"Memoria de la melancolía"

Este es mi pequeño homenaje, el mío, a María Teresa León, una mujer comprometida con la época que le tocó vivir, ecritora y dramaturga, como pocos saben y esposa de Alberti, como saben los más:

“...Surgió ante mí, rubia, hermosa, sólida y levantada, como la ola que una mar imprevista me arrojara de un golpe contra el pecho. Aquella misma noche, por las calles, por las umbrías de los jardines, las penumbras secretas de los taxis sin rumbo, ya respiraba yo inundado de ella, henchido, alegrado, exaltado de su rumor, impelido hacia algo que sentí seguro. Yo me arrancaba de otro amor torturante, que aún me tironeaba y me hacía vacilar antes de refugiarme en aquel puerto. Pero ¡ah, Dios mío!, ahora era la belleza, el hombro alzado de Diana, la clara flor maciza, áurea y fuerte de Venus, como tan solo yo había visto en los campos de Rubens o en las alcobas de Tiziano. ¿Cómo dejarla ir, cómo perderla si ya me tenía allí, sometido en su brazo, arponeado el corazón, sin dominio, sin fuerzas, rendido y sin ningún deseo de escapada? Y, sin embargo, forcejeé, grité, lloré, me arrastré por los suelos…para dejarme al fin, después de tanta lucha, raptar gustosamente y amanecer una mañana en las playas de Sóller, frente al mediterráneo balear, azul y único...”

Si alguien puede escribir algo más hermoso sobre la persona a la que ama, que me lo digan.

Ella estaba casada con otro hombre cuando conoció a Alberti:

“...En algunos diarios y revistas aparecieron notas, siendo la más divertida la que decía: ‘El poeta Alberti repite el episodio mallorquín de Chopin con una bella Jorge Sand de Burgos’. Se buscaba el escándalo, pues esta Sand –una escritora casada y todavía no divorciada- era muy conocida. Nosotros, mientras, nos reíamos, ufanos de que nuestros nombres fueran traídos y llevados por gentes tan distantes de nuestra dicha, de nuestra juventud descalza por las rocas, bajo los pinos parasol o en el recodo de las barcas. [...] Con María Teresa me pasaba las horas trabajando en algunos poemas o ayudándola a corregir el libro de cuentos que preparaba. Una noche –lo habíamos decidido- no volví más a casa. Definitivamente, tanto ella como yo empezaríamos una nueva vida, libre de prejuicios,...”

Cicatrices antiguas que ya no duelen ni con el cambio de tiempo

¿Acaso esperaba que volvieras en un caballo blanco a decirme que todas las dudas del mundo se habían erradicado por orden del rey se hace saber que todas las princesas quedarán por siempre jamás con sus príncipes azules? ¿Pero en qué mundo vivo?

Se trata de las cien cosas que aún me quedan por decirte…

… y no puedo parar de llorar porque parece que esto me está purgando pero no: es que lo que me está es hurgando.

Cien cosas, o más, me quedan por decirte.
Cuando las pienso, las cien cosas, se me vuelven muchas más, y ya no sé en qué lugar quedan las cien que ya te dije.

Para que vuelvas, te diría cien cosas.

Pero no te las diré.

Las cuento con anhelo, las cuento con recelo. Cosas que me pasan, ahora que estás lejos. Ahora que el abismo chiquitito que nos separaba se ha abierto. Boca de lobo, abismo.

Pero no te las diré, porque quiero que vuelvas.

Para que vuelvas, te diría cien cosas.

Cada día las cuento, con los dedos de la mano. Cada día las cuento. Y al llegar a nueve me quedo igual. Todo lo que vengo tocando se me transforma en una de cien cosas.

Por orden del rey, se hace saber…

Por orden del rey se hacen saber más de cien cosas al príncipe de mis tristezas.

The Highwayman

Este poema me viene obsesionando, quizá porque no tengo todas las claves de la historia: el vocabulario del siglo XIX no es moco de pavo. Sé de cierto que nadie se lo va a leer, además de que está en inglés... pero si alguien consigue penetrar en las primeras estrofas y pasar de ahí, a Umberto Eco me remito, descubrirá esta escalofriante historia que quiero desglosar y que tanto me inquieta. Lo descubrí porque Loreena Mc Kennitt lo musicó en mi álbum favorito, The Book of Secrets. Cuenta la historia de un salteador de caminos que va a visitar a su amada. Bueno, el caso es que el poema acaba mal, mal, mal es poco. Si alguien consigue disfrutar de su belleza... me daré por satisfecha, y si no también, porque lo escucho cada mañana, intermitentemente.

Part One
I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
II
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
III
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
IV
And dark in the old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say-
V
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
VI
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Part Two
I
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching-
Marching-marching-
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

II
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.

III
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say-
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till here fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

VI
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs
ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did
not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still!

VII
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night
!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him-with her death.

VIII
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *
X
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding-riding-
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

XI
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

by Alfred Noyes