Cuentos de amorVer transcripción original
The Princess and the Fisherman.
There was once a fisherman, neither very well off nor very poor, but he was young, with a mustache that curled fiercely at the ends, you know, and a fine-looking fellow. Whenever he passed the imperial palace, the emperor’s daughter sent for him, bought his fish, and gave him ten times as much money as they were worth.
Our fisherman was spoiled by this wealth, and whenever he had nice fresh fish he took them to the palace; not a day passed that the princess did not buy fish if the fisherman went by.
One day, while paying for the fish, the princess pressed his hand, the fisherman blushed as red as a beet, and cast down his eyes, but first gave her one loving glance, for he had understood that she was willing he should do so.
Then he entered into conversation with her, and took good care not to say any thing stupid.
The next time the princess bought fish he began to talk about them at great length, and made her comprehend that he had understood her feelings, and that the fire of love which was consuming her burned no less hotly in his heart than in her own.
Another time he spoke still more freely, and the princess learned that he was unmarried; she was, besides, much pleased with his clever answers, and as he was very attractive the royal maiden finally fell in love with him. She gave him a purse filled with money to purchase handsome clothes, and told him to come back afterward and show himself to her.
After he had bought garments like those worn by gentlemen, he put them on and returned to the princess. She would scarcely have recognized him, for even his gait and bearing had become as stiff as a noble’s.
At last, unable to repress the love that glowed in her heart, the emperor’s daughter told him that she would marry him.
The fisherman did not know much, but he was aware that such a dainty morsel wasn’t meant for his bill, and he could hardly believe what he heard with his ears and saw with his eyes; but when the princess assured him that she wasn’t joking, he accepted her hand, though to tell the truth with many doubts and blushes.
The marriage did not exactly suit the emperor, but as he loved his daughter and she was her parents’ only child, he yielded to her wishes. The princess gave the fisherman another purse filled with money, and told him to buy himself still handsomer clothes. When he returned, in garments that fairly glittered with gold, the royal maiden presented him to the emperor, and the monarch betrothed them to each other.
Ere long a magnificent imperial wedding was celebrated. When the company sat down to enjoy the banquet, a soft-boiled egg, which, according to ancient custom, only the bride and bridegroom were permitted to eat, was brought to the wedded pair. When the husband was about to dip a bit of bread into the egg, the princess stopped him, saying: “I must dip first, because I am the daughter of an emperor, and you are a fisherman.” The bridegroom made no reply, but rose from the table and vanished. The guests, who did not know what had happened, looked at one another and asked in surprise what this meant, for they had not heard that the emperor’s son-in-law had formerly been a fisherman.
The bride repented her imprudence, bit her lips, and wrung her hands. She ate what she was compelled to swallow, but she might just as well have thrown it behind her, for not a morsel did her any good.
After the feast she went to her room, but all night long she could not once close her eyes or fall asleep, she was so sorrowful. She thought of her bridegroom so constantly that she was afraid she would fall ill from longing. Her principal grief was that she did not know why he had gone away without saying even one word.
The next day she went to the emperor and told him she was seized with so great a longing for her husband that she was going to follow him till she found him. The emperor tried to detain her, but she would not listen and set out on her journey.
She searched up and down the whole city, but did not find him anywhere. Then she wandered from place to place till she met him serving in a tavern.
As soon as she saw him she went up and spoke to him, but he pretended not to know her, turned his head away, made no answer, and went about his business.
The princess followed him everywhere, begging him to say just one word to her, but in vain. When the landlord saw that the stranger was to blame for the interruption in the work, he said: “Why don’t you let my servant finish his work in peace? Don’t you see he is dumb? Be kind enough to go away from here, if you are a respectable woman.”
“He isn’t dumb,” she cried, “this is my husband, who deserted and fled from me on account of a fault of mine.”
All the people in the tavern stood still in astonishment when they heard her words, for she was not joking; but the landlord could not believe it, he thought it would be impossible for a man who could speak to live a whole week without saying even one word, and every body really knew him as a dumb man, made him understand by signs, and liked him for his industry.
The princess then entered into an agreement with them all, that she would induce him to speak within three days if they would only allow her to stay with him, but if she did not succeed she would be hung. This agreement was put in writing and shown to the magistrates for their sanction. When the contract was concluded, the three days’ trial was arranged to begin the next morning.
The fisherman at first knew nothing about this agreement, though he heard of it afterward, but the emperor’s daughter never left his side.
“My beloved husband,” she said, “you know I am to blame. I chose you because I loved you; I swear that I will never commit such a blunder again; have pity on me, speak one word to me, save me from the disgrace that is killing me. I know you have a right to be angry, but for the sake of my love, forgive me.”
The fisherman turned his head toward her, shrugged his shoulders, and pretended that he did not know her, and did not understand what she was talking about. One day, two days passed, and he did not even say boo. When the third came the princess was terribly frightened, and wherever the dumb man went she followed, beseeching him to say one word to her.
