power. I have already given this matter the
deepest thought--thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a being less perfect than yourself. Georgiana,
you have led me deeper than ever into the heart of science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek as faultless
as its fellow; and then, most beloved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Nature left imperfect in
her fairest work! Even Pygmalion, when his sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will be."
"It is resolved, then," said Georgiana, faintly smiling. "And, Aylmer, spare me not, though you should find the birthmark
take refuge in my heart at last."
Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek--her right cheek--not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand.
The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed whereby he might have opportunity for the
intense thought and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation would require; while Georgiana, likewise, would
enjoy the perfect repose essential to its success. They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments occupied by
Aylmer as a laboratory, and where, during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental powers of Nature
that had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe. Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale philosopher
had investigated the secrets of the highest cloud region and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied himself of the causes
that kindled and kept alive the fires of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and how it is that they gush
forth, some so bright and pure, and others with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth. Here, too, at
an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature
assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her
masterpiece. The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling recognition of the truth--against which all
seekers sooner or later stumble--that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with apparently working in the broadest
sunshine, is yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us nothing but
results. She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now,
however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested
them; but because they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the treatment of
Georgiana.
As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana was cold and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheerfully
into her face, with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of the birthmark upon the whiteness of
her cheek that he could not restrain a strong convulsive shudder. His wife fainted.
"Aminadab! Aminadab!" shouted Aylmer, stamping violently on the floor.
Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man of low stature, but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging
about his visage, which was grimed with the vapors of the furnace. This personage had been Aylmer's underworker during
his whole scientific career, and was admirably fitted for that office by his great mechanical readiness, and the skill with
which, while incapable of comprehending a single principle, he executed all the details of his master's experiments. With
his vast strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky aspect, and the indescribable earthiness that incrusted him, he seemed to
represent man's physical nature; while Aylmer's slender figure, and pale, intellectual face, were no less apt a type of the
spiritual element.
"Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab," said Aylmer, "and burn a pastil."
8
"Yes, master," answered Aminadab, looking intently at the lifeless form of Georgiana; and then he muttered to himself, "If
she were my wife, I'd never part with that birthmark."
When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the
gentle potency of which had recalled her from her deathlike faintness. The scene around her looked like enchantment.
Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into
a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous
curtains, which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other species of adornment can achieve; and as they
fell from the ceiling to the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight lines, appeared to shut in
the scene from infinite space. For aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. And Aylmer, excluding
the sunshine, which would have interfered with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with perfumed lamps, emitting
flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, impurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side, watching her earnestly,
but without alarm; for he was confident in his science, and felt that he could draw a magic circle round her within which no
evil might intrude.
"Where am I? Ah, I remember," said Georgiana, faintly; and she placed her hand over her cheek to hide the terrible mark
from her husband's eyes.
"Fear not, dearest!" exclaimed he. "Do not shrink from me! Believe me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection,
since it will be such a rapture to remove it."
"Oh, spare me!" sadly replied his wife. "Pray do not look at it again. I never can forget that convulsive shudder."
In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from the burden of actual things, Aylmer now put
in practice some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught him among its profounder lore. Airy figures,
absolutely bodiless ideas, and forms of unsubstantial beauty came and danced before her, imprinting their momentary
footsteps on beams of light. Though she had some indistinct idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still the illusion
was almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed sway over the spiritual world. Then again, when
she felt a wish to look forth from her seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the procession of external
existence flitted across a screen. The scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented, but with that
bewitching, yet indescribable difference which always makes a picture, an image, or a shadow so much more attractive than
the original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so,
with little interest at first; but was soon startled to perceive the germ of a plant shooting upward from the soil. Then came
the slender stalk; the leaves gradually unfolded themselves; and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.
"It is magical!" cried Georgiana. "I dare not touch it."
"Nay, pluck it," answered Aylmer,--"pluck it, and inhale its brief perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few
moments and leave nothing save its brown seed vessels; but thence may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself."
But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black
as if by the agency of fire.
"There was too powerful a stimulus," said Aylmer, thoughtfully.
To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her portrait by a scientific process of his own invention.
It was to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal. Georgiana assented; but, on looking at the
result, was affrighted to find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable; while the minute figure of a hand appeared
where the cheek should have been. Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of corrosive acid.
Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of study and chemical experiment he came to
her flushed and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in glowing language of the resources of his
art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of the alchemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal solvent by
which the golden principle might be elicited from all things vile and base. Aylmer appeared to believe that, by the plainest
9
scientific logic, it was altogether within the limits of possibility to discover this long-sought medium; "but," he added, "a
philosopher who should go deep enough to acquire the power would attain too lofty a wisdom to stoop to the exercise of
it." Not less singular were his opinions in regard to the elixir vitae. He more than intimated that it was at his option to
concoct a liquid that should prolong life for years, perhaps interminably; but that it would produce a discord in Nature which
all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find cause to curse.
"Aylmer, are you in earnest?" asked Georgiana, looking at him with amazement and fear. "It is terrible to possess such
power, or even to dream of possessing it."
"Oh, do not tremble, my love," said her husband. "I would not wrong either you or myself by working such inharmonious
effects upon our lives; but I would have you consider how trifling, in comparison, is the skill requisite to remove this little
hand."
At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if a redhot iron had touched her cheek.
Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in the distant furnace room giving directions to
Aminadab, whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt or growl of a brute than
human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer reappeared and proposed that she should now examine his cabinet of
chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her a small vial, in which, he remarked,
was contained a gentle yet most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the breezes that blow across a kingdom.
They were of inestimable value, the contents of that little vial; and, as he said so, he threw some of the perfume into the air
and filled the room with piercing and invigorating delight.
"And what is this?" asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal globe containing a gold-colored liquid. "It is so beautiful
to the eye that I could imagine it the elixir of life."
"In one sense it is," replied Aylmer; "or, rather, the elixir of immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was
concocted in this world. By its aid I could apportion the lifetime of any mortal at whom you might point your finger. The
strength of the dose would determine whether he were to linger out years, or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king on
his guarded throne could keep his life if I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of millions justified me in
depriving him of it."
"Why do you keep such a terrific drug?" inquired Georgiana in horror.
"Do not mistrust me, dearest," said her husband, smiling; "its virtuous potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But see!
here is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this in a vase of water, freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands
are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek, and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost."
"Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?" asked Georgiana, anxiously.
"Oh, no," hastily replied her husband; "this is merely superficial. Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper."
In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute inquiries as to her sensations and whether the
confinement of the rooms and the temperature of the atmosphere agreed with her. These questions had such a particular
drift that Georgiana began to conjecture that she was already subjected to certain physical influences, either breathed in with
the fragrant air or taken with her food. She fancied likewise, but it might be altogether fancy, that there was a stirring up of
her system--a strange, indefinite sensation creeping through her veins, and tingling, half painfully, half pleasurably, at her
heart. Still, whenever she dared to look into the mirror, there she beheld herself pale as a white rose and with the crimson
birthmark stamped upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as she.
To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it necessary to devote to the processes of combination
and analysis, Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific library. In many dark old tomes she met with chapters full
of romance and poetry. They were the works of philosophers of the middle ages, such as Albertus Magnus, Cornelius
Agrippa, Paracelsus, and the famous friar who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All these antique naturalists stood in

