Short Stories of Jorge Luis Borges - The Giovanni Translations

by Jorge Luis Borges (trans. by N. T. di Giovanni)

  Returning to the land of the Urns, I had some trouble finding the singer’s house. When I did, I entered and spoke my name. By that time, night had fallen. From the floor, Thorkelsson told me to light a candle in the bronze candlestick. His face had aged so much that I could not help thinking that I, too, was old. As is the custom, I asked about his king.

  ‘The king is no longer called Gunnlaug,’ he said. ‘His name is now another. Tell me all about your travels.’

  I did so in exact order and with a great many details that I shall omit here. Before I had finished, he asked me, ‘Did you often sing in those lands?’

  The question took me by surprise. ‘At first, I sang to earn my living,’ I said. ‘Later, overcome by a fear I do not understand, I was estranged from my harp and my song.’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You may go on with your story now.’

  I obeyed. After I had finished, a long silence followed.

  ‘The first woman you had, what did she give you?’ he asked.

  ‘Everything,’ I said.

  ‘Life gave me everything as well. Life gives everything to everyone, but most men are unaware of it. My voice is tired and my fingers weak, but listen to me.’

  He took up his harp and uttered the word ‘undr’, which means ‘wonder’. The dying man’s song held me rapt, but in it and in his chords I recognized my own verses, the slave woman who gave me my first love, the men I had killed, the chill of dawn, daybreak over the water, the oars. I took up the harp and sang to a different word.

  ‘All right,’ the other man said, and I had to draw close to hear him. ‘You have understood.’

  Utopia of a Tired Man

  He called it Utopia, a Greek word meaning there is no such place.

  —Quevedo

  No two hills are alike, but everywhere on earth plains are one and the same. I was making my way in such country, asking myself, not that it really mattered, if this were Oklahoma or Texas or the part of the Argentine that literary men called the pampa. Neither to right nor left did I see a fence. As on other occasions, I slowly repeated these lines by the poet Emilio Oribe: At the heart of the endless awesome plain and close by the border of Brazil....

  The road was uneven. Rain began to fall. Some two or three hundred yards off I saw light from a house, which was low and rectangular and surrounded by trees. The door was opened by a man so tall he almost gave me a fright. He was dressed in grey. I felt he was waiting for someone. There was no lock on the door. We went into a long room with wooden walls, a table, and chairs. A lamp giving off a yellowish light hung from the ceiling. The table, for some reason, seemed strange to me. On it stood an hourglass, the first, outside of some steel engraving or other, I had ever laid eyes on. The man motioned me to one of the chairs.

  I tried out various languages, and we did not understand each other. When at last he spoke, he did so in Latin. I dusted off what I remembered from my now distant school days, readying myself for conversation.

  ‘By your clothes, I see you come from another century,’ he said. ‘A diversity of tongues favoured a diversity of peoples and even of wars. The world has fallen back on Latin. There are those who fear it may degenerate again into French, Lemosi, or Papiamento, but that is not an immediate risk. Be that as it may, neither the past nor the future interests me.’

  I said nothing, and he added, ‘If you don’t mind watching somebody else eat, will you join me?’

  Seeing that he noticed my uneasiness, I said yes. We went down a corridor, with doors on either hand, that led to a small kitchen in which everything was made of metal.

  We came back with our dinner on a tray: bowls of cornflakes, a bunch of grapes, an unfamiliar fruit whose taste reminded me of figs, and a big pitcher of water. If I remember correctly, there was no bread. My host’s features were sharp, and there was something unusual about his eyes. I won’t forget his pale, austere face, which I shall never see again. He made no gestures when he spoke. Having to converse in Latin inhibited me, but at last I said, ‘Doesn’t my sudden appearance amaze you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘We receive such visits from century to century. They don’t last long. Tomorrow, at the latest, you’ll be home again.’

  The certainty in his voice was reassuring. I thought it proper to introduce myself. ‘I am Eudoro Acevedo. I was born in 1897, in the city of Buenos Aires. I am seventy years old. I am a professor of English and American literatures and a writer of imaginative tales.’

  ‘I remember having read, not without pleasure, two tales of an imaginative nature,’ he said. ‘Travels of a Captain Lemuel Gulliver, which many people take to be true, and the Summa Theologiae. But let’s not speak of facts. Facts matter to no one any more. They are mere points of departure for invention and reasoning. In our schools we are taught doubt and the art of forgetting above all, the forgetting of what is personal and local. We live in time, which is successive, but we try to live sub specie aeternitatis. Of the past we retain a few names, which language tends to lose. We shun pointless details. We have neither dates nor history. Nor have we statistics. You said your name is Eudoro. I can’t tell you my name, because I’m simply called Someone.’

  ‘And what was your father’s name?’

  ‘He had none.’

