Donde los padres
esperan noticias del hijo que vuelve de la Guerra. Las
cosas no saldrán como esperaban… The Hero,
de W.
Somerset Maugham
… "I shouldn't mind if
you made it a bit higher in the leg than the last pair."
"How high would you like
it?"
She went to the window so that
the Colonel might show the exact length he desired; and when he had made up his
mind, sat down again quietly on her chair by the fireside, with hands crossed
on her lap, waiting placidly for the maid to bring the lamp.
Mrs. Parsons was a tall woman
of fifty-five, carrying herself with a certain reserve, as though a little
ashamed of her stature, greater than the Colonel's; it had seemed to her
through life that those extra inches savoured, after a fashion, of disrespect.
She knew it was her duty spiritually to look up to her husband, yet physically
she was always forced to look down. And eager to prevent even the remotest
suspicion of wrong-doing, she had taken care to be so submissive in her
behaviour as to leave no doubt that she recognised the obligation of respectful
obedience enjoined by the Bible, and confirmed by her own conscience. Mrs.
Parsons was the gentlest of creatures, and the most kind-hearted; she looked
upon her husband with great and unalterable affection, admiring intensely both
his head and his heart. He was her type of the upright man, walking in the ways
of the Lord.
You saw in the placid, smooth brow of the Colonel's wife, in her
calm eyes, even in the severe arrangement of the hair, parted in the middle and
drawn back, that her character was frank, simple, and straightforward. She was
a woman to whom evil had never offered the smallest attraction; she was merely
aware of its existence theoretically. To her the only way of life had been that
which led to God; the others had been non-existent. Duty had one hand only, and
only one finger; and that finger had always pointed definitely in one
direction. Yet Mrs. Parsons had a firm mouth, and a chin square enough to add
another impression. As she sat motionless, hands crossed, watching her husband
with loving eyes, you might have discovered that, however kind-hearted, she was
not indulgent, neither lenient to her own faults nor to those of others;
perfectly modest, but with a sense of duty, a feeling of the absolute rightness
of some deeds and of the absolute wrongness of others, which would be, even to
those she loved best in the world, utterly cruel.
Attacks against Serbs, 1914 |
"Here's a telegraph
boy!" said Colonel Parsons suddenly. "Jamie can't have arrived
yet!"
"Oh, Richmond!"
Mrs. Parsons sprang from her
chair, and a colour brightened her pale cheeks. Her heart beat painfully, and
tears of eager expectation filled her eyes.
"It's probably only from
William, to say the ship is signalled," said the Colonel, to quieten her;
but his own voice trembled with anxiety.
"Nothing can have
happened, Richmond, can it?" said Mrs. Parsons, her cheeks blanching again
at the idea.
"No, no! Of course not!
How silly you are!" The telegram was brought in by the servant. "I
can't see without a light," said the Colonel.
"Oh, give it me; I can
see quite well."
Mrs. Parsons took it to the
window, and with trembling hand tore it open.
"Arriving to-night;
7.25.—Jamie."
Mrs. Parson looked for one
moment at her husband, and then, unable to restrain herself, sank on a chair,
and hiding her face with her hands, burst into tears.
"Come, come,
Frances," said the Colonel, trying to smile, but half choked with his own
emotion, "don't cry! You ought to laugh when you know the boy's coming
home."
He patted her on the shoulder,
and she took his hand, holding it for comfort. With the other, the Colonel
loudly blew his nose. At last Mrs Parsons dried her eyes.
"Oh, I thank God that
it's all over! He's coming home. I hope we shall never have to endure again
that anxiety. It makes me tremble still when I think how we used to long for
the paper to come, and dread it; how we used to look all through the list of
casualties, fearing to see the boy's name."
"Well, well, it's all
over now," said the Colonel cheerily, blowing his nose again. "How
pleased Mary will be!"
It was characteristic of him
that almost his first thought was of the pleasure this earlier arrival would
cause to Mary Clibborn, the girl to whom, for five years, his son had been
engaged… (Excerpts from The
Hero, by W. Somerset Maugham)
About the book
The
Hero
fue publicado en 1901 por Hutchinson.
“… hay algo en
Somerset Maugham. Es tan simple, sin excesos verbales y a
la vez tan hermosamente artesanal, que siempre es un placer leerlo. Me encantó
el libro, el contenido de la historia es trágico, que el soldado retorna de la
guerra herido para encontrar que todo ha cambiado y a la vez que todo sigue igual.
Hay tanto humor en la narración…” (Grace)
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