Dublineses (The dead) por Tony Huston sobre el relato del mismo título de James Joyce.
¿Qué pobre papel he representado en tu vida? Es casi como si no hubiera sido tu marido, como si nunca hubiésemos convivido juntos como marido y mujer. ¿Cómo eras entonces? Para mi tu cara sigue siendo hermosa, pero ya no es aquella por la que Michael Fury dio su vida ¿Por qué siento este torbellino de emociones? ¿Qué las ha despertado? ¿El recorrido en el coche de punto? ¿Su indiferencia al besarle la mano? La fiesta de mis tías, mi estúpido discurso, el vino, el baile, la música?
Pobre tía Julia. Qué expresión tan macilenta tenía mientras cantaba Arrayed for the Bridal. Pronto ella también será una sombra, como la sombra de Patrick Morecombe y su caballo. Quizás pronto me siente en esa mismo salón, vestido de negro, los visillos estarán corridos y yo rebuscaré en mi mente palabras de consuelo. Y sólo encontraré algunas, torpes e inútiles. Sí, sí, eso ocurrirá muy pronto.
Sí, los periódicos tienen razón. La nieve está cubriendo toda Irlanda. Cae sobre toda la oscura llanura central, sobre las colinas despobladas, suavemente sobre los pantanos de Allen, y más lejos, hacia el oeste, cae suavemente sobre las oscuras y revueltas aguas del Shannon. Uno a uno todos nos convertiremos en sombras. Es mejor pasar a ese otro mundo impúdicamente, en la plena gloria de una pasión, que irse apagando y marchitarse tristemente con la edad.
¿Cuánto tiempo has guardado en tu corazón la imagen de los ojos de tu amado diciéndote que no deseaba vivir? Yo mismo nunca he sentido nada así por ninguna mujer, pero sé que tal sentimiento debe ser amor. Piensa en todos los que alguna vez han vivido desde el principio de los tiempos, y en mi, transeunte como ellos, fluctuando también hacia su mundo gris. Como todo lo que me rodea, este mismo sólido mundo en el que ellos se criaron y vivieron se desmorona y se disuelve .
Cae la nieve, cae sobre ese solitario cementerio donde Michael Fury yace enterrado. Cae lágidamente en todo el universo y lánguidamente cae como en el descenso de su último final, sobre todos los vivos y los muertos.
Versión original en inglés
How poor a part I’ve played in your life, it’s almost as though I’m not your husband, and we’ve never lived together as man and wife. What were you like, then? To me, your face is still beautiful, but it’s no longer the one for which Michael Furey braved death. Why am I feeling this riot of emotion? What started it up? A ride in the cab? When not responding when I kissed her hand? My aunt’s party? My own foolish speech? Wine, dancing, music?
Poor Aunt Julia… That haggard look on her face when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, she’ll be a shade too, with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. Soon, perhaps, I’ll be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black. The blinds would be drawn down, and I’d be casting about in my mind for words of consolation. And would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes. That will happen very soon.
Yes, the newspapers are right: Snow is general all over Ireland. Falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, softly upon the Bog of Allen, and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. One by one we are all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.
How long you locked away in your heart, the image of your lover’s eyes when he told you that he did not wish to live? I’ve never felt like that myself towards any woman, but I know that such a feeling must be love.
Think of all those who ever were, back to the start of time. And me, transient as they, flickering out as well into their grey world. Like everything around me, this solid world itself, which they reared and lived in, is dwindling and dissolving.
Snow is falling. Falling in that lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lays buried. Falling faintly through the universe, and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.
Pasaje final de Dublineses, por James Joyce, de su libro Los muertos.
Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.
Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt’s supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good- night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.
The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover’s eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.
Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.