Fields of Castile/Campos de Castilla: A Dual-Language Book

Fields of Castile/Campos de Castilla: A Dual-Language Book

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Overview

Master poet Antonio Machado y Ruiz is widely regarded as one of the twentieth-century’s greatest Spanish writers. His collection of poems celebrating the region of Castile made him one of the primary voices of the Generation of 1898 — a brilliant group of writers dedicated to Spain's moral and cultural rebirth after the Spanish-American War. Machado's lyrical Campos poems, tinged with nostalgic melancholy, are powerfully introspective and meditative, revealing an evolution away from his previously ornate, Modernist style. With these magnificent poems, Machado moved toward a simpler, more authentic approach that would later distinguish all of his works.
This unabridged edition of Machado's landmark Campos de Castilla is presented in a dual-language format which features an excellent new translation on pages facing the Spanish original. A fully informative introduction and comprehensive notes by the translator are also included.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780486461779
Publisher: Dover Publications
Publication date: 11/02/2007
Series: Dover Dual Language Spanish
Edition description: Bilingual Edition: English and Spanish
Pages: 224
Product dimensions: 5.38(w) x 8.50(h) x (d)

Read an Excerpt

Fields of Castile Campos de Castilla

A Dual-Language Book


By Antonio Machado, STANLEY APPELBAUM

Dover Publications, Inc.

Copyright © 2007 Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-486-12061-4



CHAPTER 1

    Retrato

    Mi infancia son recuerdos de un patio de Sevilla,
    y un huerto claro donde madura el limonero;
    mi juventud, veinte años en tierra de Castilla;
    mi historia, algunos casos que recordar no quiero.

    Ni un seductor Mañara, ni un Bradomín he sido
    —ya conocéis mi torpe aliño indumentario—,
    mas recibí la flecha que me asignó Cupido,
    y amé cuanto ellas pueden tener de hospitalario.

    Hay en mis venas gotas de sangre jacobina,
    pero mi verso brota de manantial sereno;
    y, más que un hombre al uso que sabe su doctrina,
    soy, en el buen sentido de la palabra, bueno.

    Adoro la hermosura, y en la moderna estética
    corté las viejas rosas del huerto de Ronsard;
    mas no amo los afeites de la actual cosmética,
    ni soy un ave de esas del nuevo gay-trinar.

    Desdeño las romanzas de los tenores huecos
    y el coro de los grillos que cantan a la luna.
    A distinguir me paro las voces de los ecos,
    y escucho solamente, entre las voces, una.

    ¿Soy clásico o romántico? No sé. Dejar quisiera
    mi verso, como deja el capitán su espada:
    famosa por la mano viril que la blandiera,
    no por el docto oficio del forjador preciada.

    Converso con el hombre que siempre va conmigo
    —quien habla solo espera hablar a Dios un día—;
    mi soliloquio es plática con este buen amigo
    que me enseñó el secreto de la filantropía.

    Y al cabo, nada os debo; debéisme cuanto he escrito.
    A mi trabajo acudo, con mi dinero pago
    el traje que me cubre y la mansión que habito,
    el pan que me alimenta y el lecho en donde yago.

    Y cuando llegue el día del último viaje,
    y esté al partir la nave que nunca ha de tornar,
    me encontraréis a bordo ligero de equipaje,
    casi desnudo, como los hijos de la mar.


    Portrait

    My childhood is comprised of recollections of a patio in Seville,
    and a bright garden with a ripening lemon tree;
    my youth, twenty years on Castilian soil;
    my history, a few events that I don't wish to recall.

    I have been neither a seducer like Mañara, nor an amorous Bradomín—
    you're already acquainted with my lack of elegance in dress—
    but I have been struck by the arrow that Cupid allotted to me,
    and I've loved every hospitable trait that women can have.

    In my veins there are drops of Jacobin blood,
    but my poetry flows from a serene source;
    and, rather than a conformist who knows his lessons,
    I am, in the good sense of the word, good.

    I worship beauty, and in modern esthetics
    I have picked the old roses from Ronsard's garden;
    but I don't like the makeup used in present-day cosmetics,
    and I'm not one of those new gai-warbling birds.

    I despise the ballads rendered by conceited tenors
    and the chorus of crickets singing to the moon.
    I take care to tell voices from echoes,
    and, even among the voices, I listen to only one.

