Archival documents
Authors: Sylvia Townsend Warner ((1893–1978)) , Alicia Fernández Gallego-Casilda (Universitat Autònoma, Spain)
This article presents parallel Spanish–English texts of six poems translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner from their Spanish originals following her attendance at the Second International Congress of Writers for the Defence of Culture in Spain in 1937. The poems are by Leopoldo Urrutia, Manuel Altolaguirre, Julio D. Guillén, José Herrera Petere, Félix Paredes and Francisco Fuentes. Five of the six first appeared in Romancero general de la guerra de España (1937).
Keywords: translation, Spanish Civil War, Sylvia Townsend Warner, Federico García Lorca, Leopoldo Urrutia, Manuel Altolaguirre, Julio D. Guillén, José Herrera Petere, Félix Paredes, Francisco Fuentes
How to Cite: Warner, S. & Gallego-Casilda, A. (2023) “Six Romances of the Spanish Civil War and their English Translations by Sylvia Townsend Warner”, The Journal of the Sylvia Townsend Warner Society. 23(1). doi: https://doi.org/10.14324/STW.23.1.03
Editor’s note: Sylvia Townsend Warner translated six poems from their Spanish originals following her attendance at the Second International Congress of Writers for the Defence of Culture in Spain in 1937. The original poems and the translations follow below. Five of the six Spanish poems were first published in Romancero general de la guerra de España (1937). Warner’s translation of the second section of Urrutia’s ‘Romancero a la muerte de Federico García Lorca’ was published in Poems for Spain (1939), edited by Stephen Spender and John Lehmann; her other translations were first published posthumously, ‘El Heroe’ in her Selected Poems (1982) (but reproduced below from Warner’s manuscript version, which is four lines longer) and the other four in The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse (1980), edited by Valentine Cunningham.
The poems and translations are discussed further in this issue of the Journal by Alicia Fernández Gallego-Casilda in her prize-winning essay titled ‘Translation and ideology in Sylvia Townsend Warner: Six Romances of the Spanish Civil War into English’ (pp. 77–96).
II
Por los patios de la Alhambra a la ventana mudéjar, subía un olor agudo de azahares y de adelfas. Por los patios de la Alhambra, por entre las alamedas ¡ay, cómo olía que olía a una infinita tristeza! ¡Jardín del Generalife, y cómo olían a pena tus viejísimos laureles, a pena reciente y tierna!
Hasta los celestes prados sube el ciprés su tristeza, y el álamo majestuoso infinito de amarguras blandamente cabecea. No corre un soplo de viento. Todo se llena de pena, y en el aire del bochorno su abanico verde y grande deja caer la palmera.
¡Está llorando Granada, todo Granada, de pena!
El pico del Monte Sacro, las altas Torres Bermejas con un pañuelo en los ojos tristemente la contemplan.
¡Ay, Federico García, que triste se está poniendo tu vieja ciudad morena!
‘Romancero a la muerte de Federico García Lorca’
Translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner
In the courts of the Alhambra The scent of lemon-flower, the scent Of the rose-laurel, rises pungent To the mute lattice. In the courts of the Alhambra, And down the avenues, Scent after scent renews An infinite sadness; And grief has bruised From the timeless laurels of the Generalife A childish fragrance, tender and innocent.
Towards the heavenly meadows The cypress rears a shape of sorrow, To long and lofty grief resigned The poplar nods its head. There stirs no breath of wind: Instead, grief is the air all things respire; And in the sultry calm the palm lets fall Its large green fan.
Granada, all Granada, Weeps for a woe.
The peak of Monte Sacro, Holding to its sad eyes The turrets of Bermejas, Looks an Alas!
– ¿Por qué lloráis, mis jardines; por qué estáis tristes, palmeras?
– ¡Ay, Federico García, lloramos por una muerte que se acerca!
El mar estaba llorando del alba contra las puertas. Salpicaba las ventanas de la playa con estrellas.
– ¿Por qué lloras así, mar, despeinada la melena de tus desflecadas olas, qué lloras de esa manera?
– ¡Ay, Federico García, que lloro por una muerte que se acerca!
Las palabras, en la noche, como fina caña eran, frágiles y quebradizas como fina caña seca.
¡Cómo lloraba el silencio escondido entre palmeras!
Todo Granada lloraba como una triste doncella, con ojos de mar y cielo en la madrugada tierna.
Por los picos de la Elvira la Muerte baja a la Sierra, viene afilada y segura sobre la ciudad derecha.
