a metamorfose

die Verwandlung
capa dunha das primeiras edicións
1916

Als Gregor Samsa eines Morgens aus unruhigen Träumen erwachte, fand er sich in seinem Bett zu einem ungeheueren Ungeziefer verwandelt. Er lag auf seinem panzerartig harten Rücken und sah, wenn er den Kopf ein wenig hob, seinen gewölbten, braunen, von bogenförmigen Versteifungen geteilten Bauch, auf dessen Höhe sich die Bettdecke, zum gänzlichen Niedergleiten bereit, kaum noch erhalten konnte. Seine vielen, im Vergleich zu seinem sonstigen Umfang kläglich dünnen Beine flimmerten ihm hilflos vor den Augen.

»Was ist mit mir geschehen?«, dachte er. Es war kein Traum. Sein Zimmer, ein richtiges, nur etwas zu kleines Menschenzimmer, lag ruhig zwischen den vier wohlbekannten Wänden. Über dem Tisch, auf dem eine auseinandergepackte Musterkollektion von Tuchwaren ausgebreitet war - Samsa war Reisender - hing das Bild, das er vor kurzem aus einer illustrierten Zeitschrift ausgeschnitten und in einem hübschen, vergoldeten Rahmen untergebracht hatte. Es stellte eine Dame dar, die mit einem Pelzhut und einer Pelzboa versehen, aufrecht dasaß und einen schweren Pelzmuff, in dem ihr ganzer Unterarm verschwunden war, dem Beschauer entgegenhob.

Gregors Blick richtete sich dann zum Fenster, und das trübe Wetter - man hörte Regentropfen auf das Fensterblech aufschlagen - machte ihn ganz melancholisch. »Wie wäre es, wenn ich noch ein wenig weiterschliefe und alle Narrheiten vergäße«, dachte er, aber das war gänzlich undurchführbar, denn er war gewöhnt, auf der rechten Seite zu schlafen, konnte sich aber in seinem gegenwärtigen Zustand nicht in diese Lage bringen. Mit welcher Kraft er sich auch auf die rechte Seite warf, immer wieder schaukelte er in die Rückenlage zurück. Er versuchte es wohl hundertmal, schloß die Augen, um die zappelnden Beine nicht sehen zu müssen, und ließ erst ab, als er in der Seite einen noch nie gefühlten, leichten, dumpfen Schmerz zu fühlen begann. »Ach Gott«, dachte er, »was für einen anstrengenden Beruf habe ich gewählt! Tag aus, Tag ein auf der Reise. Die geschäftlichen Aufregungen sind viel größer, als im eigentlichen Geschäft zu Hause, und außerdem ist mir noch diese Plage des Reisens auferlegt, die Sorgen um die Zuganschlüsse, das unregelmäßige, schlechte Essen, ein immer wechselnder, nie andauernder, nie herzlich werdender menschlicher Verkehr. Der Teufel soll das alles holen!« Er fühlte ein leichtes Jucken oben auf dem Bauch; schob sich auf dem Rücken langsam näher zum Bettpfosten, um den Kopf besser heben zu können; fand die juckende Stelle, die mit lauter kleinen weißen Pünktchen besetzt war, die er nicht zu beurteilen verstand; und wollte mit einem Bein die Stelle betasten, zog es aber gleich zurück, denn bei der Berührung umwehten ihn Kälteschauer.

Er glitt wieder in seine frühere Lage zurück. »Dies frühzeitige Aufstehen«, dachte er, »macht einen ganz blödsinnig. Der Mensch muß seinen Schlaf haben. Andere Reisende leben wie Haremsfrauen. Wenn ich zum Beispiel im Laufe des Vormittags ins Gasthaus zurückgehe, um die erlangten Aufträge zu überschreiben, sitzen diese Herren erst beim Frühstück. Das sollte ich bei meinem Chef versuchen; ich würde auf der Stelle hinausfliegen. Wer weiß übrigens, ob das nicht sehr gut für mich wäre. Wenn ich mich nicht wegen meiner Eltern zurückhielte, ich hätte längst gekündigt, ich wäre vor den Chef hin getreten und hätte ihm meine Meinung von Grund des Herzens aus gesagt. Vom Pult hätte er fallen müssen! Es ist auch eine sonderbare Art, sich auf das Pult zu setzen und von der Höhe herab mit dem Angestellten zu reden, der überdies wegen der Schwerhörigkeit des Chefs ganz nahe herantreten muß. Nun, die Hoffnung ist noch nicht gänzlich aufgegeben; habe 2 ich einmal das Geld beisammen, um die Schuld der Eltern an ihn abzuzahlen - es dürfte noch fünf bis sechs Jahre dauern -, mache ich die Sache unbedingt. Dann wird der große Schnitt gemacht. Vorläufig allerdings muß ich aufstehen, denn mein Zug fährt um fünf.«

representación de Kafka escribindo
publicada en 'Faro de Vigo'
07 de xaneiro de 2016

Und er sah zur Weckuhr hinüber, die auf dem Kasten tickte. »Himmlischer Vater!«, dachte er. Es war halb sieben Uhr, und die Zeiger gingen ruhig vorwärts, es war sogar halb vorüber, es näherte sich schon dreiviertel. Sollte der Wecker nicht geläutet haben? Man sah vom Bett aus, daß er auf vier Uhr richtig eingestellt war; gewiß hatte er auch geläutet. Ja, aber war es möglich, dieses möbelerschütternde Läuten ruhig zu verschlafen? Nun, ruhig hatte er ja nicht geschlafen, aber wahrscheinlich desto fester. Was aber sollte er jetzt tun? Der nächste Zug ging um sieben Uhr; um den einzuholen, hätte er sich unsinnig beeilen müssen, und die Kollektion war noch nicht eingepackt, und er selbst fühlte sich durchaus nicht besonders frisch und beweglich. Und selbst wenn er den Zug einholte, ein Donnerwetter des Chefs war nicht zu vermeiden, denn der Geschäftsdiener hatte beim Fünfuhrzug gewartet und die Meldung von seiner Versäumnis längst erstattet. Es war eine Kreatur des Chefs, ohne Rückgrat und Verstand. Wie nun, wenn er sich krank meldete? Das wäre aber äußerst peinlich und verdächtig, denn Gregor war während seines fünfjährigen Dienstes noch nicht einmal krank gewesen. Gewiß würde der Chef mit dem Krankenkassenarzt kommen, würde den Eltern wegen des faulen Sohnes Vorwürfe machen und alle Einwände durch den Hinweis auf den Krankenkassenarzt abschneiden, für den es ja überhaupt nur ganz gesunde, aber arbeitsscheue Menschen gibt. Und hätte er übrigens in diesem Falle so ganz unrecht? Gregor fühlte sich tatsächlich, abgesehen von einer nach dem langen Schlaf wirklich überflüssigen Schläfrigkeit, ganz wohl und hatte sogar einen besonders kräftigen Hunger.

die Verwandlung

Franz Kafka

unha obra completada en 1912

traducido ao galego por Xosé María García Álvarez e publicado como

A metamorfose

Compostela, Sotelo Blanco, 1990

Unha mañá, ó espertar dun soño desacougante, Gregor Samsa achouse no seu leito transformado nun insecto monstruoso. Estaba deitado sobre a dura coiraza do seu lombo e, ó erguer un pouco a cabeza, percibiu a forma convexa e pardusca do seu ventre dividido por longas e arqueadas costras, tan altas que o cobertor da cama, que xa estaba a piques de esvarar ó chan, case nin se podía soster sobre Blas. As súas numerosas patas, magoantemente fracas comparadas co grosor normal das pernas de Gregor, buligaban desesperadamente perante os seus ollos.