  On one of the walls I saw a shelf. I opened a book at random; the letters were clean and undecipherable, and they were written by hand. Their angular lines reminded me of the runic alphabet, which, however, was only used for writing inscriptions. I reflected that these men of the future were not only taller but were more skilled. Instinctively, I looked at the man’s long, fine fingers.

  ‘Now you are going to see something you’ve never seen,’ he said. He handed me a copy of Thomas More’s Utopia, printed in Basel in the year 1518; leaves and pages were missing.

  Somewhat foolishly, I answered, ‘It’s a printed book. At home, I had over two thousand of them, though they were neither as old nor as valuable as this one.’ I read the title aloud.

  The man laughed. ‘No one can read two thousand books. In the four centuries I have lived, I haven’t read more than half a dozen. Besides, rereading, not reading, is what counts. Printing, which is now abolished, since it tended to multiply unnecessary texts to the point of dizziness, was one of man’s worst evils.’

  ‘In my strange past,’ I said, ‘the superstition prevailed that every day, between evening and morning, certain acts occur which it is a shame to be ignorant of. The planet was populated by collective ghosts Canada, Brazil, the Swiss Congo, and the Common Market. Almost no one knew anything of the history that preceded those platonic entities, but, of course, they knew every last detail of the most recent congress of pedagogues, or of imminent breakdowns in diplomatic relations, or of statements issued by presidents, drawn up by the secretary of a secretary and containing all the carefully worded haziness appropriate to the genre. These things were read to be forgotten, for, only hours later, other trivialities would blot them out. Of all offices, that of politician was without doubt the most public. An ambassador or a Cabinet minister was a kind of cripple whom it was necessary to cart around in long, noisy vehicles, ringed by motorcyclists and military escorts and awaited by eager photographers. It seems that their feet have been cut off, my mother used to say. Pictures and the printed word were more real than the things they stood for. Only what was published had any reality. Esse est percipi (to be is to be photographed) was the beginning, middle, and end of our singular idea of the world. In that past of mine, people were naïve; they believed that certain merchandise was good because its own makers claimed so over and over again. Robberies were also frequent, though everyone knew that the possession of money brings no greater happiness or peace of mind.’

  ‘Money?’ the man echoed. ‘No one any longer suffers poverty, which must have been unbearable, or wealth, which must have been the most uncomfortable form of vulgarity. Everyone has a calling.’

  ‘Like the rabbis,’ I said.

  He appeared no
t to understand and went on. ‘Nor are there cities anymore. To judge by the ruins of Bahia Blanca, which I once explored, not much has been lost. There are no personal possessions now, there are no inheritances. At the age of a hundred, when a man matures, he is ready to come face to face with himself and his loneliness. By then he will have fathered a child.’

  ‘One child?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Only one. There is no reason to carry on the human race. Some people think man is an organ of the godhead for universal consciousness, but nobody knows for sure whether such a godhead exists. The advantages and disadvantages of gradual or simultaneous suicide by every man and woman on earth are, I believe, now being argued. But let’s get back to what we were saying.’

  I agreed.

  ‘Having reached a hundred, the individual no longer stands in need of love or friendship. Evils and involuntary death are no threat to him. He practices one of the arts or philosophy or mathematics or he plays a game of solitary chess. When he wants to, he kills himself. Man is master of his life. He is also master of his death.’

  ‘Is that a quotation?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. Quotations are all we have now. Language is a system of quotations.’

  ‘And the great adventure of my time space travel?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s centuries ago now that those travels were given up. They were certainly to be admired, but we could never rid ourselves of a here and now.’ With a smile, he added, ‘Besides, all travel is spatial. To go from one planet to another is like going to the farm across the way. When you entered this room, you were carrying out a voyage through space.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘And one also used to speak of chemical substances and animals.’

  The man now turned his back to me and looked outside. Beyond the windows, the plain was white with silent snow and moonlight.

  I got up my courage to ask, ‘Are there still museums and libraries?’

  ‘No. We try to forget the past, except for the writing of elegies. There are no commemorations or anniversaries or effigies of dead men now. Each of us must himself produce the arts and sciences he needs.’

  ‘Then everyone must be his own Bernard Shaw, his own Jesus Christ, his own Archimedes.’

  He agreed without a word.

  ‘What happened to governments?’

  ‘According to tradition, they fell into gradual disuse,’ he said. ‘They called elections, declared wars, collected taxes, confiscated fortunes, ordered arrests, and tried to impose censorship, but nobody on earth obeyed them. The press stopped publishing the news and photographs of government leaders. Politicians had to find honest work; some of them made good comedians or good faith healers. What actually happened was probably far more complex than this summary.’ He went on in a changed tone. ‘I built this house, which is the same as all others. I carved this furniture and these utensils. I worked these fields, which will be improved by people unknown to me. May I show you a few things?’

