Traducción fallida

Jorge no vino y tuvimos que hacernos cargo de la traducción de algunos párrafos de Robbery Under Arms, de Rolf Boldrewood. Nada que hacer. Usamos la tecnología de google para traducir y la tendremos lista en menos de un minuto. Y ¿de qué se tratan estos párrafos? Pues del preso a punto de ser colgado, quien recuerda la niñez con su familia, la influencia de su padre en su camino al crimen, y la de su madre por supuesto. No es nada del otro mundo. Ese determinismo que aparece en el libro, por el que el hijo sigue el destino del padre, el tema de “lo lleva en la sangre” me parece estúpido. Todos sabemos de hijos que nacieron en lugares horribles y progresaron con esfuerzo. Chau (el diseñador)…

These strange cattle had been driven a good way, I could see. The cows and calves looked done up, and the steer's tongue was out—it was hottish weather; the old dog had been 'heeling' him up too, for he was bleeding up to the hocks, and the end of his tail was bitten off. He was a savage old wretch was Crib. Like all dogs that never bark—and men too—his bite was all the worse.

'Go and get the brands—confound you—don't stand there frightening the cattle,' says father, as the tired cattle, after smelling and jostling a bit, rushed into the yard. 'You, Jim, make a fire, and look sharp about it. I want to brand old Polly's calf and another or two.' Father came down to the hut while the brands were getting ready, and began to look at the harness-cask, which stood in a little back skillion. It was pretty empty; we had been living on eggs, bacon, and bread and butter for a week.

'Oh, mother! there's such a pretty red calf in the yard,' I said, 'with a star and a white spot on the flank; and there's a yellow steer fat enough to kill!'

El señor Howard

Del clásico australiano “Robbery Under Arms” de Rolf BoldreWood. A punto de ser colgado por sus actividades ilícitas éste preso recuerda su infancia en Australia, sus padres, la rectitud de su madre y un señor Howard, maestro de escuela, de buen corazón…

Entonces Lammerby, el encargado, aunque era un tipo codicioso y astuto, que compraba cosas que sabía que eran robadas, y prestaba dinero y vendía al doble del precio, no le gustaba pensar que sus hijos crecerían como ganado descarriado, rescató al viejo señor Howard, que había sido un amigo o una víctima en viejas épocas, cerca de Sydney, y lo había traído para hacerse cargo de la escuela.

Era un hombre curioso, este señor Howard. Lo que había sido o hecho ninguno de nosotros lo supo, pero encaró a uno de los granjeros que dijo algo contra él que nos demostró el carácter que tenía. Se paró recto y miró al hombre directo a la cara, y no parecía el hombre doblado y tembloroso que veíamos la mayoría de las veces. Vivía solo en una pequeña casa en el pueblo. Era apenas lo suficientemente grande para cobijarnos en nuestras lecciones. Cenaba en la posada junto al señor  y la señora Lammerby. Ella era siempre buena con él,  y le hacía budines y otras cosas cuando estaba enfermo. Frecuentemente se enfermaba, y entonces nos oía dar las lecciones en la cabecera.

No bebía nada excepto té. Solía fumar bastante de una pipa grande con figuras de mar en ella que nos mostraba cuando estaba de buen humor. Pero dos o tres veces al año solía dedicarse a beber por una semana, y entonces la enseñanza se suspendía hasta que estuviera sano. No pensamos mucho en eso. Pero todos, o casi todos, los que conocíamos hacían lo mismo -todo los hombres- y también algunas mujeres, excepto mamá. Ella no había tocado una gota del vino o de alcohol en su vida, y nunca lo hizo hasta el día de su muerte. Pensábamos en ello como si tuvieran un toque de fiebre o de insolación, o una costilla rota o algo. Se recuperarían en una semana o dos, y estarían bien otra vez.

The Marstons

El condenado recuerda la granja, su hermana y hermano, y la religión de sus padres. Su padre era un hombre muy fuerte y determinado y su madre sabía ceder cuando hacía falta. Del clásico australiano “Robbery Under Arms” de Rolf Boldrewood …

… The clergyman from Bargo came one day and christened me and Jim—made one job of it. But mother took Aileen herself in the spring cart all the way to the township and had her christened in the chapel, in the middle of the service all right and regular, by Father Roche.

There's good and bad of every sort, and I've met plenty that were no chop of all churches; but if Father Roche, or Father anybody else, had any hand in making mother and Aileen half as good as they were, I'd turn to-morrow, if I ever got out again. I don't suppose it was the religion that made much difference in our case, for Patsey Daly and his three brothers, that lived on the creek higher up, were as much on the cross as men could be, and many a time I've seen them ride to chapel and attend mass, and look as if they'd never seen a 'clearskin' in their lives. Patsey was hanged afterwards for bush-ranging and gold robbery, and he had more than one man's blood to answer for. Now we weren't like that; we never troubled the church one way or the other. We knew we were doing what we oughtn't to do, and scorned to look pious and keep two faces under one hood.

By degrees we all grew older, began to be active and able to do half a man's work. We learned to ride pretty well—at least, that is we could ride a bare-backed horse at full gallop through timber or down a range; could back a colt just caught and have him as quiet as an old cow in a week. We could use the axe and the cross-cut saw, for father dropped that sort of work himself, and made Jim and I do all the rough jobs of mending the fences, getting firewood, milking the cows, and, after a bit, ploughing the bit of flat we kept in cultivation.

The Australian Boy

Robbery Under Arms

Robbery Under Arms es un clásico de la literatura australiana de Rolf Boldrewood. Un bandido a punto de ser colgado recuerda su vida. De sus padres, de sus hermanos, de la vida en la granja…

My name's Dick Marston, Sydney-side native. I'm twenty-nine years old, 1, 82 metres in my stocking soles, and 83 kilograms weight. Pretty strong and active with it, so they say. I don't want to blow—not here, any road—but it takes a good man to put me on my back, or stand up to me with the gloves, or the naked cows…

Why do I lie here, groaning; yes, crying like a child, and beating my head against the stone floor? I am not mad, though I am shut up in a cell. No. Better for me if I was. But it's all up now; there's no get away this time; and I, Dick Marston, as strong as a bullock, as active as a rock-wallaby, chock-full of life and spirits and health, have been tried for robbing—robbery under arms they call it—and though the blood runs through my veins like the water in the mountain creeks, and every bit of bone and sinew is as sound as the day I was born, I must die on the gallows this day month…

When I came out of the hospital after curing me of that wound—for I was hit bad by that black tracker—they gave me some books to read for fear I'd go mad and cheat the hangman. I was always fond of reading, and many a night I've read to poor old mother and Aileen before I left the old place…