To-morrow and to-morrow, and to-morrow- Shakespeare
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle !
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more ;it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
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"The last syllable of recorded time" por Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
Durante mucho tiempo la identidad del mayor dramaturgo desde el siglo de Sófocles y Eurípides fue un misterio. Tan es así, que era opinión extendida que detrás del nombre de William Shakespeare se ocultaba algún gran personaje, sino varios. Todavía Freud, recurriendo a la técnica psicoanalítica, suponía que el autor de los dramas shakespeareanos era Edward de Vere, decimoséptimo conde de Oxford.
A día de hoy las dudas se limitan a cuestiones más bien textuales, eruditas. Sabemos que existió un William Shakespeare, bautizado el 26 de abril de 1564 en Stratford-on-Avon,
pequeña ciudad próxima a Londres, que adquirió notoriedad en vida como
actor y, sobre todo, como autor. Ahora bien, nuestras lagunas respecto
de muchas circunstancias vitales siguen siendo considerables.
William fue el tercero de los ocho hijos que tuvieron John y Mary Arden.
El padre era alcalde de Stratford y fabricante de guantes, un hombre
acaudalado aunque, ya mayor, tendrá problemas con la bebida. La familia
de la madre tampoco tenía problemas económicos, sino todo lo
contrario. Por lo tanto, William no parece que haya pasado ningún tipo
de penuria material en su infancia.
En el año 1582 William Shakespeare se casó con Anne Hathaway, ocho años mayor que él. Sin embargo, poco después William se marcha a Londres
dejando en Stratford a su familia, probablemente para ser actor de
teatro. Son años difíciles para los biógrafos. A William lo
encontramos, ya en 1592, como dramaturgo que ha adquirido ya cierta
fama.
En los años siguientes la creatividad de William va a resultar desbordante, aunque recuérdese que entonces muchas obras no eran originales en
el sentido moderno, sino que los autores solían coger temas ya tratados
por la tradición, de manera que, bajo las rivalidades de la época, las
acusaciones de plagio entre unos y otros se multiplicaban. El caso es
que antes de acabar el siglo, Shakespeare escribe Romeo y Julieta, El sueño de una noche de verano y Julio César, entre otras.
El trabajo le resulta muy lucrativo. En los últimos años del siglo
XVI, el dramaturgo se hizo con terrenos y casas en su ciudad natal. El
blasón que se le concede representa su entrada en la gentry
(la baja nobleza) y demuestra su imparable ascenso social. El éxito no
sólo no agota su fertilidad, sino que muy por el contrario, Shakespeare
va a a dar mayor trascendencia a sus obras sin perder la frescura tan
característica de todos sus diálogos.
Cuando Jacobo I sustituye a la reina Isabel en
el trono, el nuevo monarca nombra a la compañía de Shakespeare artistas
de la corte. En ese contexto surgen sus tragedias más conocidas: la
primera versión de Hamlet es de 1603 (año de la muerte de la reina), Otelo, quizá de 1604, El rey Lear y Macbeth, posiblemente escritas entre 1605 y 1606. Finalmente, entre ese año y 1611, aparecen obras como Coriolano, Antonio y Cleopatra y La tempestad, obra genial y asombrosa, en cuyo rey protagonista se ha visto al propio Jacobo I.
Shakespeare murió en abril de 1616 en
su lugar natal. Legaba al mundo una obra dramática con una fuerza
gestual y narrativa nunca vista hasta entonces, en la que se destacaban
personajes arquetípicos que sin embargo se alejaban decididamente de
cualquier cliché.
Dentro de algunos años nos toparemos con el cuatrocientos
aniversario de su muerte y es de esperar que entonces se celebren unas
conmemoraciones planetarias para recordar no sólo al genio inglés, sino
también al gran manco español, muerto asimismo en 1616: Miguel de Cervantes.
Darkness By Shakespeare
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.
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.
El Soliloquio de Hamlet By William Shakespeare
¡Ser, o no ser, es la
cuestión! -¿Qué debe
más dignamente optar el alma noble
entre sufrir de la fortuna impía
el porfiador rigor, o rebelarse
contra un mar de desdichas, y afrontándolo
desaparecer con ellas?
Morir, dormir, no despertar
más nunca,
poder decir todo acabó; en un sueño
sepultar para siempre los dolores
del corazón, los mil y mil quebrantos
que heredó nuestra carne, ¡quién no ansiara
concluir así!
¡Morir... quedar
dormidos...
Dormir... tal vez soñar! -¡Ay! allí hay algo
que detiene al mejor. Cuando del mundo
no percibamos ni un rumor, ¡qué sueños
vendrán en ese sueño de la muerte!
Eso es, eso es lo que hace el infortunio
planta de larga vida. ¿Quién querría
sufrir del tiempo el implacable azote,
del fuerte la injusticia, del soberbio
el áspero desdén, las amarguras
del amor despreciado, las demoras
de la ley, del empleado la insolencia,
la hostilidad que los mezquinos juran
al mérito pacífico, pudiendo
de tanto mal librarse él mismo, alzando
una punta de acero? ¿quién querría
seguir cargando en la cansada vida
su fardo abrumador?...
Pero hay espanto
¡allá del otro lado de la tumba!
La muerte, aquel país que todavía
está por descubrirse,
país de cuya lóbrega frontera
ningún viajero regresó, perturba
la voluntad, y a todos nos decide
a soportar los males que sabemos
más bien que ir a buscar lo que ignoramos.
Así, ¡oh conciencia!, de nosotros todos
haces unos cobardes, y la ardiente
resolución original decae
al pálido mirar del pensamiento.
Así también enérgicas empresas,
de trascendencia inmensa, a esa mirada
torcieron rumbo, y sin acción murieron.
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