  I followed him into an adjoining room. He lit a lamp like the first one; it too, hung from the ceiling. In a corner I saw a harp with few strings. On the walls were rectangular canvases in which yellow tones predominated. The work did not seem that of the same hand.

  ‘This is what I do,’ he said.

  I examined the canvases, stopping before the smallest one, which represented, or suggested, a sunset and which encompassed something infinite.

  ‘If you like it, you can have it as a keepsake of a future friend,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  I thanked him, but there were a few canvases that left me uneasy. I won’t say that they were blank, but they were nearly so.

  ‘They’re painted in colours that your eyes of the past can’t see,’ he said.

  A moment later, when his delicate hands plucked the strings of the harp, I barely caught an occasional sound.

  Just then a knock was heard.

  A tall woman and three or four men entered the house. One would have said that they were brothers and sisters or that time had made them alike. My host spoke to the woman first.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t fail to come tonight. Have you seen Nils?’

  ‘Off and on. He’s as devoted to his painting as ever.’

  ‘Let’s hope with more success than his father.’

  The dismantling began. Manuscripts, pictures, furnishings, utensils we left nothing in the house. The woman worked alongside the men. I was ashamed of my weakness, which scarcely allowed me to be of any help. No one shut the door and we went out, loaded with things. I noticed that the house had a saddle roof.

  After a fifteen-minute walk, we turned left. In the distance I made out a kind of tower, crowned with a cupola.

  ‘It’s the crematory,’ someone said. ‘Inside it is the lethal chamber. It’s said to have been invented by a philanthropist whose name, I think, was Adolf Hitler.’

  The caretaker, whose stature by now did not astonish me, opened the gate to us. My host exchanged a few words with him. Before stepping into the enclosure, he waved goodbye.

  ‘It looks like more snow,’ the woman said.

  In my study on Mexico Street, in Buenos Aires, I have the canvas that someone will paint, thousands of years from now, with substances today scattered over the whole planet.

  The Bribe

  My story is about two men or, rather, about an episode involving two men. The actual affair, in itself neither singular nor even out of the ordinary, matters less than the character of its protagonists. Each of them sinned out of vanity, but in different ways and with different results. The events giving rise to the anecdote (for really it is not much more) took place a short time ago. To my mind, it could only have happened where it did in America.

  I had occasion at the University of Texas, in Austin, to speak at length to one of the two, Dr Ezra Winthrop. This was towards the end of 1961. Winthrop was a professor of Old English (he did not approve of the term ‘Anglo-Saxon’, which to him suggested an artifact made of two parts). I can remember that without once contradicting me he corrected my many mistakes and rash assumptions about the language. I was told that in his examinations he never asked a single question but invited his students to expatiate upon this or that topic, leaving the choice up to them. Of old Puritan stock, a native of Boston, Winthrop had found it hard getting used to the habits and prejudices of the South. He missed the snow, but it is my observation that Northerners are conditioned to the cold, much as we Argentines are to the heat. I still preserve the image, now dim, of a rather tall man with grey hair, less agile than strong. Clearer is my memory of his colleague, Herbert Locke, who gave me a copy of his book Towards a History of the Kenning, in which one reads that the Saxons were not long in dispensing with those somewhat too mechanical metaphors (‘whale’s road’ for ‘the sea’, ‘falcon of battle’ for ‘the eagle’), whereas the skalds went on combining and interweaving them to the point of inextricability. I mention Herbert Locke because he is an integral part of my story.

  I now come to the Icelander, Eric Einarsson, who is perhaps the true protagonist. I never set eyes on him. He arrived in Texas in 1969, when I was in Cambridge, but the letters of a mutual friend, Ramón Martínez López, have left me feeling I know Einarsson intimately. I know that he was impetuous, energetic, and cold, and that in a land of tall men he was tall. Given his red hair, it was inevitable that his students dub him Eric the Red. In his opinion, the use of slang by a foreigner was forced and mistaken, making him an intruder, so he never condescended even to an occasional ‘okay’. A serious scholar of the Nordic languages, of English, of Latin, and although he would not admit it of German, he found no difficulty in making his way in American universities.

  Einarsson’s first work of any consequence was a study of the four articles that De Quincey wrote on the Danish origins of Cumbrian dialect. This was followed by a study of one of the rural dialects of Yorkshire. Both publications were well received, but Einarsson felt his career needed a boost. In 1970, the Yale University P
ress published his lengthy critical edition of the Battle of Maldon. The scholarship of Einarsson’s notes was undeniable; in the introduction, however, certain of his hypotheses stirred up controversy in the almost secret circles of academics. There he stated, for example, that in style the poem has an affinity even if a remote one — with the heroic Finnsburh fragment and not with the deliberate rhetoric of Beowulf, and that its handling of moving circumstantial details strangely foreshadows the methods which, not unjustly, we admire in the Icelandic sagas. He also emended a number of readings in Elphinston’s text. Einarsson was made full professor at Texas the same year he arrived.