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anglais vers portugais: The mistery of the semi-detached by Edith Nesbit General field: Art / Littérature Detailed field: Poésie et littérature
Texte source - anglais THE MYSTERY OF THE SEMI-DETACHED
Edith Nesbit, 1893
He was waiting for her; he had been waiting an hour and a half in a dusty suburban lane, with a row of big elms on one side and some eligible building sites on the other— and far away to the south-west the twinkling yellow lights of the Crystal Palace. It was not quite like a country lane, for it had a pavement and lamp-posts, but it was not a bad place for a meeting all the same; and farther up, towards the cemetery, it was really quite rural, and almost pretty, especially in twilight. But twilight had long deepened into night, and still he waited. He loved her, and he was engaged to be married to her, with the complete disapproval of every reasonable person who had been consulted. And this half-clandestine meeting was to-night to take the place of the grudgingly sanctioned weekly interview—because a certain rich uncle was visiting at her house, and her mother was not the woman to acknowledge to a moneyed uncle, who might “go off” any day, a match so deeply ineligible as hers with him. So he waited for her, and the chill of an unusually severe May evening entered into his bones. The policeman passed him with but a surly response to his “Good night.” The bicyclists went by him like grey ghosts with fog-horns; and it was nearly ten o’clock, and she had not come. He shrugged his shoulders and turned towards his lodgings. His road led him by her house—desirable, commodious, semi-detached—and he walked slowly as he neared it. She might, even now, be coming out. But she was not. There was no sign of movement about the house, no sign of life, no lights even in the windows. And her people were not early people. He paused by the gate, wondering. Then he noticed that the front door was open—wide open—and the street lamp 4 shone a little way into the dark hall. There was something about all this that did not please him—that scared him a little, indeed. The house had a gloomy and deserted air. It was obviously impossible that it harboured a rich uncle. The old man must have left early. In which case—— He walked up the path of patent-glazed tiles, and listened. No sign of life. He passed into the hall. There was no light anywhere. Where was everybody, and why was the front door open? There was no one in the drawing-room, the dining-room and the study (nine feet by seven) were equally blank. Every one was out, evidently. But the unpleasant sense that he was, perhaps, not the first casual visitor to walk through that open door impelled him to look through the house before he went away and closed it after him. So he went upstairs, and at the door of the first bedroom he came to he struck a wax match, as he had done in the sitting-rooms. Even as he did so he felt that he was not alone. And he was prepared to see something; but for what he saw he was not prepared. For what he saw lay on the bed, in a white loose gown—and it was his sweetheart, and its throat was cut from ear to ear. He doesn’t know what happened then, nor how he got downstairs and into the street; but he got out somehow, and the policeman found him in a fit, under the lamp-post at the corner of the street. He couldn’t speak when they picked him up, and he passed the night in the police-cells, because the policeman had seen plenty of drunken men before, but never one in a fit. The next morning he was better, though still very white and shaky. But the tale he told the magistrate was convincing, and they sent a couple of constables with him to her house. There was no crowd about it as he had fancied there would be, and the blinds were not down. As he stood, dazed, in front of the door, it opened, and she came out. He held on to the door-post for support. “She’s all right, you see,” said the constable, who had found him under the lamp. “I told you you was drunk, but you would know best——” When he was alone with her he told her—not all—for that would not bear telling—but how he had come into the commodious semi-detached, and how he had found the door open and the lights out, and that he had been into that long back room facing the stairs, and had seen something—in even trying to hint at which he turned sick and broke down and had to have brandy given him. 5 “But, my dearest,” she said, “I dare say the house was dark, for we were all at the Crystal Palace with my uncle, and no doubt the door was open, for the maids will run out if they’re left. But you could not have been in that room, because I locked it when I came away, and the key was in my pocket. I dressed in a hurry and I left all my odds and ends lying about.” “I know,” he said; “I saw a green scarf on a chair, and some long brown gloves, and a lot of hairpins and ribbons, and a prayer-book, and a lace handkerchief on the dressing-table. Why, I even noticed the almanack on the mantelpiece—October 21. At least it couldn’t be that, because this is May. And yet it was. Your almanac is at October 21, isn’t it?” “No, of course it isn’t,” she said, smiling rather anxiously; “but all the other things were just as you say. You must have had a dream, or a vision, or something.” He was a very ordinary, commonplace, City young man, and he didn’t believe in visions, but he never rested day or night till he got his sweetheart and her mother away from that commodious semi-detached, and settled them in a quite distant suburb. In the course of the removal he incidentally married her, and the mother went on living with them. His nerves must have been a good bit shaken, because he was very queer for a long time, and was always inquiring if any one had taken the desirable semidetached; and when an old stockbroker with a family took it, he went the length of calling on the old gentleman and imploring him by all that he held dear, not to live in that fatal house. “Why?” said the stockbroker, not unnaturally. And then he got so vague and confused, between trying to tell why and trying not to tell why, that the stockbroker showed him out, and thanked his God he was not such a fool as to allow a lunatic to stand in the way of his taking that really remarkably cheap and desirable semi-detached residence. Now the curious and quite inexplicable part of this story is that when she came down to breakfast on the morning of the 22nd of October she found him looking like death, with the morning paper in his hand. He caught hers—he couldn’t speak, and pointed to the paper. And there she read that on the night of the 21st a young lady, the stockbroker’s daughter, had been found, with her throat cut from ear to ear, on the bed in the long back bedroom facing the stairs of that desirable semi-detached.
