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I
Aló no currunchiño máis hermoso
que a luz do sol na terra alumeara,
veiga frorida e prado deleitoso
que aos campiños do Edén se acomparara;
aló onde o Sar soberbo e caudaloso
parece que se dorme e que se para
(tan maino corre antre a robreda escura),
alí naceu Vidal o sin ventura.
II
¡Que reposo! ¡Que luz...! ¡Que garruleiro,
brando cantar dos váreos paxariños
cando ó salir do sol polo quinteiro
douraba fontes, lagos e campiños!
¡Que libre respirar...! ¡Que placenteiro
ir e vir dos cabirtos xuntadiños!
¡Que frescas, que polidas, que galanas
iban co gando as feitas aldeanas!
III
Nunca o rumor do mundo corrompido,
nunca da louca sociedá as vaidades,
nin brillo dos honores fementido
foran trubar tan doces soledades.
Ceo azul, sol de amor, campo frorido,
santa paz sin remorso nin saudades,
horas que van mainiñas camiñando:
tal alí tempo e vida iban pasando.
IV
¡Como o ventiño da mañán pirmeiro
no seio das rosiñas se dormía,
e cal dempois toliño e rebuldeiro
polo espazo inmensísimo subía,
e volvendo a baixar murmuradeiro
por enriba das chouzas rebulía,
nas aliñas levando o fumo leve
que en trubias ondas a subir se atreve!
V
¡E como ó mediodía, fasta o río,
brisas, aires, pradiños e arborado
pousaban calorosos e sin brío,
cal viaxeiro sedento e fatigado!
¡E como do serán o alento frío,
de arrulos misteriosos impregnado,
con pasiño lixeiro se achegaba
i aire, río e floriñas axitaba!
VI
Pasiño a paso a traballada xente
dos campos ás chousiñas se volvía,
mentras no lar o pote sarpullente
cas ricas berzas a cachón fervía.
As fabas i as balocas xuntamente
co touciño sabroso nel se vía
en compaña amigabre e farturenta
que alegra, que convida e que sustenta.
VII
Dempois da frugal cea, ó cariñoso
resplandor do luar claro e soave,
iban gozar ó enxido de reposo
co abó, que a longa historia contar sabe.
O rosario da Virxe proveitoso
logo rezaban con asento grave,
i alma e corpo tranquilo se dormía
esperando o folgor do novo día.
VIII
Todo era paz e amor i augua serena,
todo era craro azul no firmamento,
nin houbo alí a soberba que envenena,
nin vano goce, nin fatal tormento,
nin louco rebuldar, nin fonda pena,
nin baixo aborrecido pensamento,
vidiña tan risoña adormentaba,
pois doce e mainamente se folgaba.
IX
Naide naquel lugar probe se vira,
que uns ben i outros non mal foran vivindo,
i un que afroxa de máis i outro que estira,
fóranse acomodando e repartindo.
Ningún da negra fame a man sentira
o seu peito fortísimo oprimindo,
nomáis que a desdichada criatura
que se chamou Vidal o sin ventura.
X
Orfo ende que nacera, a sorte triste
déralle por herencia o desconsolo,
coa negra soledá, que ó probe asiste;
naide na terra se topou tan solo
de canto en polvo terrenal se viste,
inda correndo un polo i outro polo,
que era probe e dorido antre os doridos
e afrixido antre os tristes afrixidos.
XI
Tiña por casa un cortelliño escuro,
tiña por leito o chan humedecido,
por cubirtor a neve e vento duro
que entraba polas fendas arresido.
Tiña o sustento escaso e mal seguro
que dan de porta en porta ó que é perdido,
que así lle din con bulra non escasa
ó que por probe neste mundo pasa.
XII
En jamás o infeliz decir poidera
«¡Esto que teño é meu!», que a sorte dura
n'inda por conceder lle concedera
un pouco de querer ou de ternura,
nin un pouco de amor, que donde houbera
pobreza, e soledade e desventura,
groria, dicha e querer correndo pasan
i a entradiña da porta non traspasan.
XIII
Sempre por dicha pra Vidal había
caldo e máis pan nalgún lariño alleo,
i a máis a caridá non se estendía,
que fora un mal matarlle outro deseo.
