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The Sun Palace / Translation from the Spanish of Rubén Darío’s ‘El Palacio del Sol’
This story, the story of Bertha, the child with olive-coloured eyes, fresh as a bunch of blossoming peaches, radiant as a dawn, gentle as the princess of a blue fairy tale, goes to you, mothers of anaemic girls.
You’re about to see, healthy and respectable ladies, that there is something better than arsenic and iron to infuse colour in the lovely virginal cheeks; that it is necessary to open the doors of the cages of our enchanting little birds, above all when spring arrives and there is ardour in the veins and in the sap, and a thousand atoms of sunlight keep watch in the gardens, like a golden swarm above the half-open roses.
In her sixteenth year, Bertha began to grow sad, meanwhile her brilliant eyes became encircled by dark melancholy rings.
‘Bertha, I’ve brought you two dolls … ’
‘I don’t want them, Mama … ’
‘I have the music to the Nocturnes … ’
‘My fingers are sore, Mama … ’
‘Then … ’
‘I’m sad, Mama … ’
‘So I’ll call the doctor.’
And along came the tortoiseshell glasses, the black gloves, the illustrious bald head, and the frock coat.
It was natural. Part of her development, her age … Clear symptoms, lack of appetite, a certain weight on the chest, sadness, occasional twinges in the temples, palpitation … You know what to do; give our child globules of arsenic acid, then showers. The treatment.
And the melancholy of Bertha, the child with olive-coloured eyes, fresh as a bunch of blossoming peaches, radiant as a dawn, gentle as the princess of a blue fairy tale, began to lift, with globules and showers, at the beginning of spring.
Despite everything, the dark rings persisted, the sadness continued, and Bertha, pale as precious ivory, arrived one day at death’s door. Everyone in the palace wept for her, and the healthy and emotional mother had to think about the white palms of the maidens’ coffin. Until one morning the languishing anaemic went down to the garden, by herself and with her gloomy debility, at the hour when dawn laughs. Sighing, she lost her way here and there; and the flowers were saddened by the sight of her. She leaned on the plinth of a superb and bizarre faun with marble hair wet with dew, who bathed his splendid and naked torso in the light. She saw a lily, which raised the purity of its white calyx to the blue, and stretched out her hand to take it. No sooner had she … yes, a fairy tale, my ladies, but soon you will see how it applies to a beloved reality – no sooner had she touched the calyx of the flower, than a fairy suddenly appeared from it, in her tiny golden chariot, dressed in impalpable glittering threads with a sprinkling of dew, her pearl tiara, and her silver wand.
Do you believe Bertha was daunted? Nothing of the sort. She clapped her hands joyfully, perked up as if by magic, and said to the fairy:
‘You’re the one who loves me so much in my dreams?’
‘Climb up’, the fairy responded.
She fit into the shell of the golden chariot like she had shrunk in size, like she was hanging loose upon the curved wing of a swan touching the water’s surface. And the flowers, the proud faun, the daylight, saw how in the chariot of the fairy, carried on the wind, placid and smiling into the sun, went Bertha, the child with olive-coloured eyes, fresh as a dawn, gentle as the princess of a blue fairy tale.
When the divine coach had already ascended high, and Bertha climbed up to the halls by the garden steps constructed of imitation emerald, everyone, the mother, the cousin, the servants, looked on with wide open mouths. She came jumping like a bird, her face full of life and colour, her breast beautiful and swelling, caressed by a chestnut-coloured braid, free and unrestrained, her arms bare to the elbow, the mesh of almost imperceptibles veins half on show, her lips partly open with their smile, as if to emit a song.
Everyone exclaimed: Alleluia! Glory! Hosanna to the God Asclepius! Eternal renown to the globules of arsenic acid and triumphal showers! And while Bertha ran to her toilet to put on her finest brocades, gifts were sent to the old man with the tortoiseshell glasses, the black gloves, the illustrious bald head, and the frock coat. And now, mothers of anaemic girls, hear of something that is superior to arsenic and iron to colour lovely virgin cheeks. And you will know that it wasn’t the globules, no; that it wasn’t the showers, no; that it wasn’t the pharmacist, no, who restored health and life to Bertha, the child with olive-coloured eyes, happy and fresh as a dawn, gentle as the princess of a blue fairy tale.
Realising that she was in the fairy’s chariot, Bertha asked her:
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the sun palace.’
