He citado a Lord Alfred Tennyson y su poema “La Dama de Shalott” para abrir
este post, pero la verdadera historia, la que inspiró al propio Tennyson, se
remonta a tiempos más lejanos, pues el poema “La Dama de Shalott” es en
realidad una personal y libre interpretación de la antigua leyenda artúrica "Elaine de Astolat", la
cual (parafraseando) nos relata la historia de Elaine, hija de Bernardo de
Astolat, quien organizó un torneo de
justas al que asistieron el Rey Arturo y sus caballeros, allí También contendió
Sir Lancelot; sin embargo, no lo hizo como caballero de la corte, recurriendo a
un disfraz para no ser reconocido (recordemos que Lancelot sostuvo una aventura
amorosa con Guinevere, La Reina del Señor Arturo, quien también estaba presente
en el torneo). Lancelot derrota un gran número de caballeros del Rey, sin
embargo resulta lastimado y debe retirarse de la contienda, siendo asistido por
Elaine, quien para este punto ya se encuentra fervorosamente enamorada del
caballero. Lancelot, tras reponerse de su lesión se dispone a abandonar el
castillo, ofreciendo pagar muy bien por las atenciones prestadas, lo cual
ofende a Elaine; quien le despide y jamás le vuelve a ver.
Tiempo después, Elaine muere por la pena, y de acuerdo a sus
propias indicaciones, su inerte figura es dipuesta en un bote, sosteniendo un
Lirio blanco en una mano y su última carta en la otra. Así, navega por el
Támesis hasta Camelot, donde es descubierta por la corte del Rey Arturo y donde
Lancelot luego de leer la carta, explica lo ocurrido, y dispone para ella majestuosas exequias.
Tennyson por su parte, nos enseña la historia de un ser casi
féerico, una figura sin nombre, execrada de una manera desconocida y confinada
a vivir en una torre dispuesta en la isla “Shalott” (próxima a Camelot) Ella, La Dama de Shalot, de semblante
desconocido para el mundo y cuyo dulce canto es la única prueba de su
existencia, dedica su tiempo al tejido de tapices, en los cuales retrata el
mundo más allá de su prisión y al cual
sólo puede acceder a través del reflejo de un espejo mágico, pues la maldición que
le cobija le prohíbe asomar a la ventana, so pena de sufrir el castigo
inherente al hechizo.
Hasta aquí, encontramos un relato que difiere de la leyenda
de Elaine y Lanzarotte, y que en un claroscuro de ideas nos describe de manera
prodigiosa el contexto que hace de La Dama de Shalott un personaje sometido y
pesaroso,… condenado!
John William Waterhouse, es el elemento que
nos permite dar una mirada al confinado universo de “La Dama de Shalot”, es su pintura
entonces nuestro espejo para conocer el recinto donde teje, observa, anhela y
se lamenta… “La Dama
de Shalott”.
"I am half
sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott"
"Estoy enferma de tanta sombra", dijo
La Dama de Shalott.
Estas son las palabras que concluyen la
segunda parte del poema y que dan su nombre a esta pintura de 1916, la cual pertenece a la trilogía de obras que Waterhouse dedicó para representar el
poema de Alfred Tennyson;
trilogía que pintó en una cronología inversa, siendo esta reseña de los
aposentos de “Elaine” la última pieza elaborada.
Adentrándonos en el tercer canto de la balada de Tennyson,
descubrimos la figura de Sir Lancelot, quien es avistado por la prisionera de
Shalott. Ella, enamorada y ya cansada de contemplar el mundo a través del
espejo, se rebela ante maleficio y asoma a la ventana, para buscar al caballero
en la distancia. Los tapices vuelan por los aires, mientras el espejo se fragmenta y el perverso conjuro se
presta a condenar a la beldad denominada…“La Dama de Shalott”.
Y de nuevo tenemos a Waterhouse, y su visión. De 1894:
"...She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces taro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror cracked from side to side;"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott".
