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La boteca de fantasmas

The Shop of Ghosts par Gilbert K. Chesterton

Traduida par Krzysztof S

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On pote oteni cuasi tota la cosas la plu bon e la plu valuos en la universo per un penig duida. Me fa un eseta, natural, de la sol, la luna, la tera, persones, stelas, tempestas, e tal trifles. On pote oteni los per no cosa. Me fa ance un eseta per otra cosa, cual me no permete me mensiona en esta paper e la preso la plu basa de cual es un e duida penig. Ma la prinsipe jeneral va aora es parente. En la strada pos me, per esemplo, on pote monta un tram eletrical per un penig duida. Si on monta un tram eletrical, on es en un castel volante de fable. On pote oteni multe confetos briliante colorida per un penig duida. On pote ance oteni la posible de leje esta article per un penig duida; natural, con materia otra e nonpertinente.

Nearly all the best and most precious things in the universe you can get for a halfpenny. I make an exception, of course, of the sun, the moon, the earth, people, stars, thunderstorms, and such trifles. You can get them for nothing. Also I make an exception of another thing, which I am not allowed to mention in this paper, and of which the lowest price is a penny halfpenny. But the general principle will be at once apparent. In the street behind me, for instance, you can now get a ride on an electric tram for a halfpenny. To be on an electric tram is to be on a flying castle in a fairy tale. You can get quite a large number of brightly coloured sweets for a halfpenny. Also you can get the chance of reading this article for a halfpenny; along, of course, with other and irrelevant matter.

Ma si on vole vide, cual estende vasta e confusante de cosas valuos on pote oteni, cada per un penig duida, on debe fa como me ia fa a la note ante esta. Me ia coli me nas contra la vitro de un boteca de juetas, multe peti e oscur luminada, en un de la stradas de Battersea la plu gris e la plu magra. An si acel cuadra de lumina ia es oscur, lo ia es plen (como un enfante ia dise a me a un ves) de tota colores cual Dio ia fa a alga tempo. Acel juetas de la povre es simil a la enfantes ci compra los; tota los es susia, ma tota los es briliante. E seguente me, brilia es plu importante ca limpia, par causa ce la prima es de la spirito e la seguente es de la corpo. On debe escusa me; me es democrata; me sabe ce me veni de moda pasada en la mundo moderna.

But if you want to see what a vast and bewildering array of valuable things you can get at a halfpenny each you should do as I was doing last night. I was gluing my nose against the glass of a very small and dimly lit toy shop in one of the greyest and leanest of the streets of Battersea. But dim as was that square of light, it was filled (as a child once said to me) with all the colours God ever made. Those toys of the poor were like the children who buy them; they were all dirty; but they were all bright. For my part, I think brightness more important than cleanliness; since the first is of the soul, and the second of the body. You must excuse me; I am a democrat; I know I am out of fashion in the modern world.

Como me regarda acel palasio de miracles pigmeal, buses peti e verde, elefantes peti e azul, pupas peti e negra, e arcas peti e roja de Noa, me pensa ce me ia cade a en alga transe nonatural. Acel fenetra luminada de boteca ia deveni como si la sena briliante luminada cuando on regarda alga comedia colorida. Me ia oblida la casas gris e la popla susia pos me, tal como on oblida la galerias oscur e la folas oscur en un teatro. Ia pare como si la ojetos peti pos la vitro ia es peti no par causa ce los ia es juetas, ma par causa ce los ia es distante. La bus verde ia es vera un bus verde, un bus verde de Bayswater, traversante alga deserto enorme sur se via normal a Bayswater. La azul elefante no ia es azul per causa de pinta; el ia es azul per causa de distantia. La pupa negra ia es vera un om negra par contrasta contra folias tropical ardente en acel pais do cada malerba es flamos e sola om es negra. La arca roja de Noa ia es vera la barcon enorme con salva teral, montante tra la mar inflada per pluve, roja en la matina prima de espera.