10
advance of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined
themselves to have acquired from the investigation of Nature a power above Nature, and from physics a sway over the
spiritual world. Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early volumes of the Transactions of the Royal Society, in
which the members, knowing little of the limits of natural possibility, were continually recording wonders or proposing
methods whereby wonders might be wrought.
But to Georgiana the most engrossing volume was a large folio from her husband's own hand, in which he had
recorded every experiment of his scientific career, its original aim, the methods adopted for its development, and its final
success or failure, with the circumstances to which either event was attributable. The book, in truth, was both the history
and emblem of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet practical and laborious life. He handled physical details as if there
were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed himself from materialism by his strong and eager
aspiration towards the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced
Aylmer and loved him more profoundly than ever, but with a less entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much
as he had accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if
compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by himself,
in comparison with the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume, rich with achievements that had
won renown for its author, was yet as melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad confession and
continual exemplification of the shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter,
and of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every
man of genius in whatever sphere might recognize the image of his own experience in Aylmer's journal.
So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that she laid her face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In
this situation she was found by her husband.
"It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's books," said he with a smile, though his countenance was uneasy and displeased.
"Georgiana, there are pages in that volume which I can scarcely glance over and keep my senses. Take heed lest it prove as
detrimental to you."
"It has made me worship you more than ever," said she.
"Ah, wait for this one success," rejoined he, "then worship me if you will. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But
come, I have sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing to me, dearest."
So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave with a boyish
exuberance of gayety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a little longer, and that the result was already certain.
Scarcely had he departed when Georgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten to inform Aylmer of a
symptom which for two or three hours past had begun to excite her attention. It was a sensation in the fatal birthmark, not
painful, but which induced a restlessness throughout her system. Hastening after her husband, she intruded for the first time
into the laboratory.
The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot and feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire,
which by the quantities of soot clustered above it seemed to have been burning for ages. There was a distilling apparatus in
full operation. Around the room were retorts, tubes, cylinders, crucibles, and other apparatus of chemical research. An
electrical machine stood ready for immediate use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was tainted with gaseous
odors which had been tormented forth by the processes of science. The severe and homely simplicity of the apartment, with
its naked walls and brick pavement, looked strange, accustomed as Georgiana had become to the fantastic elegance of her
boudoir. But what chiefly, indeed almost solely, drew her attention, was the aspect of Aylmer himself.
He was pale as death, anxious and absorbed, and hung over the furnace as if it depended upon his utmost
watchfulness whether the liquid which it was distilling should be the draught of immortal happiness or misery. How different
from the sanguine and joyous mien that he had assumed for Georgiana's encouragement!

11
"Carefully now, Aminadab; carefully, thou human machine; carefully, thou man of clay!" muttered Aylmer, more to himself
than his assistant. "Now, if there be a thought too much or too little, it is all over."
"Ho! ho!" mumbled Aminadab. "Look, master! look!"
Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew paler than ever, on beholding Georgiana. He rushed towards
her and seized her arm with a gripe that left the print of his fingers upon it.
"Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your husband?" cried he, impetuously. "Would you throw the blight of that
fatal birthmark over my labors? It is not well done. Go, prying woman, go!"
"Nay, Aylmer," said Georgiana with the firmness of which she possessed no stinted endowment, "it is not you that have a
right to complain. You mistrust your wife; you have concealed the anxiety with which you watch the development of this
experiment. Think not so unworthily of me, my husband. Tell me all the risk we run, and fear not that I shall shrink; for my
share in it is far less than your own."
"No, no, Georgiana!" said Aylmer, impatiently; "it must not be."
"I submit," replied she calmly. "And, Aylmer, I shall quaff whatever draught you bring me; but it will be on the same
principle that would induce me to take a dose of poison if offered by your hand."
"My noble wife," said Aylmer, deeply moved, "I knew not the height and depth of your nature until now. Nothing shall be
concealed. Know, then, that this crimson hand, superficial as it seems, has clutched its grasp into your being with a strength
of which I had no previous conception. I have already administered agents powerful enough to do aught except to change
your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried. If that fail us we are ruined."
"Why did you hesitate to tell me this?" asked she.
"Because, Georgiana," said Aylmer, in a low voice, "there is danger."
"Danger? There is but one danger--that this horrible stigma shall be left upon my cheek!" cried Georgiana. "Remove it,
remove it, whatever be the cost, or we shall both go mad!"
"Heaven knows your words are too true," said Aylmer, sadly. "And now, dearest, return to your boudoir. In a little while all
will be tested."
He conducted her back and took leave of her with a solemn tenderness which spoke far more than his words how
much was now at stake. After his departure Georgiana became rapt in musings. She considered the character of Aylmer,
and did it completer justice than at any previous moment. Her heart exulted, while it trembled, at his honorable love--so
pure and lofty that it would accept nothing less than perfection nor miserably make itself contented with an earthlier nature
than he had dreamed of. She felt how much more precious was such a sentiment than that meaner kind which would have
borne with the imperfection for her sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its perfect idea to the
level of the actual; and with her whole spirit she prayed that, for a single moment, she might satisfy his highest and deepest
conception. Longer than one moment she well knew it could not be; for his spirit was ever on the march, ever ascending,
and each instant required something that was beyond the scope of the instant before.
The sound of her husband's footsteps aroused her. He bore a crystal goblet containing a liquor colorless as water,
but bright enough to be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather the consequence of a highly-
wrought state of mind and tension of spirit than of fear or doubt.
"The concoction of the draught has been perfect," said he, in answer to Georgiana's look. "Unless all my science have
deceived me, it cannot fail."
"Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer," observed his wife, "I might wish to put off this birthmark of mortality by
relinquishing mortality itself in preference to any other mode. Life is but a sad possession to those who have attained

