Apunts

Apunts


—ni el pobre Dant (típic del fanàtic repel·lent, molta merda religiosa i l’únic que fot és anar condemnant enemics seus, sobretot imaginats, el trosdeputa, a la tortura i a l’extermini eterns: són així de caritatius els religiosos, sempre empenyuts per llurs fastigosos déus als pitjors crims). Ni el miserable Dant ni el magnífic decameró no duen espanyols, però sí catalans (no hi ha mai enlloc valencians, és clar; els valencians eren sempre catalans — per llur llengua els coneixereu.)

—és evident que històricament quan algú diu Espanya parla en termes geogràfics. Dant: “Cèsar puntejà a Marsella i corregué a Espanya a subjugar-hi Lleida.” [Catalònia com a tal no existia, l’estat merdanyol encara menys.]
A Itàlia — En Robert, duc de Calàbria, hi arriba acompanyat per àvids aventurers catalans (això vol dir l’avara pobretat qui ve de Catalònia: són uns quants empobrits àvids per enriquir’s) als quals dona tota mena de càrrecs oficials tantost esdevé rei de Nàpols.
En Cors Donat (1308) fou condemnat a mort en el complot per fer’s amb Florència. Fuig per la porta de la Santa Creu on l’atrapen i l’occeixen els aventurers catalans al servei del rei de Nàpols.

Antiga versió alemanya: Ging' Ahnung dessen meinem Bruder bei, So wuerd' er Kataloniens Bettler jagen [s’hauria tret del damunt els captaires de Catalònia], Damit ihr Geiz kein Sporn zum Aufruhr sei.

AS Kline:
And if Robert of Calabria my brother had seen it in good time, he would already have avoided the greedy adventurers of Catalonia [els cobejosos aventurers de Catalònia], before they do him wrong, and indeed he or another needs to make provision that a heavier load is not laid on his already laden boat. His nature, meanness descended from generosity, needs soldiers who do not care about stuffing their purses.’

H.A. Prietze: “Und wenn mein Bruder dies bedenken wollte, So schickte er, auf dass es ihm nicht shade, Das Katalonsche Bettelvolk nach Haus.” [la pobrissalla o el captairam català, els miserables]

Res a veure amb escarransits. Amb cobejosos, és a dir, avariciosos, rapaços, agoluts, llas, sí. Com tota la soldatalla de cada època del món, púrria impaïble, sia catalana, sia d’on sia. Pertot tothom sembla entendre-ho, tret de qualque boldró feixista de fementits gavatxs i lladres.

I en tot cas per què n’hauríem de fer gaire cas. Fan els romanyesos de la Romanya gaire cas del que en digué algú bon tros més intel·ligent que el favot Dant…? Enginyer del català Cèsar Borja, en Lleonard da Vinci digué (1502) que la Romanya era “capo d’ogni grosseza d’ingegno [la capital mundial del gens d’enginy.] Whatever.

Comenta Mattalia: “avara povertà designerebbe quei catalani poveri in canna, venuti rapacemente a rimpanucciarsi. [aquells catalans, amb l’ormeig pelat, vinguts, a refer-se’l aitan rapaçment com calgués]. (…) Il Torraca cita alcuni testi francesi a proposito de la difusa nomea di avarizia de cui godevano i catalani” — [textos gavatxs (quina casualitat) esmenten l’ampla anomenada d’avarícia de què gaudien els catalans].

Comenta A.M. Gallina: “al·lusió als almogàvers catalans qui tenien fama d’ésser pobre i àvids.”

—Boccacci: “Venne in Firenze un gentile uom catalano, chiamato messer Dego della Ratta [Dídac de la Rada], maliscalco per lo re Ruberto [manescal del rei Robert.]. Il quale, essendo del corpo bellissimo e vie più che grande vagheggiatore, avvenne che fra l'altre donne fiorentine una ne gli piacque, la quale era assai bella donna ed era nepote d'un fratello del detto vescovo.

“E avendo sentito che il marito di lei, quantunque di buona famiglia fosse, era avarissimo e cattivo [qui és avar i dolent ara…? No pas el català!], con lui compose di dovergli dare cinquecento fiorin d'oro, ed egli una notte con la moglie il lasciasse giacere; per che, fatti dorare popolini d'ariento, che allora si spendevano, giaciuto con la moglie, come che contro al piacer di lei fosse, gliele diede. Il che poi sappiendosi per tutto, rimasero al cattivo uomo il danno e le beffe; e il vescovo, come savio, s'infinse di queste cose niente sentire.”

