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El regal dels Reis Mags
Un dòlar i vuitanta-set centaus. Això era tot. I setanta centaus estaven en penics. Penics estalviats, un per un, discutint amb el magatzemer i el verdulaire i el carnisser fins que les galtes es posaven vermelles de vergonya davant la silenciosa acusació d'avarícia que implicava un regateig tan obstinat. La Della els va comptar tres vegades. Un dòlar i vuitanta-set centaus. I l'endemà era Nadal.
Evidentment no hi havia res més a fer que deixar-se caure sobre el miserable llit i plorar. I la Della ho va fer. Fet que condueix a la reflexió moral que la vida es compon de sanglots, plors i somriures, amb predomini dels plors.
Mentre la propietària de la casa es va calmant, passant de la primera a la segona etapa, fem una mirada a la seva llar, un d'aquests departaments de vuit dòlars a la setmana. No n'era exactament un lloc per allotjar captaires, però certament la policia ho hauria descrit com a tal.
A sota, a l'entrada, havia una bústia a la qual no arribava cap carta, i un timbre elèctric al qual no s'acostava mai cap dit mortal. També pertanyia al departament una targeta amb el nom de "Mr James Dillingham Young".
La paraula "Dillingham" havia arribat fins allà volant en la brisa d'un període anterior de prosperitat del seu propietari, quan guanyava trenta dòlars setmanals. Però ara que els seus ingressos s'havien reduït a vint dòlars, les lletres "Dillingham" es veien borroses, com si estiguessin pensant seriosament en reduir-se a una modesta i humil "D". Però quan Mr James Dillingham Young arribava a casa i pujava al seu departament, li deien "Jim" i era afectuosament abraçat per la senyora Della Dillingham Young, a qui hem presentat el lector com a Della. Tot això estava molt bé.
La Della va deixar de plorar i es va empolvorar les galtes amb el cigne de plomes. Es va quedar dreta al costat de la finestra i va mirar cap a fora, afligida, i va veure un gat gris que caminava sobre una reixa grisa en un pati gris. L'endemà era Nadal i ella tenia només un dòlar i vuitanta-set centaus per comprar-li un regal a en Jim. Havia estat estalviant cada penic, mes a mes, i aquest era el resultat. Amb vint dòlars a la setmana no es va molt lluny. Les despeses havien estat majors del que havia calculat. Sempre ho estant. Només un dòlar amb vuitanta-set centaus per comprar un regal a en Jim. El seu Jim. Havia passat moltes hores felices imaginant-se un bonic retal per a ell. Una regal fi i especial i de qualitat —algun regal que tingués justament aquest mínim de condicions perquè fos digne de pertànyer a en Jim.
Entre les finestres de l'habitació havia un mirall de cos sencer. Potser alguna vegada s'hagin mirat vostès a un mirall de cos sencer d'un departament de vuit dòlars. Una persona molt prima i àgil pot, en mirar-se en ell, tenir la seva imatge ràpida i en franges longitudinals. Com la Della era esvelta, ho feia amb un absolut domini tècnic.
Tot d'una es va allunyar de la finestra i es va parar davant del mirall. Els seus ulls brillaven intensament, però el seu rostre va perdre color abans de vint segons. Va deslligar amb urgència la seva cabellera i la va deixar caure quan llarga era.
Els joves Dillingham eren posseïdors de dues coses que els provocaven un immens orgull. Una era el rellotge d'or que havia estat del pare d'en Jim i abans del seu avi. L'altra era la cabellera de la Della. Si la Reina de Saba hagués viscut al departament del davant, algun dia la Della hauria deixat penjar la seva cabellera fora de la finestra per assecar-se-la res més que per demostrar el seu menyspreu per les joies i els regals de Sa Majestat. Si el Rei Salomó hagués estat el porter, amb tots els seus tresors apilats al soterrani, en Jim hauria tret el rellotge cada vegada que passés davant seu només per veure com s'estirava la barba d'enveja.