12
precisely the degree of moral advancement at which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder it might be happiness. Were I
stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself, methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die."
"You are fit for heaven without tasting death!" replied her husband "But why do we speak of dying? The draught cannot
fail. Behold its effect upon this plant."
On the window seat there stood a geranium diseased with yellow blotches, which had overspread all its leaves.
Aylmer poured a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew. In a little time, when the roots of the plant had
taken up the moisture, the unsightly blotches began to be extinguished in a living verdure.
"There needed no proof," said Georgiana, quietly. "Give me the goblet I joyfully stake all upon your word."
"Drink, then, thou lofty creature!" exclaimed Aylmer, with fervid admiration. "There is no taint of imperfection on thy spirit.
Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect."
She quaffed the liquid and returned the goblet to his hand.
"It is grateful," said she with a placid smile. "Methinks it is like water from a heavenly fountain; for it contains I know not
what of unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness. It allays a feverish thirst that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest,
let me sleep. My earthly senses are closing over my spirit like the leaves around the heart of a rose at sunset."
She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required almost more energy than she could command to
pronounce the faint and lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered through her lips ere she was lost in slumber. Aylmer
sat by her side, watching her aspect with the emotions proper to a man the whole value of whose existence was involved in
the process now to be tested. Mingled with this mood, however, was the philosophic investigation characteristic of the man
of science. Not the minutest symptom escaped him. A heightened flush of the cheek, a slight irregularity of breath, a quiver
of the eyelid, a hardly perceptible tremor through the frame,--such were the details which, as the moments passed, he wrote
down in his folio volume. Intense thought had set its stamp upon every previous page of that volume, but the thoughts of
years were all concentrated upon the last.
While thus employed, he failed not to gaze often at the fatal hand, and not without a shudder. Yet once, by a strange
and unaccountable impulse he pressed it with his lips. His spirit recoiled, however, in the very act, and Georgiana, out of
the midst of her deep sleep, moved uneasily and murmured as if in remonstrance. Again Aylmer resumed his watch. Nor
was it without avail. The crimson hand, which at first had been strongly visible upon the marble paleness of Georgiana's
cheek, now grew more faintly outlined. She remained not less pale than ever; but the birthmark with every breath that came
and went, lost somewhat of its former distinctness. Its presence had been awful; its departure was more awful still. Watch
the stain of the rainbow fading out the sky, and you will know how that mysterious symbol passed away.
"By Heaven! it is well-nigh gone!" said Aylmer to himself, in almost irrepressible ecstasy. "I can scarcely trace it now.
Success! success! And now it is like the faintest rose color. The lightest flush of blood across her cheek would overcome it.
But she is so pale!"
He drew aside the window curtain and suffered the light of natural day to fall into the room and rest upon her cheek.
At the same time he heard a gross, hoarse chuckle, which he had long known as his servant Aminadab's expression of
delight.
"Ah, clod! ah, earthly mass!" cried Aylmer, laughing in a sort of frenzy, "you have served me well! Matter and spirit--earth
and heaven --have both done their part in this! Laugh, thing of the senses! You have earned the right to laugh."
These exclamations broke Georgiana's sleep. She slowly unclosed her eyes and gazed into the mirror which her
husband had arranged for that purpose. A faint smile flitted over her lips when she recognized how barely perceptible was
now that crimson hand which had once blazed forth with such disastrous brilliancy as to scare away all their happiness. But
then her eyes sought Aylmer's face with a trouble and anxiety that he could by no means account for.
"My poor Aylmer!" murmured she.
13
"Poor? Nay, richest, happiest, most favored!" exclaimed he. "My peerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!"
"My poor Aylmer," she repeated, with a more than human tenderness, "you have aimed loftily; you have done nobly. Do
not repent that with so high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the earth could offer. Aylmer, dearest Aylmer, I
am dying!"
Alas! it was too true! The fatal hand had grappled with the mystery of life, and was the bond by which an angelic
spirit kept itself in union with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark--that sole token of human
imperfection--faded from her cheek, the parting breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her soul,
lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenward flight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus
ever does the gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumph over the immortal essence which, in this dim sphere of
half development, demands the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Alymer reached a profounder wisdom, he need not
thus have flung away the happiness which would have woven his mortal life of the selfsame texture with the celestial. The
momentary circumstance was too strong for him; he failed to look beyond the shadowy scope of time, and, living once for
all in eternity, to find the perfect future in the present.

Annabel Lee
By Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago, The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
In a kingdom by the sea, Went envying her and me -
That a maiden there lived whom you may know Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
By the name of Annabel Lee; In this kingdom by the sea)
And this maiden she lived with no other thought That the wind came out of the cloud one night,
Than to love and be loved by me. Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love -
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we -
Of many far wiser than we -
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling -my darling -my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea -
In her tomb by the sounding sea

- End of American Literature -

14
 - Start of Latin Literature -

The Fifth Story

By Clarice Lispector

This story could be called “The Statues.” Another possible title would be “The Killing.” Or even “How to Kill
Cockroaches.” So I shall tell at least three stories, all of them true, because none of the three will contradict the others.
Although they constitute one story, they could become a thousand and one, were I to be granted a thousand and one nights.