«¿Que me aconteceu?», pensou. Non, non era ningún soño. A súa habitación, aínda que un pouco pequena, era un verdadeiro dormitorio humano e alí estaba, en calma, no medio das lúas catro paredes, que para el eran ben familiares. Enriba da mesa, sobre a que estaba estendido o contido dun mostrario de panos -Samsa era viaxante- pendía a imaxe que había pouco el recortara dunha revista e encadrara nun bonito marco dourado. Representaba unha dona cun chapeu de pel e un boá tamén de pel; estaba sentada co busto dereito e sostendo fronte ó espectador un enorme manguito de pel no interior do cal desaparecía todo o seu antebrazo.

a metamorfose
capa da edición galega
1990

Despois, Gregor dirixiu a ollada á fiestra; o tempo grisallo -sentíanse cae-las pingas de choiva sobre o beiril de lata da fiestra- meteulle no corpo unha grande melancolía. «¿Como sería se durmise un pouco máis e esquecese todas aquelas tolerías?», pensou. Pero ¡so era unha cousa completamente irrealizable, porque estaba afeito a durmir sobre o costado dereito, pero no seu estado presente non era quen de acadar esa postura. Por máis forza que empregaba en tombarse sobre o seu lado dereito, sempre volvía, abaneándose, a quedar deitado sobre o lombo. Tentouno polo menos cen veces; pechou os ollos para non ter que ve-lo buligar das súas patas e só renunciou a seguir esforzándose cando comezou a sentir nun costado unha dor lixeira, xorda, que aínda nunca experimentara. «¡Vállame Deus!», pensou. «¡Que profesión tan esgotadora escollín! Nin un só día sen saír de viaxe. Os sobresaltos profesionais son moito máis grandes ca na propia sede central da empresa e, aínda por riba, impúxoseme esa praga de ter que andar de viaxe, as preocupacións polos enlaces dos trens, a comida fóra de hora e de mala calidade, unhas relacións humanas sempre cambiantes e curtas que nunca chegan a ser cordiais. ¡Que o demo o leve todo!» Sentiu unha lixeira comechón alá no alto da barriga. Vagarosamente, arrastrándose sobre as costas, foise achegando ata un dos paus da cama para poder erguer mellor a cabeza. Atopou o sitio onde lle picaba: estaba todo cuberto de puntiños brancos, que el non conseguiu explicar. Quixo apalpa-lo sitio cunha pata, pero retirouna no mesmo instante, porque só con tocalo ondas de calafrío lle percorrían o corpo.

Esvarou ata a posición anterior. «Estes madrugóns», pensou, «apárvano a un totalmente. O ser humano precisa do sono. Outros viaxantes levan unha vida de odaliscas. Por poñer un caso, cando a media mañá volvo á fonda para anota-los pedidos, eses señores aínda están sentados, a almorzaren. Se eu me atrevese a face-lo mesmo co xefe que teño, botaríame fóra no intre. Por certo, ¿quen sabe se isto ó mellor non é o que máis me convén? Se non me contivese, por mor de meus pais, xa tiña pedida a baixa hai tempo; presentaríame diante do xefe e coa maior franqueza diríalle o que penso. ¡Seguro que había caer do seu pupitre! Por certo, que tamén é unha teima ben rara esa de sentar no pupitre e dende aquela altura falarlle ó empregado, que, como o xefe é duro de oído, tense que achegar mesmo a carón del. De calquera xeito, aínda non perdín toda a esperanza. En canto teña xuntos os cartos para lle paga-la débeda de meus pais -aínda haberá que agardar uns cinco ou seis anos-, vouno facer sen falta. E daquela producirase a grande ruptura. Pero polo de agora téñome que erguer, porque o meu tren sae ás cinco».

E ergueu a vista cara ó espertador que seguía a face-lo seu tiquetaque sobre a mesa de noite. «¡Deus divino!», dixo para os seus adentros. Eran as seis e media, as agullas do reloxo seguían a avanzar tranquilamente, e mesmo xa pasaba da media. E xa se achegaban ós tres cuartos. ¿Podería ser que, o espertador non soase? Dende a cama víase ben que estaba correctamente posto para as catro da mañá; certo que tivera que soar. ¿Pero sería posible seguir durmindo, coma se nada, con aquel repenique que facía treme-los mobles? De feito, o que se di con tranquilidade tampouco durmira, pero precisamente por iso tivera un sono máis profundo. Pero, ¿que debería facer agora? O próximo tren tiña a saída ás sete; para apañalo tería que bulir coma un tolo, pero o mostrario aínda estaba sen empaquetar e el mesmo aínda non se sentía o que se di alá moi esperto e áxil. E, mesmo se chegase a colle-lo tren, non podería esquivar unha pauliña do xefe, porque o mozo do almacén estaría a esperar polo tren das cinco e xa iría un anaco dende que dera parte da súa ausencia. Aquel rapaz era un monicreque do xefe, servil e carente de entendemento. Mais, ¿que pasaría se mandase aviso de que estaba enfermo? De calquera xeito, iso sería extraordinariamente magoante para el e sospeitoso polo feito de que Gregor, nos seus cinco anos de servicio, aínda non estivera enfermo nin unha soa vez. O máis probable era que viñese o xefe acompañado polo médico do seguro: faríalles reproches a seus pais por causa do lacazán de seu fillo e rexeitaría de raíz tódalas obxeccións coa referencia do médico do seguro, para o cal só existen homes completamente sans, pero preguiceiros. E, a propósito, ¿neste caso faltaríalle toda a razón? De feito, á parte da sensación de somnolencia certamente inexplicable despois da súa Tonga durmida, Gregor atopábase perfectamente ben e, o que aínda é máis, estaba especialmente famento.

a balada do café triste

The town itself is dreary; not much is there except the cotton mill, the two-room houses where the workers live, a few peach trees, a church with two colored windows, and a miserable main street only a hundred yards long. On Saturdays the tenants from the from the near-by farms come in for a day of talk and trade. Otherwise the town is lonesome, sad, and like a place that is far off and estranged from all other places in the world. The nearest train stop is Society City, and the Greyhound and White Bus Lines use the Forks Falls Road which is three miles away. The winters here are short and raw, the summers white with glare and fiery hot.

