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Mexican Short Stories / Cuentos mexicanos
A Dual-Language Book
Stanley Appelbaum, Stanley Appelbaum
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eBook - ePub
Mexican Short Stories / Cuentos mexicanos
A Dual-Language Book
Stanley Appelbaum, Stanley Appelbaum
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Greatly influenced by Europe's nineteenth-century literary trends, Mexico's writers crafted some of the most phenomenal prose fiction in Spanish America. This collection offers a rich sampling of significant Mexican short stories published from 1843 to 1918. Nine different tales range from the realism of López Portillo's “Reloj sin dueño” and the modernismo saturating Gutiérrez Nájera's `La mañana de San Juan` to the historical accuracy of Riva Palacio's `Las mulas de Su Excelencia` and the vivid romanticism of `Amor secreto` by Manuel Payno, named the `father of Mexican short stories.`
Each story appears in its original Spanish text with expert English translations on each facing page. This dual-language edition features a fascinating new introduction and ample footnotes. An easy-reading pleasure for lovers of fine Spanish-language literature, it is also a valuable educational aid for students and teachers.
Each story appears in its original Spanish text with expert English translations on each facing page. This dual-language edition features a fascinating new introduction and ample footnotes. An easy-reading pleasure for lovers of fine Spanish-language literature, it is also a valuable educational aid for students and teachers.
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Sous-sujet
Spanish LanguageIGNACIO M. ALTAMIRANO
Antonia
"Even as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.â
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.â
SHAKESPEARE, The Two Gentlemen of Verona
I
Decididamente voy a emplear el dĂa escribiendo ⊠¿Y para quĂ©? Nadie me ha de leer. Mi vecinita ⊠Pero mi vecinita no hace mĂĄs que dormir todo el dĂa, y cuando suele despertar, tiene siempre los pĂĄrpados cargados de sueño. Es seguro que al comenzar a recorrer estas pĂĄginas del corazĂłn, abrirĂa su linda boca en un bostezo preliminar del cabeceo mĂĄs ignominioso para mĂ. ÂżQuiĂ©n piensa en la vecina?
No importa, debo escribir, aunque no sea mĂĄs que para consignar en este papel los recuerdos que dentro de poco va a cubrir la negra cortina del idiotismo en el teatro de tĂteres de mi memoria. ÂĄEstoy aterrado! Anoche he soñado una cosa horrible ⊠¥horrible! Mi memoria, bajo la forma de una matroncita llorosa y agonizante de fatiga, se me presentĂł abrazada de la Ășltima joven bacante, a cuyo lado pasĂ© horas deliciosas en MĂ©xico.
TodavĂa se hallaba Ă©sta acicalada como en aquella famosa cena. CrujĂa su hermoso vestido de seda azul de larga cola, al recorrer ella mi cuarto solitario. SentĂa quemar mis ojos con la mirada de aquellos ojos azules y cargados de un fluido embriagador. AĂșn escuchĂ© una voz suave, pero cuyo acento extranjero conocĂa ⊠que murmurĂł en mi oĂdo: ÂĄDespierta!
Y entonces mi memoria, inclinĂĄndose sobre el cuello blanco de la bacante, como una ebria, me decĂa âŠ
IGNACIO M. ALTAMIRANO
Antonia
Even as one heat another heat expels,
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
Or as one nail by strength drives out another,
So the remembrance of my former love
Is by a newer object quite forgotten.
SHAKESPEARE, The Two Gentlemen of Verona [ii, iv]
I
Definitely, I'll use this day for writing ⊠And why? No one is going to read what I write. My little neighbor girl ⊠But my little neighbor does nothing but sleep all day, and whenever she gets up her eyelids are always weighed down with slumber. It's a sure thing that if she started reading through these heartfelt pages, she'd open her pretty mouth in a yawn followed by a nodding most humiliating for me. Who's thinking about my neighbor?
It doesn't matter, I've got to write, even if it's merely to set down on this paper the recollections which will shortly be covered by the black curtain of idiocy in the marionette theater of my memory. I'm frightened! Last night I had a horrible dream ⊠horrible! My memory, in the guise of a weepy little mature lady, dying of fatigue, appeared before me with her arm around the last young bacchante with whom I spent delectable hours in Mexico City.
That girl was still adorned as she was at that notorious supper. Her beautiful blue silk gown with a long train was rustling as she walked through my lonely room. I felt my eyes burned by the gaze of those blue eyes laden with an intoxicating fluid. I still heard a soft voice, but one whose foreign accent I recognized, murmuring in my ear: "Wake up!â
And then my memory, leaning over the bacchante's white neck, like a drunken woman, said to me âŠ
âÂĄTe abandono, me voy ⊠abur!