The first story, “How To Kill Cockroaches,” begins like this: I was complaining about the cockroaches. A woman
heard me complain. She gave me a recipe for killing them. I was to mix together equal quantities of sugar, flour and gypsum.
The flour and sugar would attract the cockroaches, the gypsum would dry up their insides. I followed her advice. The
cockroaches died.

The next story is really the first, and it is called “The Killing.” It begins like this: I was complaining about the
cockroaches. A woman heard me complain. The recipe follows. And then the killing takes place. The truth is that I had only
complained in abstract terms about the cockroaches, for they were not even mine: they belonged to the ground floor and
climbed up the pipes in the building into our apartment. It was only when I prepared the mixture that they also became mine.
On our behalf, therefore, I began to measure and weigh ingredients with greater concentration. A vague loathing had taken
possession of me, a sense of outrage. By day, the cockroaches were invisible and no one would believe in the evil secret
which eroded such a tranquil household. But if the cockroaches, like evil secrets, slept by day, there I was preparing their
nightly poison. Meticulous, eager, I prepared the elixir of prolonged death. An angry fear and my own evil secret guided
me. Now I coldly wanted one thing only: to kill every cockroach in existence. Cockroaches climb up the pipes while weary
people sleep. And now the recipe was ready, looking so white. As if I were dealing with cockroaches as cunning as myself,
I carefully spread the powder until it looked like part of the surface dust. From my bed, in the silence of the apartment, I
imagined them climbing up one by one into the kitchen where darkness slept, a solitary towel alert on the clothes-line. I
awoke hours later, startled at having overslept. It was beginning to grow light. I walked across the kitchen. There they lay
on the floor of the scullery, huge and brittle. During the night I had killed them. On our behalf, it was beginning to grow
light. On a nearby hill, a cockerel crowed.

The third story which now begins is called “The Statues.” It begins by saying that I had been complaining about the
cockroaches . Then the same woman appears on the scene. And so it goes on to the point where I awake as it is beginning
to grow light, and I awake still feeling sleepy and I walk across the kitchen. Even more sleepy is the scullery floor with its
tiled perspective. And in the shadows of dawn, there is a purplish hue which distances everything; at my feet, I perceive
patches of light and shade, scores of rigid statues scattered everywhere. The cockroaches that have hardened from core to
shell. Some are lying upside down. Others arrested in the midst of some movement that will never be completed. In the
mouths of some of the cockroaches, there are traces of white powder. I am the first to observe the dawn breaking over
Pompei. I know what this night has been, I know about the orgy in the dark. In some, the gypsum has hardened as slowly
as in some organic process, and the cockroaches, with ever more tortuous movements, have greedily intensified the night’s
pleasures, trying to escape from their insides. Until they turn to stone, in innocent terror and with such, but such an
expression of pained reproach. Others— suddenly assailed by their own core, without even having perceived that their inner
form was turning to stone!— these are suddenly crystallized, just like a word arrested on someone’s lips: I love . . . The
cockroaches, invoking the name of love in vain, sang on a summer’s night. While the cockroach over there, the one with
the brown antennae smeared with white, must have realized too late that it had become mummified precisely because it did
not know how to use things with the gratuitous grace of the in vain: “It is just that I looked too closely inside myself! it is
just that I looked too closely inside . . .”— from my frigid height as a human being, I watch the destruction of a world. Dawn
breaks. Here and there, the parched antennae of dead cockroaches quiver in the breeze. The cockerel from the previous story
crows.

15
 The fourth story opens a new era in the household. The story begins as usual: I was complaining about the
cockroaches. It goes on up to the point when I see the statues in plaster of Paris. Inevitably dead. I look towards the pipes
where this same night an infestation will reappear, swarming slowly upwards in Indian file. Should I renew the lethal sugar
every night? like someone who no longer sleeps without the avidity of some rite. And should I take myself somnambulant
out to the terrace early each morning ? in my craving to encounter the statues which my perspiring night has erected. I
trembled with depraved pleasure at the vision of my double existence as a witch. I also trembled at the sight of that hardening
gypsum, the depravity of existence which would shatter my internal form.
The grim moment of choosing between two paths, which I thought would separate, convinced that any choice would mean
sacrificing either myself or my soul. I chose. And today I secretly carry a plaque of virtue in my heart: “This house has been
disinfected.”

The fifth story is called “Leibnitz and The Transcendence of Love in Polynesia”. . . It begins like this: I was
complaining about the cockroaches.

- End of Latin Literature -

16
 - Start of Asian Literature -

Kabuliwala
By Rabindranath Tagore

My five years' old daughter Mini cannot live without chattering. I really believe that in all her life she has not wasted
a minute in silence. Her mother is often vexed at this, and would stop her prattle, but I would not. To see Mini quiet is
unnatural, and I cannot bear it long. And so my own talk with her is always lively.
One morning, for instance, when I was in the midst of the seventeenth chapter of my new novel, my little Mini stole into
the room, and putting her hand into mine, said: "Father! Ramdayal the doorkeeper calls a crow a krow! He doesn't know
anything, does he?"

Before I could explain to her the differences of language in this world, she was embarked on the full tide of another
subject. "What do you think, Father? Bhola says there is an elephant in the clouds, blowing water out of his trunk, and that
is why it rains!"
And then, darting off anew, while I sat still making ready some reply to this last saying, "Father! what relation is Mother to
you?"

"My dear little sister in the law!" I murmured involuntarily to myself, but with a grave face contrived to answer:
"Go and play with Bhola, Mini! I am busy!"

The window of my room overlooks the road. The child had seated herself at my feet near my table, and was playing
softly, drumming on her knees. I was hard at work on my seventeenth chapter, where Protrap Singh, the hero, had just
caught Kanchanlata, the heroine, in his arms, and was about to escape with her by the third story window of the castle, when
all of a sudden Mini left her play, and ran to the window, crying, "A Kabuliwallah! a Kabuliwallah!" Sure enough in the
street below was a Kabuliwallah, passing slowly along. He wore the loose soiled clothing of his people, with a tall turban;
there was a bag on his back, and he carried boxes of grapes in his hand.

I cannot tell what were my daughter's feelings at the sight of this man, but she began to call him loudly. "Ah!" I
thought, "he will come in, and my seventeenth chapter will never be finished!" At which exact moment the Kabuliwallah
turned, and looked up at the child. When she saw this, overcome by terror, she fled to her mother's protection, and
disappeared. She had a blind belief that inside the bag, which the big man carried, there were perhaps two or three other
children like herself. The pedlar meanwhile entered my doorway, and greeted me with a smiling face.

So precarious was the position of my hero and my heroine, that my first impulse was to stop and buy something,
since the man had been called. I made some small purchases, and a conversation began about Abdurrahman, the Russians,
the English, and the Frontier Policy.

As he was about to leave, he asked: "And where is the little girl, sir?"

And I, thinking that Mini must get rid of her false fear, had her brought out.
She stood by my chair, and looked at the Kabuliwallah and his bag. He offered her nuts and raisins, but she would not be
tempted, and only clung the closer to me, with all her doubts increased.

This was their first meeting.

One morning, however, not many days later, as I was leaving the house, I was startled to find Mini, seated on a
bench near the door, laughing and talking, with the great Kabuliwallah at her feet. In all her life, it appeared; my small
daughter had never found so patient a listener, save her father. And already the corner of her little sari was stuffed with
almonds and raisins, the gift of her visitor, "Why did you give her those?" I said, and taking out an eight-anna bit, I handed
it to him. The man accepted the money without demur, and slipped it into his pocket.

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 Alas, on my return an hour later, I found the unfortunate coin had made twice its own worth of trouble! For the
Kabuliwallah had given it to Mini, and her mother catching sight of the bright round object, had pounced on the child with:

"Where did you get that eight-anna bit? "

"The Kabuliwallah gave it me," said Mini cheerfully.

"The Kabuliwallah gave it you!" cried her mother much shocked. "Oh, Mini! how could you take it from him?"
I, entering at the moment, saved her from impending disaster, and proceeded to make my own inquiries.

It was not the first or second time, I found, that the two had met. The Kabuliwallah had overcome the child's first
terror by a judicious bribery of nuts and almonds, and the two were now great friends.

They had many quaint jokes, which afforded them much amusement. Seated in front of him, looking down on his
gigantic frame in all her tiny dignity, Mini would ripple her face with laughter, and begin: "O Kabuliwallah, Kabuliwallah,
what have you got in your bag?"

And he would reply, in the nasal accents of the mountaineer: "An elephant!" Not much cause for merriment,
perhaps; but how they both enjoyed the witticism! And for me, this child's talk with a grown-up man had always in it
something strangely fascinating.

Then the Kabuliwallah, not to be behindhand, would take his turn: "Well, little one, and when are you going to the
father-in-law's house?"

Now most small Bengali maidens have heard long ago about the father-in-law's house; but we, being a little new-
fangled, had kept these things from our child, and Mini at this question must have been a trifle bewildered. But she would
not show it, and with ready tact replied: "Are you going there?"

Amongst men of the Kabuliwallah's class, however, it is well known that the words father-in-law's house have a
double meaning. It is a euphemism for jail, the place where we are well cared for, at no expense to ourselves. In this sense
would the sturdy pedlar take my daughter's question. "Ah," he would say, shaking his fist at an invisible policeman, "I will
thrash my father-in-law!" Hearing this, and picturing the poor discomfited relative, Mini would go off into peals of laughter,
in which her formidable friend would join.

These were autumn mornings, the very time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring
from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. At the very name of another country,
my heart would go out to it, and at the sight of a foreigner in the streets, I would fall to weaving a network of dreams, --the
mountains, the glens, and the forests of his distant home, with his cottage in its setting, and the free and independent life of
far-away wilds.

Perhaps the scenes of travel conjure themselves up before me, and pass and repass in my imagination all the more
vividly, because I lead such a vegetable existence, that a call to travel would fall upon me like a thunderbolt.
In the presence of this Kabuliwallah, I was immediately transported to the foot of arid mountain peaks, with narrow little
defiles twisting in and out amongst their towering heights. I could see the string of camels bearing the merchandise, and the
company of turbaned merchants, carrying some of their queer old firearms, and some of their spears, journeying downward
towards the plains. I could see--but at some such point Mini's mother would intervene, imploring me to "beware of that
man."

Mini's mother is unfortunately a very timid lady. Whenever she hears a noise in the street, or sees people coming
towards the house, she always jumps to the conclusion that they are either thieves, or drunkards, or snakes, or tigers, or
malaria or cockroaches, or caterpillars, or an English sailor. Even after all these years of experience, she is not able to
overcome her terror. So she was full of doubts about the Kabuliwallah, and used to beg me to keep a watchful eye on him.
I tried to laugh her fear gently away, but then she would turn round on me seriously, and ask me solemn questions.

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 Were children never kidnapped?

Was it, then, not true that there was slavery in Kabul?

Was it so very absurd that this big man should be able to carry off a tiny child?

I urged that, though not impossible, it was highly improbable. But this was not enough, and her dread persisted. As
it was indefinite, however, it did not seem right to forbid the man the house, and the intimacy went on unchecked.
Once a year in the middle of January Rahmun, the Kabuliwallah, was in the habit of returning to his country, and
as the time approached he would be very busy, going from house to house collecting his debts. This year, however, he could
always find time to come and see Mini. It would have seemed to an outsider that there was some conspiracy between the
two, for when he could not come in the morning, he would appear in the evening.

Even to me it was a little startling now and then, in the corner of a dark room, suddenly to surprise this tall, loose-
garmented, much bebagged man; but when Mini would run in smiling, with her, "O! Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!" and the
two friends, so far apart in age, would subside into their old laughter and their old jokes, I felt reassured.