Que si a cousas mellores se afacía
i outro váreo comer i outro recreo,
traballo lle custara a bon seguro
comer dempois berciñas e pan duro.
XIV
Tal conta a xente corda se botaba
con parsimonia concenzuda e grave,
e refráns sabios con afán buscaba
dos que din «Nunca des do que ben sabe.»
I o compango Vidal nunca probaba,
porque era a sobriedá santa e saudabe,
según a xente de poder decía,
anque ela ben folgaba e ben comía.
XV
Cando dos porcos a matanza viña
¡que amabre chamuscar nas limpas eiras
ó despertar da fresca mañanciña!...
¡Que alegre fumo antre olmos e figueiras
olendo a cocho polos aires viña!
¡Que arremangar das nenas mondongueiras!
¡Que ir e vir dende o banco hastra a cociña!
I aló no lar, ¡que fogo!, ¡que larada!,
¡que rica e que ben feita frixolada!
XVI
Fígado con cebola ben frixida
i unha folliña de laurel cheirosa,
que inda a un morto ben morto dera vida
de tan rica, tan tenra e tan sabrosa.
Raxo en sorsa cun cheiro que convida,
i a sangre das morcillas sustanciosa
en fregada caldeira rebotando,
a que fagan morcillas convidando.
XVII
Cuadro tan agradabre e farturento
por toda a vecindá se repetía
con garular, e risa, e gran contento,
que suceso tan grande o requería.
Mais, por que lle sirvise de tormento,
solo na chouza de Vidal n'había
nin porco, nin mondongo, nin fartura,
que era todo nubrado e desventura.
XVIII
Nas frías pedras do seu lar sentado,
tan váreo movemento contempraba
de negra soledade acompañado:
naide á festa do porco o convidaba,
que era probe Vidal i era olvidado,
i a presenza dun probe alí estorbaba;
por eso entre suspiros repetía:
«¡Ai, quen fora riquiño un soio día!»
XIX
Tales eran decote os seus deseos,
mais nunca, ¡triste sorte!, se cumprían,
e todos, todos de miseria cheos,
anos tras anos sin cesar corrían.
Xa era vello Vidal, i os duros ceos
de tan negro sufrir non se doían,
que inda o porco Vidal nunca probara
nin naide a tal festiña o convidara.
XX
Tal como era costume, a rica proba
veciños con veciños se trocaban
(inda hoxe esta costume se renova),
mais a Vidal, veciño non chamaban,
que fora indina misturanza boba
ir a dar donde daiva non topaban,
e por eso Vidal, probe coitado,
nunca catou morcilla o desdichado.
XXI
Mais, ¡ai, pícaro mundo!, ¡mundo aleve!,
¿quen de teus pasos e revoltas fía?
¿Quen afirmar empávedo se atreve
que non se pode a noite tornar día?
¿Quen en tempo tan rápido e tan breve
ós conocidos de Vidal diría
que aquela triste homilde criatura
iba nadar en ondas de ventura?
XXII
¡I así pasou!... Que Aquel que todo mira
aló da inmensa e trasparente esfera,
donde cos astros sentellantes xira,
misericordia de Vidal tivera;
o torpe olvido dos podentes vira
i a pena de Vidal compadecera,
e co seu brazo misterioso e forte
trocou dun sopro a temeraria sorte.
XXIII
Tal polas portas de Vidal entrara
como en campo sedento farto río,
aló de Cais harencia que envidiara
o máis encopetado señorío.
Hucha de ouro, ós seus ollos relumbrara
dándolle desvareo, e risa, e frío,
sendo tamaña a dicha que sentía,
que o corasón con ela non podía.
XXIV
Dempois chorou, sorreu, bicou a terra
inda polo seu pranto humedecida,
e canta dicha a humanidade encerra
verteuse do seu peito escandecida.
Logo, volvendo en si, casi se aterra
de ver ventura tan sin par cumprida,
e postrado ante Dios fervente ora
i o seu misterio portentoso adora.
XXV
Cumprido este deber, Vidal, reposto
de sorpresa tan grave e prasenteira,
ponse limpio, amañado e ben composto,
coa graciña de Dios por compañeira.
