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  You are here: home »  literature »  eminescu  » emperor and proletarian

EMPEROR AND PROLETARIAN		IMPARAT SI PROLETAR
Squatting on wooden benches, within a tavern bare, Where daylight's rays but dimly through dirty windows show, Before a long, stained table, their faces drawn with care, Wearied out by wandering and doubting's black despair, These are the wretched sons of poverty and woe. "Ah friends," said one, "you think man is a light that glows Upon this earth of sorrowing and misery? Why, not a spark is there in him that candid shows; His lamp is dark as is this globe on which he grows, And over which the lord omnipotent is he. Tell me then what justice means... The powerful secure Behind their wealth, within their circling laws conspire To mass still greater wealth against the needy poor, Against ourselves, that we shall all the toil endure Bowed down and bent in labour's yoke our lives entire. Some pass their time in ceaseless revelry and play; The hours smile for them, and amber wine they drink; The winter months in gardens do they wile away, Coolness of alpine snows the summer fires allay; They turn the morn to eve, and from the sun's eye shrink. Virtue for them does not exist, but they will preach Sacrificing, love and diligence to us. The heavy car of state must rumble on, and each Of you must pour his blood into the battle's breach, That of your endless pain they may grow prosperous. Countless, mighty hosts, and navies on the sea, Splendid golden crowns on noble foreheads worn, Riches from near and far, in thoughtless quantity, These hold the rich aloft in high sublimely; While on our aching backs are all the burdens born. Religion-but a tale, astutely spread abroad To rivet on your shoulders the heavy harnessed load, For, had you lost all hope of heavenly reward After a life on earth with pain and hardship scored, Would you go on working as an ox beneath the goad? With what strange phantom shadows are your illusions fed That make you set your faith in heaven's promised store? No, when your life is passed, all hope of joy is sped, And he who dies in misery, in misery is dead; For those who pass the grave come back again no more. In lies and windy phrases their state and safety stands, Their holy law and order is but an empty creed, To keep their stolen wealth safe from your needy hands, They arm you to destroy your like on foreign lands, And you against yourselves triumphantly they lead. Why should you be slaves of their immoral gold, You who scarcely live for all your endless toil? Why should disease and death you in their arms enfold, While they in plenitude and boundless wealth grow old Even as though they hoped to cheat death of its spoil? How do you forget the power that numbers mean? You could take back today your rights they will not give. Build no more these walls with which their wealth they screen, Or which for prisons serve when pressed by torments keen You dare assert at last the right you have to live. Every pleasure they enjoy surrounded by their law And all their careless days in utmost sweetness spend, In luxury and vice, and drunken wild uproar. They call your virgins in, blind instruments before Their old corrupted satyrs who their young beauty rend. And should you ask yourselves what part is left for you The drudgery on which is based their happiness, A lifelong servitude, and crumbs of bread a few. Robbed of your daughters, and dishonoured too . . For them the earth and sky, for you naught but distress. They have no need of rules: virtue is easy when All that you want you have. Round you their laws are wound, Their punishments designed to strike you, wretched men Who date to stretch a hand to ask your own again: Even your needs become a crime that has no bound. Hurl to the earth their scheme founded on greed and wrong. This system that divides, making us rich and poor ! Since there will be no prize in death awaited long, Demand the rights today that do to you belong, And let us live in equal brotherhood secure ! Smash down the antique bronze that Venus naked shows; Let pictures that do wickedly entice be