—quant al terme geogràfic de Merdanya, doncs. Mai a ningú altre que a un lladre se li hagués ocorregut d’apropiar-se’l. Només el poble més desgraciat i pària d’Europa gosaria fer-ho. Ni els gavatxs, mestres en feixisme per als castelladres, no gosaren d’apropiar’s el terme geogràfic Gàl·lia. Per a l’estat merdanyol, doncs, cal dir’n sempre Castellàdria i prou — i per a llur dialecte pudent i infame: castelladre, i prou. De tots els idiomes d’Espanya (terme geogràfic), el lladre és el més lleig, pobre i fastigós. Ni l’andalús, ni el català, ni el portuguès, ni el basc ni l’asturià no són tan avariciosos com els lladres, mai no han pretès que llur llengua és l’espanyol, només els lladres. Tot i que totes són llengües espanyoles, i totes millors a l’orella i millors al vocabulari que la lladra, només els lladres se n’apropien el nom. Lladres de merda, bah.

—tot és merda
i la Terra un granet del xerri d’aquell cabra: déu. Un granet infecte de xerri damunt el qual, cucs mig-podrits, pul·lulem.

—Fins com qui diu ara mateix. Coses d’en George Borrow, tractant de vendre la bíblia a la península [1835].

—Anant a Gibraltar — Sunday morning came, and I was on board the steamer by six o’clock. As I ascended the side, the harsh sound of the Catalan dialect assailed my ears. [Pobrissó!] In fact, the vessel was Catalan built, and the captain and crew were of that nation [ca?]; the greater part of the passengers already on board, or who subsequently arrived, appeared to be Catalans, and seemed to vie with each other in producing disagreeable sounds. [Bordàvem en polonès?] A burly merchant, however, with a red face, peaked chin, sharp eyes, and hooked nose, clearly bore off the palm [el jueu català s’enduu la palma del xivarri xerricós]; he conversed with astonishing eagerness on seemingly the most indifferent subjects, or rather on no subject at all; his voice would have sounded exactly like a coffee-mill but for a vile nasal twang [és això una definició del català? Potser aquell pobre home emprenyador tenia un refredat de nas i allò exacervava el mareig del predicador capdecony. De fet, justament record un escrit de preança del català, llengua bàsica i ubiqua de la mediterrània, del gran Anthony Burgess, dient que de ressò nasal el català res; en canvi el francès, ecs]: he poured forth his Catalan incessantly till we arrived at Gibraltar. Such people are never sea-sick, though they frequently produce or aggravate the malady in others. [Hà!]

Prop Merdís — Near the bridge, on the side of the river on which we were, was a kind of guard-house, where were three carbineers of the revenue, who collected the tolls of the bridge; we entered into conversation with them: “Is not this a dangerous position of yours,” said I to one of them, who was a Catalan; “close beside the factious country? Surely it would not be difficult for a body of the Carlinos or bandits to dash across the bridge and make prisoners of you all.”
“It would be easy enough at any moment, Cavalier,” replied the Catalan; “we are, however, all in the hands of God, and he has preserved us hitherto, and perhaps still will. True it is that one of our number, for there were four of us originally, fell the other day into the hands of the canaille: he had wandered across the bridge amongst the thickets with his gun in search of a hare or rabbit, when three or four of them fell upon him and put him to death in a manner too horrible to relate. But patience! every man who lives must die. I shall not sleep the worse to-night because I may chance to be hacked by the knives of these malvados tomorrow. Cavalier, I am from Barcelona, and have seen there mariners of your nation; this is not so good a country as Barcelona. Paciencia! Cavalier, if you will step into our house, I will give you a glass of water; we have some that is cool, for we dug a deep hole in the earth and buried there our pitcher; it is cool, as I told you, but the water of Castile is not like that of Catalonia.”