Hearing this, the girl felt that her hands were burning and her little heart leaping as if filled with impetuous blood.
‘Listen,’ the fairy continued. ‘I’m the good fairy that inhabits the dreams of adolescent girls; I cure chlorotic girls simply by taking them to the sun palace, where you’re going, in my golden chariot. Be careful not to drink too much of the nectar of the dance, and don’t fade away in the first quick joys. We’re about to arrive. Soon you’ll return home. A minute in the sun palace lays years of fire in bodies and souls, my child.’
In truth they were in a beautiful enchanted palace where it was possible to feel the sun in the air. Oh, what light, what fires! Bertha felt as if her lungs became filled with the air of the countryside and the sea, her veins filled with fire; she felt harmony spreading in her brain, how her soul became enlarged, and how her delicate female flesh became more supple and smooth. Then she saw dreams made real and heard intoxicating music. In dazzling vast galleries, full of lights and scents, of silk and marble, she saw a whirlwind of couples swept together by the invisible, dominant waves of a waltz. She saw anaemics like herself arrive pale and sad, breathe that air, and then throw themselves in the arms of vigorous, slender young men whose golden hair above their upper lips and fine hair on their heads shone in the light; and they danced, they danced with them, burningly close, hearing mysterious compliments that touched the soul, breathing from time to time air impregnated with vanilla, Tonka bean, violet, cinnamon, until feverish, panting, exhausted as pigeons after a long flight, they collapsed on silk cushions, their breasts throbbing, their throats flushed, and so, dreaming, dreaming of intoxicating things … And she too fell into the whirlpool, the alluring maelstrom, and danced, cried out, passed to and fro, among the spasms of high-strung pleasure; and remembered then that she should not become too overcome with the wine of the dance, although she kept looking at her handsome suitor, with her big eyes that reflected the spring. And he dragged her through the vast galleries, encircling her waist and whispering in her ear the loving and rhythmic language of peaceful words, iridescent, fragrant phrases from crystalline oriental times.
And then she felt that her body and soul filled with sun, with powerful effluvia and life. No, no, don’t wait any longer!
And the fairy brought her back to the palace garden, to the garden where she cut flowers wrapped in a wave of perfumes, which rose mystically to the tremulous branches to float like the wandering souls of the dead calyxes.
Mothers of anemic girls! I congratulate you on the success of the good doctor’s arsenates and hypophosphites. But in truth I say to you: it is vital, for the good of the lovely virginal cheeks, to open the doors of the cages of our enchanting little birds, above all in the spring, when there is ardour in the veins and in the sap, and a thousand atoms of sunlight keep watch in the gardens, like a golden swarm above the half-open roses. For our chlorotics, sunshine for the bodies and souls. Yes, the sun palace, from which girls like Bertha, she of the olive-coloured eyes, return radiant as a dawn, gentle as the princess of a blue fairy tale.
The Blue Bird
Translation from the Spanish of Rubén Darío story ‘El Pájaro Azul’
Paris is theatre both funny and terrible. Among the regulars at Plombier Cafe, good, determined boys – painters, sculptors, writers, poets; yes, all of them searching for the old, green laurel! – none is more loved than poor Garcín, almost always sad, a good drinker of absinthe, a dreamer who never got drunk and, like an impeccable bohemian, a brave improviser.
In the dilapidated room where our happy meetings took place, maintaining the plaster on the walls, among the sketches and outlines of future works by Delacroix, whole stanzas written in the thick, throwaway hand of our blue bird.
Poor Garcín was our blue bird. You don’t know why he was called this? It was we who baptised him with the name.
It wasn’t simply caprice. That excellent boy was made of sad stuff. When we asked him why, when we all laughed like fools or children, he frowned, looked fixedly at the ceiling, and smiling somewhat bitterly said:
‘Comrades, what you ought to know is that I have a blue bird in my brain; therefore … ’
On the arrival of spring, he liked to go to the newest parks. According to him, the forest air did his lungs good. He would return from these excursions with bunches of violets and thick booklets of madrigals written to the sound of rustling leaves, beneath the broad, cloudless sky. The violets were for his neighbour Niní, a rosy-cheeked girl with very blue eyes.
The verses were for us. We read them and applauded them. All of us praised Garcín. He was a genius that deserved to shine. His time would come. Oh, the blue bird would fly very high! Bravo! Well done! Hey, waiter, more absinthe!