brought to dust, Snowy limbs that tell of wonders no man knows, And break in passions rude our maidens soft repose, And lead them unawares into the claws of lust ! Scatter wide what rouses and sustains perverted mind, Temple and palace storm that shield disgrace and crime, Melt the statues tall that of tyranny remind; Wash from the marble steps the footprints left behind By those who near the great through lies and pandering climb ! Banish the signs of pomp and false deceiving pride; O, strip from daily life the granite robe it wears, Its purple and its gold... its foul and ugly hide; To make of life a dream, of living purified, That without passion is and happiness prepares. Gigantic pyramids from this life's ruins raise, A memento mori unto the end of time; To open out our souls that we may justice praise Unto eternity, not nude and shameful ways, With harlot soul, and eyes grown wild with lust and crime Oh, let the deluge loose; you've waited long to know What recompense your meek humility will get; The wolf and the hyena do in the courtiers grow, Their cruelties of old still baser patterns show, Only the form is changed, the evil lives on yet. Strike and the golden era will return to us again, Of which old legends tell us that all was gay and fair; That happiness in life be equal for all men. Even the touch of death will not be awful then, But seem a smiling angel with long and golden hair. Then you will die contented and not by sorrow wrung, Your children will be born and in full gladness live. Even the church will not bewail with iron tongue The passing of the free to live the blest among: None will lament the dead who took all life could give. Thus slowly will grow less the toll of dire disease, While that alone will flourish which nature did intend, And all these things will come in gradual degrees, Till man but leaves the earth when earth no more can please. The brimming cup of life drained empty to the end." ............................................................................. Along the banks of Seine, drawn in a gala coach The great king slowly goes, pallid and deep in thought. Neither the lapping waves, nor rumbling wheels encroach Upon his brooding mind; before his train's approach There stands the suffering crowd with suffering distraught. With ready piercing glance, and subtle smiling air, He reads the secret thought that fills the people's soul, The hand that holds the fate of those poor creatures there Salutes them now with bland, acutely reasoned care Because his fate and theirs is but one single whole. Loveless he is, and lone, going so grandly by; Convinced like all of you that malice, vice and hate Will always govern all things and under all things lie, While ever human history its age-old course will ply As on time's heavy anvil blind hammers heedless fate. So he whose very person is tyranny's high crest Nods a gentle greeting to these ragged human things. If they who are the power on which his glories rest Would one day raise their heads or challenge his behest, Low, yes low indeed, would fall the king of kings. For all your shrewd mistrust, your deeply doubting sense, Your cold and bitter smile that ne'er to pity woke, For all your strong belief that law is but pretence, For all your numbers might, the shade of violence, 'Tis he who holds you dumbly, still toiling in the yoke. ............................................................................. Paris is drowned in fire; the tempest bathes in flame, Steeples like black torches blaze in the wind away. Amidst the billowing sea whose waves no power could tame, Cries and the clash of arms high battle do acclaim. In very truth in France an age has died today. Down streets where flaming houses glitter on pikes and sword Barricades arise from blocks of granite piled; An army marching forwards, the proletarian horde, Company on company, that soon the ramparts board Midst thunderous echoing clang of the alarm bells wild. With faces pale as marble, as marble too as cold, Women carrying muskets pass through the ruddy glow. Their hair hangs o'er their shoulders and does their breasts enfold; Mad with lifelong