Traduction - portugais O mistério do sobrado
Edith Nesbit, 1893
Tradução: Maria S D Ferreira, 2022
Ele a esperava; vinha esperando há uma hora e meia em uma rua poeirenta do subúrbio, com uma fileira de grandes olmeiros de um lado e alguns terrenos para construção de edifícios do outro, muito longe das luzes brilhantes e douradas do Crystal Palace a sudoeste. Não era bem uma rua interiorana, já que tinha calçamento e postes com luzes elétricas, mas mesmo assim não era um lugar ruim para um encontro; e, mais adiante, na direção do cemitério, era de fato bastante rural, e até agradável, sobretudo ao crepúsculo. Mas o crepúsculo há muito se tornara noite, e ainda assim ele a esperava. Estava apaixonado, e tinha o compromisso de casar-se com ela, apesar da completa discordância de qualquer pessoa de bom senso que tivesse sido consultada. E esse encontro meio clandestino estava para acontecer esta noite no lugar da conversa semanal consentida com relutância, porque um certo tio rico vinha visitá-los e a mãe dela não era mulher de admitir a um tio endinheirado, que poderia “bater as botas” a qualquer dia, um par tão profundamente desqualificado quanto o destes dois.
Assim ele a esperou, e um frio rigoroso, incomum em uma noite de maio, penentrou em seus ossos.
O policial cruzou com ele dando uma resposta rude ao seu boa noite. Os ciclistas passavam como fantasmas cinzentos com buzinas para o nevoeiro; eram quase dez horas e ela não havia chegado.
Encolheu os ombros e se voltou para as residências. O percurso o conduziu para a casa dela, agradável, ampla, geminada e diminuiu o passo ao se aproximar da entrada. Ela poderia, agora mesmo, estar saindo. Mas não estava. Não havia nenhum sinal de movimento na casa, nenhum sinal de vida, nenhuma luz, nem mesmo nas janelas. E a gente dela não era de dormir cedo.
Parou em frente ao portão, refletiu.
Percebeu, então, que a porta da frente estava aberta, escancarada e de fato, a luz da rua iluminava um pouco o corredor escuro. Havia alguma coisa nisso tudo que não o agradava ou melhor, que lhe dava um pouco de medo. A casa tinha um ar sombrio e deserto. Era obviamente impossível que tivesse recebido um tio rico. O velho deveria ter saído mais cedo. Nesse caso ...
Andou até o caminho de ladrilhos de vidro, e escutou. Nenhum sinal de vida. Passou pelo corredor. Não havia nenhuma luz acesa. Onde estava todo mundo e por que a porta da frente estava aberta? Não havia ninguém na sala de visitas, a sala de jantar e o escritório (três metros por dois) estavam do mesmo modo desertos. Todos estavam fora, claro. Mas a sensação desagradável de que não seria o primeiro visitante ocasional a passar por aquela porta aberta o impeliu a olhar pela casa antes de sair e fechar a porta atrás de si. Por isso subiu as escadas, e na porta do primeiro quarto que entrou ascendeu uma vela com um fósforo, como havia feito nas salas de visitas. Mesmo enquanto fazia isso, sentia que não estava sozinho. E estava preparado para ver alguma coisa; mas para o que viu, ele não estava preparado. Não para o que viu sobre a cama, em uma camisola branca: era a sua amada, e com garganta cortada de orelha a orelha. Não soube dizer o que aconteceu depois, nem como chegou ao andar de baixo e à rua; mas saiu de algum modo, e o policial o encontrou em choque, sob um poste de luz na esquina da rua. Não conseguia falar quando o prenderam, e passou a noite nas celas da delegacia, porque os policiais já haviam visto muitos homens bêbados antes, mas nunca um em estado de choque.
Na manhã seguinte estava melhor, embora ainda muito pálido e trêmulo. Mas a história que contou ao delegado era convincente, e enviaram dois policiais com ele até a casa.