La bella cabellera de la Della va caure sobre les seves espatlles i va brillar com una cascada d'aigües. Arribava fins més avall dels genolls i la va embolicar com una vestidura. I llavors la va recollir de nou, nerviosa i ràpidament. Per un minut es va sentir defallir i va romandre de peu mentre un parell de llàgrimes queien a la rasa catifa vermella.
Es va posar la seva vella i fosca jaqueta, es va posar el seu vell barret. Amb un enrenou de faldilles i encara amb la brillantor als seus ulls, va obrir nerviosament la porta, va sortir i va baixar les escales per arribar-se al carrer.
Al lloc on es va aturar es llegia un cartell: "Mme. Sofronie. Cabells de tota mena". La Della va pujar ràpidament i, panteixant, va tractar de controlar-se. Madame, gran, massa blanca, freda, no semblava la "Sofronie", indicada a la porta.
—Vol comprar els meus cabells? —va preguntar la Della.
—Compro cabell —va dir Madame—. Treguis el barret i deixi'm mirar el seu.
L'àuria cascada va caure lliurement.
—Vint dòlars —va dir Madame sospesant la massa amb mans expertes.
—Doni-me'ls immediatament —va dir la Della.
Oh!... i les dues hores següents van transcórrer volant en ales rosades. Perdó per la metàfora, tan vulgar. I la Della va començar a mirar les botigues a la recerca del regal per a en Jim.
Per fi el va trobar. Estava fet per a en Jim, per a ningú més. En cap botiga havia un regal com aquest. I ella les havia visitat totes. Era una cadena de rellotge, de platí, de disseny senzill i pur, que proclamava el seu valor només pel material mateix i no per cap ornamentació inútil i de mal gust —tal com passa sempre amb les coses de veritable valor. Era digne del rellotge. Tot just la va veure es va adonar que era exactament el que buscava per a en Jim. Era com en Jim: valuós i sense escarafalls. La descripció podia aplicar-se a tots dos. Va pagar vint dòlars i va tornar ràpidament a casa amb vuitanta-set centaus. Amb aquesta cadena en el seu rellotge, en Jim viuria ansiós de mirar l'hora en companyia de qualsevol. Perquè, encara que el rellotge era fantàstic, en Jim es veia obligat a mirar l'hora d'amagat a causa de la gastada corretja que feia servir en comptes d'una cadena.
Quan la Della va arribar a casa, la seva excitació va cedir el pas a una certa prudència i seny. Va treure les seves tenalles per als cabells, va encendre el gas i va començar a reparar els estralls fets per la generositat sumada a l'amor. La qual cosa és una tasca tremenda, amics meus —una tasca mastodòntica.
Als vint minuts el seu cap estava cobert per uns rínxols petits i atapeïts que la feien semblar-se a una encantadora estudiant. Va mirar la seva imatge al mirall amb ulls crítics, llargament.
"Si en Jim no em mata", va pensar, "abans que em miri per segona vegada, dirà que semblo una corista de Coney Island. Però, què més podria fer? Oh, què podria haver fet amb un dòlar i vuitanta-set centaus?"
A les set de la tarda el cafè estava ja preparat i la paella llista a l'estufa per rebre la carn.
En Jim no es retardava mai. La Della va estrènyer la cadena a la mà i es va asseure a la punta de la taula que quedava més a prop de la porta per on en Jim entrava sempre. Llavors va escoltar els seus passos al primer replà de l'escala i, per un moment, es va posar pàl·lida. Tenia el costum de pregar per les petites coses quotidianes i ara va murmurar:
"Déu meu que en Jim pensi que segueixo sent bonica."
La porta es va obrir, en Jim va entrar i la va tancar. Se'l veia prim i seriós. Pobre noi, només tenia vint-i-dos anys i ja amb una família que mantenir! Necessitava evidentment un abric nou i no tenia guants.
En Jim va franquejar el llindar i allí va romandre immòbil com un perdiguer que ha descobert una guatlla. Els seus ulls es van fixar en la Della amb una expressió que la seva dona no podia interpretar, però que la va aterrir. No n'era d'enuig ni de sorpresa ni de desaprovació ni d'horror ni de cap altre sentiment pel qual ella hagués estat preparada. La mirava simplement, amb fixesa, amb una expressió estranya.
