Las tinieblas: un poema de ciencia ficción de Lord Byron.
En 1816, Lord Byron alquiló la Villa Diodati en las orillas del lago Ginebra en Suiza para pasar el verano junto a un grupo de amigos que incluya a su medico personal el Dr. Polidori, Percy Shelley y su pareja Mary Shelley.
Conocida es la apuesta de escribir una historia de terror que tuvo como resultado una obra que fue un éxito en su momento pero hoy esta olvidada “El vampiro” de Polidori y otra que no necesita presentación “Frankenstein” de Mary Shelley. La autora por cierto no se complicó mucho la existencia y tomó el nombre prestado de los caseros que le habían alquilado la villa a Lord Byron. Durante muchos años la familia Frankestein frenó la difusión del libro en Suiza hasta que el cine hizo que toda resistencia fuese inútil. En cualquier caso, apuntaba el actual Barón Frankestein, en una entrevisa a la revista “Empire”,el nombre viene bien para conseguir mesa en los restaurantes.
Otra anécdota curiosa es que Lord Byron se pasó el verano practicando el esquí en las laderas de las montazas suizas ante el asombro generalizado ante ese deporte, desconocido hasta que el momento, que Byron había aprendido unos años antes. Su profecía de que algún día irían multitudes a esquiar a Suiza fue recibida con sorna generalizada. ¿Quién se podía tomar en serio a aquel inglés excéntrico?
Pero volviendo a la apuesta, se comenta que Byron nunca terminó su historia en prosa.
Lo que si termino fue el impresionante poema “The darkness” que cuenta el destino de la humanidad cuando una catástrofe apaga el sol.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish’d, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill’d into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum’d,
And men were gather’d round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other’s face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain’d;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
Extinguish’d with a crash—and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil’d;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look’d up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash’d their teeth and howl’d: the wild birds shriek’d
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl’d
And twin’d themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought—and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour’d,
Even dogs assail’d their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish’d men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur’d their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer’d not with a caress—he died.
The crowd was famish’d by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap’d a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak’d up,
And shivering scrap’d with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other’s aspects—saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr’d within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp’d
They slept on the abyss without a surge—
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Hay una traduccion al castellano en la antologia de Lord Byron publicada en Visor.
Hablaba hace un tiempo del escaso número de lectores de teatro pero estos son legión en comparación con los que leen poesia.