Ay, Federico Garcia, How sad in this sunsetting Sinks down your old, your gipsy-coloured town!
Why so sorrowful, my gardens? Palm-tree, why do you sigh?
Ay, Federico Garcia, We weep for a death that draws nigh!
And grieving, the sea Conveys the pallor of day to the doors, And spatters with salt stars The windows along the quay.
Why so sorrowful, O sea, With your unlustred waves tangled awry, As a woman despairing tangles her hair?
Ay, Federico Garcia, I weep for a death that draws nigh!
Words rustled in the night: A brittle message, and snapped Short like the speech of reeds grown dry.
Bitterly, bitterly, Among the palm-trees secluded, The silence wept.
And all Granada Grieved like a maid forlorn, Lamenting in the tender early morning With eyes of sea and sky.
Death has crossed the mountain, And down the mountain-side De miedo y dolor, del Darro se estremecen las riberas.
(¡Ay, Federico García, con un puñal en la mano cómo la muerte se acerca!)
‘No. No se lo claves. No’.
La Muerte se ha disfrazado con vestiduras de crimen y de traición la careta. Viene despacio, en silencio; todo Granada, con pena, la ve venir, paso a paso; viene buscando su presa.
(¡Ay, Federico García, que la Muerte ya se acerca! ¡Todo Granada la ve y él aún no se ha dado cuenta! ¡Por allí, por Sierra Elvira, vestida de pistolera!)
Todo Granada la ha visto y a Federico García le ha cogido de sorpresa.
(Romancero general de la guerra de España, 1937, pp. 127–8)
Comes sure of purpose and fast. Ah, what was that which traversed Me? – cried the river. And shuddered like a man in fever.
Ay, Federico Garcia, How swiftly death, dagger in hand, draws nigh!
With wickedness for a gown, With treachery for a hood, Soft-foot, sure-foot, Death walks into the town. Granada with weeping eyes Must watch it, step by step Hunting its quarry down.
‘What are these chimes? I do not know them.’
Ay, Federico Garcia, Death is here, is here! All Granada has seen it. He only sees it not – The death that has come hither Hid in a bandolier.
All Granada has seen it. But Federico Garcia They took by a surprise.
(Poems for Spain, 1939, pp. 105–8)
Nadie ha sabido su nombre, que no se escribió en papeles.
Le vieron subir cantando por la empinada vertiente; llevaba el fusil al hombro, y entre los matojos verdes su mono azul era un grito que avisaba a los rebeldes. Sonó un disparo en la tarde carmesí de sol poniente, y su cuerpo cayó a tierra con una herida en la frente.
En el viento de la Sierra montan los gritos de muerte. La noche, sobre su cara, puso un pañuelo de nieve, y sobre su cara el alba deshojó flores silvestres. En el collado seguían manando todas las fuentes.
Nadie ha sabido su nombre, que no se escribió en papeles.
(Romancero general de la guerra de España, 1937, pp. 81–2)
Translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner
Nobody knew his name. Pen nor paper will tell it.
We saw him rise up singing Where the freshet leaps and falls. With a gun at his shoulder, Among the briers and brambles His blue overalls Were like a taunt sent ringing Out to the eyes of the rebels.
And the western sky was flushed With the setting sun when a shot Rang out, and he fell to the ground With a bullet through the head.
The mountain wind arising Keened all night for woe; Midnight laid on his face A handkerchief of snow; Dawn came with a handful Of woodland flowers to strow; Like mourners through the hills The freshets began to flow.
Nobody knew his name. Pen nor paper will tell it.
(Dorset History Centre, reference D/TWA/A21a)
Salí yo de guardia una noche negra; me tocó de puesto detrás de una peña. Silencio de muerte se guarda en la Sierra, y en leves susurros rompe a hablar la peña: ‘¡Vigila tranquilo, soldado, en tu puesto, que balas traidoras no herirán tu cuerpo!’ No habló más la peña aquélla del puesto. Aún me pregunto si aquello fué un sueño; pero no lo era, que estaba despierto. Es que aquella peña tiene sentimientos, y lucha a su modo al lado del pueblo.
(Romancero general de la guerra de España, 1937, p. 90)
Translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner
Dark was the night when I went on guard, and took my station behind a rock.
A silence of death was in the hills; then in a whisper the rock spoke:
Keep quiet watch, soldier, tonight. No traitor bullet shall pierce your flesh.
