9.   Though It Be A Sin     (Díxome nantronte o cura)



Affectionate Diminutives

Explanation of some words, terms or expressions

Jacinto (5.3). Hyacinth, not a common first name in English.

Cara de pote fendido (10.1). "Cara de pote" was slang for an object of dark complexion (an overcast day, a face) because the cooking pots of Rosalia's day were ironwork. The modifier "fendido" (from fenda: slit, crack, chink) may tab the light-coloured areas of Jacinto's face (teeth, white of the eyes) or a scar. Thus the tempting translation "crackpot face" is wrong: Jacinto is not a nutter, he is probably a dark-skinned gypsy.

tan contento (23.2). Although the literal translation is "so merrily" the best interpretation is colloquial, meaning "without a second thought" or "without a care in the world." The first option, "without a second thought," serves to contrast Jacinto's indifference with the infatuated girl's constant dwelling upon him.

Díxome nantronte o cura
que é pecado...
Mais aquel de tal fondura
¿como o facer desbotado?

Dálle que dálle ó argadelo,
noite e día,
e pensa e pensa naquelo,
porfía que te porfía...

Sempre malla que te malla,
enchendo a cunca,
porque o que o diancre traballa
din que acaba tarde ou nunca.

Canto máis digo: ¡Arrenegado!
¡Demo fora!,
Máis o demo endemoncrado,
me atenta dempois i agora.

Máis ansias teño, máis sinto,
¡rematada!,
que non me queira Jacinto,
nin solteira, nin casada.

Porque deste ou de outro modo,
a verdá digo,
quixera atentalo e todo,
como me atenta o enemigo.

¡Que é pecado...miña almiña!
Mais que sea;
¿cal non vai, si é rapaciña,
buscando o que ben desea?

Nin podo atopar feitura
nin asento,
que me está dando amargura
sempre este mal pensamento.

Din que parés lagarteiro
desprumado;
si é verdad, ¡meu lagarteiro
tenme o corazón prendado!

«Cara de pote fendido»
ten de alcume;
mellor que descolorido,
quéroo tostado do lume.

Si elas cal eu te miraran,
meu amore,
nin toliña me chamaran,
nin ti me fixeras dore.

Vino unha mañán de orballo,
á mañecida,
durmindo ó pé dun carballo,
enriba da herba mollida.

Arrimeime paseniño
á súa beira,
e sospiraba mainiño
como brisa mareeira.

E tiña a boca antraberta,
como un neno
que mirando ó ceu desperta
deitadiño antre o centeno.

I as guedellas enrisadas
lle caían,
cal ovellas en manadas,
sobre as froliñas que abrían.

¡Meu Dios! ¡Quen froliña fora
das daquelas!...
¡Quen as herbas que en tal hora
o tiñan pretiño delas!

¡Quen xiada, quen orballo
que o mollou!
¡Quen aquel mesmo carballo
que cas ponlas o abrigou!

Mentras que así o contempraba
rebuleu,
e pensei que me afogaba
o corazonciño meu.

Bate que bate, batía
sin parar,
mais eu tembrando decía:
«Agora lle hei de falar.»

E volveu a rebulir
moi paseniño,
¡ai!, e botei a fuxir,
lixeira polo camiño.

Dempois, chora que te chora,
avergonzada,
dixen: «Si el non me namora,
non lle direi nunca nada.»

E non me namora, non,
¡maldizoado!,
mentras o meu corazón
quérelle anque sea pecado.

E vai tras de outras mociñas
tan contento,
i eu, con unhas cadiñas,
prendíno ó meu pensamento.

E que queira que non queira,
está comigo,
i á postre i á derradeira,
con el me atenta o enemigo.

¡Sempre malla que te malla
enchendo a cunca!
I é que o que o demo traballa,
acabará tarde ou nunca.

Por eso, anque o cura dixo
que é pecado,
mal que tanto mal me fixo
nunca o darei desbotado.

The day before yesterday the padre
Told me that it's a sin...
But how does one tear out
What is so deep within?

Turn and turn the swift,
Night and day,
Think and think about it,
Again and again...

Thresh and thresh evermore,
Filling up the holding bin,
For they say the devil's work
Is late or never in.

The more I say, "Renegade!
Scram, devil!"
The more the impish devil
Plagues me now and after.

The more I fret, the more I grieve
Worn out!
That Jacinto won't love me,
Single or espoused.

Because one way or another,
I speak this true,
I'd love to plague him and all,
Like the enemy plagues me.

That it's a sin...my poor soul!
Yet let it be;
What dear girl doesn't go after
What she well desires?

I can't finish the chores
Nor find repose,
For this wicked thought sours me
Without pause.

They say you look
Like a skint rogue;
If so my rogue
Has stolen my heart!

"Cracked-cooking-pot face"
Has he for nickname;
Yet I prefer him fire-toasted
Better than faded.

If the girls saw you as I do,
My love,
They'd not dub me "adorably daffy"
Nor would you cause me pain.

In the early hours of a drizzly morn
I spied him
Sleeping on the supple grass
At the foot of an oak.

I laid down beside him
Gingerly
And he was breathing softly soft
Like a sea breeze.

He had the mouth half open,
Like a baby
Who lain gently in the rye
Wakes up looking at the sky.

And the curled locks
Fell in flocks,
Like lambs,
Over the pretty, blooming flowers.

My God! Who were one
Of those darling flowers!...
Who the blades of grass
So cuddly close to him at that hour!

Who frost, who drizzle
That dampened him!
Who that very oak
Whose branches sheltered him!

He stirred
While I watched him thus,
And I thought my aching heart
Was choking me.

Beating, beating, it beat
Without check,
And trembling I was saying,
"I'll talk to him now."

And he stirred again very slowly,
And alas!
I sprang to my feet and fled fast
Along the byway.

Afterwards I wept and wept
Ashamed,
"If he won't woo me," I vowed,
"I'll never tell him anything."

And no, he doesn't woo me—
Confounded!—
Meanwhile my heart loves him
Though it be a sin.

And he chases the other lassies
Without a second thought,
And I fastened him with tiny fetters
To my mind.

And willy-nilly
He abides with me,
And after all is said and done,
The enemy plagues me with him.

Thresh and thresh evermore
Filling up the holding bin!
For the devil's work
Is late or never in.

That is why although the padre said
That it's a sin,
However much grief he's given me
I'll never get rid of him.
Translation from Spanish to English of the poem "¡Volved!" by Rosalía de Castro

Edgar Allan Poe
Lenore: That Rare And Radiant Maiden