12. Rain, rain, come again

EDITOR:

The clear weather continued. Rosalía arrived home, put away the food purchased in the praza, and kept thinking about the gathering she hoped to organize with friends so they could discuss the organization of a literary/cultural group. (She hadn’t formed a clear idea in her head yet as to what topics they would discuss). She would write to her American contacts immediately, in the hope of learning how they met and what had gone well. There was a good reason for asking about this.

The sunlight seemed to urge the ideas into forms that should have been plans, but they were plans still out of reach. It seemed that forming the group was going to need more thought. After all, they would be starting from scratch. Even if there had been such groups, or clubs, or tertulias for women in Galicia, they certainly weren’t well-known. Women didn’t get together for discussions of topics like that. They worked the fields, made bobbin lace, wove, and spun, but their hands were never idle. The women who might go to a café usually spoke of matters pertaining to family and faith, if not new apparel.

Rosalía was near the point of giving up for that day at least. She could return to her idea tomorrow. Then the sunlight darkened and it seemed like fog had been creeping in. It was very odd for fog to form before nightfall, but the temperature seemed very unsure of itself. Then, when it all turned dark, as if some immense black wing had blocked the sky; she was petrified. It was so sudden, the broken clouds arrived in only a matter of seconds. Then the sky opened up and shrouded the casco vello in prickly, dove-white rain; the old part was covered in the glint of tears on stone, old stone. A chiaroscuro that resisted painting. Rosalía could only look, hoping that clarity would eventually come to her. 

Every raindrop that slid down the uneven glass pane and every drop that splashed on the street below seemed to bear the image of Santiago the Moorslayer. Rosalía had sidestepped that Saint to seek out Saint Scholastica. She had sought the woman of wisdom, not the man of the sword, the leader of battles and conquests, achieved or millions of dead bodies. That was what she had written in her poetry, too.

Now she thinks of another poem she’s written, this time because the rain has made her recall it. This one had come from the years before moving to Santiago, when she was very young. She might have seen it, or heard the story being told. She had never forgotten it.

It must be the effect of the rainy outburst, thought Rosalía, not believing it for a minute. Still, it was a big coincidence, because the woman in the poem, expressing glee and pride at her own resourcefulness, is perfect. This is a poem she wants to send to the States along with her queries about creating a women’s reading and discussion group. Books weren’t quite as easy to obtain in Galicia, but they could also discuss their own writing and journals that published reviews as well as original works. She would also like to discuss it with the group to see if they thought her poem was accurate in its portrayal of the woman. This might also encourage them to bring their own writing.

So with the encouragement of the scowling weather, which was now wearing the mask of a serious storm, Rosalía reread her poem, copying it several times - for the Grimké sisters, Elizabeth Peabody, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and maybe a couple more. She wouldn’t let herself be discouraged ahead of time. 

TRANSLATOR:

Miña casiña, meu lar,

¡cántas onciñas

de ouro me vals!

My home, my sweet home, you’re worth your weight in gold!

Vin de Santiago a Padrón

cun chover que era arroiar,

descalciña de pe e perna,

sin comer nin almorzar.

Polo camiño atopaba

ricas cousas que mercar,

i anque ganas tiña delas,

non tiña para as pagar.

Nos mesóns arrecendía

a cousas de bon gustar,

mais o que non ten diñeiro

sin elas ten que pasar.

I went from Santiago to Padrón and uf! it was raining cats and dogs. There I was: barefoot and bare legged, no lunch, no breakfast. Along the way sure they sold good things to eat, but I was penniless. The taverns gave off a delicious scent, but those with no money must go hungry and keep walking.

Fun chegando á miña casa

toda rendida de andar,

non tiña nela frangulla

con que poidera cear.

A vista se me barría,

que era aquél moito aunar.

I finally made it home, exhausted from walking 17 kilometers, but there wasn’t a crumb there for supper. I was so hungry I couldn’t see straight. I’d fasted way too long…

Fun á porta dun veciño

que tiña todo a fartar;

pedinlle unha pouca broa

e non ma quixo emprestar.

As bagullas me caían,

que me fora a avergonzar.

I went to the door of a neighbor who had more than enough, but he refused to lend me a bit of bread when I begged him for some. I wept because I’d been such a fool.