So much and no more said the rock to me. Was it a dream? – I ask. But no! I did not slumber, no dream was there.
But the rock, may be, fellowed my feeling, and after its fashion fought for the people.
(The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse, 1980, pp. 281–2)
Día de metal, día de misa, de campanas y cañones, balas ‘dum-dum’ y custodias, tierra fresca, sangre y flores que los fascistas querían celebrar tras de la noche en que tomasen Madrid a dentelladas y coces.
Día de metal, día de misa pregonado con tambores por las voces de los loros, por los loros de las voces; mañana, no; al otro día, el miércoles por la noche, Radio Burgos se desata: Cuando el alba quiebre albores, en la calle de Alcalá bajará Franco de un coche azul como el porvenir, rosa como los pitones de doña Carmen de Polo de Franco, más bien del Norte, los moros que la acompañan degollarán españoles, y el arzobispo de Burgos dará grandes bendiciones a árabes, beduínos, nazis, etíopes, frisones y demás representantes de patrióticos valores. Día de metal, día de misa, rosiclaras ilusiones, estivales devaneos de un puñado de traidores.
Translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner
Day of metal, day of masses, Day of cannon, day of churchbells, Day of shrines and day of bullets, Strewn with fresh blood and with blossoms – Such the day the Fascists looked for On that morrow of that nightfall When they took Madrid.
Day of metal and of masses – All the Fascist drums foretold it, All the parrot voices hailed it. Not tomorrow? Well, the next day, Wednesday perhaps, or Thursday (All are one to Radio Burgos). Then the morning’s light would lighten Under the triumphal archway Franco stepping from his chariot; Then the Moors would swing their sabres And the Spanish heads go rolling; Then the Archbishop of Burgos Would bestow an ample blessing On the Arabs and the Bedouins, On the Nazis and the Ethiops, On the frizzled and the smooth-haired Saviours of Spain.
Day of metal, day of masses, Day of rose-coloured illusions, Dog-day dream of raving traitors,
¿Cuándo es la entrada en Madrid? ¿Cuándo mulos percherones del carro en que marcha Hitler para propios horizontes?
No fué el día de Santiago ni en octubre el día doce; ya las fiestas de noviembre se pierden en los vapores del tiempo pasado y muerto; Navidades, Concepciones, Purísimas, Año Nuevo, todo huyó, lluvias y soles, y Franco y Mola no entran en Madrid con uniformes de caballos enjaezados para grandes procesiones.
Día de metal, día de misa, día de sangres y horrores que la clueca fascista cacarea a todas voces. Los madrileños decimos: no brillarán tus albores, quedarás en noche negra para negros corazones.
(Romancero general de la guerra de España, 1937, pp. 40–1)
When, oh when, shall we behold it? When is the triumphal entry? When shall we behold the mule-team Dragging Hitler and his baggage To our city gates?
It was not Saint James’s feast-day Nor the tenth day of October, And the slow days of November All are hidden in the vapour Of time gone and days departed. Christmas came, and New Year’s Day, Candlemas and Lady Day, And the calendar sighed onward But the day long-looked-for came not. Where is Franco? Where is Mola? When will those bedizened warriors, Fat and spruce like horseshow stallions, Prance into Madrid?
Day of metal, day of masses, Day of bloodshed, day of terror, Day of days the Fascist sewer Clamours for with all its voices – From Madrid we toss this greeting: Day, remain in endless darkness Of the black hearts that desired you. Never shall you dawn.
(The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse, 1980, pp. 291–3)
Encarnación te llamaste y encarnaban tu Destino como pago a tus virtudes fusiles de cinco tiros. En un Consejo de guerra se te culpó de un delito que no perdonan jamás los que interpretan al Cristo: haber lavado la ropa de milicianos heridos. Con frases afirmativas los Evangelios han dicho que Myriam de Nazareth pañales lavó del Hijo. Ellos creen en esas cosas, pero al hallarte en el río un Tribunal te formaron y la tumba fué contigo. Encarnación, lavandera sin edad y sin ludibrio, lavandera cuyos brazos eran expresión de trinos entre espuma de jabones y maternales deliquios sobre las ropas leales de tus invencibles chicos: nosotros, todos nosotros, ante ti nos descubrimos, y cada clavel sangriento que encontraste en los trapillos – heridas de las descargas que ametrallaron sin tino – nos ha legado claveles cinco veces florecidos: un aroma de explosiones una flor por cada tiro.
Translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner
Her name confessed the Word made Flesh: fate fleshed in her – curt payment for her virtues – five times a rifle-fire.
The Council sat and judged: her crime was clear and plain – a crime which those who interpret Christ religiously arraign: for she had washed the linen of wounded militia-men.
In words of holy writ the Evangelists have told how Mary of Heaven and Nazareth washed the clouts of the Child: so they believe who judged her, so they believe who gave sentence on the brook’s evidence – death, and a handy grave.
Good laundress Incarnation, out of the foaming suds what love-tokens of clean linen you fetched for your brave lads! How many times the aches through your old bones have gone like labour-pangs, washing for many as for one wounded son!
Old and guileless – we greet you we bare our heads in your honour, and greet on your tattered carcass each springing gillyflower, each gout of blood blossoming under the metal shower.
¡Pobre Encarnación Jiménez! Tus sienes han conocido la blasfemia en que se amparan los crímenes del fascismo.
(Romancero general de la guerra de España, 1937, pp. 153–4)
And from your gillyflowers left us we will raise others, and prouder, five times more flowering, that bloom at the barrel’s point with a fine scent of powder.
(The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse, 1980, pp. 289–90)
Madrid revolucionario, tú siempre lo has demostrado. ¡El día tan memorable, aquel día Dos de Mayo! ¡Viva la Revolución de todo el proletariado! ¡Los de Asturias, los de Oviedo, los rusos, los madrileños armados, que defienden su Madrid como un solo miliciano! Nosotros, los campesinos, todos a la voz del mando gritamos: ‘¡No pasarán mientras quede un miliciano; que luchamos por el pan, por el campo soberano, que nos quieren arrebatar Mola y Queipo de Llano; pero que no sueñen eso, que lo vayan olvidando!’ Nosotros, los campesinos todos estamos armados, y gritamos con valor: ‘¡Que vivan los milicianos, que luchamos por el pan, por un porvenir más sano!’ Por eso, cuando pudimos, todos fuimos enrolados. ¡Viva el comandante Lister! ¡Viva el comandante Carlos! ¡Viva el Frente Popular de todo el proletariado, que lucha por la victoria sin sosiego y sin descanso!
Translated by Sylvia Townsend Warner
Revolutionary Madrid! You have proved your worth today, In a day that will be remembered With the glorious Second of May! Long live the Revolution Of all the working-class, The men of Oviedo, The men of Asturias, And the workers of Madrid – Who like one man have taken Up arms, and stand on guard!
We, the men of the fields, Shout out like a word of command Our slogan: They shall not pass! Not while a soldier stands To fight for the people’s bread, To fight for the people’s land. Our land, that is above all: Queipo and Mola may snatch at it, But we will make their names A byword for future times.
We, the men of the fields, Today are all in arms; And our shout rings overhead. Long live the People’s Army That fights for the people’s bread, And for better times to come! And it is for this reason We march to the beat of the drum. Long life to our Captain Lister! Long life to our Captain Carlos! Long life to the People’s Front That stands for the working-class, That will not rest or falter Till the victory is ours!
Me despido cordialmente de todos los milicianos, y que perdonéis la falta a un campesino cerrado. Si queréis saber quién soy, Francisco Fuentes me llamo.
(Milicia Popular 114, 1936, p. 3)
And now I take my leave Of all soldiers and friends, And if my song is amiss Remember a countryman made it. And if you would know my name, Francis Fuentes I am.
(The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse, 1980, pp. 279–80)
Cunningham, Valentine (ed.), . (1980). The Penguin Book of Spanish Civil War Verse. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Fernández Gallego-Casilda, Alicia. (2023). Translation and ideology in Sylvia Townsend Warner: Six romances of the Spanish Civil War into English. The Journal of the Sylvia Townsend Warner Society, : 77–96.
Fuentes, Francisco. (1936). Madrid revolucionario. Milicia Popular (114) : 3.
Rodríguez-Moñino, Antonio R, Prados, Emilio Emilio (eds.), . (1937). Romancero general de la guerra de España. Madrid: Ediciones Españolas.
Warner, Sylvia Townsend. El héroe. Warner, Sylvia Townsend (trans.), (Dorset History Centre, reference D/TWA/A21a).
Warner, Sylvia Townsend. (1982). Sylvia Townsend Warner: Collected poems. Harman, Claire (ed.), Manchester: Carcanet New Press. reprinted as Selected Poems (Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1985).