If you walk along the main street on an August afternoon there is nothing whatsoever to do. The largest building, in the very center of the town, is boarded up completely and leans so fat to the right that it seems bound to collapse at any minute. The house is very old. There is about it a curious, cracked look that is very puzzling until you suddenly realize that at one time, and long ago, the right side of the front porch had been painted, and part of the wall – but the painting was left unfinished and one portion of the house is darker and dingier than the other. The building looks completely deserted. Nevertheless, on the second floor there is one window which is not boarded; sometimes in the last afternoon when the heat is at its worst a hand will slowly open the shutter and a face will look down on the town. It is a face like the terrible dim faces known in dreams – sexless and white, with two gray crossed eyes which are turned inward so sharply that they seem to be exchanging with each other one long and secret gaze of grief. The face lingers at the window for an hour or so, then the shutters are closed once more, and as likely as not there will not be another soul to be seen along the main street. These August afternoons – when your shift is finished there is absolutely nothing to do; you might as well walk down to the Forks Falls Road and listen to the chain gang.

However, here in this very town there was once a café. And this old boarded-up house was unlike any other place for many miles around. There were tables with cloths and paper napkins, colored streamers from the electric fans, great gatherings on Saturday nights. The owner of the place was Miss Amelia Evans. But the person most responsible for the success and gaiety of the place was a hunchback called Cousin Lymon. One other person had a part in the story of this café – he was the former husband of Miss Amelia, a terrible character who returned to the town after a long term in the penitentiary, caused ruin, and then went on his way again. The café has long since been closed, but it is still remembered.

The place was not always a café. Miss Amelia inherited the building from her father, and it was a store that carried mostly feed, guano, and staples such as meal and snuff. Miss Amelia was rich. In addition to the store she operated a still three miles back in the swamp, and ran out the best liquor in the country. She was a dark, tall woman with bones and muscles like a man. Her hair was cut short and brushed back from the forehead, and there was about her sunburned face a tense, haggard quality. She might have been a handsome woman if, even then, she was not slightly cross-eyed. There were those who would have courted her, but Miss Amelia cared nothing for the love of men and was a solitary person. Her marriage had been unlike any other marriage ever contracted in this country – it was a strange and dangerous marriage, lasting only for ten days, that left the whole town wondering and shocked. Except for this queer marriage, Miss Amelia had lived her life alone. Often she spent whole nights back in her shed in the swamp, dressed in overalls and gum boots, silently guarding the low fire of the still.

With all things which could be made by the hands Miss Amelia prospered. She sold chitterlings and sausage in the town near-by. On the autumn days, she ground sorghum, and the syrup from her vats was dark golden and delicately flavored. She built the brick privy behind her store in only two weeks and was skilled in carpentering. It was only with people that Miss Amelia was not at ease. People, unless they are nilly-willy or very sick, cannot be taken into the hands and changed overnight to something more worthwhile and profitable. So that the only use the Miss Amelia had for other people was to make money out of them. And in this he succeeded. Mortgages on crops and property, a sawmill, money in the bank – she was the richest woman for miles around. She would have been rich as a congressman if it were not for her one great failing, and that was her passion for lawsuits and the courts. She would involve herself in long and bitter litigation over just a trifle. It was said that if Miss Amelia so much as stumbled over a rock in the road she would glance around instinctively as though looking for something to sue about it. Aside from these lawsuits she lived a steady life and every day was much like the day that had gone before. With the exception of her ten-day marriage, nothing happened to change this until the spring of the year that Miss Amelia was thirty years old.

It was towards midnight on a soft quiet evening in April. The sky was the colour of a blue swamp iris, the moon clear and bright. The crops that spring promised well and in the past weeks the mill had run a night shift. Down by the creek the square brick factory was yellow with light, and there was the faint, steady hum of the looms. It was such a night when it is good to hear from faraway, across the dark fields, the slow song of a Negro on his way to make love. Or when it is pleasant to sit quietly and pick a guitar, or simply to rest alone and think of nothing at all. The street that evening was deserted, but Miss Amelia's store was lighted and on the porch outside there were five people. One of these was Stumpy MacPhail, a foreman with a red face and dainty, purplish hands. On the top step were two boys in overalls, the Rainey twins - both of them lanky and slow, with white hair and sleepy green eyes. The other man was Henry Macy, a shy and timid person with gentle manners and nervous ways, who sat on the edge of the bottom step. Miss Amelia herself stood leaning against the side of the open door, her feet crossed in their big swamp boots, patiently untying knots in a rope she had come across. They had not talked for a long time.

One of the twins, who had been looking down the empty road, was the first to speak. 'I see something coming,' he said.

'A calf got loose,' said his brother.

The approaching figure was still too distant to be clearly seen. The moon made dim, twisted shadows of the blossoming peach trees along the side of the road. In the air the odour of blossoms and sweet spring grass, mingled with the warm, sour smell of the near-by lagoon.

'No. It's somebody's youngun,' said Stumpy MacPhail.

Miss Amelia watched the road in silence. She had put down her rope and was fingering the straps of her overalls with her brown bony hand. She scowled, and a dark lock of hair fell down on her forehead. While they were waiting there, a dog from one of the houses down the road began a wild, hoarse howl that continued until a voice called out and hushed him. It was not until the figure was quite close, within the range of the yellow light from the porch, that they saw clearly what had come.

The man was a stranger, and it is rare that a stranger enters the town on foot at that hour. Besides, the man was a hunchback. he was scarcely more than four feet tall and he wore a ragged, rusty coat that reached only to his knees. His crooked little legs seemed too thin to carry the weight of his great warped chest and the hump that sat on his shoulders. He had a very large hear, with deep-set blue eyes and a sharp little mouth. His face was both soft and sassy - at the moment his pale skin was yellowed by dust and there were lavender shadows beneath his eyes. He carried a lopsided old suitcase which was tied with a rope.

'Evening,' said the hunchback, and he was out of breath.

Miss Amelia and the men on the porch neither answered his greeting nor spoke. They only looked at him.

'I am hunting for Miss Amelia Evans.'

The Ballad of the Sad Café

Carson McCullers

1951 Houghton Mifflin

a balada do café triste

traducido por Salomé Rodríguez Vázquez

Barbantesa

A vila en si é ben triste; non ten moito á parte da fábrica de algodón, as casas de dous cuartos onde viven os obreiros, uns poucos pexegueiros, unha igrexa con dúas vidreiras e unha miserable rúa principal de apenas cen metros de longo. Os sábados os granxeiros dos arredores chegan para parolar e facer as compras. Fóra diso, a vila é solitaria, triste, coma un lugar afastado e separado do resto do mundo. A estación de tren máis próxima é Society City, e as liñas de autobuses Greyhound e White Bus pasan pola estrada de Forks Falis, que está a tres millas. Os invernos son curtos e duros, os veráns resplandecentes de luz e dunha calor atroz.