La Della es va aixecar nerviosament i es va apropar a ell.
—Jim, estimat —li va dir—, no em miris així. M'he tallat el cabell i l'he venut perquè no podia passar el Nadal sense fer-te'n un regal. Creixerà de nou, no et fa res, oi? No podria deixar de fer-ho. El meu cabell creix ràpidament. Digues-me'n Bon Nadal i siguem feliços. No t'imagines quin regal, quin regal tan bonic tinc per a tu!
—T'has tallat el cabell? —va preguntar en Jim, amb gran treball, com si no pogués adonar-se d'un fet tan evident encara que fes un enorme esforç mental.
—M'ho he tallat i l'he venut" —va dir la Della—. De tota manera t'agrado el mateix, oi? Segueixo sent la mateixa encara sense el meu cabell, oi? —En Jim va passar la seva mirada per l'habitació amb curiositat.
—Dius que el teu cabell ha desaparegut? —va dir amb aire gairebé idiota.
—No necessites buscar-lo —va dir la Della—. L'he venut, ja t'ho he dit, l'he venut, això és tot. És Nit de Nadal, noi. Ho he fet per tu, perdona'm. Potser algú podria haver explicat la meva cabells, un per un —va continuar amb una sobtada i seriosa dolçor—, però ningú no podria haver explicat el meu amor per tu. Poso la carn al foc? — va preguntar.
Passada la primera sorpresa, en Jim va semblar despertar ràpidament. Va abraçar la Della. Durant deu segons va mirar amb discreció en una altra direcció, cap a algun objecte sense importància. Vuit dòlars a la setmana o un milió en un any, quina és la diferència? Un matemàtic o algun home savi podrien donar-nos una resposta equivocada. Els Reis Mags van portar al Nen regals de gran valor, però aquell no n'era entre ells. Aquesta fosca endevinalla serà explicada més endavant.
En Jim va treure un paquet de la butxaca del seu abric i el va posar sobre la taula.
—No t'equivoquis amb mi, Della —va dir—. Cap tall de cabells, o el seu rentat o un pentinat especial farien que jo m'estimés menys la meva doneta. Però si obres el paquet veuràs per què m'has provocat tal desconcert en un primer moment.
Els blancs i àgils dits de la Della van retirar el paper i la cinta. I llavors es va escoltar un joiós crit d'èxtasi, i després, ai! un ràpid i femení canvi cap a un histèric devessall de llàgrimes i de gemecs, que va requerir l'immediat desplegament de tots els poders de consol del propietari del departament.
Perquè allà estaven les pintes —un lot sencer de pintes, una al costat de l'altra, que la Della havia estat admirant durant molt temps en una vitrina de Broadway. Eren unes pintes molt boniques, de carei autèntic, amb les seves vores adornades amb joies i del color adient per lluir amb la preciosa cabellera ara desapareguda.
Eren pintes molt cares, ella ho sabia, i el seu cor simplement havia sospirat per elles i les havia anhelat sense la menor esperança de posseir-les algun dia. I ara eren seves, però les trenes destinades a ser adornades amb aquests cobejats adorns havien desaparegut.
La Della les va oprimir contra el seu pit i, finalment, va ser capaç de mirar amb ulls humits i amb una feble somriure, i va dir:
—El meu cabell creixerà molt ràpid, Jim!
I de seguida va fer un salt com un gatet socarrimat i va cridar: "Oh, oh!"
En Jim no havia vist encara el seu regal. La Della li va mostrar amb vehemència al palmell obert de la mà. El preciós i opac metall va brillar amb la llum de l'ardent esperit de la Della.
—Oi que és meravellosa, Jim? Vaig recórrer la ciutat sencera per trobar-la. Ara podràs mirar l'hora cent vegades al dia si et sembla. Dóna'm el teu rellotge. Vull veure com es veu amb ella posada.