    Am I a classic or a romantic? I don't know. I want to leave
    my poetry behind me as a captain leaves his sword:
    noted for the manly hand that wielded it,
    not esteemed merely for the swordsmith's learned craft.

    I converse with the man who always goes with me—
    he who talks to himself expects to talk with God some day—;
    my soliloquy is a chat with that good friend
    who taught me the secret of philanthropy.

    And finally, I owe you nothing; you're indebted to me for my writings.
    I attend to my work, with my own money I pay for
    the clothes that cover me and the dwelling I inhabit,
    the bread that nourishes me, and the bed I lie on.

    And when the day of my final journey arrives,
    and the never-to-return ship is about to depart,
    you'll find me on board with very light luggage,
    almost naked, like the sons of the sea.


    A orillas del Duero

    Mediaba el mes de julio. Era un hermoso día.
    Yo, solo, por las quiebras del pedregal subía,
    buscando los recodos de sombra, lentamente.
    A trechos me paraba para enjugar mi frente
    y dar algún respiro al pecho jadeante;
    o bien, ahincando el paso, el cuerpo hacia adelante
    y hacia la mano diestra vencido y apoyado
    en un bastón, a guisa de pastoril cayado,
    trepaba por los cerros que habitan las rapaces
    aves de altura, hollando las hierbas montaraces
    de fuerte olor—romero, tomillo, salvia, espliego—.
    Sobre los agrios campos caía un sol de fuego.

    Un buitre de anchas alas con majestuoso vuelo
    cruzaba solitario el puro azul del cielo.
    Yo divisaba, lejos, un monte alto y agudo,
    y una redonda loma cual recamado escudo,
    y cárdenos alcores sobre la parda tierra
    —harapos esparcidos de un viejo arnés de guerra—,
    las serrezuelas calvas por donde tuerce el Duero
    para formar la corva ballesta de un arquero
    en torno a Soria.—Soria es una barbacana,
    hacia Aragón, que tiene la torre castellana—.
    Veía el horizonte cerrado por colinas
    obscuras, coronadas de robles y de encinas;
    desnudos peñascales, algún humilde prado
    donde el merino pace y el toro, arrodillado
    sobre la hierba, rumia; las márgenes del río
    lucir sus verdes álamos al claro sol de estío,

    y, silenciosamente, lejanos pasajeros,
    ¡tan diminutos!—carros, jinetes y arrieros—
    cruzar el largo puente, y bajo las arcadas
    de piedra ensombrecerse las aguas plateadas
    del Duero.

    El Duero cruza el corazón de roble
    de Iberia y de Castilla.

    ¡Oh, tierra triste y noble,
    la de los altos llanos y yermos y roquedas,
    de campos sin arados, regatos ni arboledas;
    decrépitas ciudades, caminos sin mesones,
    y atónitos palurdos sin danzas ni canciones
    que aún van, abandonando el mortecino hogar,
    como tus largos ríos, Castilla, hacia la mar!

    Castilla miserable, ayer dominadora,
    envuelta en sus andrajos desprecia cuanto ignora.
    ¿Espera, duerme o sueña? ¿La sangre derramada
    recuerda, cuando tuvo la fiebre de la espada?
    Todo se mueve, fluye, discurre, corre o gira;
    cambian la mar y el monte y el ojo que los mira.
    ¿Pasó? Sobre sus campos aún el fantasma yerra
    de un pueblo que ponía a Dios sobre la guerra.

    La madre en otro tiempo fecunda en capitanes
    madrastra es hoy apenas de humildes ganapanes.
    Castilla no es aquella tan generosa un día,
    cuando Myo Cid Rodrigo el de Vivar volvía,
    ufano de su nueva fortuna y su opulencia,
    a regalar a Alfonso los huertos de Valencia;
    o que, tras la aventura que acreditó sus bríos,
    pedía la conquista de los inmensos ríos
    indianos a la corte, la madre de soldados,
    guerreros y adalides que han de tornar, cargados
    de plata y oro, a España, en regios galeones,
    para la presa cuervos, para la lid leones.
    Filósofos nutridos de sopa de convento
    contemplan impasibles el amplio firmamento;
    y si les llega en sueños, como un rumor distante,
    clamor de mercaderes de muelles de Levante,
    no acudirán siquiera a preguntar ¿qué pasa?
    Y ya la guerra ha abierto las puertas de su casa.
    and, silently, distant wayfarers,
    so tiny!—wagons, horsemen, and mule drivers—
    crossing the long bridge, and under its arches
    of stone the darkening of the silvery waters
    of the Duero.