Se un vai pola rúa principal nunha tarde de agosto non atopa nada en absoluto que facer. O edificio máis grande, no centro mesmo da vila, está completamente pechado con táboas cravadas e inclínase tanto á dereita que semella condenado a derrubarse en calquera intre. A casa é moi antiga. Ten un aire curioso e ruinoso que desconcerta ata que, de súpeto, un se dá de conta de que algún día, hai moito tempo, se pintou o lado dereito do soportal e parte da fachada; mais o traballo quedou sen rematar e unha metade da casa é máis escura e lóbrega cá outra. O edificio semella completamente abandonado. Aínda así, na segunda planta hai unha fiestra que non está apuntalada; ás veces, á tardiña, cando a calor é sufocante, vese unha man abrir as contras e un rostro que mira a rúa. É un deses terribles rostros difusos que aparecen nos soños: asexuado e pálido, con dous ollos grises birollos, tan inclinados para dentro que semellan estar intercambiando unha longa e secreta mirada apesarada. Ese rostro queda mirando pola fiestra durante unha hora; logo, as contras féchanse outra vez e o máis seguro é que non se vexa unha alma ao longo da rúa principal. Estas tardes de agosto, despois de traballar, non hai nada que facer; un podería, como moito, ir á estrada de Forks Falls e escoitar os condenados a traballos forzados.

Así e todo, nesta mesma vila houbo unha vez un café. E aquela casa pechada non se semellaba a ningunha outra en moitas millas á redonda. Había mesas con manteis e panos de papel, ventiladores eléctricos con cintas de cores prendidas e grandes xuntanzas os sábados á noite. A propietaria do local era a señorita Amelia Evans. Pero o mérito do éxito e da animación do local era maiormente dun chepudo ao que chamaban o curmán Lymon. Hai outra persoa que participou na historia deste café: o ex-marido da señorita Amelia, un personaxe terrible que volveu á vila despois de cumprir unha longa condena no cárcere, provocou desastres, e logo marchou por onde viñera. O café leva xa moito tempo pechado, pero aínda o lembran.

Aquilo non sempre fora un café. A señorita Amelia herdara o edificio do seu pai como un almacén de penso, guano e produtos de primeira necesidade, como comestibles e tabaco. A señorita Amelia era rica. Ademais do almacén dirixía unha destilería a tres millas da vila, no pantano, e vendía o mellor alcol do condado. Era unha muller morena, alta, con osamenta e musculatura de home. Tiña o cabelo curto, peiteado para atrás, e a súa cara queimada polo sol tiña un aire tenso e consumido. Puido ser unha muller bonita se non fose un pouco birolla. Non lle faltaran pretendentes, pero á señorita Amelia traíaa sen coidado o amor dos homes; era unha persoa solitaria. O seu casamento foi unha cousa excepcional no condado: foi un matrimonio estraño e perigoso que durou só dez días e deixou toda a vila asombrada e escandalizada. A parte dese raro enlace, a señorita Amelia sempre vivira soa. Pasaba con frecuencia noites enteiras no seu alpendre do pantano, vestida cunha funda de faena e botas de goma, vixiando en silencio o lume lento da destilería.

Á señorita Amelia dábanselle ben tódolos traballos manuais. Vendía miúdos e salchichas na vila do lado. Nos días solleiros do outono plantaba sorgo, e o xarope que tiña nos toneis era dunha cor dourada escura e de delicado recendo. Construíra o retrete de ladrillo detrás do almacén en só dúas semanas e era mañosa tamén coa carpintería. Soamente coa xente non estaba a gusto. A xente, a non ser que sexa completamente parva ou estea moi enferma, non se pode coller e transformar dun día para outro en algo máis interesante e útil. Así pois, a única utilidade que a señorita Amelia vía na xente era poder sacarlle cartos. E iso dábaselle ben. Hipotecas sobre colleitas e propiedades, un serradoiro, cartos no banco, ... Era a muller máis rica en varias millas á redonda. Podería ser tan rica coma un congresista se non fose por unha gran debilidade; a súa paixón polos preitos e os tribunais. Enredábase en longos e amargos litixios por calquera minucia. Dicíase que ata cando a señorita Amelia tropezaba cunha pedra na rúa miraba decontado ao seu redor coma se buscase quen demandar. A parte dos preitos, levaba unha vida tranquila na cal os días non se diferenciaban uns dos outros. A excepción do seu matrimonio de dez días, nada aconteceu que cambiase isto, ata a primavera en que fixo trinta anos.

Eran preto das doce dunha tranquila e fresca noite de abril. O ceo estaba azul coma os lirios do pantano, a lúa clara e brillante. Esa primavera a colleita prometía, e a fábrica traballaba día e noite dende había semanas. Abaixo, onda o regato, a fábrica de ladrillo estaba iluminada e oíase o leve e constante rumor dos teares. Era unha desas noites en que dá gusto escoitar ao lonxe, a través dos campos escuros, a lenta canción dun negro que vai facer o amor. Tamén é agradable sentar tranquilamente e coller unha guitarra, ou simplemente descansar e non pensar en nada en absoluto. A rúa estaba deserta esa noite, pero había luz no almacén da señorita Amelia e fóra, no soportal, había cinco persoas. Unha delas era Stumpy MacPhail, un capataz de rostro colorado e mans delicadas e moradas. No chanzo de arriba había dous rapaces vestidos con fundas de faena, os xemelgos Rainey, ámbolos dous desgairados e lentos, de cabelo moi louro e de ollos verdes somnolentos. O outro home era Henry Macy, unha persoa tímida e retraída de maneiras delicadas e xestos nerviosos, que estaba sentado no bordo do chanzo máis baixo. A señorita Amelia estaba apoiada na porta, de pernas cruzadas e con botas de auga, desfacendo pacientemente os nós dunha corda que atopara. Levaban moito tempo calados.

Un dos xemelgos, que estivera mirando para a estrada deserta, foi o primeiro en romper o silencio.

-Aí vén algo -dixo.

-Un xato que fuxiu -dixo seu irmán.

A figura que se achegaba aínda estaba demasiado lonxe para que a visen con claridade. A lúa proxectaba as sombras difusas e tortas dos pexegueiros en flor que había ao longo da estrada. Mesturábanse no ar o aroma das flores e a herba fresca da primavera co cheiro quente e acedo da lagoa próxima.

-Non, é algún raparigo -dixo Stumpy McPhail.

A señorita Amelia miraba en silencio para a estrada. Pousara a corda e estaba enredando cos tirantes da funda de faena coa súa man morena e osuda. Engurrou o cello e un guecho de cabelo escuro caeulle sobre a fronte. Mentres estaban alí agardando, o can dunha das casas da estrada empezou a ouvear cun son salvaxe e ronco que só cesou cando un berro o mandou calar. Ata que a figura estaba bastante preto, na franxa de luz amarela do soportal, non viron con claridade o que chegara.

Era un forasteiro, e raramente un forasteiro entraba a pé na vila a aquelas horas. Ademais, o honre era un chepudo. Medía pouco máis dun metro vinte e levaba un abrigo roído que só lle chegaba aos xeonllos. As súas perniñas arqueadas semellaban demasiado delgadas para soportar o peso do seu longo peito deforme e da chepa que destacaba entre os ombros. Tiña unha cabeza mol grande, cuns ollos azuis afundidos e unha boca pequena e definida. O seu rostro semellaba ao mesmo tempo doce e descarado. Naquel momento tiña a pel amarela do po e sombras azuladas baixo os ollos. Levaba unha maleta vella toda torta atada cunha corda.