One morning, a few days before he had made up his mind to go, I was correcting my proof sheets in my study. It
was chilly weather. Through the window the rays of the sun touched my feet, and the slight warmth was very welcome. It
was almost eight o'clock, and the early pedestrians were returning home, with their heads covered. All at once, I heard an
uproar in the street, and, looking out, saw Rahmun being led away bound between two policemen, and behind them a crowd
of curious boys. There were blood-stains on the clothes of the Kabuliwallah, and one of the policemen carried a knife.

Hurrying out, I stopped them, and enquired what it all meant. Partly from one, partly from another, I gathered that
a certain neighbour had owed the pedlar something for a Rampuri shawl, but had falsely denied having bought it, and that
in the course of the quarrel, Rahmun had struck him. Now in the heat of his excitement, the prisoner began calling his enemy
all sorts of names, when suddenly in a verandah of my house appeared my little Mini, with her usual exclamation: "O
Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!" Rahmun's face lighted up as he turned to her. He had no bag under his arm today, so she
could not discuss the elephant with him. She at once therefore proceeded to the next question: "Are you going to the father-
in-law's house?" Rahmun laughed and said: "Just where I am going, little one!" Then seeing that the reply did not amuse
the child, he held up his fettered hands. " Ali," he said, " I would have thrashed that old father-in-law, but my hands are
bound!"

On a charge of murderous assault, Rahmun was sentenced to some years' imprisonment.

Time passed away, and he was not remembered. The accustomed work in the accustomed place was ours, and the thought
of the once-free mountaineer spending his years in prison seldom or never occurred to us. Even my light-hearted Mini, I am
ashamed to say, forgot her old friend. New companions filled her life. As she grew older, she spent more of her time with
girls. So much time indeed did she spend with them that she came no more, as she used to do, to her father's room. I was
scarcely on speaking terms with her.

Years had passed away. It was once more autumn and we had made arrangements for our Mini's marriage. It was
to take place during the Puja Holidays. With Durga returning to Kailas, the light of our home also was to depart to her
husband's house, and leave her father's in the shadow.

The morning was bright. After the rains, there was a sense of ablution in the air, and the sun-rays looked like pure
gold. So bright were they that they gave a beautiful radiance even to the sordid brick walls of our Calcutta lanes. Since early
dawn to-day the wedding-pipes had been sounding, and at each beat my own heart throbbed. The wail of the tune, Bhairavi,
seemed to intensify my pain at the approaching separation. My Mini was to be married to-night.

From early morning noise and bustle had pervaded the house. In the courtyard the canopy had to be slung on its
bamboo poles; the chandeliers with their tinkling sound must be hung in each room and verandah. There was no end of
hurry and excitement. I was sitting in my study, looking through the accounts, when some one entered, saluting respectfully,

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and stood before me. It was Rahmun the Kabuliwallah. At first I did not recognise him. He had no bag, nor the long hair,
nor the same vigour that he used to have. But he smiled, and I knew him again.

"When did you come, Rahmun?" I asked him.

"Last evening," he said, "I was released from jail."

The words struck harsh upon my ears. I had never before talked with one who had wounded his fellow, and my
heart shrank within itself, when I realised this, for I felt that the day would have been better-omened had he not turned up.

"There are ceremonies going on," I said, "and I am busy. Could you perhaps come another day?"

At once he turned to go; but as he reached the door he hesitated, and said: "May I not see the little one, sir, for a
moment?" It was his belief that Mini was still the same. He had pictured her running to him as she used, calling "O
Kabuliwallah! Kabuliwallah!" He had imagined too that they would laugh and talk together, just as of old. In fact, in memory
of former days he had brought, carefully wrapped up in paper, a few almonds and raisins and grapes, obtained somehow
from a countryman, for his own little fund was dispersed.

I said again: "There is a ceremony in the house, and you will not be able to see any one to-day."
The man's face fell. He looked wistfully at me for a moment, said "Good morning," and went out. I felt a little sorry, and
would have called him back, but I found he was returning of his own accord. He came close up to me holding out his
offerings and said: "I brought these few things, sir, for the little one. Will you give them to her?"

I took them and was going to pay him, but he caught my hand and said: "You are very kind, sir! Keep me in your
recollection. Do not offer me money!--You have a little girl, I too have one like her in my own home. I think of her, and
bring fruits to your child, not to make a profit for myself."

Saying this, he put his hand inside his big loose robe, and brought out a small and dirty piece of paper. With great
care he unfolded this, and smoothed it out with both hands on my table. It bore the impression of a little band. Not a
photograph. Not a drawing. The impression of an ink-smeared hand laid flat on the paper. This touch of his own little
daughter had been always on his heart, as he had come year after year to Calcutta, to sell his wares in the streets.
Tears came to my eyes. I forgot that he was a poor Kabuli fruit-seller, while I was--but no, what was I more than he? He
also was a father. That impression of the hand of his little Parbati in her distant mountain home reminded me of my own
little Mini.

I sent for Mini immediately from the inner apartment. Many difficulties were raised, but I would not listen. Clad in
the red silk of her wedding-day, with the sandal paste on her forehead, and adorned as a young bride, Mini came, and stood
bashfully before me.

The Kabuliwallah looked a little staggered at the apparition. He could not revive their old friendship. At last he
smiled and said: "Little one, are you going to your father-in-law's house?"

But Mini now understood the meaning of the word "father-in-law," and she could not reply to him as of old. She
flushed up at the question, and stood before him with her bride-like face turned down.

I remembered the day when the Kabuliwallah and my Mini had first met, and I felt sad. When she had gone, Rahmun
heaved a deep sigh, and sat down on the floor. The idea had suddenly come to him that his daughter too must have grown
in this long time, and that he would have to make friends with her anew. Assuredly he would not find her, as he used to
know her. And besides, what might not have happened to her in these eight years?

The marriage-pipes sounded, and the mild autumn sun streamed round us. But Rahmun sat in the little Calcutta
lane, and saw before him the barren mountains of Afghanistan.