As I looked at that palace of pigmy wonders, at small green omnibuses, at small blue elephants, at small black dolls, and small red Noah’s arks, I must have fallen into some sort of unnatural trance. That lit shop-window became like the brilliantly lit stage when one is watching some highly coloured comedy. I forgot the grey houses and the grimy people behind me as one forgets the dark galleries and the dim crowds at a theatre. It seemed as if the little objects behind the glass were small, not because they were toys, but because they were objects far away. The green omnibus was really a green omnibus, a green Bayswater omnibus, passing across some huge desert on its ordinary way to Bayswater. The blue elephant was no longer blue with paint; he was blue with distance. The black doll was really a negro relieved against passionate tropic foliage in the land where every weed is flaming and only man is black. The red Noah’s ark was really the enormous ship of earthly salvation riding on the rain-swollen sea, red in the first morning of hope.

Me suposa ce cadun conose momentos tal ebra de astrata, fesures tal notable de la consensa. En tal momentos on pote vide la fas de se ami la plu bon como un combina de oculo e mustax sin sinifia. Los es comun con crese lenta ma con aborte subita. La reveni a pensa vera es frecuente tal subita como la colpa a en un om. Multe frecuente (en me caso) es como si la colpa a en un om. Ma en cualce caso la velia es sempre asentuante e, disente en modo jeneral, lo es sempre completa. Aora, en esta caso, me, con alga xoca, ia reveni esata a la consensa ce en fato me sola ia es regardante a en boteca vea e peti de juetas; ma, en alga modo strana, la sania mental no pare final. En me mente ancora me ia ave alga cosa nonmanejable cual ia dise a me ce me ivaga a en alga atmosfera strana, o ce me mesma ia fa alga cosa strana. Me ia senti como si me ia fa un miracle o un peca. Acel ia es como si me ia pasa traversante alga limita en la spirito.

Every one, I suppose, knows such stunning instants of abstraction, such brilliant blanks in the mind. In such moments one can see the face of one’s own best friend as an unmeaning pattern of spectacles or moustaches. They are commonly marked by the two signs of the slowness of their growth and the suddenness of their termination. The return to real thinking is often as abrupt as bumping into a man. Very often indeed (in my case) it is bumping into a man. But in any case the awakening is always emphatic and, generally speaking, it is always complete. Now, in this case, I did come back with a shock of sanity to the consciousness that I was, after all, only staring into a dingy little toy-shop; but in some strange way the mental cure did not seem to be final. There was still in my mind an unmanageable something that told me that I had strayed into some odd atmosphere, or that I had already done some odd thing. I felt as if I had worked a miracle or committed a sin. It was as if I had at any rate, stepped across some border in the soul.

Per desprende esta senti perilos e soniosa, me ia vade a en boteca e atenta compra soldatos de lenio. La om en la boteca ia es multe vea e malada, con capeles blanca e confusada, covrente la se testa e la se di de fas, capeles tan blanca ce lo aspeta cuasi artifisial. An si el ia es senil e nonsana, no cualia de sufri es en se oios; plu bon, el aspeta como si el ta es gradal adorminte a en dormi nonmalvolente. El ia dona a me soldatos de lenio, ma cuando me ia pone le mone, el no ia pare prima nota lo; alora el palpebri debil lo, e alora move debil lo a lado.

To shake off this dangerous and dreamy sense I went into the shop and tried to buy wooden soldiers. The man in the shop was very old and broken, with confused white hair covering his head and half his face, hair so startlingly white that it looked almost artificial. Yet though he was senile and even sick, there was nothing of suffering in his eyes; he looked rather as if he were gradually falling asleep in a not unkindly decay. He gave me the wooden soldiers, but when I put down the money he did not at first seem to see it; then he blinked at it feebly, and then he pushed it feebly away.

“No, no,” - el ia dise neblosa. - “Me nunca prende mone. Nunca. Nos es alga de moda pasada asi.”

“No, no,” he said vaguely. “I never have. I never have. We are rather old-fashioned here.”

“No prende mone,” - me ia replica, - “pare a me como un moda nova, no como un vea.”

“Not taking money,” I replied, “seems to me more like an uncommonly new fashion than an old one.”

“Me nunca prende,” - la om vea ia dise palpebrinte e soflante se nas. - “Me ia sempre dona donadas. Me es tro vea per cambia.”

“I never have,” said the old man, blinking and blowing his nose; “I’ve always given presents. I’m too old to stop.”

“Bon sielo!” - me ia dise. - “Cual tu vole dise? Tu es simil a San Nicolas.”