-Boas -dixo sen folgos o chepudo.

A señorita Amelia e os honres que estaban no soportal non responderon ao seu saúdo nin dixeron unha palabra. Limitáronse a ollar para el.

-Ando a buscar a señorita Amelia Evans.

diario de tradución: Ramón Buenaventura sobre Jonathan Franzen

Ramón Buenaventura
ciertadistancia.blogspot.com

é costume editorial equiparar ao tradutor co traidor. Non tanto pola raíz (latina: traduttore, traditore) como polas derivacións dunha profesión ás veces infausta. Sábeo ben o tradutor, poeta e novelista Ramón Buenaventura (Tánxer, 1940), a quen a editorial Seix-Barral confiou en 2002 a versión en castelán de The Corrections de Jonathan Franzen. Conta o escritor español que nun primeiro momento rexeitou o encargo, ao tratarse dunha obra demasiado extensa (unhas 600 páxinas) e sobre todo non dispor de tempo abondo para acometer a tarefa con seriedade.

o final da historia é coñecido e figura na páxina legal do bestseller: Buenaventura claudicou ante a insistencia e terminou por aceptar o reto. Non polos eloxios da crítica estranxeira á gran novela americana do s. XXI nin polos millóns de exemplares que avalaban daquela o último boom literario, senón por pura amizade. 'A editorial atopou a maneira de convencerme - explica o autor no 'diario de tradución' que aparece publicado no Centro Virtual Cervantes -. Neste mundo traidor e desleal non hai argumento máis resolutorio que a amizade'.

Buenaventura comprometeuse a telo listo no prazo de seis meses sen ter lido o orixinal en inglés, e xa na primeira frase do libro ('locura de un frente frío de la pradera otoñal, mientras va pasando') pudo albiscar a lea na que se metera. 'Axiña me decatei de que The Corrections me obrigaría a efectuar centos de consultas, porque era un libro exótico, un libro no que se describe unha sociedade americana que apenas concibimos en Europa e nun entorno repleto de detalles que estamos fartos de ver no cinema, pero que non temos costume de describir con palabras, ou que nos reclama o uso de temos inexistentes na nosa cultura'.

manexou neses días un ducia de dicionarios especializados (gastronomía, golf, finanzas, medicina, música, náutica, ...) para atopar a palabra precisa para a máis delirante variedade de expresións e xiros lingüísticos que caracterizan o estilo decimonónico de Franzen. 'O orixinal cubre unha gama de intereses e coñecementos verdadeiramente ampla e ben investigada polo autor'. Se non se puxo en contacto con Franzen para aclarar as dúbidas que lle ían xurdindo foi por decoro profesional. 'Nunca xamais preguntei nada a ningún autor, nin sequera a Anthony Burgess, con quen cheguei a ter confianza e cuxos textos me formularon, ás veces, dificultades de louquear.'

lembra Buenaventura que, a falta de cen páxinas para rematar o traballo, a editora española envioulle copia das respostas que Franzen lle fora dando ás consultas dos tradutores do libro noutras linguas. 'Eran cerca de 600 dúbidas, que o autor resolvía con paciencia e unha prolixidade verdadeiramente asombrosas'. O momento crítico chegou cando Seix-Barral mandou a Franzen as primeiras cento e pico páxinas traducidas ao castelán. 'A resposta do autor superou con creces as peores predicións que calquera Casandra tivera podido facer', conta Buenaventura. 'Houbo que perder o tempo en necidades como convencer ao autor de que en castelán non é un erro sintáctico poñer un adxectivo diante dun nome'.

Buenaventura só puido resignarse. Firmara unha cláusula de aprobación e non tiña máis remedio que aguantar o tirón e obedecer os designios literarios do autor, por desatinados que estes puideran resultarlle. Ao parecer, Franzen estaba empeñado en non engadir ningunha información que non estivera contemplada no orixinal en inglés. 'PA non podía ser Pensilvania, nin se admitía explicación para ningunha sigla. Prohibido revelar en dúas palabras para que serve un medicamento que vai a tomarse un personaxe e que ninguén en España coñece. Prohibido aclarar ningunha referencia histórica 100% norteamericana totalmente indescifrable en Europa.'

content.time.com

ten dereito o autor - pregúntase Buenaventura no seu 'Diario' - a inmiscirse tanto no traballo dun tradutor? A súa resposta ten a ver con dous factores fundamentais: a distancia cultural existente entre o emisor e o receptor do texto e o coñecemento do autor do país ao que vai dirixido o seu libro. Neste punto, Buenaventura, é contundente. 'Nadie quererá discutirme que o señor Franzen é un deses escritores norteamericanos que ignora todo sobre Europa, ata extremos que sería divertido demostrar se o meu propósito fose unha análise do libro e non unha crónica da súa tradución.'

en The Corrections, Franzen fala con sumo rigor de asuntos tan dispares e disparatados como a botánica, a mercadotecnia, os automóbiles ou as froitas tropicais. E faino usando constantemente neoloxismos, combinando campos semánticos, fusionando palabras e afondando en termos (unhas veces xurídicos, outras sexuais) que non están ben tipificados en castelán. Buenaventura dedicou semanas a resolver xogos de palabras nun libro que quere ser incorrecto, publicado a mesma semana do ataque ás Torres Xemelgas e que, xunto a Freedom, lle valeu a Franzen a portada da revista Time en 2010. 'Supoño que en obras tan longas como esta, todo tradutor acaba incorrendo na desesperación. Cando un leva semanas co texto e inda lle quedan duascentas ou trescentas páxinas por diante, a tarefa semella infinita, como se fose un a pasar o resto da vida traducindo The Corrections de don Jonathan Franzen. E, francamente, hai outras cousas neste val de bágoas, non si?'.

ao final, o encargo rematouse dentro do prazo (a pesar de que Buenaventura foi o último dos tradutores en recibir as galeradas) e o libro foi celebrado en España co mesmo entusiasmo que no seu país de procedencia. Poucos lembraron a Buenaventura nas súas críticas, inda gabando moitas delas a extraordinaria riqueza do vocabulario do libro. Claro que o traduttore se despacha a gusto no seu 'Diario ...' expresando a opinión que a el, particularmente, lle merece The Corrections: 'non vale un tiesto foradado, que diría Gonzalo de Berceo.'

texto orixinal en castelán

autor BENJAMÍN G. ROSADO

título 'el despecho del traductor de Franzen'

publicado en elmundo, 20.agosto.2015

a voz do tradutor

www.arteinformado.com

a voz do tradutor é unha serie de preguntas sobre o papel da tradución e sobre as linguas a través do traballo de 16 artistas que centran a súa obra na investigación dos idiomas e o uso que facemos deles: inclúen?, exclúen?, que relación gardan co poder?, e coa identidade?, cal será a lingua do futuro?, cal é o valor real das linguas locais nun contexto de globalización?

a acción do tradutor presúmese como unha continua negociación de entendemento, axustando o particular ao universal e a diferenza á coincidencia.

