Oliver Twist lo habrá traducido una cábala de jesuitas franquistas, única explicación que se me ocurre

En España la cultureta oficial, los miembros de la Intelligentsia (definida como aquella pequeña fracción del público que vive de tareas culturales y en el sentido más amplio incluye a los docentes), y las actitudes reaccionarias intrínsecas a estos hijos nietos de Franco han producido un país realmente disforme, de gentes muy bien engañadas y engrupidas de que se las saben todas.

Estaba yo leyendo a Dickens, en el original, y he conseguido una traducción al castellano.

¡¡ Horror !!

No parece el mismo libro, trata de Oliver Twist, sí, pero CAPADO.

Toda la indignación que Dickens puso en describir los males de una infancia maltratada, la ironía y el sarcasmo dirigidos contra los pudientes y los abusadores de su rica posición, las descripciones satíricas y mal intencionadas de la hipocresía de una gente egoísta, mercenaria y cruel, nada de eso se encuentra en la traducción castellana.

Por eso digo, que lo habrá traducido una cábala o comité de jesuitas o franquistas del Opus.

Juzguen por Uds mismos, la versión en inglés es la que se puede descargar de Gutenberg, la castellana no dice traductor.


Una fría noche de invierno, en una pequeña ciudad de Inglaterra, unos transeúntes hallaron a una joven y bella mujer tirada en la calle. Estaba muy enferma y pronto daría a luz un bebé. Como no tenía dinero, la llevaron al hospicio, una institución regentada por la junta parroquial de la ciudad que daba cobijo a los necesitados.  Al día siguiente nació su hijo y, poco después, murió ella sin que nadie supiera quién era ni de dónde venía. Al niño lo llamaron Oliver Twist.
En aquel hospicio pasó Oliver los diez primeros meses de su vida. Transcurrido este tiempo, la junta parroquial lo envió a otro centro situado fuera de la ciudad donde vivían veinte o treinta huérfanos más. Los pobrecillos estaban sometidos a la crueldad de la señora Mann, una mujer cuya avaricia la llevaba a apropiarse del dinero que la parroquia destinaba a cada niño para su manutención. De modo, que aquellas indefensas criaturas pasaban mucha hambre, y la mayoría enfermaba de privación y frío.
El día de su noveno cumpleaños, Oliver se encontraba encerrado en la carbonera con otros dos compañeros. Los tres habían sido castigados por haber cometido el imperdonable pecado de decir que tenían hambre.

Esto no es una traducción, esto es parafrasear.

No sólo eso, ha metido muchas páginas, un capítulo y medio, en un par de parágrafos.  La dolorosa y agria escena de la muerte de la madre de Oliver  -muerta de hambre- no sale, las reflexiones del autor brillan por su ausencia.

Y se calla que esos niños así criados, se morían casi todos no simplemente enfermaban.

La parte equivalente en inglés es muy larga, la tengo que poner igual, para que vean la estafa, el engaño y la manipulación. «Treats of the place» quiere decir  «Encantos del lugar» donde Oliver nació (la ironía del autor inglés, desaparecida), que fue un asilo de pobres –workhouse en inglés, casa de trabajos porque a los pobres los internaban,  los hacían trabajar o morían de hambre- hospicio que dice el traductor da una idea equivocada de la cosa, las workhouses eran algo mucho más cruel y que se parece más a los campos de concentración de los nazis que a un asilo (explicado en un enlace al final del artículo.)



Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter. For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, ‘Let me see the child, and die.’

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire: giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with more kindness than might have been expected of him:

‘Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.’

‘Lor bless her dear heart, no!’ interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

‘Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and all on ‘em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother, there’s a dear young lamb do.’

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

‘It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!’ said the surgeon at last.

‘Ah, poor dear, so it is!’ said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the child. ‘Poor dear!’

‘You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,’ said the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. ‘It’s very likely it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.’ He put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door, added, ‘She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?’

‘She was brought here last night,’ replied the old woman, ‘by the overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.’

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. ‘The old story,’ he said, shaking his head: ‘no wedding-ring, I see. Ah! Good-night!’

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have cried the louder.



(Encantos del crecimiento, educación y comidas de Oliver Twist)

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no female then domiciled in ‘the house’ who was in a situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be ‘farmed,’ or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. Unfortunately for, the experimental philosophy of the female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing—though the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm—the jury would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be hungry,

☼  ¿Les parece a Uds, comparando este original y la mala versión castellana, que esto es aceptable?