Y desaparecieron.
Yo me senté en mi lecho y me puse a decir varias veces: ¿Es posible? con el mismo aire de asombro con que un chico se hace alguna pregunta en las lecciones de Historia de Payno.
DespuĂ©s volvĂ a dormirme; pero son las siete de la mañana y heme aquĂ despierto y pensando todavĂa si serĂĄ posible que mi memoria se vaya, a pesar de que todavĂa recuerdo el sueño en que ella vino a decirme adiĂłs.
¥Oh! ¥Simplezas ⊠!
Sin embargo, es posible que yo pierda la memoria; tan posible como que don Anastasio Bustamante fuera presidente de la RepĂșblica por la segunda vez.
Entonces preparĂ©monos: aĂșn quedarĂĄn, lo supongo, algunos dĂas, y pienso aprovecharlos comenzando por el de hoy.
Un rayo de sol naciente penetra alegrĂsimo por la ventana abierta. Una oleada de aire fresco me trae el aroma de los ĂĄrboles del parque vecino y el gorjeo de los pĂĄjaros que me importunaba otras veces. Todo me invita a levantarme y a trabajar. La campana de la aldea llama a los fieles a misa. IrĂ© a misa, despuĂ©s hundirĂ© mi cuerpo miserable en las quietas y cristalinas aguas del estanque. Dicen que el agua frĂa es un buen lazo para retener a la fugitiva memoria: luego, despuĂ©s de un desayuno frugal pero sano, me marcharĂ© a recorrer los campos vecinos, y si es posible me entretendrĂ© en oĂr piar a los guinderos, rebuznar a los asnos del pueblo y mugir a las vacas que se dirigen a San Ăngel. RecogerĂ© tambiĂ©n las flores del espino blanco y de la pervinca que se extiende humilde a orilla de los arroyos. Con esas florecillas harĂ© un ramillete para colocarlo al pie del retrato de uno de los veinte verdugos que han torturado mi corazĂłn y que conservo como una acusaciĂłn palpitante de mi estupidez. Al volver del campo, almorzarĂ© como un espartano y me pondrĂ© a trabajar, si trabajo puede llamarse reproducir en algunas cuartillas de papel todos los disparates que me han amargado la vida. El trabajo serĂa olvidarlos completamente. Pero mi sueño, mi sueño me causa terror, y debiendo alegrarme por lo que Ă©l me prometĂa, he sentido al contrario un cierto dolor al considerar que pronto van a alejarse de mĂ aquellos recuerdos que me han hecho fastidiarme de la vida muchas veces. ÂĄQuĂ© absurdo! ÂżEs Ă©ste acaso un capricho del carĂĄcter humano? ÂżHay cierta complacencia en recordar
"I'm deserting you, I'm leaving ⊠so long!â
And they vanished.
I sat up in bed and started to say several times, "Is it possible?", with the same air of awe with which a boy asks himself some question in Payno's history lessons.
Then I fell asleep again; but it's seven in the morning, and here I am awake and still wondering whether my memory will possibly leave me, even though I still remember the dream in which it bade me farewell.
Oh, nonsense! âŠ
All the same, it's possible for me to lose my memory; just as possible as that Don Anastasio Bustamante was president of the Republic for the second time.1
So, then, let's prepare ourselves; I suppose that there are still a few days left, and I intend to take advantage of them, beginning with today.
A nascent sunbeam is penetrating very cheerfully through the open window. A gust of fresh air brings me the fragrance of the trees in the nearby park and the trilling of the birds, which bothered me on some other occasions. Everything invites me to get up and work. The village church bell is summoning the faithful to Mass. I'll go to Mass, then I'll immerse my wretched body in the still, crystalline waters of the pond. They say that cold water is a good bond for holding onto fleeting memory: then, after a frugal but healthful breakfast, I'll go out and wander through the nearby fields and, if possible, I'll linger listening to the chirping of the guinderos,2 the braying of the village donkeys, and the lowing of the cows on their way to San Angel. I'll also pick the flowers of the hawthorn and of the periwinkle that grows humbly alongside the brooks. With those little flowers I'll make a bouquet, which I'll place below the portrait of one of the twenty torturers who have tormented my heart, a portrait I keep as a palpitating accusation against my stupidity. On returning from the countryside, I'll lunch like a Spartan and I'll set to work, if you can give the name of work to copying down on a few sheets of paper all the foolish things that have embittered my life. The real work would be to forget them totally. But my dream, my dream terrifies me and, though I ought to be cheered up by what it promised me, I have felt, on the contrary, a certain sorrow at the thought that there will soon depart from me those recollections which have often disgusted me with life. How absurd! Is this perhaps a caprice of human nature? Is there a certain pleasure in
1. Bustamante served one term from 1830 to 1832 and another from 1837 to 1841. 2. I haven't identified the species called the guindero here, presumably because of its fondness for sour cherries (guindas).