But the fisherman, feeling that she was softening him by her entreaties, fled like a savage that she might not assail him with tears, and pretended his heart was a lump of ice; but she did not cease imploring him a thousand times, so tenderly that it would have softened even a wild beast.
At last the third day also passed, and the fisherman had not even said baa.
Every body wondered over these things. Nothing was talked of in the whole city, except the mute servant at the tavern and the beautiful, charming girl, who, it was supposed, had mistaken the dumb man for some one else, and had now brought herself into trouble.
The next day the gallows was ready, and the whole population gathered around it to witness the end of the affair.
The magistrates were summoned to the place, and, against their will, compelled to execute what was in the agreement.
The executioner came, and called upon the princess to submit to the penalty, since she had not succeeded in fulfilling the obligations she had imposed upon herself; the girl turned once more to the fisherman, and, sobbing bitterly, tried to soften his heart, but in vain. When she saw and understood that no escape was possible, she loosed her hair and let it fall over her shoulders, wailing so piteously that it was enough to make even wood and stone weep for her, and so walked toward the place of execution. All the people, old and young, were weeping around her, yet could not help her.
On reaching the gallows, she once more gazed hopefully at the dumb man, who had come with the crowd, but stood as if he were perfectly unmoved, and said to him:
“My dear husband, save me from death; you know my love for you, do not let me perish so ignominiously. Speak but one word and I shall be delivered.” But the man only shrugged his shoulders and glanced backward across the fields.
The executioner stood with the noose in his hand; two assistants led her up the ladder, and the hangman slipped the rope around her neck. One moment more, and the princess would have been a corpse! But just at the instant the executioner was going to let her swing out into the empty air, the fisherman raised his hand, shouting: “Hi! hi! stop!”
They all stood motionless, tears of joy streamed from every eye as the hangman took the noose from the prisoner’s neck. Then the fisherman, looking at the royal maiden, said three times:
“Will you say fisherman to me again?”
“Forgive me, my dear husband,” the princess hastened to reply, “I have only said it once, and that was by mistake. I promise you not to do so again.”
“Let her come down, she is my wife.”
He took her by the hand, and they went home together.
Afterward they lived in peace and happiness, and if they haven’t died, they are living still.
📄 Fuente: Roumanian Fairy Tales
La princesa y el pescador. Cuento popular rumano recopilado por Mite Kremnitz en Roumanian Fairy Tales, libro adaptado y arreglado por J. M. Percival en 1885
Había una vez un pescador, ni muy rico ni muy pobre, pero joven y apuesto, con un bigote que se rizaba fieramente en las puntas. Siempre que pasaba frente al palacio imperial, la hija del emperador lo mandaba llamar: le compraba el pescado y le pagaba diez veces más de lo que valía.
Con el tiempo, el pescador se malacostumbró a tanta generosidad. Cada vez que conseguía un pescado fresco, lo llevaba al palacio; no había día en que la princesa no comprara si él aparecía por allí.
Un día, mientras le pagaba, la princesa le apretó la mano. El pescador se sonrojó como un tomate y bajó la mirada, pero antes la contempló con ternura, comprendiendo que ella le daba una señal.
Comenzaron a conversar, y él tuvo mucho cuidado de no decir ninguna tontería.
La vez siguiente que la princesa compró pescado, él le habló con más confianza, dejándole claro que compartía sus sentimientos y que el fuego que la consumía ardía también en su corazón.
En otro encuentro, habló con mayor libertad y ella supo que era soltero. Le gustaron tanto sus ingeniosas respuestas, y como además era muy apuesto, la doncella real terminó por enamorarse de él. Le entregó una bolsa llena de dinero para que comprara ropa elegante y le pidió que regresara.
El pescador compró trajes como los de los caballeros, se los puso y volvió al palacio. La princesa casi no lo reconoció: su porte y su andar parecían los de un noble.
Por fin, incapaz de ocultar más el amor que sentía, la hija del emperador le declaró que deseaba casarse con él.
El pescador apenas podía creer lo que oía; sentía que un “bocado” tan exquisito no era para él. Pero cuando la princesa le aseguró que hablaba en serio, aceptó su mano, no sin rubores ni dudas.
El emperador no veía con buenos ojos aquel matrimonio, pero amaba a su hija, que era su única heredera, y cedió a su deseo. La princesa le dio otra bolsa de dinero para que vistiera aún más elegante. Cuando regresó, con ropas bordadas en oro, ella lo presentó ante el emperador, y el monarca los desposó.
Pronto se celebró una magnífica boda imperial. Durante el banquete, según la costumbre, sirvieron a los recién casados un solo huevo pasado por agua, que solo ellos podían compartir. Cuando el esposo iba a mojar un trozo de pan en el huevo, la princesa lo detuvo y dijo:
—Debo mojarlo primero, porque soy hija de un emperador… y tú eres un pescador.
El joven no respondió. Se levantó de la mesa y desapareció.