suffering and with dark hatred bold, Black their eyes, yet gleaming with the brightness of despair. Courage little soldiers wrapped in your tresses long, Great today has grown the poor abandoned child, Through the fire and ashes to justice march along, For all your deeds of horror do to this hour belong; Not you to blame, but those who your young souls defiled ! ............................................................................. And now the ocean shines, as though were on it laid And slid upon themselves broad plates of crystal bright; While low above the trees, the secret forest glade, The lonely yellow moon on azure field displayed O'er floods the silent world with her triumphal light. Across the silver swell, with motion smooth and slow Ocean battered ships draw their old wooden sides; Like mighty gliding shadows across the sea they go While through their straining canvass the moonbeams seem to throw A fiery golden wheel that e'er before them rides. Upon a cliff corroded by the billows' restless chide, Beneath a weeping willow, with branches to the ground, The king of kings is gazing out o'er the falling tide Where gleaming silver circles midst one another glide, And where the night breeze wanders with slow and cadenced sound. And to the king it seemed that through the starlight fair, Treading the forest trees, and crossing the ocean clear, With long and snowy beard, and heavy thoughtful air, A crown of withered grasses caught to his tangled hair There came the mad King Lear. With mute astonishment he watched that shadow hang Against the riven clouds, through which the stars unfurled Blazed out; and in his head a train of visions sprang.. Till loudly echoing above it all there rang The people's voices that clothed in fire the stricken world: "In every man the earth is entirely built once more. Old Demiurges still strives within each heart in vain, For every mind puts in questions that all have put before: Why is the flower that blooms to death inheritor? Longings strange and sad, that rise in obscure pain. The seed of a whole world of greatness and desire At hazard have been sown within the hearts of all; And when their time is come, their nature does aspire After a perfect fruit, with all its strength entire; Yet ere the fruit be ripe, the blossoms often fall. Thus is the human fruit oft frozen in the bloom; One man becomes a king, another but a slave, Covering with chaos their different lots too soon, Before the morning sun their works like petals strewn; Yet nature to them all an equal knowledge gave. Throughout the length of time, different and still the same Their yearnings and their hopes are of one kind composed, And though of countless fashions does seem life's secret flame, All are alike deceived that call upon her name; While infinite desire is in an atom closed. When you but recollect that death will end this dream, That nothing much is changed the day your life is passed, This struggling desire to right the world will seem Folly, and you'll grow tired; but one thing true you'll deem: That life is but the way to endless death at last. Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu		Pe bãnci de lemn, în scunda tavernã mohorâtã, Unde pãtrunde ziua printre ferestri murdare, Pe lângã mese lunge, stãtea posomorâtã, Cu-fete-ntunecoase, o ceatã pribegitã, Copii sãraci si sceptici ai plebei proletare. Ah! -- zise unul -- spuneti cã-i omul o luminã Pe lumea asta plinã de-amaruri si de chin? Nici o cânteie-ntr-însul nu-i candidã si plinã, Murdarã este raza-i ca globul cel de tinã, Asupra cãrui dânsul domneste pe deplin. Spuneti-mi ce-i dreptatea? -- Cei tari se îngrãdirã Cu-averea si mãrirea în cercul lor de legi; Prin bunuri ce furarã, în veci vezi cum conspirã Contra celor ce dânsii la lucru-i osândirã Si le subjugã munca vietii lor întregi. Unii plini de plãcere petrec a lor viatã, Trec zilele voiaose si orele surâd. În cupe vin de ambrã -- iarna grãdini, verdeatã, Vara petreceri, Alpii cu fruntile de gheatã -- Ei fac din noapte ziuã s-a zilei ochi închid. Virtutea pentru dânsii ea nu existã. Însã V-o predicã, cãci trebui sã fioe brate tari,  A satelor greoaie carã