En lloc d'obeir, en Jim es va deixar caure al sofà, va creuar les seves mans a sota del seu clatell i va somriure.
—Della —li va dir—, oblidem-nos dels nostres regals de Nadal i guardem-los de moment. Són massa bonics per a usar-los ara. Vaig vendre el meu rellotge per comprar les pintes. I ara posa la carn al foc.
Els Reis Mags, com vostès segurament saben, eren molt savis —meravellosament savis— i van portar regals al Nen en el Pessebre. Ells van ser els que van inventar els regals de Nadal. Com eren savis, no hi ha dubte que també els seus regals ho eren, amb l'avantatge suplementari, a més, de poder ser canviats en cas d'estar repetits. I aquí us he explicat, en forma bastant maldestra, la senzilla història de dos joves eixelebrats que vivien en un departament i que insensatament van sacrificar l'un a l'altre els més rics tresors que tenien a casa.
Però, per acabar, diguem als savis d'avui dia que, de tots els que fan regals, aquests dos nois van ser els més savis. De tots els que donen i reben regals. A tot arreu són els més savis. Ells són els veritables Reis Mags.
Evidentment no hi havia res més a fer que deixar-se caure sobre el miserable llit i plorar. I la Della ho va fer. Fet que condueix a la reflexió moral que la vida es compon de sanglots, plors i somriures, amb predomini dels plors.
Mentre la propietària de la casa es va calmant, passant de la primera a la segona etapa, fem una mirada a la seva llar, un d'aquests departaments de vuit dòlars a la setmana. No n'era exactament un lloc per allotjar captaires, però certament la policia ho hauria descrit com a tal.
A sota, a l'entrada, havia una bústia a la qual no arribava cap carta, i un timbre elèctric al qual no s'acostava mai cap dit mortal. També pertanyia al departament una targeta amb el nom de "Mr James Dillingham Young".
La paraula "Dillingham" havia arribat fins allà volant en la brisa d'un període anterior de prosperitat del seu propietari, quan guanyava trenta dòlars setmanals. Però ara que els seus ingressos s'havien reduït a vint dòlars, les lletres "Dillingham" es veien borroses, com si estiguessin pensant seriosament en reduir-se a una modesta i humil "D". Però quan Mr James Dillingham Young arribava a casa i pujava al seu departament, li deien "Jim" i era afectuosament abraçat per la senyora Della Dillingham Young, a qui hem presentat el lector com a Della. Tot això estava molt bé.
La Della va deixar de plorar i es va empolvorar les galtes amb el cigne de plomes. Es va quedar dreta al costat de la finestra i va mirar cap a fora, afligida, i va veure un gat gris que caminava sobre una reixa grisa en un pati gris. L'endemà era Nadal i ella tenia només un dòlar i vuitanta-set centaus per comprar-li un regal a en Jim. Havia estat estalviant cada penic, mes a mes, i aquest era el resultat. Amb vint dòlars a la setmana no es va molt lluny. Les despeses havien estat majors del que havia calculat. Sempre ho estant. Només un dòlar amb vuitanta-set centaus per comprar un regal a en Jim. El seu Jim. Havia passat moltes hores felices imaginant-se un bonic retal per a ell. Una regal fi i especial i de qualitat —algun regal que tingués justament aquest mínim de condicions perquè fos digne de pertànyer a en Jim.
Entre les finestres de l'habitació havia un mirall de cos sencer. Potser alguna vegada s'hagin mirat vostès a un mirall de cos sencer d'un departament de vuit dòlars. Una persona molt prima i àgil pot, en mirar-se en ell, tenir la seva imatge ràpida i en franges longitudinals. Com la Della era esvelta, ho feia amb un absolut domini tècnic.
Tot d'una es va allunyar de la finestra i es va parar davant del mirall. Els seus ulls brillaven intensament, però el seu rostre va perdre color abans de vint segons. Va deslligar amb urgència la seva cabellera i la va deixar caure quan llarga era.