los sufrimientos? Ya habĂa yo observado que los que han tenido una larga y penosa enfermedad se entretienen en referir a todo el mundo las terribles peripecias de ella; que los que han pasado largos años de prisiĂłn o han experimentado las negras angustias del destierro, se deleitan en referir a otros, o a sĂ mismos en sus horas de soledad, toda la historia de sus infortunios, de sus dolores fĂsicos.
De seguro hay algo de amarga complacencia en recordar los tiempos desgraciados, cuando uno estĂĄ ya libre de ellos.
Francesca, abrazando a su amante en las profundidades del infierno, deteniĂ©ndose delante del poeta para narrarle entre suspiros la historia de sus goces delincuentes, decĂa lo mismo, deciendo lo contrario.
He vuelto del campo, y la vista del cielo, y la soledad han avivado mi memoria.
II
TenĂa yo trece años y vivĂa en un pueblecito de oriente, donde nacĂ, y cuyo nombre no importa. Mi padre tenĂa algunas fanegas de tierra que sembraba cada año, un rancho pequeño y una huerta, con todo lo cual era pobre: primero, porque eso no produce por ahĂ gran cosa, y luego, porque se habĂa propuesto ser benĂ©fico, y mantenĂa a una legiĂłn de parientes haraganes que no le servĂan si no es para consumir los escasos productos de su miserable hacienda.
Yo, que era hijo primogĂ©nito, constituĂa su esperanza, y, ÂĄpena me da decirlo! tenĂa ya trece años y era tan ocioso como mis parientes; y no es eso lo peor, sino que sentĂa grandes propensiones al far niente y a la independencia, dos cosas que nunca pueden unirse, si no es en el gitano o en el mendigo. Verdad es que sabĂa yo leer y escribir, de manera que tenĂa la educaciĂłn mĂĄs completa que puede recibirse en la escuela de aldea; pero eso no me servĂa sino para leer algunos libros mĂsticos y una que otra novela que alguna vieja solterona me prestaba a hurtadillas, para pagarme asĂ el trabajo de escribirle cartas que despachaba por el correo al pueblo vecino, donde residĂa un antiguo amante que venĂa cada tres meses a verla, y siempre de noche.
Esta amable señora, que habĂa sido bonita, y que conservaba aĂșn algunos rasgos que eran como el crepĂșsculo de su belleza que se ponĂa con rapidez, era mi confidente y mi amiga, y bien puedo asegurarlo, mi primera preceptora en las cosas del mundo, aunque debo hacerle
remembering suffering? I had already observed that those who have undergone a long, painful illness enjoy recounting its terrible ups and downs to everybody; and that those who have spent long years in prison, or have experienced the black anxieties of exile, delight in relating to others, or to themselves in their hours of solitude, the entire history of their misfortunes and their physical pains.
Surely there is some bitter satisfaction in remembering unhappy times now that you're free of them.
Francesca da Rimini, embracing her lover in the depths of the Inferno, halting in front of the poet to recount to him amid sighs the story of her criminal pleasures, was saying the same things, though she inverted the terms.
I've returned from the countryside, and the sight of the sky, and the solitude, have enlivened my memory.
II
I was thirteen and I was living in a little village in the east, where I was born, and the name of which doesn't matter. My father owned a few fanegas3 of land that he sowed every year, a small farmhouse, and an orchard, but was poor nevertheless: first of all, because that doesn't produce much in those parts, and secondly because he had decided to be generous and he was supporting a legion of idle relatives who were no good to him except as devourers of the few products of his wretched property.
I, who was the firstborn son, embodied his hopes, but (it grieves me to admit it!) I was already thirteen and I was as idle as my relatives; and that isn't the worst: I felt a strong inclination for far niente and for independence, two things that can never be combined, except perhaps in Gypsies or beggars. True, I knew how to read and write, so that I had the fullest education obtainable from a village school; but I made no use of that except to read a few books of mysticism and a few novels that an old maid lent me on the sly as a reward for my labors in writing letters for her which she mailed to the nearby town, where a former lover of hers lived who used to come to see her every three months, always at night.
This aff...