trebuie-mpinse Si trebuiesc luptate rãzboaiele aprinse, Cãci voi murind în sânge, ei pot sã fie mari. Si flotele puternice s-armatele fãloase, Coroanele ce regii le pun pe fruntea lor, S-acele milioane, ce în grãmezi luxoase Sunt strânse la bogatul, pe cel sãrac apasã, Si-s supte din sudoarea prostitului popor. Religia -- o frazã de dînsii inventatã Ca cu a ei putere sã vã aplece-n jug, Cãci ar lipsi din inimi speranta de rãsplatã,  Dupa ce-amar muncirãti mizeri viata toatã, Ati mai purta osânda ca vita de la plug? Cu umbre, care nu sunt, v-a-ntunecat vederea Si v-a fãcut sã credeti cã veti fi rãsplãtiti... Nu! Moartea cu viata a stins toatã plãcerea -- Cel ce în astã lume a dus numai durerea Nimic n-are dincolo, cãci morti sunt cei muriti. Minciuni si fraze-i totul ce le statele sustine, nu-i ordinea fireascã ce ei a fi sustin; averea sã le aperi, mãrirea a-a lor bine, Ei bratul tãu înarmã ca sã lovesti în tine, Si pe voi contra voastrã la luptã ei vã mân. De ce sã fiti voi sclacii milioanelor nefaste, Voi, ce din munca voastrã abia puteti trãi? De ce boala si moartea sã fie partea voastrã, Când ei bogãtia cea splendidã si vastã Petrec ca si în ceruri, n-au timp nici de-a muri? De ce uitati cã-n voi e numãr si putere? Când vreti, puteti prea lesne pãmântul sã-mpãrtiti, Si nu le mai faceti ziduri unde sa-închid-avere, Pe voi unde sã-nchidã, când împinsi de durere Veti crede c-aveti dreptul si voi ca sã trãiti. Ei îngrãditi de lege, plãcerilor se lasã, Si sucul cel mai dulce pãmântului i-l sug; Ei cheamã-n voluptatea orgiei zgomotoase De instrumente oarbe a voastre fiici frumopase; Frumusetile-ne tineri bãtrânii lor distrug. Si de-ntrebati atunce, vouã ce vã rãmâne? Munca, din care dânsii se-mbatã în plãceri, Robia viata toatã, lacrimi pe-o neagrã pâne, Copilelor pãtate mizeria-n rusine... Ei tot si voi nimica; ei cerul, voi dureri! De lege n-au nevoie -- virtutea e usoarã Când ai ce-ti trebuieste... Iar legi sunt pentru voi, Vouã vã pune lege, pedepse vã mãsoarã Când mâna v-o întindeti la bunuri zâmbitoare, Cãci nu-i iertat nici bratul teribilei nevoi. Zdraobiti orânduiala cea crudã si nedreaptã, Ce llumea o împarte în mizeri si bogati! Atunci când dupã moarte rãsplatã nu v-asteaptã, Faceti ca-n astã lume sã aibã parte dreaptã, Egalã fiecare, si sã trãim ca frati! Sfãrmati statuia goalã a Venerei antice, Ardeti acele pânze cu corpuri de ninsori; Ele stârnesc în suflet ideea neferice A perfectiei umane si ele fac sã pice În ghearele uzurei copile din popor! Sfãrmati tot ce atâtã inima lor bolnavã, Sfãrmati palate, temple, ce crimele ascund, Zvârliti statui de tirani în foc, sã curgã lavã, Sã spele de pe pietre pânã si urma sclavã Celor ce le urmeazã pân’ la al lumii fund! Sfãrmati tot ce aratã nândrie si avere, O! dezbrãcati viata de haina-i de granit, De purpurã, de aur, de lacrimi, de urât -- Sã fie un vis numai, sãfie o pãrere,  Ce fãr’ de patimi trece în timpul nesfârsit. Zudutu dub dãrmãture gigantici piramide Ca un memento mori pe al istoriei plan; Aceasta este arta ce sufletu-ti deschide Naintea veciniciei, nu corpul gol ce râde Cu mutra de vândutã, cu ochi vil si viclean. O! aduceti potopul, destul voi asteptarãti Ca sã vedeti ce bine prin bine o sã ias’ Nimic... Locul hienei îi luã cel vorbãret Locul cruzimii veche, cel lins si pizmãtaret, Formele se schimbarã, dar rãul a rãmas. Atunci vãveti întoarce la vremile-aurite, Ce mitele albastre ni le soptesc ades, Plãcerile egale, egal vor fi-mpãrtite, Chiar moartea când va stinge lampa vietii finite, Vi s-a pãrea un înger cu pãrul blond si des. Atunci veti muri lesne fãrã de-amar si grijã, Feciorii-or trãi-n lume cum voi ati vietuit, Chiar clopotul n-a plânge cu limba lui de spijã Pentru acel de care norocul avu grijã; Nimeni de-a plânge n-are, el traiul si-a trãit. Si boale ce mizeria s-averea nefireascã Le nasc în oameni, toate cu-ncetul s-or topi; Va creste tot ce-n lume este menit sã creascã, Va bea pân-în fund cupa, pân’ va vrea s-o zdrobeascã, Cãci va muri când nu va avea la ce trãi. .......................................................................... Pe malurile Seinei, în faeton de galã, Cezarul trece palid, în gânduri adâncit; Al