Não havia nenhuma multidão em torno da casa como ele imaginou que haveria, e nem as persianas estavam abaixadas.
Enquanto estava de pé, confuso, em frente a porta, esta abriu-se e ela saiu.
Segurou-se no umbral da porta para apoiar-se
—Ela está bem, viu? — disse o policial, que o havia encontrado sob o poste. —Eu falei para você que ele estava bêbado, mas você é o sabe-tudo.
Quando ficaram sozinhos, contou-lhe, não tudo, já que não suportaria contar, mas como chegara ao vasto sobrado, e como encontrara a porta aberta e as luzes apagadas, e que havia estado naquele longo quarto dos fundos que dava para as escadas, e que havia visto alguma coisa, até mesmo tentando chegar ao que o havia deixado doente e em choque teve que tomar um conhaque.
—Mas meu querido, — afirmou ela, — eu ouso dizer que a casa estava escura, pois estávamos todos no Crystal Palace com meu tio, e não há dúvidas de que a porta estava aberta, pois as empregadas sairiam correndo se fossem deixadas para trás. Mas você não pode ter estado naquele quarto, porque eu o tranquei quando sai, e a chave estava no meu bolso. Vesti-me às pressas e deixei todas as minhas coisas espalhadas.
—Eu sei — falou ele — eu vi uma echarpe verde sobre a cadeira, e algumas luvas marrons longas, e um monte de grampos e fitas, e um livro de orações, e um lenço de rendas na penteadeira. Porque eu notei até o calendário sobre a lareira: 21 de outubro. Pelo menos, não podia ser isso, porque estamos em maio. Mas mesmo assim era. Seu calendário estava em 21 de outubro, não estava?
—Não, é claro que não, — disse ela com um sorriso um pouco ansioso: — mas todas as outras coisas estavam exatamente do jeito que você disse. Você deve ter tido um sonho ou uma visão, ou alguma coisa.
Ele era um rapaz urbano muito simples, comum e que não acreditava em visões, mas não descansou dia ou noite enquanto não tirou sua amada e a mãe dela daquele amplo sobrado, e as alojou em um subúrbio bem distante. Aproveitou o processo da mudança para casar-se e com ela, a mãe foi morar com eles.
Os nervos dele devem ter ficado um pouco abalados, pois continuou muito estranho por um longo tempo e sempre perguntando se alguém havia comprado o sobrado cobiçado; e quando um velho corretor da bolsa com sua família o comprou, se deu ao trabalho de convocar o cavalheiro e implorar por tudo que lhe fosse mais sagrado para não morar naquela casa sinistra.
—Por quê? — perguntou o corretor, não de maneira anormal.
E ele foi tão vago e confuso, em tentar explicar o porquê tentando não explicar o porquê, que o corretor o mandou embora, e agradeceu ao seu Deus por não ser tolo a ponto de deixar um lunático se interpor no seu caminho de adquirir aquele sobrado extremamente barato e oportuno.
Chegamos agora à parte curiosa e inexplicável dessa história que é quando ela desceu para o café da manhã no dia 22 de outubro e o encontrou com uma cara de morto, com o jornal nas mãos. Seus olhares se encontraram, ele não conseguia falar e apontou para o jornal. E ela leu que na noite de 21 de outubro uma moça, a filha do corretor da bolsa, foi encontrada morta, com um corte na garganta de orelha a orelha, em sua cama no quarto grande dos fundos, que dava para as escadas, daquele agradável sobrado.
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Années d'expérience en traduction : 4. Inscrit à ProZ.com : Mar 2019.
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Bio
My professional background is in Social Sciences and Tourism and I enjoy reading a variety of other subjects, including anthropology, history, and fashion.
I have professional translation experience in the literary and business fields, and previously served as tour guide for international groups from various countries.
I have a particular interest in working with luxury travel, hospitality, ecotourism, fashion industry and social sciences.
SmartCat, memoQ and Wordfast Anywhere are the CAT Tools I am familiar with.
I can translate from English and French into Brazilian Portuguese.
I am a member of ABRATES (Brazilian Association of Translators).
Mots clés : Portuguese, French, English, freelance, translator, tradutora, intérprete, interpreter, airport interpreter, tourism. See more.Portuguese, French, English, freelance, translator, tradutora, intérprete, interpreter, airport interpreter, tourism, ecotourism, travel, luxury travel, fashion industry, social sciences, anthropology, airline companies, literature, Portugais, Français, Anglais, voyages, voyages de luxe, mode, sciences sociales, antrophologie, industrie de la mode, Portugues, Inglês, Francês, literatura, ciências sociais, turismo, ecoturismo, literatura, viagens de luxo, companhias aéreas, cinema, films, . See less.
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