“Good heavens!” I said. “What can you mean? Why, you might be Father Christmas.”

“Me es San Nicolas,” - el ia dise repentinte e sofla se nas denova.

“I am Father Christmas,” he said apologetically, and blew his nose again.

La lampas no ia pote ancora es ensendeda en la strada a estra. A cada caso, me ia vide no cosa en oscuria esetante la fenetra briliantente de boteca. No sona de pasos o voses es en la strada; pare ce me casual ia veni a alga mundo nova e sin la sol. Ma alga cosa ia despone ja la me razona, e me no es an surprendente. Alga cosa ia fa ce me ia dise: - “Tu aspeta malada, San Nicolas.”

The lamps could not have been lighted yet in the street outside. At any rate, I could see nothing against the darkness but the shining shop-window. There were no sounds of steps or voices in the street; I might have strayed into some new and sunless world. But something had cut the chords of common sense, and I could not feel even surprise except sleepily. Something made me say, “You look ill, Father Christmas.”

“Me es morinte,” - el ia dise.

“I am dying,” he said.

Me no ia dise, e esata el ia dise denova.

I did not speak, and it was he who spoke again.

“Tota la popla nova ia parti la me boteca. Me no pote comprende esta. Los pare protesta a me per causas completa curiosa e noncoerente, tota acel omes siensal, tota acel inventores. Los dise ce me dona superstisios a popla, ce me fa los tro previdente; los dise ce me dona salsixes a popla, ce me fa los tro ru. Los dise ce me sielal partes es tro sielal; los dise ce me teral partes es tro teral; me no sabe ce los vole, me es serta. Como cosas sielal pote es tro sielal, o cosas teral tro teral? Como on pote es tro bon o tro felis? Me no comprende. Ma me comprende un cosa completa bon. Acel persones moderna es vivente, e me es mor.”

“All the new people have left my shop. I cannot understand it. They seem to object to me on such curious and inconsistent sort of grounds, these scientific men, and these innovators. They say that I give people superstitions and make them too visionary; they say I give people sausages and make them too coarse. They say my heavenly parts are too heavenly; they say my earthly parts are too earthly; I don’t know what they want, I’m sure. How can heavenly things be too heavenly, or earthly things too earthly? How can one be too good, or too jolly? I don’t understand. But I understand one thing well enough. These modern people are living and I am dead.”

“Posable tu es mor,” - me ia replica. - “Tu sabe natural esta plu bon. Ma nota bon los, no nomi esta como vivente.”

“You may be dead,” I replied. “You ought to know. But as for what they are doing, do not call it living.”

Un silentia cade subita entre nos, e per alga causa me no ia espeta ce lo fini. Ma pos alga secondos, en la silentia completa, me ia oia distinguida pasos multe rapida veninte plu prosima e plu prosima en la strada. A la momento seguente un figur ia lansa se a en la boteca e sta a la arco de porte. El ia porta un xapo vasta e blanca, deslocada a retro como si en nonpasientia; el ia porta un pantalon magra e negra de moda pasada, un cravata briliante de moda pasada e un jaceta, e un jaca vea e fantasin. El ia ave oios enorme, vasta abrida e luminosa, simil a la oios de un ator inspirante; el ia ave un fas pal e nervosa e un barba como un franje. El ia fa regarda como un flax a la boteca e la om vea, ia fa esclama con om multe bambolada.

A silence fell suddenly between us which I somehow expected to be unbroken. But it had not fallen for more than a few seconds when, in the utter stillness, I distinctly heard a very rapid step coming nearer and nearer along the street. The next moment a figure flung itself into the shop and stood framed in the doorway. He wore a large white hat tilted back as if in impatience; he had tight black old-fashioned pantaloons, a gaudy old-fashioned stock and waistcoat, and an old fantastic coat. He had large, wide-open, luminous eyes like those of an arresting actor; he had a pale, nervous face, and a fringe of beard. He took in the shop and the old man in a look that seemed literally a flash and uttered the exclamation of a man utterly staggered.

“Bon Senior!” - el ia esclama; - “esta no pote es tu! Esta no es tu! Me ia veni per demanda do la tu tomba es.”

“Good lord!” he cried out; “it can’t be you! It isn’t you! I came to ask where your grave was.”