Martin Waldmeier (Basel, 1984) reúne traballos que parten do concepto máis amplo da tradución para tratar a comunicación verbal dende perspectivas diferentes; debuxa a contorna argumental dunha serie de problemas que a linguaxe ten que afrontar sen descanso como parte dun proceso condicionado. É un arduo propósito que acerta a por enriba da mesa a través de preguntas sobre os conflitos artísticos, sociais, políticos e económicos. Inda que baixo o paraugas do pluralismo cultural, estes conflitos moitas veces se fracturan, e constitúen o guión da exposición: o dereito de autoría, a exactitude da lingua na tradución, o interese por unha lingua segundo as políticas aperturistas, o inglés como comunicación dominante, a perda de información, o idioma como medio para lexitimar políticas de exclusión ou a perda de identidade, entre outras.

o ensaio visual e lingüístico destes crea unha atmosfera máis de incertidumes que de seguridades, profesadas en textos murais, documentos e manuscritos traducidos xunto a fotografías e audiovisuais dobrados ou subtitulados en diferentes linguas. Hai unha morea de imaxes e frases que se fixan na subxectividade do espectador: 'todos os que non saben ler en castelán son estúpidos' (Luis Camnitzer) ou 'An Artist who Cannot Speak English is No Artist' (Mladen Stilinovic).

transmite (a tradución) a mensaxe íntegra dun idioma a outro ou aporta algo da lingua final? Nin sequera cando non media a subxectividade o traslado é exacto: a artista chinesa Xu Bing recolle un extracto dun libro en chinés, que traduce cun tradutor automático do chinés ao ruso e do ruso ao alemán e así ata nove idiomas para volver a traducilo ao chinés e o resultado é o mesmo que no famoso xogo ... non ten nada que ver co orixinal.

'neste mundo de globalización hai unha necesidade cada vez máis imperante de facer traducións, pero en cada tradución pérdese algo', explica Waldmeier, que aclara que a exposición ten dúas liñas de traballo: unha que pretende descubrir o papel do tradutor e darlle visibilidade e outra mostrar que pode aportar esta actividade á idea de identidade: 'a tradución non é só unha profesión, é un xeito de expresar unha realidade'.

Martin Waldmeier
www.marcovigo.com

tamén se alerta da desaparición das linguas minoritarias, 25 cada ano; esta perda e o que significa para a cultura e identidade de cada pobo centra o traballo de Susan Hiller, mentres que Nicoline van Harskamp indaga no futuro do idioma hexemónico (o inglés) e grava a persoas de diferentes nacionalidades contando as súas experiencias como anglofalantes.

Rainer Ganah documenta a súa propia aprendizaxe do chinés, que tamén centra o traballo de Sylvie Boisseau e Fran Westermeyer, que analizan as motivacións dos europeos á hora de estudar esta lingua.

Zineb Sedira analiza a preservación e a perda da identidade ligadas á transmisión oral da memoria familiar cun vídeo no que fai de tradutora da súa filla, que fala inglés, e súa nai, que entende o francés pero só fala árabe.

Dora García, coa súa 'Letter to other planets', tradución do comunicado de prensa da exposición en doce idiomas minoritarios (armenio, swahili, kurdo e quechua, entre outros) pregúntase ... a quen 'lle fala' un museo coas súas exposicións?.

na súa maioría as obras desta exposición son exercicios moi visuais e esenciais na presentación pero cunha forte carga reivindicativa e emocional sobre o propio. Inciden principalmente en cuestións relativas ao condicionante do idioma na práctica artística, que poñen no punto de mira ao inglés como lingua vehicular para a cultura global. Esta cuestión queda bastante ben resolta dende distintas ópticas nos traballos de distintos artistas. Mais tamén hai silencios, incomunicación e perda neste percorrido polo comunitario, que pespunta integración e descomposición. Un convite a ler entre liñas para descubrirnos, inventarnos e (re)construírnos.

referencias:

'los traductores y las lenguas toman la voz en el MARCO' por ÁGATHA DE SANTOS (faro de vigo, 30 MAIO 2015)

'acción y traducción' por CHUS MARTÍNEZ DOMÍNGUEZ (babelia, 01 agosto 2015, páxina 12)

dossier documental, catálogo (www.marcovigo.com)

a voz do tradutor. Marco. Vigo. ata 30 agosto 2015

Binyavanga Wainaina & Africa & homosexuality

Binyavanga Wainaina
kachifo.com

Kenneth Binyavanga Wainaina (born 18 January 1971) is a Kenyan author, journalist and winner of the Caine Prize for African Writing. In April 2014, Time magazine included Wainaina in its annual TIME 100 as one of the "Most Influential People in the World." (English wikipedia excerpt)

selected texts & excerpts:

'How to Write about Africa' (Granta)

One Day I Will Write about this Place: a Memoir (2011)

'I am a homosexual, mum'

'How to Write about Africa II: the Revenge' (Bidoun)

'Episode IV' Opening Crawl

A long time ago, in a galaxy far,
far away ...

It is a period of civil war.
Rebel spaceships, striking
from a hidden base, have won
their first victory against
the evil Galactic Empire.

During the battle, rebel
spies managed to steal secret
plans to the Empire's
ultimate weapon, the DEATH
STAR, an armored space
station with enough power to
destroy an entire planet.

Pursued by the Empire's
sinister agents, Princess
Leia races home aboard her
starship, custodian of the
stolen plans that can save
her people and restore
freedom to the galaxy ...

star wars website

Palace of Oca

xardíns do Pazo de Oca
turgalicia.com

The Ulla River, which divides La Coruña Province from that of Pontevedra, flows to the sea through a winding valley proverbial for its gentleness and fertility. Nobles of this valley in the eighteenth century were wealthy. Their zeal for domestic extension and their ability to command it are shown in the palaces (pazos) they left, huge, lonely piles of granite in which the stranger, with dull eyes and ears unkindled by memory, reads little but the musty progress of decay and feels mainly the weight of the pervasive silence into which his own footsteps and those of the wood-shod caretaker, opening doors for him, break for a moment harshly. For an appreciation of these buildings instinct with life, one must turn to the novels of Pardo Bazán and Valle-Inclán.

In Los pazos de Ulloa the palace is inhabited by a young man, the last in his line, a careless, untutored Nimrod wholly under the influence of his treacherous steward, Primitivo. We see it first as the new chaplain comes to it at evening.

‘No light shone in the vast edifice, and the great central door appeared to be closed with stone and mud. The Marquis turned towards a very low side door where at that moment appeared a stout woman holding an oil lamp. After crossing dark hallways, they penetrated into a kind of cellar with earthen floor and stone-vaulted roof which, to judge by the rows of wine pipes backed up against the walls, must have been the bodega. From here they quickly reached a spacious kitchen illuminated by the fire which burned on the hearth, licking a black pole hung from a chain. The high chimney hood was adorned with strings of sausages and blood puddings, and with an occasional ham’.

