Mi nombre es Marina

Un texto maravilloso de Borges sirve para explicar algo. Dice en Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote,

¿Por qué precisamente el Quijote? dirá nuestro lector. Esa preferencia, en un español, no hubiera sido inexplicable; pero sin duda lo es en un simbolista de Nîmes, devoto esencialmente de Poe, que engendró a Baudelaire, que engendró a Mallarmé, que engendró a Valéry, que engendró a Edmond Teste. La carta precitada ilumina el punto. “El Quijote”, aclara Menard, “me interesa profundamente, pero no me parece ¿cómo lo diré? inevitable. No puedo imaginar el universo sin la interjección de Edgar Allan Poe:

Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!

Me sucede igual, desde que la leí, no puedo imaginar el universo sin la frase “¡Ninguna! ¡Es música de las esferas! ¡Escucha, Marina!

Así la leí, en Pericles, príncipe de Tiro, de William Shakespeare; pero no se entiende si no se tiene delante el texto completo, del que la frase es su culminación. No encuentro (lo siento) una traducción del texto, en internet. Dice así:

O, here is
The lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one!
Is’t not a goodly presence?

She’s a gallant lady.

She’s such a one, that, were I well assured
Came of a gentle kind and noble stock,
I’ld wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed.
Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty
Expect even here, where is a kingly patient:
If that thy prosperous and artificial feat
Can draw him but to answer thee in aught,
Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay
As thy desires can wish.

Sir, I will use
My utmost skill in his recovery, Provided
That none but I and my companion maid
Be suffer’d to come near him.

Come, let us leave her;
And the gods make her prosperous!

MARINA sings

Mark’d he your music?

No, nor look’d on us.

See, she will speak to him.

Hail, sir! my lord, lend ear.

Hum, ha!

I am a maid,
My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes,
But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks,
My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief
Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d.
Though wayward fortune did malign my state,
My derivation was from ancestors
Who stood equivalent with mighty kings:
But time hath rooted out my parentage,
And to the world and awkward casualties
Bound me in servitude.


I will desist;
But there is something glows upon my cheek,
And whispers in mine ear, ‘Go not till he speak.’

My fortunes–parentage–good parentage–
To equal mine!–was it not thus? what say you?

I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage,
You would not do me violence.

I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me.
You are like something that–What country-woman?
Here of these shores?

No, nor of any shores:
Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am
No other than I appear.

I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping.
My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one
My daughter might have been: my queen’s square brows;
Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight;
As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like
And cased as richly; in pace another Juno;
Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry,
The more she gives them speech. Where do you live?

Where I am but a stranger: from the deck
You may discern the place.

Where were you bred?
And how achieved you these endowments, which
You make more rich to owe?

If I should tell my history, it would seem
Like lies disdain’d in the reporting.

Prithee, speak:
Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou look’st
Modest as Justice, and thou seem’st a palace
For the crown’d Truth to dwell in: I will
believe thee,
And make my senses credit thy relation
To points that seem impossible; for thou look’st
Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends?
Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back–
Which was when I perceived thee–that thou camest
From good descending?

So indeed I did.

Report thy parentage. I think thou said’st
Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury,
And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine,
If both were open’d.

Some such thing
I said, and said no more but what my thoughts
Did warrant me was likely.

Tell thy story;
If thine consider’d prove the thousandth part
Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I
Have suffer’d like a girl: yet thou dost look
Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling
Extremity out of act. What were thy friends?
How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin?
Recount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me.

My name is Marina.

O, I am mock’d,
And thou by some incensed god sent hither
To make the world to laugh at me.

Patience, good sir,
Or here I’ll cease.

Nay, I’ll be patient.
Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me,
To call thyself Marina.

The name
Was given me by one that had some power,
My father, and a king.

How! a king’s daughter?
And call’d Marina?

You said you would believe me;
But, not to be a troubler of your peace,
I will end here.