Garcín’s Principles:
Among flowers, the lovely bluebells.
Among precious stones, the sapphire.
Among the vastness, the sky and love; that is Niní’s pupils.
As the poet often said: I believe neurosis is always preferable to stupidity.
From time to time Garcín was sadder than usual.
He would wander the boulevards, indifferent to the luxurious carriages, the elegant, beautiful women passing by. Stopping before a jeweler’s window, he smiled. Nearing a bookshop, he approached the window, sniffed, and seeing the plush editions frowned with envy. To unburden himself he turned his face skyward and sighed. Moved, exalted, he ran to the cafe in search of us, ordered a glass of absinthe, and said:
‘Yes, a blue bird is imprisoned in the cage of my brain and wants its freedom … ’
Some reached the conclusion that his reason was gone.
A specialist to whom the events were reported, classified it as a peculiar case of monomania. His pathology studies left no room for doubt. Decidedly, the unfortunate Garcín was crazy.
One day he received a letter from his father, an old provincial from Normandy. It said, more or less, the following:
‘I know of your Parisian madness. While you persist in this manner, you’ll not get a single sou out of me. Come and take your books from my warehouse, and when you’ve burned them, loafer, your nonsensical manuscripts, you will get my money.’
This letter was read to us in Plombier Cafe.
‘Are you going?’
‘You won’t go?’
‘Will you accept?’
‘You scorn the offer?’
Bravo, Garcín! He tore up the letter and giving free rein to his imagination improvised some stanzas, the last of which, if my memory serves me correct, went:
Yes, I will always be a loafer,
something I applaud and celebrate,
while encaged in my brain
is the blue bird!
Garcín’s character changed after that. He became chatty, immersed in happiness, bought a new frock coat, and commenced a poetic triplet, titled, sure enough: The Blue Bird.
Every night at our gatherings he read us the latest from the work. It was excellent, sublime, crazy.
He described a very beautiful sky, rural areas with the freshest air, countries sprouted as if by the magic of Corot’s brush, children’s faces poking through flowers, Niní’s big, moist eyes, and to top everything off the benevolent God who sent flying, flying, above all of that a blue bird that, unaware how or when, nested within the poet’s brain, there to remain imprisoned. When the bird wanted to open its wings and fly but came up against the brain’s walls, the poet looked skyward, frowned, and drank absinthe with very little water, smoking a cigarette too.
Here is the poem.
One night Garcín arrived, laughing a great deal but very sad. The beautiful neighbour had been laid to rest in the cemetery.
‘Some news! Some news! The last song of my poem. Niní has died. Spring arrives and Niní goes. The violets can remain in the countryside. Now the poem’s epilogue is missing. The editors won’t even condescend to read my verses. Very soon we’ll go our separate ways. That’s the law of time. The epilogue should be titled: How the blue bird flew off into the blue sky.’
Spring in all its glory! The flourishing trees, clouds tinged red at dawn, pale by the afternoon; the soft air that moves the leaves and makes the ribbons around the straw flap with a special sound! Garcín hasn’t gone to the countryside.
There he is, dressed in a new outfit, at our beloved Cafe Plombier, pale, smiling sadly.
‘My friends, a hug. All of you embrace me warmly; say goodbye, with all your heart, all your soul … the blue bird is flying … ’
And poor Garcín cried, held us, pressed our hands with all his strength and left.
We all said:
‘Garcín, the prodigal son, looking for his father, the Normandy provincial. Goodbye, muses; goodbye, thank you! Our poet decides to measure out rags. Hey! Raise a glass to Garcín!
Pale, frightened, saddened, the following day all the Plombier Cafe regulars, who made so much noise in that derelict little space, gathered in Garcín’s room. He was on the bed, lying on the bloodied sheets, his skull smashed by a bullet. Atop the pillow was brain matter … Horrible!
When, having recovered from the shock, we were able to weep before the corpse of our friend, we found that he had with him the famous poem. On the last page he’d written the following words:
‘Today, at the height of spring, I leave open the door of the poor blue bird’s cage.’
Oh, Garcín, how many carry in their heads the same sickness!
Ebook Fair!
Stories that Inspire Ebook Fair (including my title From a Caregiver’s Point of View):
http://www.ebookfairs.com/Fair/Book?id=ohEyLBnNyUaiROHQ-UTlCQ
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