A Santander — On the day of my arrival I dined at the table d’hote of the principal inn, kept by a Genoese. The company was very miscellaneous, French, Germans, and Spaniards, all speaking in their respective languages, whilst at the ends of the table, confronting each other, sat two Catalan merchants, one of whom weighed nearly twenty stone, grunting across the board in their harsh dialect. [Forçut, la mare qui ens va parir!] Long, however, before dinner was concluded, the conversation was entirely engrossed and the attention of all present directed to an individual who sat on one side of the bulky Catalan. He was a thin man of about the middle height, with a remarkably red face, and something in his eyes which, if not a squint, bore a striking resemblance to it. He was dressed in a blue military frock, and seemed to take much more pleasure in haranguing than in the fare which was set before him. He spoke perfectly good Spanish, yet his voice betrayed something of a foreign accent. For a long time he descanted with immense volubility on war and all its circumstances, freely criticising the conduct of the generals, both Carlists and Christinos, in the present struggle, till at last he exclaimed, “Had I but twenty thousand men allowed me by the government, I would bring the war to a conclusion in six months.”
“Pardon me, Sir,” said a Spaniard who sat at the table, “the curiosity which induces me to request the favour of your distinguished name.”
“I am Flinter,” replied the individual in the military frock, “a name which is in the mouth of every man, woman, and child in Spain. I am Flinter the Irishman, just escaped from the Basque provinces and the claws of Don Carlos. On the decease of Ferdinand I declared for Isabella, esteeming it the duty of every good cavalier and Irishman in the Spanish service to do so. You have all heard of my exploits, and permit me to tell you they would have been yet more glorious had not jealousy been at work and cramped my means. Two years ago I was despatched to Estremadura, to organize the militias. The bands of Gomez and Cabrera entered the province and spread devastation around. They found me, however, at my post; and had I been properly seconded by those under my command, the two rebels would never have returned to their master to boast of their success. I stood behind my intrenchments. A man advanced and summoned us to surrender. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded. ‘I am Cabrera,’ he replied; ‘and I am Flinter,’ I retorted, flourishing my sabre; ‘retire to your battalions or you will forthwith die the death.’ He was awed and did as I commanded. In an hour we surrendered. I was led a prisoner to the Basque provinces; and the Carlists rejoiced in the capture they had made, for the name of Flinter had long sounded amongst the Carlist ranks. I was flung into a loathsome dungeon, where I remained twenty months. I was cold; I was naked; but I did not on that account despond, my spirit was too indomitable for such weakness. My keeper at last pitied my misfortunes. He said that ‘it grieved him to see so valiant a man perish in inglorious confinement.’ We laid a plan to escape together; disguises were provided, and we made the attempt. We passed unobserved till we arrived at the Carlist lines above Bilbao; there we were stopped. My presence of mind, however, did not desert me. I was disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the coolness of my answers deceived my interrogators. [L’heroi ultracuidat disfressat de carreter català contesta com un català, fredament, sense por, sense apologies ni acoquinaments.] We were permitted to pass, and soon were safe within the walls of Bilbao. There was an illumination that night in the town, for the lion had burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once more returned to re-animate a drooping cause. I have just arrived at Santander on my way to Madrid, where I intend to ask of the government a command, with twenty thousand men.”

Per Galícia — “You are a Catalan, sir Cavalier, and are going to your countryman at Corcuvion,” said the man in tolerable Spanish. “Ah, you are brave people, you Catalans, and fine establishments you have on the Gallegan shores; pity that you take all the money out of the country. [Qui és el lladre ara, eh?]”
Now, under all circumstances, I had not the slightest objection to pass for a Catalan [diu el capdecony posseïdor de la veritat religiosa, ara no pas preocupat que el prenguin de parlaire garraguinyós]; and I rather rejoiced that these wild people should suppose that I had powerful friends and countrymen in the neighbourhood who were, perhaps, expecting me. I therefore favoured their mistake, and began with a harsh Catalan accent to talk of the fish of Galicia, and the high duties on salt. The eye of my guide [el seu guia, un grec grotesc amb el qual parla francès] was upon me for an instant, with a singular expression, half serious, half droll; he however said nothing, but slapped his thigh as usual, and with a spring nearly touched the roof of the cabin with his grotesque head. Upon inquiry, I discovered that we were still two long leagues distant from Corcuvion, and that the road lay over moor and hill, and was hard to find. Our host now demanded whether we were hungry, and upon being answered in the affirmative, produced about a dozen eggs and some bacon. Whilst our supper was cooking, a long conversation ensued between my guide and the family, but as it was carried on in Gallegan, I tried in vain to understand it. I believe, however, that it principally related to witches and witchcraft.

A Sant Jaume de Galícia — [Un captaire se li atansa, vell conegut.] He had now arrived opposite the bench where I was seated, when, stopping, he took off his hat and demanded charity in uncouth tones and in a strange jargon, which had some resemblance to the Catalan. The moon shone on grey locks and on a ruddy weather-beaten countenance which I at once recognized: “Benedict Mol,” said I, “is it possible that I see you at Compostella?”
“Och, mein Gott, es ist der Herr!” replied Benedict.
“This is a most extraordinary person,” said I to the bookseller. “You Galicians, in general, leave your country in quest of money; he, on the contrary, is come hither to find some.”
[El llibreter] Rey Romero [respon]: — And he is right. Galicia is by nature the richest province in Spain, but the inhabitants are very stupid, and know not how to turn the blessings which surround them to any account; but as a proof of what may be made out of Galicia, see how rich the Catalans become who have settled down here and formed establishments. There are riches all around us, upon the earth and in the earth.
Benedict: — Ow yaw, in the earth, that is what I say. There is much more treasure below the earth than above it.

Per Lleó — They stared at one another, and then at me, till at last a young man, who was dangling a long gun in his hands as he reclined, demanded of me what it was, at the same time inquiring whether I was a Catalan, “for you speak hoarse,” said he, “and are tall and fair like that family.” I sat down amongst them and said that I was no Catalan, but that I came from a spot in the Western Sea, many leagues distant, to sell that book at half the price it cost… [Farsant!]

