Álvaro Cunqueiro / Robert Graves

 

Suceso galés

―Pro, non eran nada aquelas cousas que viñan de fóra,
das furadas mariñas do lonxano Criccieth.
―Que cousas eran? Dragóns-Bestas?
―Nada diso, e algo semellante a iso.
―Que eran esas cousas, entón,?
                    ―Toda especie de raras cousas,
cousas nunca vistas, nin ouvidas nin escritas,
mui estrañas, non galesas, mui enxebres
cousas. Ouh! parecen sólidas ó tento abondo,
ousou un. Maravillosa creación
de varias formas e tamaños, e non tamaños,
todo novo, cada cousa desemellante á súa veciña,
e o todo movéndose lentamente fóra, ó mesmo tempo.
―Descríbame unha delas con precisión.
                    ―Son incapaz diso.
―Como eran as súas cores?
                    ―En grande parte, cores sen nome,
que lle houbese gostado mirar; pro unha era de cor de pulga,
ou quizaves tirando a carmesí, pro non purpuriña.
e algunhas non tiñan cor.
                    ―Dígame, tiñan pernas?
―Nin perna nin pé tiñan as que eu miraba.
―Pro, que faguían esas cousas tan fóra do natural?
Que hora era? Que día da semán?
Quen estaba presente? Que tempo faguía?
―Estaba chegando a iso. Eran as tres e media
do pasado martes de Resurrección. Brillaba o sol.
A Harlech Silver Band tocaba “Marchog Jesu”
cos seus trinta e sete tremolos instrumentos
recollendo fondos pró Hospital de Caernarvon (Febres).
As xentes de Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
axuntáranse. O maior de Criccieth dirixiuse a elas,
primeiro en bo galés e despoixas en fluente inglés,
xogando cos dedos coa cadea do cárrego,
dando a benvida ás cousas que viñan pola area,
sen gardar o paso da música, movéndose dende o mar,
silenciosamente, con calma de limaca. Entón,
a máis desigual, a máis indescriptible cousa de todas,
a que con máis noxenta sorpresa un home teña ollado
fíxose un algo que semellaba a un algo…
―A que? ―Fíxose un ruído. ―Un ruído espantoso?
―Non, non!
                    ―Un ruído musical, un ruído de liorta?
―Non, un verdadeiro ruído,un notable, respetable ruído
igual á queixa por ela mesma na mañá do domingo,
na capela, denantes do segundo salmo.
―El que dixo o maior?
                    ―A iso ía chegando.

Traducción de Álvaro Cunqueiro publicada originalmente en el Faro de Vigo y después en el libro Flor de diversos, editado por Galaxia en 1991.
[Welsh Incident // ‘But that was nothing to what things came out/ From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.’/ ‘What were they? Mermaids? Dragons? Ghosts?’/ ‘Nothing at all of any things like that.’/ ‘What were they, then?’/ ‘All sorts of queer things,/ Things never seen or heard or written about,/ Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar/ Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,/ Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,/ All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,/ All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,/ Though all came moving slowly out together.’/ ‘Describe just one of them.’/ ‘I am unable.’/ ‘What were their colours?’/ ‘Mostly nameless colours,/ Colours you’d like to see; but one was puce/ Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish./ Some had no colour.’/ ‘Tell me, had they legs?’/ ‘Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.’/ ‘But did these things come out in any order?’/ What o’clock was it? What was the day of the week?/ Who else was present? How was the weather?’/ ‘I was coming to that. It was half-past three/ On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining./ The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu/ On thirty-seven shimmering instruments/ Collecting for Caernarvon’s (Fever) Hospital Fund./ The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,/ Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,/ Were all assembled. Criccieth’s mayor addressed them/ First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,/ Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,/ Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,/ Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward/ Silently at a snail’s pace. But at last/ The most odd, indescribable thing of all/ Which hardly one man there could see for wonder/ Did something recognizably a something.’/ ‘Well, what?’/ ‘It made a noise.’/ ‘A frightening noise?’/ ‘No, no.’/ ‘A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?’/ ‘No, but a very loud, respectable noise—/ Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning/ In Chapel, close before the second psalm.’/ ‘What did the mayor do?’/ ‘I was coming to that.’]

  Centenario Cunqueiro 1911·2011