The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor
without a flutter of the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind
was nearly calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to
come to and wait for the turn of the tide.
The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.
The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, The Accountant and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.
And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.
The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest, and the greatest, town on earth.
The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other’s yarns—and even convictions. The Lawyer—the best of old fellows—had, because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck, The Accountant and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect, and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an idol. The director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the Essex marsh was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more sombre every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.
And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that gloom brooding over a crowd of men.
Heart of darkness
Joseph Conrad
(1899)
traducido por Eva Almazán
O
corazón do negror
Faktoría K (Vigo, 009)
A Nellie, unha iola de cruceiro, borneou sobre a áncora sen o menor tremor das velas e quedouse. A marea abalara, o único que podía facer era seguir onde estaba e agardar polo devalo.
A foz do Támesis abríase ante nós tal que o principio dun
canal interminable. No horizonte o mar e o ceo soldábanse sen xuntura, e no
espazo luminoso as velas bronceadas das gabarras movidas pola marea parecía
conformar encarnados acios inmóbiles de lonas agudas, con escintileos de
espichas vernizadas. Unha bruma pousábase nas marxes baixas que escapaban cara
ao mar en planura fuxidía. O aire era escuro por riba de Gravesend, e aínda
máis atrás parecía condensado nunha penumbra melancólica que pendía, inmóbil,
sobre a cidade máis grande, e máis grandiosa, do mundo.
O director de
tripulacións éranos capitán e anfitrión. Os catro contemplabamos con afecto o
seu lombo mentres el perdía a vista no mar, de pé na proa. Nada daba en todo o
río para a metade de estampa náutica ca el. Parecía un práctico, que para home
de mar é a confianza personificada. Custaba comprender que o seu facer non se
desenvolvía no esteiro luminoso, senón ás súas costas, dentro da penumbra que
sobre alí pendía.
Entre nós tendíase,
como xa contei nalgures, o vencello do mar. Amais de manter ligados os nosos
corazóns durante as separacións longas, obraba que tolerásemos os contos –e
mesmo as conviccións- dos outros. O avogado, o mellor dos vellos compañeiros,
gozaba, en razón dos seus moitos anos e das súas moitas virtudes, do único
farrapo. O contable xa sacara un xogo de dominó e enredaba arquitectonicamente
cos ósos. Marlow estaba sentado na popa, coas pernas cruzadas, apoiado contra o
mastro de mesana. Tiña as fazulas afundidas, a cute amarelecida, o lombo
dereito, a fasquía ascética, e cos brazos caídos, as palmas das mans por fóra,
parecía un ídolo. O director verificou que a áncora enganchara ben, dirixiuse á
popa e sentou canda nós. Intercambiamos un par de palabras preguizosas. Despois
fíxose o silencio a bordo do veleiro. Por un ou outro motivo non emprendemos a
partida de dominó. Sentiámonos meditabundos e sen ánimo para nada que non fose
a plácida contemplación. O día acababa nunha serenidade de brillantez queda e
exquisita. A auga refulxía pacífica, o ceo sen mácula era unha inmensidade
benigna de luz impoluta, a mesma néboa da marisma essexiana semellaba unha tea
vaporosa e radiante, colgada das elevacións boscosas do interior para pregarse
nas beiras baixas en dobras diáfanas. Só a penumbra que no poñente se pousaba
sobre os treitos máis altos sombreaba por momentos, coma se a enfurecese a
aproximación do sol.
E por fin, no seu
descenso curvo e imperceptible, púxose o sol, e de refulxente branco pasou a un
vermello mate sen raios nin calor, coma se estivese a piques de se apagar de
repente, aniquilado polo contacto con aquela penumbra que pendía sobre unha
aglomeración de homes.
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