T.S. Eliot

A calella das ratas

ēgm. Flores II

 

A terra erma
T.S. Eliot

 

“Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Σίβυλλα τί θέλεις; respondebat illa: ἀποθανεῖν θέλω.”

Para Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro

 

	II.  Unha partida de xadrez
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	A Cadeira na que ela sentaba, como un trono brunido, brillaba sobre o mármore, onde o espello sostido por columnas labradas de vides con acios entre as que asomaba un dourado Cupido (outro escondía os seus ollos detrás dunha á) duplicaba as lapas do candeeiro de sete brazos reflectindo a súa luz na mesa mentres que o fulgor das súas xoias subía para atopala, de estoxos de satén espallándose en rica abundancia; en frascos de almafí e colorido cristal destapados, escondíanse os seus raros perfumes artificiais, ungüento, pulverizado, ou líquido… enturbaban, atrapallaban e afogaban o senso os aromas; axitados polo ar afrescante da xanela, estes ascendían fornecendo as alongadas lapas das candeas, lanzando o seu fume ata a laquearia, salientando o deseño do artesoado. Un gran madeiro de barco incrustado de cobre ardía verde e laranxa, enmarcado pola pedra de cores en cuxa tristeira luz nadaba un arroaz entallado. Enriba da antiga lareira mostrábase, como se unha xanela dese á selvática escena, a transformación de Filomela, polo bárbaro rei tan rudamente forzada; mais alí o rousinol enchía todo o deserto con voz inviolable e aínda ela choraba, e aínda o mundo persegue, «chac chac» en sucios ouvidos. E doutros murchos tocos de tempo contábase nas paredes; espreitantes formas debruzadas, inclinándose, acalando a habitación pechada. Pasos que esvaraban pola escaleira. Baixo a luz do lume, baixo o cepillo, o seu cabelo esparexíase en puntos labareantes brillando nas palabras, e entón salvaxemente aquedaba.       «Teño os nervios mal esta noite. Si, mal. Queda comigo. Fálame. Por que non falas nunca. Fala.       Que estás a pensar? Que pensas? Que? Nunca sei o que estás a pensar. Pensa.»       Penso que estamos na calella das ratas, onde os mortos perderon os ósos.       «Que é ese ruído?»                                          O vento por baixo da porta. «Que é esoutro ruído? Que fai o vento?»                                                                         Nada, outra vez nada.                                                                                                                 «Ti non sabes nada? Non ves nada? Non lembras nada?»               Lembro que esas perlas foron os seus ollos. «Estás vivo ou non estás? Non tes nada na cabeza?»                                                                                              Pero oh oh oh oh, ese ritmo shakespeheriano… é tan elegante, tan intelixente. «Que vou facer agora? Que vou facer? Sairei ás présas como estou, e andarei pola rúa co pelo solto, así. Que imos facer mañá? Que imos facer nunca?»                                            A auga quente ás dez. E se chove, un taxi ás catro. E imos botar unha partida de xadrez, apertando os ollos sen pálpebras e agardando un golpe na porta. Cando licenciaran o marido de Lil, díxenlle eu… non tiven lixos na lingua, díxenllelo na cara, APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Agora que torna Albert, poñeraste un pouquiño guapa. Vai querer saber que fixeches cos cartos que el che dera para arranxáre-los dentes. Dérachos, estaba eu alí. Quítaos todos, Lil, e pon unha dentadura xeitosa, díxocho, xúroo, non podo aguantar mirarte. Nin eu podo, dígolle, e pensa no pobre do Albert, botou catro anos no exército, precisa pasalo ben, e o que ti non lle deres, outras daranllo, dígolle. Ai, e logo é iso, di ela. Non digo que non, dígolle eu. Pois xa sei a quen llo terei de agradecer, di ela, mirándome aos ollos. APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Se non fas caso, podes seguir igual, dígolle. Outras poderán escoller, se ti non podes. Pero se Albert marcha, non será por non te avisaren. Debería che dar vergoña, dígolle, de aparentares tan andada. (E ten só trinta e un.) Non podo facer outra cosa, di ela, poñendo cara de can, son as pílulas aquelas que tomei, para provocalo, di ela. (Xa leva cinco, e a pouco morre con George, o pequeno.) O da botica dixera que todo ía ir ben, pero eu non volvín se-la mesma. Ti es parva de vez, díxenlle. Pois, se Albert non che deixa estar, iso é o que pasa, díxenlle, para que casaches se non queres nenos? APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Pois logo, o domingo Albert estaba na casa, tiñan pernil asado, e invitáranme á cea, para probármolo quentiño… APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA APUREN POR FAVOR XA É HORA Boanoite Bill. Boanoite Lou. Boanoite May. Boanoite. Abur abur. Boanoite. Boanoite. Boas noites, damas, boas noites, xentís damas, boas noites, boas noites.
	Traducción de ēgm. 2015

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	The Waste Land
	I. A Game of Chess
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	The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid— troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, ‘Jug Jug’ to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.       ‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.       What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.’       I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones.       ‘What is that noise?’                                          The wind under the door. ‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’                                                                                        Nothing again nothing.                                                                                                                                ‘Do ‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember ‘Nothing?’                   I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. ‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’                                                                                               But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent ‘What shall I do now? What shall I do? ‘I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street ‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? ‘What shall we ever do?’                                            The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

 

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►wikipedia: La tierra baldía
►bartleby.com: The Waste Land
►T.S.Eliot Hypertext Project, The Waste Land
►new-wisdom.org: Notes on T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land
►britlitwiki: Allusions in Eliot
►britlitwiki: Waste Land Translations
►youtube: T.S. Eliot reads The Waste Land
►youtube: The Waste Land read by Edward Fox, Eileen Atkins and Michael Gough
►youtube: The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot, Part one

 

►I. O enterramento dos mortos

►español