18 junio 2013

AN OLD SCOTTISH BALLAD


Henry Raeburn
Portrait of Miss Eleanor Urquhart
(detail)

Franz Schubert

Marie McLaughlin, soprano
Thomas Hampson, baritone
Graham Johnson, piano

El poema en que se basa esta canción de Schubert apareció originalmente en Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, de Thomas Percy.

An Old Scottish Ballad

"Why does your brand so drop wi' blood,
Edward, Edward?
Why does your brand so drop wi' blood?
And why so sad gang ye, O?"
"O, I have killed my hawke so good,
Mother, mother,
O, I have killed my hawk so good,
And I had no more but he, O."

"Your hawk's blood was never so red,
Edward, Edward,
Your hawk's blood was never so red,
My dear son I tell thee, O."
"O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
Mother, mother,
O, I have killed my red-roan steed,
That erst was so fair and free, O."

"Your steed was old, and ye have got more,
Edward, Edward,
Your steed was old, and ye have got more,
Some other dole ye dree, O."
"O, I have killed my father dear,
Mother, mother,
O, I have killed my father dear,
Alas, and woe is me, O."

"And what penance will ye dree for that,
Edward, Edward?
And what penance will ye dree for that?
My dear son, now tell me, O."
"I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
Mother, mother,
I'll set my feet in yonder boat,
And I'll fare over the sea, O."

"And what will ye do with your towers and your hall,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye do with your towers and your hall,
That were so fair to see, O?"
"l'll let them stand till they down fall,
Mother, mother,
I'll let them stand till they down fall,
For here never more may I be, O."

"And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife,
When ye gang over the sea, O?"
"The world's room, let them beg thro' life,
Mother, mother,
The world' room, let them beg thro' life,
For them never more will I see, O."

"And what will ye leave to your own mother dear,
Edward, Edward?
And what will ye leave to your own mother dear?
My dear son, now tell me, O."
"The curse of hell from me shall ye bear,
Mother, mother,
The curse of hell from me shall ye bear,
Such counsels ye gave to me, O."


Una antigua balada escocesa

"¿Por qué destila sangre de tu espada,
Edward, Edward?
¿Por qué destila sangre de tu espada?
¿Y por qué andas afligido?"
"He matado a mi halcón tan diestro,
Madre, madre,
He matado a mi halcón tan diestro,
El único que tenía."

"La sangre de tu halcón no era tan roja,
Edward, Edward,
La sangre de tu halcón no era tan roja,
Querido hijo, te lo aseguro."
"He matado a mi corcel roano,
Madre, madre,
He matado a mi corcel roano,
Que en otro tiempo fue hermoso y libre."

"Tu corcel estaba viejo, y tienes más,
Edward, Edward,
Tu corcel estaba viejo, y tienes más,
Algún otro pesar te angustia."
"He matado a mi padre querido,
Madre, madre,
He matado a mi padre querido,
Desdichado de mí."

"¿Y qué castigo sufrirás por ello,
Edward, Edward?
¿Y qué castigo sufrirás por ello?
Hijo querido, dímelo."
"Embarcaré en aquella nave,
Madre, madre,
Embarcaré en aquella nave
Y atravesaré el mar."

"¿Y qué harás con tu torre y tu mansión,
Edward, Edward?
¿Y qué harás con tu torre y tu mansión,
Que tan hermosas eran de ver?"
"Que sigan en pie hasta que se derrumben,
Madre, madre,
Que sigan en pie hasta que se derrumben,
Porque ya no puedo vivir aquí."

"¿Y qué dejarás a tus niños y a tu esposa,
Edward, Edward?
¿Y qué dejarás a tus niños y a tu esposa,
Cuando te hagas a la mar?"
"La habitación del mundo, para que mendiguen,
Madre, madre,
La habitación del mundo, para que mendiguen,
Porque nunca más los veré."

"¿Y qué dejarás a tu madre amada,
Edward, Edward?
¿Y qué dejarás a tu madre amada?
Querido hijo, dímelo."
"La maldición del infierno tendrás de mí,
Madre, madre,
La maldición del infierno tendrás de mí,
Tales fueron los consejos que me diste."

Traducción de Alan


Es en las últimas narraciones de Stevenson donde aparecen Catriona Drummond, Barbara Grant, Uma y Kokua y las dos Kirstie Elliot. Quizá puede añadirse este retrato de Raeburn.

Raeburn’s young women, to be frank, are by no means of the same order of merit. No one, of course, could be insensible to the presence of Miss Janet Suttie or Mrs. Campbell of Possil. When things are as pretty as that, criticism is out of season. But, on the whole, it is only with women of a certain age that he can be said to have succeeded, in at all the same sense as we say he succeeded with men. The younger women do not seem to be made of good flesh and blood. They are not painted in rich and unctuous touches. They are dry and diaphanous. And although young ladies in Great Britain are all that can be desired of them, I would fain hope they are not quite so much of that as Raeburn would have us believe. In all these pretty faces, you miss character, you miss fire, you miss that spice of the devil which is worth all the prettiness in the world; and what is worst of all, you miss sex. His young ladies are not womanly to nearly the same degree as his men are masculine; they are so in a negative sense; in short, they are the typical young ladies of the male novelist.

To say truth, either Raeburn was timid with young and pretty sitters; or he had stupefied himself with sentimentalities; or else (and here is about the truth of it) Raeburn and the rest of us labour under an obstinate blindness in one direction, and know very little more about women after all these centuries than Adam when he first saw Eve. This is all the more likely, because we are by no means so unintelligent in the matter of old women. There are some capital old women, it seems to me, in books written by men. And Raeburn has some, such as Mrs. Colin Campbell, of Park, or the anonymous “Old lady with a large cap,” which are done in the same frank, perspicacious spirit as the very best of his men. He could look into their eyes without trouble; and he was not withheld, by any bashful sentimentalism, from recognising what he saw there and unsparingly putting it down upon the canvas. But where people cannot meet without some confusion and a good deal of involuntary humbug, and are occupied, for as long as they are together, with a very different vein of thought, there cannot be much room for intelligent study nor much result in the shape of genuine comprehension. Even women, who understand men so well for practical purposes, do not know them well enough for the purposes of art. Take even the very best of their male creations, take Tito Melema, for instance, and you will find he has an equivocal air, and every now and again remembers he has a comb at the back of his head. Of course, no woman will believe this, and many men will be so very polite as to humour their incredulity.

R. L. Stevenson, 'Some Portraits by Raeburn' (Virginibus Puerisque and Other Papers)

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