A Lleó — parlant en francès amb el seu guia “Antonio” — We returned to the door. “I suppose, gentlemen,” said the curate, “that you are Catalans. Do you bring any news from that kingdom? [Reialme, eh?]”
“Why do you suppose we are Catalans?” I demanded.
“Because I heard you this moment conversing in that language. [Som catalans qui l’enraonem.]”
“I bring no news from Catalonia,” said I. “I believe, however, that the greater part of that principality [rebaixats!] is in the hands of the Carlists.”
“Ahem, brother Pedro! This gentleman says that the greater part of Catalonia is in the hands of the royalists. Pray, sir, where may Don Carlos be at present with his army?”
“He may be coming down the road this moment,” said I, “for what I know;” and, stepping out, I looked up the way.
The two figures were at my side in a moment; Antonio followed, and we all four looked intently up the road.
[Ara té por.]
“I am of no opinion at all,” said I, “save that I want my supper. I am neither for Rey nor Roque. You say that I am a Catalan, and you know that Catalans think only of their own affairs. [Aquesta és la fama.]”

Prop Lleó — This fair, though principally intended for the sale of horses, is frequented by merchants from many parts of Spain, who attend with goods of various kinds, and amongst them I remarked many of the Catalans whom I had previously seen at Medina and Valladolid.

A Valladolit — We found the town crowded with people awaiting the fair, which was to be held in a day or two. We experienced some difficulty in obtaining admission into the posada, which was chiefly occupied by Catalans from Valladolid. These people not only brought with them their merchandise but their wives and children. Some of them appeared to be people of the worst description: there was one in particular, a burly savage-looking fellow, of about forty, whose conduct was atrocious; he sat with his wife, or perhaps concubine, at the door of a room which opened upon the court: he was continually venting horrible and obscene oaths, both in Spanish and Catalan. [Obscens renecs, com qualsevol home lliure davant el fàstic que li provoca l’hipòcrita.] The woman was remarkably handsome, but robust and seemingly as savage as himself; her conversation likewise was as frightful as his own. Both seemed to be under the influence of an incomprehensible fury. At last, upon some observation from the woman, he started up, and drawing a long knife from his girdle, stabbed at her naked bosom; she, however, interposed the palm of her hand, which was much cut. He stood for a moment viewing the blood trickling upon the ground, whilst she held up her wounded hand, then with an astounding oath he hurried up the court to the Plaza. I went up to the woman and said, “What is the cause of this? I hope the ruffian has not seriously injured you.” She turned her countenance upon me with the glance of a demon, and at last with a sneer of contempt exclaimed, “Carals, que es eso? [Carall, què és açò…? No pot un cavaller català conversar amb la seua dona dels afers llurs sense que goseu interrompre…?] Cannot a Catalan gentleman be conversing with his lady upon their own private affairs without being interrupted by you?” She then bound up her hand with a handkerchief, and going into the room brought a small table to the door, on which she placed several things as if for the evening’s repast, and then sat down on a stool: presently returned the Catalan, and without a word took his seat on the threshold; then, as if nothing had occurred, the extraordinary couple commenced eating and drinking, interlarding their meal with oaths and jests. [I tothom per la vora acollonits.]
Valladolid is a manufacturing town, but the commerce is chiefly in the hands of the Catalans, of whom there is a colony of nearly three hundred established here.

Per Merdís — amb el suís Benet Moll — Upon my asking him who he was, the following conversation ensued between us:
“I am a Swiss of Lucerne, Benedict Mol by name, once a soldier in the Walloon guard, and now a soap-boiler, at your service.”
“You speak the language of Spain very imperfectly,” said I; “how long have you been in the country?”
“Forty-five years,” replied Benedict; “but when the guard was broken up, I went to Minorca, where I lost the Spanish language without acquiring the Catalan. [Típic ja llavors.]”


Herbert Jenkins (1912), biògraf d’en Borrow, diu: — At first Borrow had experienced some difficulty in explaining himself, on account of the Spaniard's habit of persistent interruption, and at last he was forced in self-defence to hold on in spite of Mendizabal's remarks. The upshot of the interview was that he was told to renew his application when the Carlists had been beaten and the country was at peace. Borrow then asked permission to introduce into Spain a few copies of the New Testament in the Catalan dialect, but was refused. He next requested to be allowed to call on the following day and submit a copy of the Catalan edition, and received the remarkable reply that the prime-minister refused his offer to call lest he should succeed in convincing him [no fos cas que encara el convencés!], and Mendizabal did not wish to be convinced. This seemed to show that the Mendizabal was something of a philosopher and a little of a humorist. [Gracietes rai; com els d’ara. Fóra hora d’aprendre’n i dir’ls: ja us ho fotreu, lladres.]