Els joves Dillingham eren posseïdors de dues coses que els provocaven un immens orgull. Una era el rellotge d'or que havia estat del pare d'en Jim i abans del seu avi. L'altra era la cabellera de la Della. Si la Reina de Saba hagués viscut al departament del davant, algun dia la Della hauria deixat penjar la seva cabellera fora de la finestra per assecar-se-la res més que per demostrar el seu menyspreu per les joies i els regals de Sa Majestat. Si el Rei Salomó hagués estat el porter, amb tots els seus tresors apilats al soterrani, en Jim hauria tret el rellotge cada vegada que passés davant seu només per veure com s'estirava la barba d'enveja.
La bella cabellera de la Della va caure sobre les seves espatlles i va brillar com una cascada d'aigües. Arribava fins més avall dels genolls i la va embolicar com una vestidura. I llavors la va recollir de nou, nerviosa i ràpidament. Per un minut es va sentir defallir i va romandre de peu mentre un parell de llàgrimes queien a la rasa catifa vermella.
Es va posar la seva vella i fosca jaqueta, es va posar el seu vell barret. Amb un enrenou de faldilles i encara amb la brillantor als seus ulls, va obrir nerviosament la porta, va sortir i va baixar les escales per arribar-se al carrer.
Al lloc on es va aturar es llegia un cartell: "Mme. Sofronie. Cabells de tota mena". La Della va pujar ràpidament i, panteixant, va tractar de controlar-se. Madame, gran, massa blanca, freda, no semblava la "Sofronie", indicada a la porta.
—Vol comprar els meus cabells? —va preguntar la Della.
—Compro cabell —va dir Madame—. Treguis el barret i deixi'm mirar el seu.
L'àuria cascada va caure lliurement.
—Vint dòlars —va dir Madame sospesant la massa amb mans expertes.
—Doni-me'ls immediatament —va dir la Della.
Oh!... i les dues hores següents van transcórrer volant en ales rosades. Perdó per la metàfora, tan vulgar. I la Della va començar a mirar les botigues a la recerca del regal per a en Jim.
Per fi el va trobar. Estava fet per a en Jim, per a ningú més. En cap botiga havia un regal com aquest. I ella les havia visitat totes. Era una cadena de rellotge, de platí, de disseny senzill i pur, que proclamava el seu valor només pel material mateix i no per cap ornamentació inútil i de mal gust —tal com passa sempre amb les coses de veritable valor. Era digne del rellotge. Tot just la va veure es va adonar que era exactament el que buscava per a en Jim. Era com en Jim: valuós i sense escarafalls. La descripció podia aplicar-se a tots dos. Va pagar vint dòlars i va tornar ràpidament a casa amb vuitanta-set centaus. Amb aquesta cadena en el seu rellotge, en Jim viuria ansiós de mirar l'hora en companyia de qualsevol. Perquè, encara que el rellotge era fantàstic, en Jim es veia obligat a mirar l'hora d'amagat a causa de la gastada corretja que feia servir en comptes d'una cadena.
Quan la Della va arribar a casa, la seva excitació va cedir el pas a una certa prudència i seny. Va treure les seves tenalles per als cabells, va encendre el gas i va començar a reparar els estralls fets per la generositat sumada a l'amor. La qual cosa és una tasca tremenda, amics meus —una tasca mastodòntica.
Als vint minuts el seu cap estava cobert per uns rínxols petits i atapeïts que la feien semblar-se a una encantadora estudiant. Va mirar la seva imatge al mirall amb ulls crítics, llargament.
"Si en Jim no em mata", va pensar, "abans que em miri per segona vegada, dirà que semblo una corista de Coney Island. Però, què més podria fer? Oh, què podria haver fet amb un dòlar i vuitanta-set centaus?"
A les set de la tarda el cafè estava ja preparat i la paella llista a l'estufa per rebre la carn.
En Jim no es retardava mai. La Della va estrènyer la cadena a la mà i es va asseure a la punta de la taula que quedava més a prop de la porta per on en Jim entrava sempre. Llavors va escoltar els seus passos al primer replà de l'escala i, per un moment, es va posar pàl·lida. Tenia el costum de pregar per les petites coses quotidianes i ara va murmurar:
"Déu meu que en Jim pensi que segueixo sent bonica."