    Castilla miserable, ayer dominadora,
    envuelta en sus harapos desprecia cuanto ignora.

    El sol va declinando. De la ciudad lejana
    me llega un armonioso tañido de campana
    —ya irán a su rosario las enlutadas viejas—.
    De entre las peñas salen dos lindas comadrejas;
    me miran y se alejan, huyendo, y aparecen
    de nuevo ¡tan curiosas! ... Los campos se obscurecen.
    Hacia el camino blanco está el mesón abierto
    al campo ensombrecido y al pedregal desierto.


    On the Banks of the Duero

    It was mid-July. It was a lovely day.
    Alone, I was ascending through the fissures of the stony ground,
    seeking the shady nooks, slowly.
    Every so often I halted to wipe my brow
    and let my panting bosom draw a breath;
    or else, hastening my steps, my body bent forward
    and to the right, as I leaned
    on a stick like a shepherd's staff,
    I climbed the hills inhabited by the rapacious
    birds of the heights, treading the wild grasses
    of strong aroma—rosemary, thyme, sage, lavender.
    Upon the rugged fields a fiery sun was falling.

    With majestic flight a broad-winged vulture
    was crossing the pure blue of the sky all alone.
    In the distance I could make out a high, pointed mountain,
    and a round knoll like a decorative escutcheon,
    and bluish hills above the brown land—
    scattered shreds of an ancient battle outfit—,
    the bare little mountain chains among which the Duero winds,
    forming its curved archer's crossbow
    around Soria.—Soria is a barbican,
    part of the Castilian tower facing Aragon.
    I saw the horizon closed in by dark
    hills crowned with oaks and ilexes;
    barren rocky grounds, one or two humble meadows
    where the merino grazes and the bull, kneeling
    in the grass, ruminates; I saw the riverbanks
    displaying their green poplars to the bright summer sun,

    The Duero crosses the oaken heart
    of Iberia and of Castile.

    O sad, noble land,
    land of the high plains and barren areas and rocky terrain,
    of fields without plows, streams, or copses;
    decrepit towns, roads without inns,
    and dumbfounded rustics without dances or songs
    who, abandoning their moribund hearth, continue to move,
    like your long rivers, Castile, to the sea!

    Poverty-stricken Castile, yesterday a dominant power,
    wrapped in her rags, scorns all those things she is in ignorance of.
    Is she waiting, sleeping, or dreaming? Is she recalling
    the blood that was shed when she had sword fever?
    All things move, flow, stream by, run, or turn;
    the sea and the mountain change, as does the eye that beholds them.
    Has she passed by? Over her fields there still roams the specter
    of a people that once made God their warlord.

    In earlier times a mother abounding in captains,
    today she is barely the stepmother of humble drudges.
    Castille is no longer that land so noble in the past,
    when My Cid Rodrigo of Vivar returned home,
    proud of his new good fortune and wealth,
    to make King Alfonso a gift of the orchards of Valencia;
    or she who, after the adventure that gave proof of her energy,
    requested of the royal court the conquest
    of the immense rivers of the Indies—the mother of soldiers,
    warriors, and commanders who were to return, laden
    with silver and gold, to Spain, in royal galleons,
    ravens in prey, lions in battle.
    Philosophers nourished on monastic sops
    contemplate unperturbed the wide firmament;
    and if in dreams, like a distant noise, there comes to them
    the shouts of merchants on Levantine wharfs,
    they won't even come to ask what's going on.
    And now war has opened the doors of its house.

    Poverty-stricken Castile, yesterday a dominant power,
    wrapped in her rags, scorns all those things she is in ignorance of.

    The sun is setting. From the distant city
    there comes to me a melodious pealing of church bells—
    now the old women dressed in mourning will go to their rosary.
    From among the rocks two pretty weasels emerge;
    they look at me and run away, and show up
    again (they're so curious!) ... The fields grow dark.
    Near the white road the inn is open
    to the shadowed field and the deserted rocky area.


    Por tierras de España

    El hombre de estos campos que incendia los pinares
    y su despojo aguarda como botín de guerra,
    antaño hubo raído los negros encinares,
    talado los robustos robledos de la sierra.