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 I took out a bank-note, and gave it to him, saying: "Go back to your own daughter, Rahmun, in your own country,
and may the happiness of your meeting bring good fortune to my child!"

Having made this present, I had to curtail some of the festivities. I could not have the electric lights I had intended,
nor the military band, and the ladies of the house were despondent at it. But to me the wedding feast was all the brighter for
the thought that in a distant land a long-lost father met again with his only child.

Swaddling Clothes
by Yukio Mishima, translated by Ivan Morris

He was always busy, Toshiko’s husband. Even tonight he had to dash off to an appointment, leaving her to go home
alone by taxi. But what else could a woman expect when she married an actor—an attractive one? No doubt she had been
foolish to hope that he would spend the evening with her. And yet he must have known how she dreaded going back to their
house, unhomely with its Western-style furniture and with the bloodstains still showing on the floor.

Toshiko had been oversensitive since girlhood: that was her nature. As the result of constant worrying she never
put on weight, and now, an adult woman, she looked more like a transparent picture than a creature of flesh and blood.
Her delicacy of spirit was evident to her most casual acquaintance.

Earlier that evening, when she had joined her husband at a night club, she had been shocked to find him
entertaining friends with an account of “the incident.” Sitting there in his American-style suit, puffing at a cigarette, he
had seemed to her almost a stranger.

“It’s a fantastic story,” he was saying, gesturing flamboyantly as if in an attempt to outweigh the attractions of
the dance band. “Here this new nurse for our baby arrives from the employment agency, and the very first thing I notice
about her is her stomach. It’s enormous—as if she had a pillow stuck under her kimono! No wonder, I thought, for I soon
saw that she could eat more than the rest of us put together. She polished off the contents of our rice bin like that....” He
snapped his fingers. “ ‘Gastric dilation’—that’s how she explained her girth and her appetite. Well, the day before
yesterday we heard groans and moans coming from the nursery. We rushed in and found her squatting on the floor,
holding her stomach in her two hands, and moaning like a cow. Next to her our baby lay in his cot, scared out of his wits
and crying at the top of his lungs. A pretty scene, I can tell you!”

“So the cat was out of the bag?” suggested one of their friends, a film actor like Toshiko’s husband.

“Indeed it was! And it gave me the shock of my life. You see, I’d completely swallowed that story about ‘gastric
dilation.’ Well, I didn’t waste any time. I rescued our good rug from the floor and spread a blanket for her to lie on. The
whole time the girl was yelling like a stuck pig. By the time the doctor from the maternity clinic arrived, the baby had
already been born. But our sitting room was a pretty shambles!”

“Oh, that I’m sure of!” said another of their friends, and the whole company burst into laughter.

Toshiko was dumbfounded to hear her husband discussing the horrifying happening as though it were no more
than an amusing incident which they chanced to have witnessed. She shut her eyes for a moment and all at once she saw
the newborn baby lying before her: on the parquet floor the infant lay, and his frail body was wrapped in bloodstained
newspapers.

Toshiko was sure that the doctor had done the whole thing out of spite. As if to emphasize his scorn for this
mother who had given birth to a bastard under such sordid conditions, he had told his assistant to wrap the baby in some
loose newspapers, rather than proper swaddling. This callous treatment of the newborn child had offended Toshiko.
Overcoming her disgust at the entire scene, she had fetched a brand-new piece of flannel from her cupboard and, having

21
swaddled the baby in it, had laid him carefully in an armchair.

This all had taken place in the evening after her husband had left the house. Toshiko had told him nothing of it,
fearing that he would think her oversoft, oversentimental; yet the scene had engraved itself deeply in her mind. Tonight
she sat silently thinking back on it, while the jazz orchestra brayed and her husband chatted cheerfully with his friends.
She knew that she would never forget the sight of the baby, wrapped in stained newspapers and lying on the floor—it was
a scene fit for a butchershop. Toshiko, whose own life had been spent in solid comfort, poignantly felt the wretchedness of
the illegitimate baby.

I am the only person to have witnessed its shame, the thought occurred to her. The mother never saw her child
lying there in its newspaper wrappings, and the baby itself of course didn’t know. I alone shall have to preserve that
terrible scene in my memory. When the baby grows up and wants to find out about his birth, there will be no one to tell
him, so long as I preserve silence. How strange that I should have this feeling of guilt! After all, it was I who took him up
from the floor, swathed him properly in flannel, and laid him down to sleep in the armchair.

They left the night club and Toshiko stepped into the taxi that her husband had called for her. “Take this lady to
Ushigome,” he told the driver and shut the door from the outside. Toshiko gazed through the window at her husband’s
smiling face and noticed his strong, white teeth. Then she leaned back in the seat, oppressed by the knowledge that their
life together was in some way too easy, too painless. It would have been difficult for her to put her thoughts into words.
Through the rear window of the taxi she took a last look at her husband. He was striding along the street toward his Nash
car, and soon the back of his rather garish tweed coat had blended with the figures of the passers-by.

The taxi drove off, passed down a street dotted with bars and then by a theatre, in front of which the throngs of
people jostled each other on the pavement. Although the performance had only just ended, the lights had already been
turned out and in the half dark outside it was depressingly obvious that the cherry blossoms decorating the front of the
theatre were merely scraps of white paper.

Even if that baby should grow up in ignorance of the secret of his birth, he can never become a respectable
citizen, reflected Toshiko, pursuing the same train of thoughts. Those soiled newspaper swaddling clothes will be the
symbol of his entire life. But why should I keep worrying about him so much? Is it because I feel uneasy about the future
of my own child? Say twenty years from now, when our boy will have grown up into a fine, carefully educated young
man, one day by a quirk of fate he meets that other boy, who then will also have turned twenty. And say that the other
boy, who has been sinned against, savagely stabs him with a knife....

It was a warm, overcast April night, but thoughts of the future made Toshiko feel cold and miserable. She
shivered on the back seat of the car.