Ya en el cuarto segmento del poema, y con el viento
fragoroso y la muerte acechando,
La doncella abandona su torre dirigiéndose al río, donde
encuentra el bote que habrá de
concatenar su destino con el de Elaine De Astolat.
El viaje hacia Camelot comienza,
y desde la pequeña barca se eleva un aria,
primero fuerte, luego tenue,
primero fuerte, luego tenue,
finalmente, extinta.
 |
| John William Waterhouse - The Lady of Shalott. |
La representación pictórica de Waterhouse nos enseña La Dama de blanco en su barca, con el gesto abatido, quizás resignada a aquel destino que le confiere el hechizo. Su mirada no podía ser otra. Sobre la embarcación reposan algunos de los tejidos que realizó enclaustrada, se puede ver en ellos a los caballeros y el paisaje de Camelot. Las velas se apagan en su avance, como se apaga su vida…
"She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
...Y ... El poema es este:
Part I
On either side the river lie
Four gray walls, and four gray towers
The little isle is all inrail'd
The Lady of Shalott."
En cuanto a Loreena McKennitt, Su trabajo consistió en
musicalizar la obra de Lord Tennyson, registrando tal suceso en los (todos
ellos) majestuosos álbumes: The Visit, Live in Paris and Toronto (Disco 2) y Nights
from the Alhambra, donde nos ofrece una versión corta de la obra.
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd
Camelot;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
Round about Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens shiver.
The sunbeam showers break and quiver
In the stream that runneth ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to
Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel, singing clearly,
O'er the stream of
Camelot.
Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,
Beneath the moon, the reaper weary
Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,
Lady of Shalott.'
The little isle is all inrail'd
With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd
With roses: by the marge unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,
Skimming down to
Camelot.
A pearl garland winds her head:
She leaneth on a velvet bed,
Full royally apparelled,
The Lady of Shalott.
Part II
No time hath she to sport and play:
A charmed web she weaves alway.
A curse is on her, if she stay
Her weaving, either night or day,
To look down to
Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be;
Therefore she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
She lives with little joy or fear.
Over the water, running near,
The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
Before her hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting tower'd
Camelot.
And as the mazy web she whirls,
She sees the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from
Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd
Camelot:
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, came from
Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead
Came two young lovers lately wed;
I am half sick of shadows,' said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flam'd upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down from
Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down from
Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over green
Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down from
Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom
She made three paces thro' the room
She saw the water-flower bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to
Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
'The curse is come upon me,' cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Outside the isle a shallow boat
Beneath a willow lay afloat,
Below the carven stern she wrote,
The Lady of
Shalott.
A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,
All raimented in snowy white
That loosely flew (her zone in sight
Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)
Her wide eyes fix'd on
Camelot,
Though the squally east-wind keenly
Blew, with folded arms serenely
By the water stood the queenly
Lady of Shalott.
With a steady stony glance—
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Beholding all his own mischance,
Mute, with a glassy countenance—
She look'd down to
Camelot.
It was the closing of the day:
She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
As when to sailors while they roam,
By creeks and outfalls far from home,
Rising and dropping with the foam,
From dying swans wild warblings come,
Blown shoreward; so to
Camelot
Still as the boathead wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of Shalott.
A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,
Turn'd to tower'd
Camelot:
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden wall and gallery,
A pale, pale corpse she floated by,
Deadcold, between the houses high,
Dead into tower'd
Camelot.
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
To the planked wharfage came:
Below the stern they read her name,
The Lady of
Shalott.
They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
There lay a parchment on her breast,
That puzzled more than all the rest,
The wellfed wits at
Camelot.
'The web was woven curiously,
The charm is broken utterly,
Draw near and fear not,—this is I,
The Lady of Shalott.'
Lord Alfred Tennyson. (1809- 1892)
que enorme repertorio amigo, y esa facilidad que tienes para dar vida a estos magnos temas, me da gusto leerte, abrazos
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