undelor greu vuiet, vuirea în granit A sute d-echipajuri, gândirea-i n-o însalã; Poporul loc îi face tãcut si umilit. Zâmbirea lui desteaptã, adâncã si tãcutã, Privirea-i ce citeste în suflete-omenesti, Si mâna-i care poartã destinele lumesti, Cea grupã zdrentuitã în cale-i o salutã. Marirea-i în tainã legatã de acesti. Convins ca voi el este-n nãltimea-i solitarã Lipsitã de iubire, cum cã principiul rãu, Nedreptul si minciuna al lumii duce frâu; Istoria umanã în veci se desfãsoarã, Povestea-i a ciocanului ce cade pe ilãu. Si el -- el vârful mândru al celor ce apasã -- Saluta-n a lui cale pe-apãrãtorul mut. De ati lipsi din lume, voi cauza-ntunecoasã De rãsturnãri mãrete, mãrirea-i radioasã, Cezarul, chiar Cezarul de mult ar fi cãzut. Cu ale voastre umbre nimica crezãtoare, Cu zâmbetu-vã rece, de milã pãrãsit, Cu mintea de dreptate si bine râzãtoare, Cu umbra voastrã numai, puteri îngrozitoare, La jugu-i el sileste pe cei ce l-au urât. ............................................................................. Parisul arde-n valuri, furtuna-n el se scaldã, Turnuri ca facle negre trãsnesc arzând în vânt -- Prin limbile de flãcãri, ce-n valuri se frãmânt, Rãcnete, vuiet de-arme pãtrund marea cea caldã, Evul e un cadavru -- Paris al lui mormânt. Pe stradele-ncrusite de flãcãri orbitoare, Suiti pe baricade de bulgãride granit, Se misc batalioane a plebei proletare, Cu cusme frigiene si arme lucitoare, Si clopote de-alarmã rãsunã rãgusit. Ca marmura de albe, ca ea nepãsãtoare, Prin aerul cel rosu, femei trec ce-arme-n brat, Cu pãr bogat si negru pe urme se coboarã Si sânii lor acopãr -- e urã si turbare În ochii lor cei nergi, adânci si desperati. O! Luptã-te-nvãlitã în pletele-ti bogate, Eroic este astãzi copilul cel pierdut! Cãci flamua cea rosã cu umbra-i de departe Sfinteste-a ta viatã de tinã si pãcate; Nu! nu esti tu de vinã, ci cei ce te-au vândut! .......................................................................... Scânteie marea linã si placele ei sure Se misc una pe alta ca pãturi de cristal Prin lume prãvãlite; din tainica pãdure Apare luna mare câmpiilor azure, Împlându-le cu ochiul ei mândru, triumfal. Pe undele încete îsi miscã lagãnate Corãbii învechite scheletele de lemn; Trecând ncet ca umbre -- tin pânzle umflate În fata lunei care prin ele-atunci strãbate, Si-n roatã defoc galben stã fata-i ca un semn. Pe maluri zdrumicate de aiurirea mãrii  Cezaru-ncã vegheazã la trunchiul cel pãcat Al salciei pletoase -- si-ntinse-a apei arii În cercuri fulgerânde se pleaca lin suflãrii A zefirului noptii si sunã cadentat. Îi pare cã prin aer în noaptea înstelatã, Cãlcând pe vârf de codri, pe-a apelor mãriri, Trecea cu barba albã -- pe fruntea-ntunecatã Cununa cea de paie îi atârnã uscatã -- Mosneagul rege Lear. Uimit privea Cezarul la umbra cea din nouri, Prin creti ai cãrei stele lin tremurând transpar, I se deschide-n minte tot sensul din tablouri A vietii sclipitoare... A popoarelor ecouri Par glasuri ce îmbracã o lume de amar: "În orice om o lume îsi face încercarea, Bãtrânul Demiurgos se opinteste-n van; În orice minte lumea îsi pune întrebarea Din nou: de unde vine si unde merge floarea Dorintelor obscure sãdite în noian?" Al lumii-ntregul sâmbur, dorinta-i si mãrirea, În inima oricãrui I-ascuns si trãitor, Zvârlire hazardatã, cum pomu-n înflorire În orice floare-ncearcã întreagã a sa fire, Ci-n calea de-a da roade cele mai multe mor. Astfel umana roadã în calea ei înghetã, Se petrificã unul în sclav, altu-mpãrat, Acoperind cu noime sãrmana lui viatã Si arãtând la soare-a mizeriei lui fatã -- Fata -- cãci întelesul I-acelasi la toti dat. În veci acelasi doruri mascate cu-altã hainã, Si-n toatã omenirea în veci acelasi om -- În multe forme-apare a vietii crudã tainã, Pe toti ea îi însalã, la nime se distainã, Dorinti nemãrginite plantând într-un atom. Când stii ca visu-acesta cu moarte se sfârseste, Cã-n urmã-ti rãmân toate astfel cum sunt, de dregi Oricât ai drege-n lume -- atunci te oboseste Eterna alergare... s-un gând te-ademeneste: "Cã vis al mortii-eterne e viata lumii-ntregi". (1874, 1 decembrie) Mihail Eminescu
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