Cal se adimira de o mirar tan posto,
cal lle di que é galán por derradeira,
i, anque calvo quedou como San Pedro,
dinlle que ten risado pelo negro.
XXVI
Chámalle aquel «amigo», ¡cousa rara!,
que antes «¡Vidal!» con sorna lle desía,
i outro lle volve pracenteiro a cara
que nantronte o carís lle retorsía.
Tal miniña de velo se trubara,
tal outra xunta del se revolvía,
e seica non faltou quen lle dixera
que feito como un santo se volvera.
XXVII
Que é triste o rostro da mortal pobreza
que entre ximidos e dolores nace,
i hastra a hermosura ven, cando riqueza
co seu mirar risoño nos comprace;
presta o diñeiro encanto e gentilesa,
i un Dios o mesmo demo se tornase
si tomando figura de banqueiro
remexese diñeiro e máis diñeiro.
XXVIII
Estos misterios son... eu me confundo
i en vano os espricar me propuñera;
pero Vidal, filósofo profundo,
que anque xamáis nos libros deprendera
a conta propia deprendeu no mundo,
non de mudansa tal se soprendera,
que aló no seu caletre a adiviñara
cando en ser rico con afán soñara.
XXIX
Por eso recibeu con cortesía
recrebos, agasaxo e comprimento,
que un tras outro homildoso lle facía,
escoria vil do humano sentimento.
El a baixesa deles comprendía,
i anque vano nin torpe pensamento
contra xentiñas tales meditaba,
forte e seria lisión darlles pensaba.
XXX
Unha mañán a un santo e bon suxeto
un quiño lle mercou, ¡soberbo quiño!,
tan níveo, tan plantado e tan repleto
cal nunca o vira tal ningún veciño.
Era curto de perna, o lombo neto,
do rabo hastra a cabeza redondiño,
i o coiro tan graxento relusía
que mesmo de manteiga paresía.
XXXI
«¡Alabado sea Dios!», «¡Dios cho bendiga!»,
«¡San Antonio cho garde!», así escramaban
mentras que o cocho a paso de formiga
i o seu dono Vidal serios pasaban.
A falarlle a Vidal cada un se obriga,
que ó porco xa mortiño contempraban
e n'era de perder tan bon bocado
polas mans de Vidal morto e salgado.
XXXII
Logo o berrido do infeliz pasente
que sofre co coitelo morte dura
fender os aires no lugar se sente,
pouco a pouco a gorxiña queda muda,
o suspiro postrer soa estredente,
a sangre corre, o matachín xa suda,
e naquel grave e quírtico momento
é o porco vida e mundo e pensamento
XXXIII
O difunto alí está repantrigado,
cunha cebola na antraberta boca
(que inda parés que a come o desdichado);
pero non o chorés, que a el solo toca
dormir sono tan triste descuidado,
pois as iras do inferno non provoca,
nin groria ten nin porgatorio ardente;
el dormirá insensible eternamente.
XXXIV
Non cabe en si Vidal de tan contento,
o cheiriño do porco lle enlouquece,
que antre os porcos nacidos é un portento
aquel que ante seus ollos aparece.
Certa satisfación, certo contento
no rostro dos presentes resplandece,
que mesmo quer decir en lenguax mudo:
«¡Este si que che é un porco repoludo!»
XXXV
Mais co cocho Vidal soio se encerra,
mentras que a xente aturrullada mira...
Cal se pasma, cal bufa, cal se aterra,
que nunca tal naquel lugar se vira,
cal outro lle xurando eterna guerra,
das voltas que dá o mundo se adimira,
pois que nunca en xamais nengún veciño
lle batera ca porta no fociño
XXXVI
Era aquel un rifar desesperado,
pero Vidal o xordo se facía;
a noite enteira se pasou cerrado,
i ó arbor primeiro do siguente día,
cun varal de morcillas ben cargado,
que a pouco de cargado se rompía,
apareceu lavado e reverendo,
a todos co seu porte sorprendendo.
XXXVII
El direitiño ó seu facer marchaba
con paso despacioso camiñando,
e un sorrir nos seus labios se atopaba
que antroido iba decindo ou contrabando.
Dempois, con voz que ás xentes atroaba,
foise de porta en porta perguntando:
—¿Déronlle aquí morcillas a Vidal?