Vamos a la famosa escena que recordarán al menos de la película, cuando Oliver va y pide más gachas  gruel –que para el que no lo sepa es una mezcla de agua y harina, una especie de engrudo con sobra de agua y poca harina.


Versión «traducida».

En el hospicio, el hambre seguía atormentando a Oliver y a sus compañeros: sólo les daban un cacillo de gachas al día, excepto los días de fiesta en que recibían, además de las gachas, un trocito de pan. Al cabo de tres meses, los chicos
decidieron cometer la osadía de pedir más comida y, tras echarlo a suertes, le tocó a Oliver hacerlo. Aquella noche, después de cenar, Oliver se levantó de la mesa, se acercó al director y dijo:
-Por favor, señor, quiero un poco más.
-¿Qué? -preguntó el señor Limbkins muy enfadado.
-Por favor, señor, quiero un poco más -repitió el muchacho.
El chico fue encerrado durante una semana en un cuarto frío y oscuro; allí pasó los días y  las noches llorando amargamente. Sólo se le permitía salir para ser azotado en el comedor delante de todos sus compañeros. El caso del  “insolente muchacho” fue llevado a la junta parroquial; ésta decidió poner un cartel en la puerta del hospicio ofreciend c¡nco libras a quien aceptara hacerse cargo de Oliver.

Versión original.
The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two ounces and a quarter of bread besides.

The bowls never wanted washing. The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

‘Please, sir, I want some more.’

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.

‘What!’ said the master at length, in a faint voice.

‘Please, sir,’ replied Oliver, ‘I want some more.’

The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,

‘ Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

‘For more!’ said Mr. Limbkins. ‘Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?’

‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.

‘That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy will be hung.’

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

Los diálogos entre los ridículos, bien alimentados y crueles personajes de estas escenas desaparecidos completamente de la versión española.  Toda la traducción es en este plan, esto es indignante se parece al libro de Dickens como una castaña a un huevo; esto es darle al lector español una dieta de gachas aguadas en vez del robusto libro de Dickens.

No he buscado todavía entre la versión original y las traducciones de David Copperfield y otros famosos libros de Charles Dickens pero me imagino alguna birria española parecida, peor que mediocre.  Estoy mirando en este momento mi ejemplar de David Copperfield, edición Penguin tiene 974 páginas, para luego me creo yo que un editor español tenga ganas de imprimir un libro gordo.

☼  CONCLUSIÓN.  Muchas veces he denunciado aquí la enteca y birriosa cultureta española, una gente que tiene que mirar las películas americanas con el diálogo doblado al castellano, porque no pueden leer subtítulos, porque no saben leer y desde luego no saben leer rápido.  Hasta los latinoamericanos, polacos, etc les superan así en el dominio de idiomas e Inglés en especial, porque han escuchado inglés mientras que el español ha sido mantenido en la ignorancia del exterior, tal como los jesuitas promocionaban el guaraní entre sus indios del Imperio Jesuítico en Paraguay, a fin de que no se rebolicaran, y lo mismo hacían en Filipinas con el tagalo, y al nativo que se atreviera a hablarle al jesuita en castellano, lo ataban a un poste y lo curtían a latigazos.

Los españoles sometidos a esta dieta de castellano o jerigonzas locales -otra que tal- vienen a ser los guaraníes de Europa.

Si el gobierno que sea tiene la ilusión de que con gente tan mediocrizada, jóvenes tan ignorantes y engañados y van a poder competir en un mundo donde España no es nada, ni el castellano es lengua de cultura ni nada, en una Europa donde el castellano es una lengua minoritaria hablada un poco más que el griego y menos que los polacos varios, si tienen esa ilusión se les vaya de la cabeza.

Conozco ingenieros españoles sirviendo copas en bares de Londres, desesperados por aprender un idioma que se les niega por la mala formación de sus profesores a ver si así consiguen un empleo, vilmente engañados por su país.

Se discursea mucho en España sobre el fracaso escolar, y es cierto.  ¿Que me cuentan del fracaso universitario?  Ya ven por este ejemplo obtenido en un momento, como se hacen las cosas de mal en la Cultura Hispánica.

REMEDIO.  No tiene remedio general. Ud mismo, bájese Oliver Twist y otros clásicos como David Copperfield, gratis de Gutenberg y edúquese fuera de jesuitas y opusdeístas astutos enemigos de España.


Oliver Twist, explicado

Oliver Twist, descargar en varias versiones   http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/730

David Copperfield

☼  Workouse.  Asombrosamente y ya en el siglo XIV en Inglaterra decidieron que el estado tenía que encargarse de alimentar a los pobres !!  Insólita novedad que en la España del Siglo XXI, Primer Año Triunfal de Rajoy, no se conoce ni se imagina nadie, siendo la opinión general en España que los pobres lo que tienen que hacer es morirse;  para lo que hay que quitarles el paro, quitar las ayudas a minusválidos y todo tipo de ancianos y enfermos, y hacerles pagar la Seguridad Social y las Medicinas y otras medidas de la economía bien entendida.  A ver si revientan de una vez.

Las Poor Laws se comprometían a darles algo de comer, pero como el gasto llegó a ser mucho, dada la terquedad de los pobres en reproducirse, el gobierno inglés tomó medidas  New Poor Law of 1834 .

A tal fin crearon estas Casas de Trabajo y les daban algo de comer, muy poquito claro, y alguna ocupación menial  picking oakum, que es desmigajar cuerdas viejas de barcos para hacer con el material nuevos cordeles, cosas así.

Recomiendo leer este artículo sobre las Workhouses  con mucha atención, y deleitarse con la imágenes de estas benéficas instituciones del siglo XIX, porque en España cualquier día, siendo ya 5 millones y pico los parados, y un millón y medio los parados que no cobran ni para comer, tendrán que poner Hospicios de este estilo donde estibar a tanto pobre; es el futuro prometido y por los españoles decidido.


Por Armando

5 comentarios en «En Español nos Engañan Hasta con Dickens»
  1. Estimados todos.
    En la España del catecismo del padre Ripalda . la censura era la de la ignorancia , la pacateria o la del mas rancio clericalismo, en el cuartel en el que hice el inicio del servicio militar, en la biblioteca estaban censurados los libros de autores Rusos , como Chejov , tolstoi o Dostoieiwsky, muy anteriores a la revolución bolchevique …pero eran Rusos….Corazón de Edmondo de Amicis estuvo prohibido muchos años en España , ya que en el libro para niños no se mencionaba a Dios, Edmondo de Amicis escritor y pedagogo, era un patriota Italiano del Risorgimento , era ateo o librepensador, un ardiente exponente de la Italia Irredenta


    Quando l’inverno muore lentamente nella primavera, nelle sere di quei bei giorni limpidi, lieti, senza vento, su cui si tengono spalancate per le prime volte le finestre e si portano sulle terrazze i vasi dei fiori, le città offrono uno spettacolo gentile e pieno d’allegrezza e di poesia.
    A passeggiare per le vie si sente, di tratto in tratto, sul viso, un’ondata d’aria tiepida, odorosa.
    Di che? di quali fiori? di quali erbe? Chi lo sa!
    Edmondo De Amicis

  2. Hasta a la Tabla de Mendeleiff la llamaban Tabla de los Elementos por no nombrarlo por ruso, y eso que fue muy anterior.

  3. La version contemporanea de este modus operandi la podemos observar hoy en dia en las autonomias, donde los caciques politicos locales promueven el uso de sus dialectos para poder asi filtrar y manipular la informacion disfrazandolo de cultura y promoviendo diferencias

  4. Perdóneme, Spectrum 48 K, para el caso da lo mismo que la jerigonza sea el gallego o el castellano, este idioma en que nacimos y esta (poca) cultura en que vivimos es tan inferior como el Swahili y los ilusos que se creen lo del español lengua de cultura viven en una nube.
    A mi me parece muy bien que se promocione el vasco, el gallego, el catalán y las variantes jerigonzas en Alicante, Baleares. Al menos así los gandules estudiantes a lo mejor trabajan la neurona un poquito.
    Y lo que no es aceptable es porque los necios y gandules castellanos son incapaces de aprender idiomas nos obliguen a los demás a ver películas dobladas, porque ellos NO SABEN LEER.

  5. Paradojico su parecer señor Armando ya que son las comunidades autonomas españolas las que gastan ingentes cantidades de dinero en hacer los doblajes en sus jerigonzas correspondientes en lugar de subtitularlas.

    En la vida hay poco tiempo para aprender infinitas cosas. Invertir el tiempo en aprender la forma de transmitirlas y aprenderlas nos resta tiempo vital en conocer y compartir la autentica cultura.

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