La porta es va obrir, en Jim va entrar i la va tancar. Se'l veia prim i seriós. Pobre noi, només tenia vint-i-dos anys i ja amb una família que mantenir! Necessitava evidentment un abric nou i no tenia guants.
En Jim va franquejar el llindar i allí va romandre immòbil com un perdiguer que ha descobert una guatlla. Els seus ulls es van fixar en la Della amb una expressió que la seva dona no podia interpretar, però que la va aterrir. No n'era d'enuig ni de sorpresa ni de desaprovació ni d'horror ni de cap altre sentiment pel qual ella hagués estat preparada. La mirava simplement, amb fixesa, amb una expressió estranya.
La Della es va aixecar nerviosament i es va apropar a ell.
—Jim, estimat —li va dir—, no em miris així. M'he tallat el cabell i l'he venut perquè no podia passar el Nadal sense fer-te'n un regal. Creixerà de nou, no et fa res, oi? No podria deixar de fer-ho. El meu cabell creix ràpidament. Digues-me'n Bon Nadal i siguem feliços. No t'imagines quin regal, quin regal tan bonic tinc per a tu!
—T'has tallat el cabell? —va preguntar en Jim, amb gran treball, com si no pogués adonar-se d'un fet tan evident encara que fes un enorme esforç mental.
—M'ho he tallat i l'he venut" —va dir la Della—. De tota manera t'agrado el mateix, oi? Segueixo sent la mateixa encara sense el meu cabell, oi? —En Jim va passar la seva mirada per l'habitació amb curiositat.
—Dius que el teu cabell ha desaparegut? —va dir amb aire gairebé idiota.
—No necessites buscar-lo —va dir la Della—. L'he venut, ja t'ho he dit, l'he venut, això és tot. És Nit de Nadal, noi. Ho he fet per tu, perdona'm. Potser algú podria haver explicat la meva cabells, un per un —va continuar amb una sobtada i seriosa dolçor—, però ningú no podria haver explicat el meu amor per tu. Poso la carn al foc? — va preguntar.
Passada la primera sorpresa, en Jim va semblar despertar ràpidament. Va abraçar la Della. Durant deu segons va mirar amb discreció en una altra direcció, cap a algun objecte sense importància. Vuit dòlars a la setmana o un milió en un any, quina és la diferència? Un matemàtic o algun home savi podrien donar-nos una resposta equivocada. Els Reis Mags van portar al Nen regals de gran valor, però aquell no n'era entre ells. Aquesta fosca endevinalla serà explicada més endavant.
En Jim va treure un paquet de la butxaca del seu abric i el va posar sobre la taula.
—No t'equivoquis amb mi, Della —va dir—. Cap tall de cabells, o el seu rentat o un pentinat especial farien que jo m'estimés menys la meva doneta. Però si obres el paquet veuràs per què m'has provocat tal desconcert en un primer moment.
Els blancs i àgils dits de la Della van retirar el paper i la cinta. I llavors es va escoltar un joiós crit d'èxtasi, i després, ai! un ràpid i femení canvi cap a un histèric devessall de llàgrimes i de gemecs, que va requerir l'immediat desplegament de tots els poders de consol del propietari del departament.
Perquè allà estaven les pintes —un lot sencer de pintes, una al costat de l'altra, que la Della havia estat admirant durant molt temps en una vitrina de Broadway. Eren unes pintes molt boniques, de carei autèntic, amb les seves vores adornades amb joies i del color adient per lluir amb la preciosa cabellera ara desapareguda.
Eren pintes molt cares, ella ho sabia, i el seu cor simplement havia sospirat per elles i les havia anhelat sense la menor esperança de posseir-les algun dia. I ara eren seves, però les trenes destinades a ser adornades amb aquests cobejats adorns havien desaparegut.
La Della les va oprimir contra el seu pit i, finalment, va ser capaç de mirar amb ulls humits i amb una feble somriure, i va dir:
—El meu cabell creixerà molt ràpid, Jim!