“Me ancora no es mor, senior Dickens, - la senior vea ia dise con un surie debil; - “ma me es morinte,” - el ia freta per ajunta en modo resecurinte.

“I’m not dead yet, Mr. Dickens,” said the old gentleman, with a feeble smile; “but I’m dying,” he hastened to add reassuringly.

“Ma, a diablo, tu ia es morinte en me tempo,” - senior Charles Dickens ia dise con anima; - “e tu no aspeta un dia plu vea.”

“But, dash it all, you were dying in my time,” said Mr. Charles Dickens with animation; “and you don’t look a day older.”

“Me ia senti como acel de multe tempo,” - San Nicolas ia dise.

“I’ve felt like this for a long time,” said Father Christmas.

Senior Dickens ia verje se dorso e pone la se testa de la porte a en la oscuria.

Mr. Dickens turned his back and put his head out of the door into the darkness.

“Dick!” - el ia ruji a la culmine de se vose; - “el es ancora vivente.”

“Dick,” he roared at the top of his voice; “he’s still alive.”

Otra ombra oscuri la arco de porte, e un senior multe plu enorme e plu enerjiosa en un peruca enorme ia entra, ventinte se fas roja par un xapo militar de la tempo de la rea Anna. El ia porta la se testa en modo completa reta, como soldato, e se fas calda ta pare noncortes si se oios no ta es leteral tal umil como los de can. La se spada fa un sona grande, como si la boteca es tro peti per lo.

Another shadow darkened the doorway, and a much larger and more full-blooded gentleman in an enormous periwig came in, fanning his flushed face with a military hat of the cut of Queen Anne. He carried his head well back like a soldier, and his hot face had even a look of arrogance, which was suddenly contradicted by his eyes, which were literally as humble as a dog’s. His sword made a great clatter, as if the shop were too small for it.

- Vera,” - sir Richard Steele ia dise, - “lo es un cosa multe enorme, par causa ce esta om ia es morinte cuando me ia scrive sur sir Roger de Coverley e se Natal.”

“Indeed,” said Sir Richard Steele, “‘tis a most prodigious matter, for the man was dying when I wrote about Sir Roger de Coverley and his Christmas Day.”

Me sensas ia es oscurinte se, e sala ia es oscurinte se. Lo pare plen de arivores nova.

My senses were growing dimmer and the room darker. It seemed to be filled with newcomers.

- On ia comprende esta,” - un om dura ia dise. El ia porta la se testa en modo umoros e ostinosa alga a un lado (me pensa ce el ia es Ben Jonson) - “On ia comprende esta, consul Jacobo, su nos Re James e su la Rea no plu vivente, ce tal costumes bon e sinsera ia es palinte e desaparente de la mundo. Esta om con un barba gris ia es serta no plu sana cuando me ia conose el ca aora.”

“It hath ever been understood,” said a burly man, who carried his head humorously and obstinately a little on one side (I think he was Ben Jonson) “It hath ever been understood, consule Jacobo, under our King James and her late Majesty, that such good and hearty customs were fallen sick, and like to pass from the world. This grey beard most surely was no lustier when I knew him than now.”

E me ia pensa ce me ia oia como un om en verde vestes, simil a Robin Hood, ia dise en alga lingua franses normande miscada, - “Me mesma ia vide esta om morinte.”

And I also thought I heard a green-clad man, like Robin Hood, say in some mixed Norman French, “But I saw the man dying.”

“Me senti como acel de multe tempo,” - San Nicolas ia dise, denova en se modo debil.

“I have felt like this a long time,” said Father Christmas, in his feeble way again.

Senior Charles Dickens ia inclina subita a el.

Mr. Charles Dickens suddenly leant across to him.

“De cuando?” - el ia demanda. - “De cuando tu nase?”

“Since when?” he asked. “Since you were born?”

“Si,” - la om vea ia dise, e ia afonda se scudente a en seja. - “Me ia es sempre morinte.”

“Yes,” said the old man, and sank shaking into a chair. “I have been always dying.”

Senior Dickens ia desapone brandinte se xapo, como un om clamante folas per asende.

Mr. Dickens took off his hat with a flourish like a man calling a mob to rise.

“Aora me comprende,” - el ia cria, - “tu va nunca mori.

“I understand it now,” he cried, “you will never die.”

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