Volvínme á miña casiña

alumada do luar;

rexistréi cada burato

para ver de algo atopar;

atopéi fariña munda,

un puñiño a todo dar.

Vino no fondo da artesa.

Púxenme a Dios alabar.

Quixen alcendé-lo lume;

non tiña pau que queimar;

funllo a pedir a unha vella;

tampouco mo quixo dar,

si non era un toxo verde

para me facer rabiar.

I returned to my little place, lit by moonlight only; I rummaged everywhere, looking for something, anything; I found fine-ground flour, a tiny handful. It was in the bottom of the bin and I said Praise the Lord! I tried to light the fire but there was no wood, so I went to an old woman who refused to give me anything but a green branch with prickers on it, which made me really angry.

Volvín triste como a noite

a chorar que te chorar;

collín un feixe de palla,

do meu leito o fun pillar;

rexistréi polo cortello

mentras me puña a rezar

e vin uns garabulliños

e fieitos a Dios Dar.

¡Meu San Antón milagroso,

xa tiven fogo no lar!

Arriméi o pote ó lume

con augua para quentar.

I went back home, sad as the night, bawling my eyes out. Then I grabbed some straw from my mattress, I did, then I went to the shed, praying, and I saw some twigs and dried-out ferns, lots of them. Oh my Saint Anthony, you miracle-worker, I lit a fire! I put the pot with water on the flames to heat.

Mentras escarabellaba

na cinza, vin relumbar

un ichavo da fertuna...

¡Miña Virxe do Pilar!

Correndiño, correndiño

o fun en sal a empregar;

máis contenta que unhas páscoas

volvín a porta a pechar,

e na miña horta pequena

unhas coles fun catar.

Con un pouco de unto vello

que o ben soupen aforrar,

e ca fariñiña munda,

xa tiña para cear.

While I was digging in the ashes I saw a gleam from a coin there. Sweet Virgin of the Pillar! Flying out again I bought salt, then I returned and shut the door, happy as a clam. Then out to my tiny garden to get some cabbage. With a bit of old pork fat I’d saved, and the fine-ground flour, I had enough for supper.

Fixen un caldo de groria

que me soupo que la mar;

fixen un bolo do pote

que era cousa de envidiar;

despóis que o tiven comido,

volvín de novo a rezar;

e despóis que houben rezado,

puxen a roupa a secar,

que non tiña fío enxoito

de haber tanto me mollar.

I made a glorious broth that tasted like the sea; I made a cake from the pot that was enough to die for. After I ate, I prayed some more and after I prayed I set the wash to dry, because I didn’t have a dry thread to my name after getting drenched before.

Nantramentras me secaba,

púxenme logo a cantar

para que me oíran

en todo o lugar:

While I was drying off, I started singing so they’d hear me everywhere:

Meu lar, meu fogar,

¡cántas onciñas

de ouro me vals!

My heart, my home, you’re worth your weight in gold.

NOTE TO READERS:

The entire text in English can be consulted in the appendix to this book. Translation is my own. What I’ve included above is just a gloss. I admit to taking a few liberties with the original.

I can see from my contemporary perspective that Rosalía de Castro not only wanted to create a group of her peers for serious discussions. She also wanted to put Galicia on the map. For that she wasn’t adverse to writing in her language, Galician, but she also felt the culture included the aldeas [villages] where people worked the fields. 

Perhaps a notice of the Galician group was published in one of the journals in the States, maybe in Boston. I’ll make a note to look that up.

If I could go back in time and speak with Rosalía, I might suggest she include sketches of objects for people who had no idea of Galicia. The streets and lanes, religious architecture, Saint Scholastica, even Santiago, Saint James. I think Protestant readers might need help with the roles of the saints. 

Also, how did Scholastica’s sculpture with the clouds and cherubs come to be placed in Santiago de Compostela? She was Italian, I think. 

Would a map be helpful so readers would know where Padrón is? Should Rosalía include the legend of Padrón? 

Sometimes it’s really hard to be a translator. 

You try to cross so many bridges when you’re trying to bring two languages with their worlds together. Then you realize that you can’t be the only one to move those worlds closer. 

You need a lot of help from your friends - and maybe some inspirational, torrential rain!