Ventura Ruiz Aguilera

Ventura Ruiz Aguilera.
Source: Real Academia de la Historia.


29.   The Galician Bagpipe     (A gaita gallega)



Background

De Castro dedicated this short poem to "the eminent poet D. Ventura Ruiz Aguilera" who in 1854 had published the Spanish poem, "La Gaita Gallega," in the collection, "Eco Nacional." Aguilera dedicated his poem to Manuel Murguía, De Castro's husband. The Galician poem, "A Gaita Gallega," is De Castro's reply. Her poem's refrain, "It does not sing, it weeps," answers Aguilera's, "I am unable to say whether it (i.e. the Galician bagpipe) sings or weeps."

The source for the following information about Ventura Ruiz Aguilera is the Royal Spanish Academy of History.

Ventura Ruiz Aguilera (1820-1881). Castilian poet, medical doctor and republican journalist. He joined the ranks of the Progressive Party in the year 1843. He published several articles in the liberal press against the Carlist monarchy movement for which he was exiled internally to a Mediterranean province in 1848. He directed two short-lived newspapers before 1852, Las Hijas de Eva and El Orden, and subsequently collaborated in many others, among them the influential daily, La Iberia. His journalism earned him several appointments to the state bureaucracy, among them the post of Director of the National Archeological Museum (1868-72). He was the author of many collections of poems: Elegías, Armonías, Inspiraciones, Cantares, Églogas e idilios, La leyenda de Nochebuena, Veladas poéticas. The collection Cantares had a great circulation and a plausible influence on the poetry of Rosalía de Castro. His most popular collection however was Ecos Nacionales. Its three parts were published separately in 1849, 1854 and 1868.



Affectionate Diminutives

Explanation of some words, terms or expressions

Virgen-mártir (1.1.6, 5.2.4). Galicia herself. Aguilera did not allude to any religious virgin in his poem, but he imagines Galicia to be "beautiful, pensive and alone, like a beloved one without her lover, like a queen without her crown" (La Gaita Gallega, 1.6-8).

Knit brilliant crowns (2.2.4). Rainbows; haloes from ice-crystal clouds.

And aye! on them sail the sons... For mercy from the homeland (3.2.1-6). The source for the following information is Cambrón Infante.1

By the early 1830's the Spanish colonial authorities of Cuba, the landowners and the sugar exporters realized that the growing population of African slaves posed a serious threat to the stability of the Caribbean island. In 1853 slave trafficker Urbano Feijóo Sotomayor and captain general Valentín Cañedo elaborated a White Paper to fill the demand for slave labour in the sugar cane plantations of Cuba with Galician workers brought in under a five-year contract. The plan was approved by the Spanish Courts on May 2, 1854. Earlier in March the frigate Villa Neda had already transported the first 314 Galician workers to Havana. The official plan promised a decent life in Cuba. The reality turned out to be quite different... Upon arrival the employer secluded the workers in barracks lacking the minimum living conditions and hygiene; this was to be their residence during a period of "adaptation." The barracks were in fact derelict venues where landowners flocked to buy workers: a marketplace for buying and selling human "cargo." The food provided was sparse and dismal—potatoes and salt-cured meat—and the period of "adaptation" lasted for as long as it took to negotiate the price of a worker with slave trafficker Feijóo. Ramón Fernández Armada the director of the Havana enterprise resumed the situation thus,

The Galicians were taken from their homes tricked with false and vague promises and have arrived in Cuba to find opprobrium, fraud, ignominy and death. Until now approximately 500 have died from hunger, ill treatment or as a result of being abandoned [...] Their entire blame consisted in asking for bread to avert starvation; and to restrain the [rebellious] impulse the bosses ordered that they should be held in foul-smelling quarters, chained and fettered, naked and barefoot. They feed them rotting meats which the African blacks reject. They force them to work fifteen hours daily by way of the whip, the stick and the sword. This situation has led them to despair and the ones who did not escape died in the byways, the jails or the hospitals. A scandal—horrendous—a slaughter.

A third of the Galician emigrants died in Cuba during the first three months of the Feijóo project. Toward the end of 1854 news arrived to Galicia about their desperate situation,

We are treated worse than the slaves, sold like them to employers. Feijóo has outraged humanity and nature by re-establishing slavery.

1 Ascensión Cambrón Infante, 2000: "Emigración gallega y esclavitud en Cuba (1854). Un problema de Estado." Anuario da Facultade de Dereito, pp. 83-108. Universidade da Coruña. PDF file.

aló nas Castillas oias (5.4.2). The administrative division of Spain by Secretary of State Javier de Burgos in 1833 created two regions called New Castile and Old Castile.



YouTube Videos

Recital: C.P.I. do Toural.



I

Cando ese cantar, poeta,
na lira xemendo entonas,
non sei o que por min pasa
que as lagrimiñas me afogan,
que ante de min cruzar vexo
a Virgen-mártir que invocas,
cos pes cravados de espiñas,
cas mans cubertas de rosas.

En vano a gaita tocando
unha alborada de groria
sons polos aires espalla
que cán nas tembrantes ondas.
En vano baila contenta
nas eiras a turba louca,
que aqueles sons, tal me afrixen,
cousas tan tristes me contan,

que eu podo decirche:
Non canta, que chora
.

II

Vexo contigo estos ceos,
vexo estas brancas auroras,
vexo estes campos froridos
donde se arrullan as pombas,
i estas montañas xigantes
que aló cas nubes se tocan
cubertas de verdes pinos
e de froliñas cheirosas.

Vexo esta terra bendita
donde o ben de Dios rebota
e donde anxiños hermosos
tecen brillantes coroas.

Mas, ¡ai!, como tamén vexo
pasar macilentas sombras,
grilos de ferro arrastrando
antre sorrisas de mofa.

Anque mimosa gaitiña
toque alborada de groria,

eu podo decirche:
Non canta, que chora
.

III

Falas, i o meu pensamento
mira pasar temerosas
as sombras deses cen portos
que ó pé das ondiñas moran,
e pouco a pouco marchando
fráxiles, tristes e soias,
vagar as naves soberbas
aló nunha mar traidora.

I, ¡ai!, como nelas navegan
os fillos das nosas costas
con rumbo a América infanda
que a morte co pan lles dona,
desnudos pedindo en vano
á patria misericordia.

Anque contenta a gaitiña
o probe gaiteiro toca,

eu podo decirche:
Non canta, que chora
.

IV

Probe Galicia, non debes
chamarte nunca española,
que España de ti se olvida
cando eres, ¡ai!, tan hermosa.
Cal si na infamia naceras,
torpe, de ti se avergonza,
i a nai que un fillo despreza
nai sin corazón se noma.

Naide por que te levantes
che alarga a man bondadosa;
naide os teus prantos enxuga,
i homilde choras e choras.

Galicia, ti non tes patria,
ti vives no mundo soia,
i a prole fecunda túa
se espalla en errantes hordas,
mentras triste e solitaria
tendida na verde alfombra
ó mar esperanzas pides,
de Dios a esperanza imploras.

Por eso anque en son de festa
alegre á gaitiña se oia,

eu podo decirche:
Non canta, que chora
.

V

«Espera, Galicia, espera»
¡Canto este grito consola!
Páguecho Dios, bon poeta,
mais é unha esperanza louca;
que antes de que os tempos cheguen
de dicha tan venturosa,
antes que Galicia suba
ca cruz que o seu lombo agobia
aquel difícil camiño
que ó pé dos abismos toca,
quisais, cansada e sedenta,
quisais que de angustias morra.

Págueche Dios, bon poeta,
esa esperanza de groria,
que de teu peito surxindo,
á Virgen-mártir coroa,
i esta a recompensa sea
de amargas penas tan fondas.

Págueche este cantar triste
que as nosas tristezas conta,
que soio ti... ¡ti entre tantos!,
das nosas mágoas se acorda.
¡Dina voluntad dun xenio,
alma pura e xenerosa!

E cando a gaita gallega
aló nas Castillas oias,
ó teu corazón pergunta,
verás que che di en resposta

que a gaita gallega:
Non canta, que chora
.

I

Poet, when you intone that song
On the whimpering lyre,
I know not what comes over me
For spontaneous tears stifle me,
For I see crossing in front of me
The Virgin-martyr you invoke,
Her feet pierced with thorns,
Her hands covered with roses.

In vain the bagpipe playing
A morning song of glory
Scatters in the air notes
That fall on the tossing waves.
In vain the boisterous throng
Dances merry in the fields,
For those notes so afflict me,
They tell me such sad stories,

That I can tell you:
It does not sing, it weeps
.

II

I see these skies as you do,
I see these white dawns,
I see these florid fields
Where pigeons coo,
And these giant mountains
That covered with green pine trees
And fragrant pretty flowers
Far up touch the clouds.

I see this blessed land where
The goodness of God spills over
And where beautiful boyish angels
Knit brilliant crowns.

Yet aye! I see also
Emaciated shadows pass by,
Dragging iron shackles
Amid scornful smiles.

Alhough a native bagpipe may play
Enticing a morning song of glory,

I can tell you:
It does not sing, it weeps
.

III

You speak, and my fancy beholds
Fearfully passing the shadows
Of those one hundred harbours
Beside the gentle waves,
And sailing away little by little,
Fragile, sad and solitary,
The proud vessels voyaging
Yonder on a treacherous ocean.

And aye! on them sail the sons
Of our shores bound for heinous
America, which doles out to them
Death along with their bread,
Begging in vain, naked,
Mercy from the homeland.

Alhough the poor bagpiper plays
The merry native bagpipe,

I can tell you:
It does not sing, it weeps
.

IV

Poor Galicia, you must never
Call yourself Spanish,
For Spain forsakes you
Though you are ah! so gorgeous.
As if you were born in infamy she,
Dim-witted, is ashamed of you,
And mother who disdains a son
Heartless mother is called.

No one extends a kind hand
To lift you up;
No one dries your tears,
And humble you cry and cry.

Galicia, you have no fatherland,
You dwell alone in the world,
And your prolific progeny
Disperses in wandering hordes,
While sad and solitary,
Lying on the green carpet,
You solicit the ocean for answers,
You implore God for hope.

Thus though in festive tone gay
The native bagpipe be heard,

I can tell you:
It does not sing, it weeps
.

V

"Wait, Galicia, wait." How much
This cry consoles! May God
Recompense you, good poet,
But it's an extravagant hope;
Before the epoch of such
Fortunate bliss arrives,
Before Galicia climbs with the
Cross that burdens her back
That difficult path which borders
On the verge of the abysses,
Perhaps—tired and thirsty—
Perhaps she will die of anguish.

May God recompense, good poet,
That hope of glory
That surging from your breast
Crowns the Virgin-martyr,
And may this be the recompense
Of sorrows so deep and bitter.

May God recompense this sad
Song that recounts our miseries,
For you alone... you among so many!
Remember our misfortunes.
Praiseworthy will of a talented,
Generous and pure soul!

And when you hear the Galician
Bagpipe over there in the Castiles,
Question your heart.
You will hear that it replies

That the Galician bagpipe
Does not sing, that it weeps
.




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