—¡¡¡Aquí non!!! —¡Pois adiante co varal!
XXXVIII
Así as chousas correu unha por unha
i o varal inteiriño inda se vía;
que un triste si non respondeu ningunha
de cantas en redondo requería.
Ríndose en tanto a falsa de fertunha
con sonsa voz de bulra repetía:
—¿Déronlle aquí morcillas a Vidal?
—¡¡¡Aquí non!!! —¡Pois adiante co varal!
....................................
XXXIX
Vidal morreu, i o tempo foi pasando,
braso que os duros mármores arrasa,
antre helados escombros enterrando
do bon Vidal a solitaria casa.
Mais sempre esta historiña foi quedando;
inda hoxe mesmo por proverbio pasa,
e cando o nome de Vidal se invoca,
muda sole quedar máis dunha boca.
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I
There on the most beautiful hidden corner
That the sunlight ever brightened on earth—
Flowerful lowland and delightful meadow
Comparable to Eden's beautiful fields—
There where the proud and voluminous Sar
Appears to fall asleep and loll
(Sluggish it traverses the dark oak forest)
There Vidal the luckless was born.
II
What repose! What light...! What garrulous
Mellow chirping of sundry small birds
When the sunrise above the animal pen
Gilded fountains, ponds and fair fields!
What easy breathing...! What delightful
Come-and-go of kids herded together!
How fresh, how polished, how dapper
Went the hamlet's women with the cattle!
III
Never the rumour of the corrupt world,
Never the vanities of madcap society,
Nor the deceptive lustre of honours
Came to perturb such sweet solitudes.
Blue sky, sun of love, flower-filled field,
Saintly peace without remorse or regrets,
Hours that gently gently trek on their way:
Thus time and life elapsed there.
IV
How the morning breeze first slumbered
In the bosom of the pretty roses,
And how giddy and ebullient afterward
It climbed the uttermost immense space,
And coming back down, murmuring,
Capered over the huts, carrying away
On ethereal wings the lightweight smoke
That dares to rise in murky curls!
V
And how at noon even the river, breezes,
Draughts, family plots and coppices
Settled down hot and listless,
Like some thirsty and fatigued traveller!
And how the evening's cold breath,
Pregnant with mysterious lullabies,
Approached with jolly brisk step and
Stirred up the air, river and pretty flowers!
VI
The toil-worn country folk
Trudged back to the sheltering huts
While the bubbling pot at home boiled
Strong with tasty cabbages. In it was
Seen beans and small round potatoes
Together with savoury bacon
In a friendly and filling congress
That gladdens, invites and nourishes.
VII
After the frugal dinner, in the tender
Glitter of the clear and soft moonlight,
They headed to the village field to enjoy
Grandpa's able telling of a long story.
Then they prayed with solemn accent
The profitable rosary of Our Lady,
And body plus soul fell asleep peacefully
Awaiting the radiance of the new day.
VIII
All was love, peace and tranquil waters,
All was clear blue in the firmament,
Nor visited there the hubris that poisons
Or vain pleasure or fatal torment
Or daft disturbance or profound sorrow
Or vulgar abhorrent sentiment;
Such simple pleasant life dozed away,
For sweet and gentle was their repose.
IX
No one in that place saw himself poor,
Some fared well and not too bad others,
One fritters away, another one hoards,
They all carried on adapting and sharing.
No one felt the black hand of hunger
Pressing down heavily upon his chest,
No one except the unhappy creature
Who was known as Vidal the luckless.
X
Orphan since birth, sad Fate gave him
Distress for inheritance, along with
The bleak loneliness that attends the poor;
No one on earth found himself so alone from
Among all that is clad in earthly dust,
Even scanning from one pole to the other,
For he was poor and hurt among the hurting
And aflicted among the sadly afflicted.
XI
He had a deplorable dark stall for abode,
He had the damp ground for cot,
For bedding the snow and the harsh wind
That came through the cracks very cold.
He had the sparse and uncertain diet
Offered door to door to the one who is lost,
For so they tell him with no scant mockery
To he who passes for poor in this world.
