Ella
Mason y sus once gatos
La vieja Ella
Mason tiene al menos once gatos,
en su destartalada
casa de Somerset Terrace;
al observar la guarida
de nuestra vecina,
la gente se
pregunta,
y dice: “Algo raro debe haber en una mujer
que cobija tantos gatos”.
que cobija tantos gatos”.
Borracha y de cara roja como una sandía, su voz
ahora jadeante y en declive,
sin razón aparente
Ella Mason es anfitriona de Tabby… Tom y el resto
sin razón aparente
Ella Mason es anfitriona de Tabby… Tom y el resto
con nata y
menudos de pollo complace los paladares
de gatos
melindrosos.
Los chismes del
pueblo cuentan que en los viejos tiempos
ella se
pavoneaba, arrogante y descarada,
una belleza muy chic,
que mataba a los dandis con sus ojos esmeralda;
hoy, es una solterona entrada en carnes, cuya puerta está cerrada
para todos, con
excepción de los gatos.
Cuando niños,
una vez espiamos a Miss Mason
cabeceando en su
cocina cubierta de platos.
En tapetes
sobre la mesa,
en alacenas, gatos insolentes apoltronados,
un único ronco ronroneo surgiendo de sus gargantas peludas:
¡escandalosos gatos!
A codazos y
entre risas, listos para salir corriendo,
escudriñamos
curiosos a través de las telarañas de la puerta
directo a las
miradas amarillas
de los gatos
guardianes agazapados alrededor de su ídolo,
mientras Ella
dormitaba bigotuda, con cara reluciente, y astuta mente:
la esfinge,
reina de los gatos.
‘¡Mira! allá va
ella, ¡la señora-gato Mason!’
Riendo con
disimulo mientras arrastraba sus pies por Somerset Terrace
hacia el
mercado, a buscar la leche,
más gigantesca y
desaliñada cada vez;
‘Miss Ella se ha
vuelto loca por andar mezclándose
con once gatos’.
Pero ahora que
el tiempo nos volvió indulgentes, vemos a Miss Mason
guiñando sus
ojos verdes y solitaria
ante las chicas
que se casan—
recatadas,
dóciles, sin que hagan falta lecciones
que las
vanidosas zorras encaprichadas evidencien en noches de boda,
malditas como
gatas salvajes.
1956
Sylvia Plath, Boston, Massachusetts, 1932, Londres, 1963
Version © Silvia Camerotto
Ella
Mason and her eleven cats
Old Ella Mason keeps cats, eleven at last count,
In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace;
People make queries
On seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt,
Saying: ‘Something's addled in a woman who accommodates
That many cats.’
Rum and red-faced as a water-melon, her voice
Long gone to wheeze and seed, Ella Mason
For no good reason
Plays hostess to Tabby, Tom and increase,
With cream and chicken-gut feasting the palates
Of finical cats.
Village stories go that in olden days
Ella flounced about, minx-thin and haughty,
A fashionable beauty,
Slaying the dandies with her emerald eyes;
Now, run to fat, she's a spinster whose door shuts
On all but cats.
Once we children sneaked over to spy Miss Mason
Napping in her kitchen paved with saucers.
On antimacassars
Table-top, cupboard shelf, cats lounged brazen,
One gruff-timbred purr rolling from furred throats:
Such stentorian cats!
With poke and giggle, ready to skedaddle,
We peered agog through the cobwebbed door
Straight into yellow glare
Of guardian cats crouched round their idol,
While Ella drowsed whiskered with sleek face, sly wits:
Sphinx-queen of cats.
‘Look! there she goes, Cat-Lady Mason!’
We snickered as she shambled down Somerset Terrace
To market for her dearies,
More mammoth and blowsy with every season;
‘Miss Ella's got loony from keeping in cahoots
With eleven cats.’
But now turned kinder with time, we mark Miss Mason
Blinking green-eyed and solitary
At girls who marry—
Demure ones, lithe ones, needing no lesson
That vain jades sulk single down bridal nights,
Accurst as wild-cats.
In her ramshackle house off Somerset Terrace;
People make queries
On seeing our neighbor's cat-haunt,
Saying: ‘Something's addled in a woman who accommodates
That many cats.’
Rum and red-faced as a water-melon, her voice
Long gone to wheeze and seed, Ella Mason
For no good reason
Plays hostess to Tabby, Tom and increase,
With cream and chicken-gut feasting the palates
Of finical cats.
Village stories go that in olden days
Ella flounced about, minx-thin and haughty,
A fashionable beauty,
Slaying the dandies with her emerald eyes;
Now, run to fat, she's a spinster whose door shuts
On all but cats.
Once we children sneaked over to spy Miss Mason
Napping in her kitchen paved with saucers.
On antimacassars
Table-top, cupboard shelf, cats lounged brazen,
One gruff-timbred purr rolling from furred throats:
Such stentorian cats!
With poke and giggle, ready to skedaddle,
We peered agog through the cobwebbed door
Straight into yellow glare
Of guardian cats crouched round their idol,
While Ella drowsed whiskered with sleek face, sly wits:
Sphinx-queen of cats.
‘Look! there she goes, Cat-Lady Mason!’
We snickered as she shambled down Somerset Terrace
To market for her dearies,
More mammoth and blowsy with every season;
‘Miss Ella's got loony from keeping in cahoots
With eleven cats.’
But now turned kinder with time, we mark Miss Mason
Blinking green-eyed and solitary
At girls who marry—
Demure ones, lithe ones, needing no lesson
That vain jades sulk single down bridal nights,
Accurst as wild-cats.
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario