Creamos este blog como una herramienta de apoyo para las clases de inglés. Aquí podremos publicar actividades de refuerzo o de ampliación a los temas que estemos trabajando en clase.
Just a short letter
to tell you that I’m fine. England is very green and there are a
lot of interesting places to visit but I’m very busy and I don’t
have time to go out. I work rather hard every day and when I get to
the hotel, I’m so tired that I have dinner and go up to may room.
The hotel is very elegant.
It’s in the city centre and it has a lot of facilities. There are
some places to eat there: there is a coffee shop, a bar and two
restaurants.
When I have some free
time, I do some exercise (there is a gym, a swimming-pool and a sauna
in the hotel)
My room is really
comfortable: there is a small living room, a bathroom and the
bedroom, of course! It is equipped with a TV set, air-conditioning
and there is also a machine for making coffee and tea. I have plans
to spend the weekend in London because I would like to visit the
typical places there. I promise to send you a post card, ok?
Well, I have a lot of
things to explain when I get home so I’ll say goodbye now.
Our story today is called "The Boarded Window."
It was written by Ambrose Bierce. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.
In 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of
Cincinnati, Ohio, lay a huge and almost endless forest.
The area had a few settlements established by people of the
frontier. Many of them had already left the area for settlements
further to the west. But among those remaining was a man who had been
one of the first people to arrive there.
He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the
great forest. He seemed a part of the darkness and silence of the
forest, for no one had ever known him to smile or speak an
unnecessary word. His simple needs were supplied by selling or
trading the skins of wild animals in the town.
His little log house had a single door. Directly opposite was a
window. The window was boarded up. No one could remember a time when
it was not. And no one knew why it had been closed. I imagine there
are few people living today who ever knew the secret of that window.
But I am one, as you shall see.
The man's name was said to be Murlock. He appeared to be seventy
years old, but he was really fifty. Something other than years had
been the cause of his aging.
His hair and long, full beard were white. His gray, lifeless eyes
were sunken. His face was wrinkled. He was tall and thin with
drooping shoulders—like someone with many problems.
I never saw him. These details I learned from my grandfather. He
told me the man's story when I was a boy. He had known him when
living nearby in that early day.
One day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time
and place for medical examiners and newspapers. I suppose it was
agreed that he had died from natural causes or I should have been
told, and should remember.
I know only that the body was buried near the cabin, next to the
burial place of his wife. She had died so many years before him that
local tradition noted very little of her existence.
That closes the final part of this true story, except for the
incident that followed many years later. With a fearless spirit I
went to the place and got close enough to the ruined cabin to throw a
stone against it. I ran away to avoid the ghost which every
well-informed boy in the area knew haunted the spot.
But there is an earlier part to this story supplied by my
grandfather.
When Murlock built his cabin he was young, strong and full of
hope. He began the hard work of creating a farm. He kept a gun--a
rifle—for hunting to support himself.
He had married a young woman, in all ways worthy of his honest
love and loyalty. She shared the dangers of life with a willing
spirit and a light heart. There is no known record of her name or
details about her. They loved each other and were happy.
One day Murlock returned from hunting in a deep part of the
forest. He found his wife sick with fever and confusion. There was no
doctor or neighbor within miles. She was in no condition to be left
alone while he went to find help. So Murlock tried to take care of
his wife and return her to good health. But at the end of the third
day she fell into unconsciousness and died.
From what we know about a man like Murlock, we may try to imagine
some of the details of the story told by my grandfather.
When he was sure she was dead, Murlock had sense enough to
remember that the dead must be prepared for burial. He made a mistake
now and again while performing this special duty. He did certain
things wrong. And others which he did correctly were done over and
over again.
He was surprised that he did not cry — surprised and a little
ashamed. Surely it is unkind not to cry for the dead.
"Tomorrow," he said out loud, "I shall have to make
the coffin and dig the grave; and then I shall miss her, when she is
no longer in sight. But now -- she is dead, of course, but it is all
right — it must be all right, somehow. Things cannot be as bad as
they seem."
He stood over the body of his wife in the disappearing light. He
fixed the hair and made finishing touches to the rest. He did all of
this without thinking but with care. And still through his mind ran a
feeling that all was right -- that he should have her again as
before, and everything would be explained.
Murlock had no experience in deep sadness. His heart could not
contain it all. His imagination could not understand it. He did not
know he was so hard struck. That knowledge would come later and never
leave.
Deep sadness is an artist of powers that affects people in
different ways. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, shocking
all the emotions to a sharper life. To another, it comes as the blow
of a crushing strike. We may believe Murlock to have been affected
that way.
Soon after he had finished his work he sank into a chair by the
side of the table upon which the body lay. He noted how white his
wife's face looked in the deepening darkness. He laid his arms upon
the table's edge and dropped his face into them, tearless and very
sleepy.
At that moment a long, screaming sound came in through the open
window. It was like the cry of a lost child in the far deep of the
darkening forest! But the man did not move. He heard that unearthly
cry upon his failing sense, again and nearer than before. Maybe it
was a wild animal or maybe it was a dream. For Murlock was asleep.
Some hours later, he awoke, lifted his head from his arms and
listened closely. He knew not why. There in the black darkness by the
side of the body, he remembered everything without a shock. He
strained his eyes to see -- he knew not what.
His senses were all alert. His breath was suspended. His blood was
still as if to assist the silence. Who — what had awakened him and
where was it!
Suddenly the table shook under his arms. At the same time he
heard, or imagined he heard, a light, soft step and then another. The
sounds were as bare feet walking upon the floor!
He was afraid beyond the power to cry out or move. He
waited—waited there in the darkness through what seemed like
centuries of such fear. Fear as one may know, but yet live to tell.
He tried but failed to speak the dead woman's name. He tried but
failed to stretch his hand across the table to learn if she was
there. His throat was powerless. His arms and hands were like lead.
Then something most frightful happened. It seemed as if a heavy
body was thrown against the table with a force that pushed against
his chest. At the same time he heard and felt the fall of something
upon the floor. It was so violent a crash that the whole house shook.
A fight followed and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe.
Murlock had risen to his feet. Extreme fear had caused him to lose
control of his senses. He threw his hands upon the table. Nothing was
there!
There is a point at which fear may turn to insanity; and insanity
incites to action. With no definite plan and acting like a madman,
Murlock ran quickly to the wall. He seized his loaded rifle and
without aim fired it.
The flash from the rifle lit the room with a clear brightness. He
saw a huge fierce panther dragging the dead woman toward the window.
The wild animal's teeth were fixed on her throat! Then there was
darkness blacker than before, and silence.
When he returned to consciousness the sun was high and the forest
was filled with the sounds of singing birds. The body lay near the
window, where the animal had left it when frightened away by the
light and sound of the rifle.
The clothing was ruined. The long hair was in disorder. The arms
and legs lay in a careless way. And a pool of blood flowed from the
horribly torn throat. The ribbon he had used to tie the wrists was
broken. The hands were tightly closed.
And between the teeth was a piece of the animal's ear.