XII
Never could the hapless one say,
"What I have is mine!" Harsh fate
Had not even stooped to grant him
A little bit of fondness or tenderness,
Or a little bit of love, for wherever
Poverty, loneliness and ill fortune dwell,
Glory, bliss and affection sprint past and
Do not step over the humble threshold.
XIII
Fortunately there was always for Vidal
Stew and bread at someone's dear home,
But charity extended no farther, for it'd be
Wrong to let him satisfy other craving.
For if he became used to better fare—
A varied meal and a different distraction—
He would surely find it hard thereafter
To eat left-over cabbages and hard bread.
XIV
Such reckoning the rational people made
With grave and conscientious parsimony,
And searched with zeal for those wise saws
That say, "Never give away what is tasty."
And Vidal never consumed compango,
Because sobriety was holy and healthy
According to the powerful people,
Although they relaxed fine and ate well.
XV
When the time came for slaughtering the pigs,
What amiable roasting across the clean fields
At the awakening of the cool early morning!...
What cheery smoke smelling of pork wafted
On the air from among elms and fig trees!
How gossiping girls rolled up their sleeves!
What come-and-go twixt bench and kitchen!
And what fire in the fireplace! what blaze!
What sumptuous and well fried frixolada!
XVI
Deep-fried liver with onion
And an indispensable pungent laurel leaf,
So tasty, so tender and so toothsome that
It would resuscitate a corpse well dead yet.
Pork loin and trimmings with inviting odour,
And the substantial blood of blood sausages
Rebounding inside a scoured cauldron,
Inviting to the making of blood sausages.
XVII
Such pleasant and stomach-filling portrait
Was replayed throughout the neighbouhood
With mirth, laughter and great contentment,
Just as an event so big demanded.
But in Vidal's hut alone,
To confer on him torment,
There was no pork, tripe or glut,
Everything was overcast and misfortune.
XVIII
Seated on the cold stones of his abode
He watched the manifold activity,
Accompanied by bleak loneliness:
No one invited him to the pork feast,
For Vidal was destitute and forgotten,
And the presence there of someone poor
Annoyed; that is why he repeated between
Sighs, "Ah, were I well-off for just a day!"
XIX
Such were always his wishes,
But they were never fulfilled—sad destiny!—
Years on years hastened on ceaselessly,
Every one, every one, full of misery.
Vidal was old by now, and the dour heavens
Did not grieve over such bleak suffering,
Vidal had never tasted pork
Nor had anyone asked him to that feast.
XX
Neighbours traded tasty samples with
Other neighbours as was the custom
(Even today this custom is renewed)
But Vidal was not regarded as a neighbour.
It would be degrading and foolish rapport
To go give where nothing was given
In return, and so Vidal, poor hapless one,
Never ate blood sausage, the unhappy one.
XXI
But ah, puckish world! roguish world!
Who trusts in your steps and turn-abouts?
Who dares to affirm unruffled
That night cannot turn to day?
Who could say to Vidal's acquaintances
That in so quick and brief a spell
That sad humble creature was going to
Swim in waves of good fortune?
XXII
And so it happened!... He who inspects
Everything from beyond the immense
And transparent sphere that rotates with
The sparkling stars had mercy on Vidal;
He witnessed the unsound neglect
Of the affluent and felt for Vidal's grief,
And with his strong and mysterious arm
Changed at one go the dreadful destiny.
XXIII
It crossed the doors of Vidal's
Like brimming river onto thirsty field,
An inheritance from Cais such as
The most spruce peerage would envy.
The hoard of gold dazzled his eyes,
Making him faint, laugh and cold,
So great was the happiness he felt
That the heart could not cope with it.
XXIV
Afterward he wept, he smiled, he kissed
The ground still moist from his tears,
And as much bliss as humanity hems in
Poured out of his chest inflamed.
Then, taking hold of himself, he is almost
Terror-struck to see such unrivalled luck
Fulfilled, and prostrate before God prays
Fervently and adores his portentous mystery.
XXV
This duty performed, Vidal, recovered from
So pleasing and momentous a surprise,
Gets himself clean, groomed and swell,
With the kind grace of God for helpmate.
One marvels at seeing him so elegant,
One's parting word dubs him a gentleman,
And although he went bald like Saint Peter,
They tell him he's got curly black hair.