Los invitados, que no sabían nada de su origen, se miraron asombrados, preguntándose qué significaba aquello.
La princesa, al instante, se arrepintió de su imprudencia. Se mordió los labios, se retorció las manos y comió sin apetito. Terminada la fiesta, se retiró a su habitación, pero no pudo dormir en toda la noche. Pensaba sin cesar en su esposo y temía enfermar de tristeza. Lo que más la atormentaba era ignorar por qué se había ido sin pronunciar una palabra.
Al día siguiente acudió al emperador:
—Padre, un anhelo tan grande por mi esposo me consume que he de salir a buscarlo.
El emperador intentó detenerla, pero ella no lo escuchó y emprendió el viaje.
Buscó por toda la ciudad, sin hallarlo. Vagó de un lugar a otro hasta que lo encontró sirviendo en una taberna.
Al verlo, corrió a hablarle, pero él fingió no conocerla, desvió la mirada y siguió con su trabajo.
Ella lo siguió por todas partes, suplicándole que dijera una sola palabra, pero fue en vano.
El posadero, viendo la escena, intervino:
—Señora, deje que mi sirviente trabaje. ¿No ve que es mudo? Le ruego que se marche si es una dama respetable.
—¡No es mudo! —exclamó ella—. Es mi esposo, que me abandonó por una falta mía.
Todos los presentes quedaron atónitos, pues sabían que aquel hombre nunca hablaba y lo apreciaban por su laboriosidad.
La princesa entonces propuso un trato: lograría que hablara en el plazo de tres días; si no, aceptaría ser ahorcada. El acuerdo se puso por escrito y fue aprobado por los magistrados. El juicio comenzaría a la mañana siguiente.
El pescador ignoraba el pacto, aunque pronto se enteró, mientras la hija del emperador no se apartaba de su lado.
La princesa se acercó a él y le suplicó con el corazón en la voz:
—Mi amado esposo, sé que la culpa es mía. Te elegí porque te amaba; juro que nunca volveré a ofenderte. Ten piedad de mí, di una sola palabra y líbrame de la desgracia que me está matando. Sé que tienes derecho a estar enojado, pero, por mi amor, perdóname.
El pescador giró la cabeza, se encogió de hombros y fingió no conocerla ni entender lo que decía. Pasaron un día, dos días, y ni siquiera murmuró un “sí” ni un “no”.
Cuando llegó el tercero, la princesa estaba aterrada. Dondequiera que él iba, ella lo seguía, rogándole que le dirigiera una palabra.
El pescador, temiendo que su determinación flaqueara ante tantas súplicas, se apartó de ella como un salvaje. Fingía tener el corazón de hielo, aunque las lágrimas de la princesa casi lo vencían.
Pasó también el tercer día y él seguía mudo como una roca.
Toda la ciudad murmuraba sobre el extraño sirviente de la taberna y la hermosa joven que, según creían, lo había confundido con otra persona y ahora pagaba el precio de su error.
Al amanecer del cuarto día, la horca estaba lista y una multitud se reunió para presenciar el desenlace.
Los magistrados, aunque a disgusto, se vieron obligados a cumplir el contrato.
El verdugo apareció y reclamó a la princesa. Ella, entre sollozos, volvió a implorar al pescador, pero él permaneció inmóvil. Viendo que no había escapatoria, la joven se soltó el cabello, que le cayó en ondas sobre los hombros, y avanzó gimiendo tan lastimeramente que hasta las piedras parecían llorar con ella. Ancianos y niños lloraban a su alrededor, incapaces de ayudarla.
Llegó al pie de la horca y miró por última vez al hombre que amaba. Él seguía impasible.
—Mi querido esposo —exclamó—, sálvame de la muerte. Sabes que te amo; no permitas que muera de esta manera. Di una sola palabra y seré libre.
El pescador se limitó a encogerse de hombros y mirar hacia el horizonte.
El verdugo levantó la cuerda; los ayudantes la subieron por la escalera. Ya el lazo rodeaba su cuello, y un instante más la separaba de la muerte.
Entonces, justo cuando el verdugo estaba por soltar la trampilla, el pescador alzó la mano y gritó:
—¡Alto! ¡Deténganse!
La multitud quedó inmóvil. Lágrimas de alivio brotaron por doquier mientras el verdugo retiraba la soga.
El pescador miró a la doncella real y, con voz firme, repitió tres veces:
—¿Me volverás a llamar pescador?
—Perdóname, mi querido esposo —respondió ella con rapidez—. Solo lo dije una vez, y fue por descuido. Te prometo que no volveré a hacerlo.
—Déjenla bajar —dijo él—. Es mi esposa.
La tomó de la mano y juntos se alejaron del lugar.
Desde entonces vivieron en paz y felicidad y, si no han muerto, aún viven.
Cuento popular rumano recopilado por Mite Kremnitz en Roumanian Fairy Tales, libro adaptado y arreglado por J. M. Percival en 1885