    Hoy ve sus pobres hijos huyendo de sus lares;
    la tempestad llevarse los limos de la tierra
    por las sagrados ríos hacia los anchos mares;
    y en páramos malditos trabaja, sufre y yerra.

    Es hijo de una estirpe de rudos caminantes,
    pastores que conducen sus hordas de merinos
    a Extremadura fértil, rebaños trashumantes
    que mancha el polvo y dora el sol de los caminos.

    Pequeño, ágil, sufrido, los ojos de hombre astuto,
    hundidos, recelosos, movibles; y trazadas
    cual arco de ballesta, en el semblante enjuto
    de pómulos salientes, las cejas muy pobladas.

    Abunda el hombre malo del campo y de la aldea,
    capaz de insanos vicios y crímenes bestiales,
    que bajo el pardo sayo esconde un alma fea,
    esclava de los siete pecados capitales.

    Los ojos siempre turbios de envidia o de tristeza,
    guarda su presa y llora la que el vecino alcanza;
    ni para su infortunio ni goza su riqueza;
    le hieren y acongojan fortuna y malandanza.

    El numen de estos campos es sanguinario y fiero;
    al declinar la tarde, sobre el remoto alcor,
    veréis agigantarse la forma de un arquero,
    la forma de un inmenso centauro flechador.

    Veréis llanuras bélicas y páramos de asceta
    —no fue por estos campos el bíblico jardín—;
    son tierras para el águila, un trozo de planeta
    por donde cruza errante la sombra de Caín.


    In Spanish Lands

    The man of this countryside who burns the pinewoods
    and awaits their remains like battle-won booty,
    in the past had razed the black ilex woods
    and cut down the robust oak stands of the sierra.

    Today he sees his poor children fleeing their homes,
    the storm carrying away the topsoil
    down the sacred rivers to the wide seas;
    and on accursed barren plains he labors, suffers, and roams.

    He's the son of a lineage of rough wayfarers,
    shepherds who lead their hordes of merinos
    to fertile Extremadura, transhumant flocks
    spotted by the dust and gilded by the sun of the roads.

    Small, agile, long-suffering, his eyes those of a crafty man,
    sunken, suspicious, always moving; and his very thick eyebrows
    drawn like a crossbow on his lean face
    with its prominent cheekbones.

    Numerous are the evil men of the fields and the village,
    capable of insane vices and bestial crimes,
    who hide beneath their brown smocks an ugly soul
    enslaved to the seven deadly sins.

    Their eyes always clouded by envy or sadness,
    they hold onto their prey and lament their neighbors' gains;
    they neither ward off their misfortunes nor enjoy their wealth;
    they are wounded and distressed by good and bad luck alike.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Fields of Castile Campos de Castilla by Antonio Machado, STANLEY APPELBAUM. Copyright © 2007 Dover Publications, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Table of Contents


Introduction
Portrait
On the Banks of the Duero
In Spanish Lands
The Poorhouse
The Iberian God
Banks of the Duero
The Ilexes
"Are you, Guadarrama ..."
In April, the Thousand Waters
A Madman
Iconographic Fantasy
A Criminal
Autumn Daybreak
On the Train
Summer Night
Easter
Fields of Soria
Alvargonzález's Land
To a Withered Elm
Memories
To the Master "Azorín" on His Book "Castile"
Roads
"Lord, you have already ripped from me ..."
"Hope says ..."
"There, on the highlands ..."
"I dreamt that you were leading me ..."
"One summer night ..."
"Now that the snow has melted away ..."
"In these fields of my own land ..."
To José María Palacio
Another Journey
Poem About a Single Day
November 1913
The Holy-Week Processional Rhyme
On the Ephemeral Past
The Olive Trees
Lament for the Virtues and Stanzas on the Death of Don Guido
The Woman of La Mancha
The Ephemeral Tomorrow
Aphorisms and Rhymes
Parables
My Jester
Eulogies
To Don Francisco Giner de los Ríos
To the Young Thinker José Ortega y Gasset
To Xavier Valcarce
Mountain Butterfly
From My Corner
A Young Spain
Spain, at Peace
"This legend ..."
To the master Rubén Darío
On the Death of Rubén Darío
To Narciso Alonso Cortés, Poet of Castile
My Poets
To Don Miguel de Unamuno
To Juan Ramón Jiménez
Alphabetical List of Spanish Titles
Alphabetical List of Spanish First Lines

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