I de seguida va fer un salt com un gatet socarrimat i va cridar: "Oh, oh!"
En Jim no havia vist encara el seu regal. La Della li va mostrar amb vehemència al palmell obert de la mà. El preciós i opac metall va brillar amb la llum de l'ardent esperit de la Della.
—Oi que és meravellosa, Jim? Vaig recórrer la ciutat sencera per trobar-la. Ara podràs mirar l'hora cent vegades al dia si et sembla. Dóna'm el teu rellotge. Vull veure com es veu amb ella posada.
En lloc d'obeir, en Jim es va deixar caure al sofà, va creuar les seves mans a sota del seu clatell i va somriure.
—Della —li va dir—, oblidem-nos dels nostres regals de Nadal i guardem-los de moment. Són massa bonics per a usar-los ara. Vaig vendre el meu rellotge per comprar les pintes. I ara posa la carn al foc.
Els Reis Mags, com vostès segurament saben, eren molt savis —meravellosament savis— i van portar regals al Nen en el Pessebre. Ells van ser els que van inventar els regals de Nadal. Com eren savis, no hi ha dubte que també els seus regals ho eren, amb l'avantatge suplementari, a més, de poder ser canviats en cas d'estar repetits. I aquí us he explicat, en forma bastant maldestra, la senzilla història de dos joves eixelebrats que vivien en un departament i que insensatament van sacrificar l'un a l'altre els més rics tresors que tenien a casa.
Però, per acabar, diguem als savis d'avui dia que, de tots els que fan regals, aquests dos nois van ser els més savis. De tots els que donen i reben regals. A tot arreu són els més savis. Ells són els veritables Reis Mags.
O. Henry (William Sydney Porter)
(Greensboro, Carolina del Nord, Estats Units, 1862 - Nova York, Estats Units, 1910)
«The Gift of the Magi»
"Noia pentinant-se"
Pierre Auguste Renoir
(Llemotges, 1841-1919)
Mark Grau-Barney
(Rocester, Anglaterra)
«El regal dels Reis Mags»
de l'obra original:
«The Gift of the Magi»
One dollar and eighty seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bull-dozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
—There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
—In the vestibule below was a letterbox into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above, he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling —something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
—Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped, the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take your hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation —as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value— the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends —a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do —oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. Della had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered:
"Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two – and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again —you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say Merry Christmas!, Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice— what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?" Jim looked around the room curiously.
You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you —sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year —what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it on the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs —the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for so long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims— just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair.
They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and say:
"My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em a while. They're too nice to use just at present —I sold the watch, to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men —wonderfully wise men— who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.
But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the magi.
—There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
—In the vestibule below was a letterbox into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of "Dillingham" looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above, he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling —something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
—Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped, the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take your hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation —as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value— the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends —a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do —oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. Della had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered:
"Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two – and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again —you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say Merry Christmas!, Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice— what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?" Jim looked around the room curiously.
You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you —sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year —what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it on the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs —the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for so long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims— just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair.
They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and say:
"My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em a while. They're too nice to use just at present —I sold the watch, to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men —wonderfully wise men— who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.
But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the magi.
ooO0Ooo
Referència:
O. Henry (William Sydney Porter).
«El regal dels Reis Mags».
(The Gift of the Magi)
Traducció: Grau-Barney, Mark.
Lo Càntich. N.15. Perífrasi, 2012.
Maig - Juny, 2012.
DL B.42943-2011
ISSN: 2014-3036 15>
O. Henry (William Sydney Porter).
«El regal dels Reis Mags».
(The Gift of the Magi)
Traducció: Grau-Barney, Mark.
Lo Càntich. N.15. Perífrasi, 2012.
Maig - Juny, 2012.
DL B.42943-2011
ISSN: 2014-3036 15>
Lo Càntich - Número 15
Perífrasi, 2012
http://www.locantich.cat/2012/06/lo-cantich-numero-15-perifrasi-2012.html
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