But are you flesh and blood?
Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy?
Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born?
And wherefore call’d Marina?

Call’d Marina
For I was born at sea.

At sea! what mother?

My mother was the daughter of a king;
Who died the minute I was born,
As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft
Deliver’d weeping.

O, stop there a little!


This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep
Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be:
My daughter’s buried. Well: where were you bred?
I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your story,
And never interrupt you.

You scorn: believe me, ‘twere best I did give o’er.

I will believe you by the syllable
Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave:
How came you in these parts? where were you bred?

The king my father did in Tarsus leave me;
Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife,
Did seek to murder me: and having woo’d
A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do’t,
A crew of pirates came and rescued me;
Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir,
Whither will you have me? Why do you weep?
It may be,
You think me an impostor: no, good faith;
I am the daughter to King Pericles,
If good King Pericles be.

Ho, Helicanus!

Calls my lord?

Thou art a grave and noble counsellor,
Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst,
What this maid is, or what is like to be,
That thus hath made me weep?

I know not; but
Here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene
Speaks nobly of her.

She would never tell
Her parentage; being demanded that,
She would sit still and weep.

O Helicanus, strike me, honour’d sir;
Give me a gash, put me to present pain;
Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me
O’erbear the shores of my mortality,
And drown me with their sweetness. O, come hither,
Thou that beget’st him that did thee beget;
Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus,
And found at sea again! O Helicanus,
Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud
As thunder threatens us: this is Marina.
What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that,
For truth can never be confirm’d enough,
Though doubts did ever sleep.

First, sir, I pray,
What is your title?

I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now
My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said
Thou hast been godlike perfect,
The heir of kingdoms and another like
To Pericles thy father.

Is it no more to be your daughter than
To say my mother’s name was Thaisa?
Thaisa was my mother, who did end
The minute I began.

Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child.
Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus;
She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been,
By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all;
When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge
She is thy very princess. Who is this?

Sir, ‘tis the governor of Mytilene,
Who, hearing of your melancholy state,
Did come to see you.

I embrace you.
Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding.
O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music?
Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him
O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt,
How sure you are my daughter. But, what music?

My lord, I hear none.

The music of the spheres! List, my Marina.

Ya sé que se duda incluso de la autoría de la obra. Es lo de menos. Como dice Borges, la frase de Pericles es necesaria. Desde entonces, escucho a todas horas la música de las esferas.

Sí, de nuevo lo siento.


16 comentarios en “Mi nombre es Marina

  1. diosss

    está desatadoooooooooooooo

    …es peor que Warren Beattyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

    (he oído que Annette Bening fue la que domó a la fiera)

    (o la mayor cornuda que jamás vieron los tiempos)

    1. Aprovechando que Errabundo pasa por Valladolid… el otro día leí un par de noticias que quería comentar, pero no tenía donde:

      1/ El libro que más le gustó a I. Falcones es Los pilares del a Tierra>/I>: No nos sorprende.

      2/ (Ésta se la quería comentar a JAMontano) La Ministra ‘caquitas blancas’ Salgado, que al frente de la cartera de Economía tal vez tenga alguna responsabilidad hacia los 4 millones de parados, afirma en El País que no ha pasado ni un poquito de insomnio y, a pesar de la crisis, sigue durmiendo como un bebé.

  2. ¡Y yo soy la Dolores!, ojito derecho del párroco, preferida del Obispo, mano derecha del sacristán, requebrada en todas las cuchipandas de mozos estosteronaos y borrachos, envidia de todas las estrechillas de por aquí y por allá… Vamos, la hostia. Ya sabe, soy la de

    Si vas a Calatayúuuuuuu…
    pregunta por la Dolores…

    (Ya que usted se da pisto con Borges, Pericles y Shakespeare y tiene nombre de mujer, yo, a mi escala, también fardo y me cambio de sexogénero. Y no oigo esferas ni leches, que yo no estoy pirá.)


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