LETERATUR
Testos orijinal · Cantas traduida · Dramas traduida · Naras traduida · Poesias traduida · Sitas traduida · Testos diversa

La stasion ferovial perdeda

The Lost Railway Station par Gilbert K. Chesterton

Traduida par Krzysztof S

Mostra ance la testo orijinal

Me scrive esta, tan bon como me pote, en un stasion ferovial scotes; e me pensas revade, con tota la compatia de la patriota, a un stasion ferovial engles. Caros e reles pote pare no ave la tinjes delicata de la varia cual on senti en la arbores e colinas de pais propre; ma la me imajina vola vera a un stasion ferovial engles do, a un ves, me ia sonia un sonia.

I am writing this as best I may in a Scottish railway station; and my thoughts go back, with all the pathos of the patriot, to an English railway station. Trucks and rails may seem to lack the fine shades of variety to be felt in the trees and hills of home; but my fancy really flies to an English railway station where I once dreamed a dream.

Un stasion importante es en la norde de London, e lo es par compara tan cuieta e comfortosa como la patio de un otel vea. Me no sabe perce esta reposa apoia a lo, car un servi trenal notable es liada con lo. Lo ave la libreria peti usual, en cual me ia compra tota la naras detetoral la plu sanguosa cual me ia pote trova; bares restoral variosa en cual me ia compra otra cosas variosa; e tota la ojetos usual de un tal loca. Ma en la sentro un fonte sta, e no distante de lo un model grande de un barcon pasajoral de mar. Alga cosa sur la pare de la fonte e la tavernas ensircante, protendente a estra a lados oposante, fa ce me recorda asurda de la mercato de un vileta; an si posible alga cosa de un vileta mimal. Me pote imajina la xica viletal, jentil apoiada sur la fonte con un jar o carafa o balde; an si me freta per confesa ce me ia vide nunca ce el fa esta. Me pote an conseti ce la xico peti ci ia fuji a la mar (acel figur piturin, de cual se presentia, o plu bon asentia, es tan esensal a la sania de la vileta felis) ia bevi en tota se desira de aventura de mar a la fini de la tera par regarda la barcon juetal. La se madre con capeles blanca ta es ancora espetante el - probable en la sala de espeta. En resoma, me ia senti sempre ce me pote pleni esta loca con tota la figures romantica reconoseda de vive campanial, en naras si no en fato.

There is in the north of London an important station, which is by comparison as quiet and comfortable as the courtyard of an old inn. I do not know why this repose rests upon it, for a considerable train service is connected with it. It has the usual bookstall, at which I have bought all the bloodiest detective stories I could find; various refreshment bars at which I have bought various other things; and all the usual fittings of such a place. But in the centre there stands a fountain, and not far from it a large model of an ocean liner. Something about the look of the fountain and the surrounding hostelries, jutting out on opposite sides, reminds me absurdly of the market-place of a village; though perhaps something of a pantomime village. I can imagine the village maiden leaning gracefully on the fountain with a jar or jug or bucket; though I hasten to admit that I have never seen her do so. I can even conceive that the little boy who ran away to sea (that picturesque figure, whose presence, or rather absence, is so essential to the health of the happy village) drank in all his desire of seafaring adventure at the ends of the earth by looking at the toy liner. His white-haired mother would still be waiting for him - presumably in the waiting room. In short, I have always felt that I could fill this place with all the recognized romantic figures of rural life, in fiction if not in fact.

Me vole sabe cual cosa ta vera aveni, si en alga convulsa spesial acel stasion ta es vera separada e lasada per la se vive simple propre, como un cultiveria ensircada par deluvias, o un vileta noncorporada e inondada par neva en la montes. Lo plase me de imajina ce un greve ferovial ta pote continua tan multe tempo ce persones ta oblida la razona mesma de un stasion ferovial. Portores ferovial no ta sabe an ce los es portores ferovial; e an la xef de stasion ta es iniorante de la secreta misteriosa de se mestria xef. La plu de nos ia ave un imajina ce tota sosia es simil a acel stasion ferovial strana; ce la se atas sosial ave alga importa santa perdeda ante la comensa de istoria; ce on no sabe perce lo ia es fada; e on no sabe cual cosa lo espeta. Car la fini de un tal jua o parabola ta es alga cosa vera grande, como la Dia de Judi. Cuando la siniales ta cambia colores a fini, lo ta vera es como la luna cambiante a sangue en la Apocalise. Alga cosa completa nonpensable, como la tona e la selos e trompetas de la Dia Final, ta cambia la me stasion ferovial cuieta. A fini, un tren ta entra.

I wonder what would really happen if in some special convulsion that station were really cut off and left to live its own simple life, like a farm surrounded by floods, or a hamlet snowed up in the mountains. It pleases me to fancy that a railway strike might go on so long that people forgot the very purpose of a railway station. Railway porters would not even know that they were railway porters; and even the stationmaster would be ignorant of the mysterious secret of his mastery. Most of us have had a fancy that all society is like that strange railway station; that its social actions have some hieratic significance lost before the beginning of history; that it was made it knows not why; and is waiting for it knows not what. For the end of such a play or parable would be something truly terrific, like the Day of Judgment. When the signals changed colours at last, it would truly be like the moon turning to blood in the Apocalypse. Something utterly unthinkable, like the thunder and the seals and trumpets of the Last Day, would transform my quiet railway-station. A train would come in at last.