No, when the time comes I shall take my son’s place, she told herself suddenly. Twenty years from now I shall be
forty-three. I shall go to that young man and tell him straight out about everything—about his newspaper swaddling
clothes, and about how I went and wrapped him in flannel.

The taxi ran along the dark wide road that was bordered by the park and by the Imperial Palace moat. In the
distance Toshiko noticed the pinpricks of light which came from the blocks of tall office buildings.

Twenty years from now that wretched child will be in utter misery. He will be living a desolate, hopeless,
poverty-stricken existence—a lonely rat. What else could happen to a baby who has had such a birth? He’ll be wandering
through the streets by himself, cursing his father, loathing his mother.

No doubt Toshiko derived a certain satisfaction from her somber thoughts: she tortured herself with them without
cease. The taxi approached Hanzomon and drove past the compound of the British Embassy. At that point the famous
rows of cherry trees were spread out before Toshiko in all their purity. On the spur of the moment she decided to go and
view the blossoms by herself in the dark night. It was a strange decision for a timid and unadventurous young woman, but
then she was in a strange state of mind and she dreaded the return home. That evening all sorts of unsettling fancies had

22
burst open in her mind.

She crossed the wide street—a slim, solitary figure in the darkness. As a rule when she walked in the traffic
Toshiko used to cling fearfully to her companion, but tonight she darted alone between the cars and a moment later had
reached the long narrow park that borders the Palace moat. Chidorigafuchi, it is called—the Abyss of the Thousand Birds.

Tonight the whole park had become a grove of blossoming cherry trees. Under the calm cloudy sky the blossoms
formed a mass of solid whiteness. The paper lanterns that hung from wires between the trees had been put out; in their
place electric light bulbs, red, yellow, and green, shone dully beneath the blossoms. It was well past ten o’clock and most
of the flower-viewers had gone home. As the occasional passers-by strolled through the park, they would automatically
kick aside the empty bottles or crush the waste paper beneath their feet.

Newspapers, thought Toshiko, her mind going back once again to those happenings. Bloodstained newspapers. If
a man were ever to hear of that piteous birth and know that it was he who had lain there, it would ruin his entire life. To
think that I, a perfect stranger, should from now on have to keep such a secret—the secret of a man’s whole existence....

Lost in these thoughts, Toshiko walked on through the park. Most of the people still remaining there were quiet
couples; no one paid her any attention. She noticed two people sitting on a stone bench beside the moat, not looking at the
blossoms, but gazing silently at the water. Pitch black it was, and swathed in heavy shadows. Beyond the moat the somber
forest of the Imperial Palace blocked her view. The trees reached up, to form a solid dark mass against the night sky.
Toshiko walked slowly along the path beneath the blossoms hanging heavily overhead.

On a stone bench, slightly apart from the others, she noticed a pale object—not, as she had at first imagined, a pile
of cherry blossoms, nor a garment forgotten by one of the visitors to the park. Only when she came closer did she see that
it was a human form lying on the bench. Was it, she wondered, one of those miserable drunks often to be seen sleeping in
public places? Obviously not, for the body had been systematically covered with newspapers, and it was the whiteness of
those papers that had attracted Toshiko’s attention. Standing by the bench, she gazed down at the sleeping figure.

It was a man in a brown jersey who lay there, curled up on layers of newspapers, other newspapers covering him.
No doubt this had become his normal night residence now that spring had arrived. Toshiko gazed down at the man’s dirty,
unkempt hair, which in places had become hopelessly matted. As she observed the sleeping figure wrapped in its
newspapers, she was inevitably reminded of the baby who had lain on the floor in its wretched swaddling clothes. The
shoulder of the man’s jersey rose and fell in the darkness in time with his heavy breathing.

It seemed to Toshiko that all her fears and premonitions had suddenly taken concrete form. In the darkness the
man’s pale forehead stood out, and it was a young forehead, though carved with the wrinkles of long poverty and
hardship. His khaki trousers had been slightly pulled up; on his sockless feet he wore a pair of battered gym shoes. She
could not see his face and suddenly had an overmastering desire to get one glimpse of it.

She walked to the head of the bench and looked down. The man’s head was half buried in his arms, but Toshiko
could see that he was surprisingly young. She noticed the thick eyebrows and the fine bridge of his nose. His slightly open
mouth was alive with youth.

But Toshiko had approached too close. In the silent night the newspaper bedding rustled, and abruptly the man
opened his eyes. Seeing the young woman standing directly beside him, he raised himself with a jerk, and his eyes lit up.
A second later a powerful hand reached out and seized Toshiko by her slender wrist.

She did not feel in the least afraid and made no effort to free herself. In a flash the thought had struck her, Ah, so
the twenty years have already gone by! The forest of the Imperial Palace was pitch dark and utterly silent.

- End of Asian Literature -

23
 - Start of African Literature –

Civilian and Soldier

by Wole Soyinka

My apparition rose from the fall of lead,
Declared, 'I am a civilian.' It only served
To aggravate your fright. For how could I
Have risen, a being of this world, in that hour
Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor is
Your quarrel of this world.
You stood still
For both eternities, and oh I heard the lesson
Of your traing sessions, cautioning -
Scorch earth behind you, do not leave
A dubious neutral to the rear. Reiteration
Of my civilian quandary, burrowing earth
From the lead festival of your more eager friends
Worked the worse on your confusion, and when
You brought the gun to bear on me, and death
Twitched me gently in the eye, your plight
And all of you came clear to me.
I hope some day
Intent upon my trade of living, to be checked
In stride by your apparition in a trench,
Signalling, I am a soldier. No hesitation then
But I shall shoot you clean and fair
With meat and bread, a gourd of wine
A bunch of breasts from either arm, and that
Lone question - do you friend, even now, know
What it is all about?

Africa my Africa
by David Diop

Africa my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in ancestral Savannahs
Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river.
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat.
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
Africa, tell me Africa
Is this your back that is bent.
This back that breaks under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun?
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous child that tree, young and strong
That tree over there
Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers
That is your Africa springing up anew
springing up patiently, obstinately
Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
The bitter taste of liberty.

- End of African Literature -

24