Valle-Inclán concerns himself with the life above stairs. In his Sonata de otoño the palace mistress is dying, and the Marquis of Bradomín has left his autumn shooting to be at her side.

‘Vaguely I called to mind the Palace of Brandeso which I had visited as a child with my mother. Now, years later, I was returning, summoned by the little girl with whom I had played so often in the old, flowerless garden. My spirit heavy with memories, I made my way under the sombre chestnuts, covered with dry leaves, which lined the avenue. At the end appeared the palace, all its windows closed and the panes gilded by the sun. I entered, and the great vestibule, dark and silent, resounded with my footsteps against its broad flagstones. On oaken benches polished with use sat farmers waiting to pay their yearly rent; beyond them stood old wheat chests, the lids raised. The tenants rose, murmuring respectfully, ‘A good afternoon and holy!’ and sank into their seats again. Hastily I mounted the seignorial stair with its wide treads and balustrade of rudely carved granite.

Pendellos en Lalín, 1926
foto de Ruth Matilda Anderson

‘As poor Concha had a cult for memories, she wished me to go through the palace with her, recalling that other time when she and her sisters were pale little girls who came to kiss me and lead me by the hand to play, sometimes in the tower, sometimes on the terraces, or on the balcony which overlooked the garden and the road.

‘After how many reasons had I returned to those formal parlours and family sitting rooms!’ Walnut-floored rooms, cold and silent, which kept throughout the year the smell of sour autumn apples laid on the window mouldings to ripen, parlours with old damask draperies, cloudy mirrors, and family portraits. In those chambers our footsteps echoed as though in deserted churches, and when the doors slowly opened on their ornate hinges, the darkness and silence beyond seemed to breathe out the distant perfume of other lives. In the depths of mirrors, as in an enchanted lake, the parlour stretched on and on into illusion, and the people of the portraits, those founder-bishops, sad maidens, parchment-skinned inheritors, seemed to live forgotten in a centennial peace.

‘Concha hesitated where two halls crossed in a huge, round antechamber, dismantled except for several old chests. On top of one a faint circle of light was cast by the oil taper which burned there night and day before a Christ of livid flesh and disheveled hair’.

With these images in mind we enquired for a country pazo and were told that that of Oca was generally open to visitors and easily accessible from Santiago, being only three kilometers off the route of the Orense bus. Every summer tourists went to see and photograph it, and only the summer before a troop of actors had used it for filming the country scenes of La casa de Troya.

We arose at a cold hour and set out in a heavy mist while it was still night. Shortly after crossing the Ulla River, we were put down at an intersection. It was then a little after seven. The mist continued, thick and chilling, and the tavern to which the bus driver directed us was invisible except for the black holes of its doors and windows. As we drew nearer, its gray bulk showed the white tracery of cement closing the irregular joints of granite rubble. The tavern woman, black clad, apple cheeked, eased with a bench and a barrel our waiting for the day to ripen. We should have liked her to ease it further with hot milk and coffee, but the sole item on her breakfast menu was aguardiente. That Gallegan countrymen could stand up to it was proved by the sticky, empty glasses left on the counter, but we did not command the inner fortitude required for taking liquid dynamite at that hour and keeping it down with dignity. We could better face the cold.

A little before nine the fog dispersed and we set out for the palace. Beyond a scintillating wedge of cornfield, bordered with dark, conical pines, lay the silver patch of a river. A harp of eucalyptus cut against the green and blue of near and father ridges. Presently from a narrow road, branching off the highway between deep walls of rubble, came the chirrío of a cart. Through it ran a clear, melancholy strain of song which ended in an aturuxo of such piercing timbre that it knit up the whole valley and evoked reply from another walker in the hills.

In less than an hour we had come to the pazo. Inside the crenelated outer wall we walked down a long avenue of chestnuts, the trunks of which, wound with ivy and set with moss-bedded ferns, were much leafier than their branches. Our first view was that of a crenelated tower from which a short wing turned. The main façade, low and long, faced a worn but still grassy, ‘place of honour’, which on the opposite side was bounded with rubble cottages joined into a long tenement behind a grapevine trellis. At the end rose a chapel linked to the palace with a balustrade walk upon an arched wall which bore white-flowering vines. The great centre door of the palace was closed, and the long panes above gave only dull reflections of the sky or the blank stare of wooden shutters closed within; in the lower story the wide window spaces stood black behind iron grilles. Almost immediately, from a balconied cottage opposite, came a pleasant-looking countrywoman, and before we could speak our request to see the palace, she had the key out from under her full apron. No, nobody was at home, she said; the Marquise of Camarasa, her mistress, had not lived here in years. But we might enter the palace, at least part of it, yes indeed. It was always in good order, for the Marquise, even though she did not use it, would not have it neglected.

The woman opened a narrow panel in one of the great doors and let us into a white-plastered vestibule, built in the old manner, large enough to receive a lady’s litter or a mounted horseman. Its flag-stones rang but slightly under our steps, for the farther wall opened in a great arch to the loggia and the garden. Against a side wall stood wooden benches with a certain air of the Empire in the turn of their arms and backs. To right and left opened long, unplastered chambers, roughly paved and ceiled with dark heavy beams. the left chamber, containing piles of lumber, a workbench, and a lame Chippendale chair, seemed to be a carpenter shop. in that opposite clothes were drying, and bean plants and ears of corn were heaped on the floor. the inner wall of this chamber was lined with stone bins in which high wooden doors stood open for receiving grain. holes at the bottom, where it would be drawn out, were closed with a wooden slide and a massive iron lock. Under one hole lay wooden utensils, the larger probably a trough for pouring grain into a bin, and the smaller, a measure with its rake for leveling grain precisely even.

The garden, confined between the house wings and a row of sheds and stables, was too small for mystery and age it wore with quiet grace. A low, clipped border surrounded and old stone fountain in which the gaping mouths were dry. Between the wide paths autumn lilies and modest daisies bloomed in neglected grass just out of the shade cast by glossy-crowned camellias and magnolias; there were also a few palm with short, hairy-barked trunks. Benches stood under trees and against vine-hung walls in which, looking closely, we could see small, enigmatic doors. The arched tops of eucalyptus trees rose above the farther wing, and against them appeared a great finialed chimney which must have served the manorial kitchen.

Over the loggia spread the sun porch, its whole extent faced with French windows between engaged Doric columns and behind a low balustrade. Our guide took us to it up a wide stair, and we found its windows hung with curtains of while linen trimmed with plain red borders and a central decoration or red coronet and monogram. In the table cover natural-coloured linen was combined with red wool. Prints of horses and their jockeys hung above the cane deck chairs, twenty or more, which stood facing the windows, and pictures of dogs, very like Landseer's, hung beside the tall clocks. We began her to feel the loneliness of the pazo. The clocks disagreed. The flowerpots were dry. Everything of personal interest had been carried or put away. There remained only the cold white bust of a goateed gentleman, surveying with the lacklustre gaze of pupiless eyeballs the tidy bleakness in which he had been abandoned.

