Jorge Luis Borges - Labyrinths

confused and as authoritarian as ever. I remember the glacial eyes, the
energetic leanness, the gray mustache. He had no dealings with
anyone; it is a fact that his Spanish was rudimentary and cluttered with
Brazilian. Aside from a business letter or some pamphlet, he received
no mail.
The last time I passed through the northern provinces, a sudden
overflowing of the Caraguatá stream compelled me to spend the night
at La Colorada. Within a few moments, I seemed to sense that my
appearance was inopportune; I tried to ingratiate myself with the
Englishman; I resorted to the least discerning of passions: patriotism. I
claimed as invincible a country with such spirit as England's. My
companion agreed, but added with a smile that he was not English. He
was Irish, from Dungarvan. Having said this, he stopped short, as if he
had revealed a secret. After dinner we went outside to look at the sky.
It had cleared up, but beyond the low hills the southern sky, streaked
and gashed by lightning, was conceiving another storm. Into the
cleared up dining room the boy who had served dinner brought a bottle
of rum. We drank for some time, in silence.
I don't know what time it must have been when I observed that
I was drunk; I don't know what inspiration or what exultation or
tedium made me mention the scar. The Englishman's face changed its
expression; for a few seconds I thought he was going to throw me out
of the house. At length he said in his normal voice:
"I'll tell you the history of my scar under one condition: that of
not mitigating one bit of the opprobrium, of the infamous
circumstances."
I agreed. This is the story that he told me, mixing his English
with Spanish, and even with Portuguese:
"Around 1922, in one of the cities of Connaught, I was one of
the many who were conspiring for the independence of Ireland. Of my
comrades, some are still living, dedicated to peaceful pursuits; others,
paradoxically, are fighting on desert and sea under the English flag;
another, the most worthy, died in the courtyard of a barracks, at dawn,
shot by men filled with sleep; still others (not the most unfortunate)
met their destiny in the anonymous and almost secret battles of the
civil war. We were Republicans, Catholics; we were, I suspect,
Romantics. Ireland was for us not only the Utopian future and the
intolerable present; it was a bitter and cherished mythology, it was the
circular towers and the red marshes, it was the repudiation of Parnell
and the enormous epic poems which sang of the robbing of bulls
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