XXVI
That one calls him, "friend,"—rare thing!—
For aforetime he called him, "Vidal!" snide,
And another one greets him pleasantly
Who the day before yesterday swerved aside.
Some girl was greatly flustered upon seeing him,
Some other girl made circles about him,
And I understand that someone even told him
That he had matured like a saint.
XXVII
Sad indeed is the face of mortal poverty
Birthed amid whimpers and pains,
And even beauty approaches when wealth
Indulges us with its cheerful countenance;
Money lends charm and courtesy,
And the very devil would turn into a God
If taking a banker's form rummaged he
Through money and more money.
XXVIII
These mysteries are... I get confused
And I would propose to explain them in vain;
However Vidal, profound philosopher,
Who although he never learned from books
Learned of his own accord in the world,
Was not surprised at such a turn of events,
For away in his discernment he foresaw it
When he dreamed earnestly about being rich.
XXIX
That is why he accepted with courtesy
Minor requests, toast and compliment,
Which humble one after another made,
Vile scoria of the human sentiment.
Their baseness he understood, and although
He did not entertain a vain or unsound
Deliberation against so abject a people, he
Meant to teach them a hard and bitter lesson.
XXX
From a good and saintly fellow one morning
He purchased a pig, wondrous pig!
So snowy, so stout and so replete
Such as no neighbour had ever seen.
Short of leg, clean back,
Delightfully rounded from head to tail,
And so greasy glistened the skin
That it seemed to be made of cream.
XXXI
"Praise the Lord!"—"May God bless it!"—
"May St. Anthony preserve it!"—they shouted
As at an ant's pace the pig and its owner Vidal
Passed by, grave. Everyone obliged himself
To speak to Vidal, for they envisaged already
The hog happily dead and there was no question
Of missing out on a good mouthful
By Vidal's hands butchered and salted.
XXXII
Then the squealing of the unhappy patient
That endures a difficult death by the knife
Is felt rending the air of the place,
Gradually the grieved throat pipes down,
The final sigh sounds strident,
The blood runs, the butcher is now sweating,
And at that grave and critical moment
The hog is life and world and intellect.
XXXIII
There lies the dead one belly up,
With an onion in the half-open mouth
(It even seems he is eating it, the joyless one);
But don't weep over him, he alone is slated
To sleep so sad a slumber insouciant,
For he does not arouse hell's wrath
Nor expects glory or burning purgatory;
He will slumber insensible eternally.
XXXIV
Vidal brims over with contentment,
The hog's appetizing smell excites him,
For among all born pigs it's a portent
What lies there before his eyes.
A certain satisfaction, a certain gladness
Shines on the faces of those present,
Equivalent to stating in mute language:
"This is a ripsnorting pig indeed!"
XXXV
But Vidal retires alone with the hog,
As the flummoxed folks look on...
One is stunned, one huffs, one is alarmed,
For that place never saw anything like it,
Another vowing eternal strife against him
Marvels at the world's turn-abouts,
For never ever had a neighbour
Slammed the door in his nose.
XXXVI
That was one desperate hubbub,
But Vidal played deaf;
He spent the whole night shut in,
And in the first light of the following day,
With a pole so laden with blood sausages
That a slight added weight would crack it,
He emerged washed and reverential,
Surprising everyone with his bearing.
XXXVII
He went right straight to his task,
Walking with slow dignified step,
And a grin that abided on his lips
Intimated antroido or smugglers' cargo.
Then with a voice that thundered at the folks,
He went from door to door asking:
"Did they give blood sausages to Vidal here?"
"Not here!!!"—"Onward with the pole then!"
XXXVIII
Thus he toured the huts one by one
And the pole remained intact all the while;
Not one answered a sad Yes
From all those he questioned roundabout.
Laughing meanwhile fickle Fortune
Repeated in a sarcastic tone of jest:
"Did they give blood sausages to Vidal here?"
"Not here!!!"—"Onward with the pole then!"
....................................
XXXIX
Vidal died, and Time kept pressing on,
Arm that razes the hard marble to the ground,
Burying among frozen rubble
The solitary house of good Vidal.
But this short story ever lived on;
Even to this very day it passes for proverb,
And when the name of Vidal is brought up,
More than one mouth usually clams up.
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