Ma la me imajina conserna xef la jeneras distante de la futur en esta comunia simple, desendeda de la sposias primitiva orijinal entre alga portores ferovial e alga xicas bariste. Asta acel tempo la comunia peti debe ave un tota marania de tradisiones ultima, e los ta es retrasada a la idea perdeda de un tren. Posible, persones ta ancora vade relijiosa a la ofisia de bileta a intervales, como a un spesie de caxa confesal; e ala resita la nomes de locas distante e asta esta tempo noncredable; la parola ‘Harrow’ sonante como la parola ‘Heaven’ (‘Sielo’) o la parola ‘Ealing’ como la parola ‘Eden’. Car esta sosia ta evidente, como cada otra, produi seticas; acel es omes ci ia perde ja la se memoria sosial. Tota spesies de rituos anticin ta survive, e ta es rieda como norazonal, car la se orijina razonal ta es ja oscurida. Pos sentenios de asi, la orolojo en la sala restoral ta ancora resta alga rapida, como comparada con la orolojo en la stasion. On ta ave controversias vera complicada sur esta costum; verjente a cosas pos la tempos e cosas en avansa de la eda. La libreria peti ia ta deveni alga cosa como la Bodleian o la biblioteca de Alesandria, grande e perdeda; un beneria de documentos de asedentes de anticia primitiva e oscuria profonda; e on ta trova ce omes instruida ta spele la se modo tra un paragraf en un de la nos jornales dial, iludeda con la espera sempre desaparente de trova un spesie de sinifia umana en lo. La fonte pare es la sentro relijiosa unica de la vileta; an si me pensa ce la imaje misteriosa de la barcon grande debe es la tipo de alga memoria aventurosa blanda e espera aventurosa; un indiceta neblosa de cosas a ultra; posible un lejenda grande como acel de la Argo. Ma un fonte es clar la loca la plu umana e istorial per un santeria. Lo ta es dedicada, me espera, a un santa; como es en la caso fontes covrente completa la mundo cristian. E aora me pensa de lo, la nom mesma de esta stasion ferovial, simil ance a tan multe cosas, cual sona “cockney” e comun, ave un orijina probable relijiosa. On ta pote ave apena un combina plu bela de parolas e ideas ca acel cual, seguente la me imajina, esplica la nom prosin de Marylebone.

But my fancy chiefly rests on the remote generations of the future in this simple community, descended from the original primitive marriages between a few railway porters and a few barmaids. By that time the little commonwealth ought to have a whole tangle of traditions ultimately to be traced back to the lost idea of a train. Perhaps people would still go religiously to the ticket-office at intervals, as to a kind of confessional box; and there recite the names of far-off and by this time fabulous places; the word ‘Harrow’ sounding like the word ‘Heaven’ or the word ‘Ealing’ like the word ‘Eden’. For this society would of course, like every other, produce sceptics; that is men who had lost their social memory. All sorts of quaint ceremonials would survive, and would be scoffed at as irrational, because their rational origin had been obscured. At a date centuries hence, the clock in the refreshment room would still be kept a little fast, as compared with the clock in the station. There would be most complicated controversies about this custom; turning on things behind the times and things in advance of the age. The bookstall would have come to be something like the Bodleian or the great lost library of Alexandria; a storehouse of ancestral documents of primitive antiquity and profound obscurity; and learned men would be found spelling their way through a paragraph in one of our daily papers, deluded with the ever-vanishing hope of finding a sort of human meaning in it. The fountain seems to be the only possible religious centre of the village; though I think the mysterious image of the great ship should be the type of some faint adventurous memory and adventurous hope; a vague hint of things beyond; perhaps a great legend like that of the Argo. But a fountain is clearly the more human and historic site for a shrine. It would be dedicated, I hope, to a saint; as are so many springs and wells all over Christendom. And now I come to think of it, the very name of this railway station, like so much also that sounds cockney and commonplace, has an origin presumably religious. There could hardly be a more beautiful combination of words and ideas than that which I imagine to lie behind the prosaic name of Marylebone.

Me ia intende ja tira un leson moral, o multe lesones moral, de esta vide. Me ia intende ja mostra cuanto la nos sosia propre sufri de un paradox simil; no car se instituidas no ave un sinifia; ma par contrasta, car los ave un sinifia, cual ta es denova trovada si la sosia ta velia e vade denova a labora. Los pare es sin sinifia sola car los es dorminte. Si la trenes ta core, si la tradisiones ta funsiona, la tradisiones ta es la plu pronto reconoseda como razonable. En esta modo la mundo moderna no sufri vera de freta, ma plu bon de dormi. Me ave en mente spesial esta cual me pote clama la Alegoria de la Bagaje Perdeda, o de la Sala de Bagaje, cual pertine a la consetas de la filosofia de propria. Propria es ancora defendeda par un sensa oscur de debe; an si lo es vera suportada en transita e cumulada en la mal loca. Ma me no pote xasa la me divina; car en la stasion ferovial scotes alga cosa ia aveni cual disipa tota la me sonias de la stasion ferovial engles plu felis. Me tren ia entra.

I had intended to draw a moral, or many morals from this vision. I had intended to point out how much our own society suffers from a similar paradox; not that its institutions are meaningless; but on the contrary, that they have a meaning, which would be found again if the society woke up and went to work again. It is only because they are asleep that they seem to be senseless. If the trains were running, if the traditions were working, the traditions would be instantly recognized as reasonable. Thus the modern world does not really suffer from scurry, but rather from slumber. I had in mind especially what I may call the Allegory of the Lost Luggage, or of the Cloak Room, which is concerned with the philosophy of property. Property is still being defended by a dim sense of duty; though it is really held up in transit and accumulated in the wrong place. But I cannot pursue my guess; for something has happened in the Scotch railway station which dissipates all my dreams of the happier English railway station. My train has come in.

Esta paje es presentada con la lisensa CC Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International.
Lo ia es automatada jenerada de la paje corespondente en la Vici de Elefen a 28 marto 2022 (10:41 UTC).