The central hall on this floor had its four corners walled off into closets with partitions boldly painted in red and yellow. Each closet was a continent; its name appeared within a cartouche on the door, Africa, Asia, Europa, America. The woman said that the hall  probably served as dormitory in days when visitors used to descend in numbers, but we preferred to think of the closets as playhouses for pale little girls and boys. Glancing into one, we found it lined with shelves on which reposed glass decanters, goblets, and odd pieces of porcelain.

Of coats of arms we had so far seen only one, a small escutcheon on the face of the tower. Now, however, after a short passage from the continental hall we found heraldry ablaze. In the drawing-room a coat of arms supported by winged lizards with barbed tails and set within a circle of shells and scrolls, all worked in high relief and painted in gilt and barbaric colours, spread heavily at the centre of the smooth white ceiling. Over the halls hung charges of the central coat and other coats, rendered in flannel appliqué on great panels (reposteros) of linen crash. The effect was unbelievably baroque. Fishes, lions, shells, pine trees, crenelated castles in read and other colours were surrounded with wreaths of brilliant yellow, while at the panel corners were set red fleurs-de-lis. The furniture was of Louis Fifteenth style, with upholstery of red damask. The principal group held the stiff pattern of the Gallegan call (visita), in which the pieces are centred round a small rug, the only one on the floor. At one side of the rug the sofa hugged the wall; opposite it stood a table, and at each end sat two armchairs accompanied by plump, poodle-like footstools.

Beyond the heraldic drawing-room lay other parlours, immense, white walled, and scantily furnished. In the farthest a French window gave on the balustraded passage upon the wall leading to the chapel gallery.

When we came down to the vestibule again, our guide's husband was driving his chariot from the farm sheds across the garden. The body of this cart was of planks, and its wheels, more open than those of Santiago, had one genuine, if much overgrown, spoke and a rim supported by two bars at right angles to the spoke. Sorry black cows drew the cart with a yoke strapped to crumpled horns which were covered with a white fleece to keep them dry. The husband, an elderly man in dark cloth and velveteen, was very amiable, and when he saw our interest in his carro chirrión, he volunteered to show his plow.

Easily, on one shoulder, he brought it from the carpenter shop and set it down in the vestibule. The Gallegan plow, like the cart, has its prototype in the miniature farmyard group of the Romans. It is made in separate pieces and can be taken apart in less time than it takes to tell. The sheath (cama), spliced with iron straps to the beam (temón), ends in a point which is channeled through an upright bar (esteva) which, in turn, is tenoned into the horizontal be (dental). These are the essential parts. The rest are refinements: the tiny iron share (rella), shaped like a mule's footprint, to put a cutting edge on the beveled bed front; the mouldboards (abeacas) angling out, one at each side of the bed, to widen the furrow and turn the earth; and the upright brace (lieira) which with its wedges (pezcuños) is channeled through the sheath and into the bed to govern the angle between sheath and bed and thereby govern the furrow depth. The plowman bears on the handle (rabela) which is pegged into the upright bar, and the beam, as in the cart, is hooked to the yoke with a stout pin.

However wide the farmer sets the angle and however earnestly he bears down, his plow never furrows the soil so deep as its best interest would require. In compensation this implement has the virtue of being easily handled. Gallegan fields, in these valleys of especial mildness and fertility, may not uncommonly have an area of less than fifty square yards. Fancy trying to get in and out of a pocket handkerchief like that with a steel plow and a tractor and to turn with them at the end of a furrow! The Gallegan farmer is wise to keep to an implement he himself can carry, over a stile or up and down a terraced and down a terraced slope, and to the wise, slow animals who so cleverly second all his moves and turns.

Crossing the 'place of honour' and passing the chapel, we came on a large, rectangular pool held within a wall of lichened stones surmounted with balls and merlons. Above the mouldy path round the pool a tangle of myrtles reached out from the shade of high eucalyptus toward the canopy of light which overhung the water. At one end, beyond a balustraded bridge, stood a mill, the hum of its stones and the wash of its paddles breaking cheerfully the stillness of this hidden Trianon. The millstones we found grinding into a wooden frame instead of to the floor as at Marín. It may have been in the chamber above that the corn shelling was going on. Before a stout wooden trough almost full of corn ears stood two girls beating alternately with short curved bats. While the ears threshed madly from one end of the trough to the other, kernels cracked from the cobs and fell through holes pierced in the trough bottom. The chamber was fragant of the apples which filled a great sack of striped ticking, and the girls seemed to enjoy their work. Laughing chatter rose, as soon as we had gone, above the rhythmic sound of beating.

A granite table and benches set for picnics on a terrace overlooking the pool offered little invitation on this chill October day. They were covered with moss which also flourished on the walls and carpeted the pavement so thick that our footsteps hardly sounded. Returning towards the plaza, we heard a rush of water, and there was the palace laundry, an open shed paved with stone and roofed with tile. A clear, constant stream flowed through a large granite tank built with beveled rims for rubbing linen. I asked the woman whether it was not hard always in all weather to wash her clothes in cold water, and she returned, astonished, in what then should she wash them?

Under her arm she carried a distaff to which, without robbing her eyes of our strange movements with the camera, she steadily applied herself. Back at the pazo we saw in a shed the yarn she had already spun, three skeins of coarse, unbleached thread made from tow, another skein slightly better in quality, and three balls of fine linen thread, bleached and lustrous. One kilogram of the fine yarn would weave four metres of plain cloth, thirty-five inches wide. The woman also showed us how the flax, rippled and retted, was cleaned with scutching. The stalks were pounded with a wooden mallet against stone, rubbed between the hands, and finally sawed and beaten with a wooden swingle against an upright wooden brake. She was very proud of her brake, scrolled from the middle down. After scutching, the fibres passed to hackling through a hatchel, a phalanx of steel teeth set into a long wooden handle, and then, pale and long, they were ready to spin.

Spindlefuls of thread (mazarocas) were wound into skeins (marañas) on a wooden reel (sarillo) with bars made slightly concave to keep the yarn from slipping. One of the bars was mounted in a tongue-and-groove joint which could be broken when a skein was to be removed. The skeins, after bleaching called meadas, were bound into balls on a horizontally turning frame (devanadeira) - two pairs of crossed arms connected with uprights which could be adjusted in sockets nearer or farther apart as the length of the skein required.

Preoccupied with these matters, we felt the camera for a moment unguarded, the precise moment in which a young pig charged the tripod. Father, I caught surveying the catastrophe with poorly disguised satisfaction. He would have the double pleasure of adjusting the bent camera and of dictating the length of time through which the adjustments should endure. The situation, he felt, was the natural consequence of our getting up so early in the morning. No good ever came of trifling, as we had lately been doing, with the delicate balance between night and day.

text taken from

Ruth Matilda Anderson Gallegan Provinces of Spain. Pontevedra and La Coruña New York: The Hispanic Society of America, 1939

chapter XIX, pages 223-234