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  You are here: home »  literature »  eminescu  » satire I

SATIRE I		SCRISOAREA I
When my eyes are weighed with sleep I quench the evening candle’s glow And leave the ticking clock alone the path of time to go When from my square of window-pane I draw the curtain to one side The climbing moon pours in and floods the room with her voluptuous light; Then from the night of memory in answer to her summons steal An endless host of sorrows pale that we have lived but now scarce feel. Moon, fair ruler of the sea, over the sky’s round vault you glide, The sight of you recalls the grief's that locked within man’s bosom bide; Beneath thy virgin glow are there a thousand deserts glittering, And thousand forest shades conceal the wells from which their waters spring! Over how many million waves extends thy timeless empery When on your way you sail above the lonely wonder of the sea! How many flowers besprinkled fields, how many a walled and peopled place Have known your proud despotic charm when they but looked upon your face! Into how many thousand rooms you peered as now in mine you peer, How many thousands brows has lit the flooded glory of thy sphere! I see a king sit down to plot earth’s destiny for endless days While here the trembling beggar-man plans for the morrow scarcely lays... Different the lots these twain have drawn out the secret urn of fate Alike they fall beneath thy sway, alike inherit death’s estate; What’re they be they come alike under human passions’ rule, So as the weak man is the strong, so as the genius is the fool. One searches on the mirror’s face a novel way to curl his hair, Another roves through time and space to track truth to her hidden lair, Pilling endless loads of lore from ancient learning's yellow page And nothing down the thoughts and names that sped across some bygone age. Another from his counting house controls a nation’s destinies And figures gold his ships have brought across a score of troubled seas. And here the old philosopher, his coatis torn, and does a web of logic spin. Shivering with cold he buttons up his torn and ragged gown, Turns up the collar round his neck, presses his cotton ear-plugs down; Dried up and twisted as he is, of no importance does he stand And yet he holds the universe within the ambit of his hand; Within the confine of his brain the future and the past unite And with his science he lays bare the secrets of eternal night. As Atlas was of old declared to bear the sky upon his back, So does our philosopher the world within a cipher tack. The moon looks in and sheds its beams a pile of ancient books upon, He sets his mind to roving back across a thousand ages gone Into the time are things began, when being and not being still Did not exist to plague man’s mind, and there was neither life nor will, When there was nothing that was hid, yet all things darkly hidden were, When self-contained was uncontained and all was slumber everywhere. Was there a heavenly abyss? Or yet unfathomable sea? There was no mind to contemplate an uncreated mystery. Then was the darkness all so black as seas that roll deep in the earth, As black as blinded mortal eye, and no man yet had come to birth, The shadow of the still unmade did not its silver threads unfold, And over an unending peace unbroken empty silence rolled!... Then something small in chaos stirred... the very first and primal cause. And God the Father married space and placed upon confusion laws. That moving something, small and light, less than a bubble of sea spray, Established through the universe eternal and unquestionable sway... And from that hour the timeless mists draw back their dark and hanging folds. And law in earth and sun and moon essential form and order moulds. After that day in endless swarms countless flying worlds have come Out of the soundless depth of space, each drawn towards its unknown home, Have come in shining colonies rising from out infinity, Attracted to the universe by strange and restless urge to be, while we, inheritors of space, the children of this world of awe, Are raising witless heaps of sand upon our little earthy floor; Microscopic nations rise with warrior and king and seer, Throughout the years our fortunes wax, until we have forgotten fear. We, flies, that for a single day buzz in a measured world and small, Suspended in the midst of time, careless and forgetting all That this frail world in which we trust is only flung momentarily between the darkness that is past and all the darkness yet to be. Just as the motes of dust enjoy their kingdom in the lamplight’s ray, Thousands specks that are no more when once that beam has passed away So, in the midst of endless night, we have our little time to spend, Our moment snatched from chaos, which did not yet come to an end. But when our beam at last goes out, our world will suddenly disperse Amidst the dark that ever hangs around this whirling universe. Yet not within the present day stays the philosopher’s quick thought; One cast of that far-ranging brain a hundred eons of time has caught. He sees grow small and red and cold the sun that now burns high and proud, And at last he sees it die closing like a wound stabbed in a cloud. He sees the rebel planets freeze and headlong plunge about in space Freed from the ordering of the sun who deep in night has veiled his face. While o’er earth’s altar like a veil eternity its darkness weaves And one by one pale, faded stars are failing like the autumn leaves. The body of the universe is stiffened to eternal death And through the emptiness of space is neither movement, life nor breath. All falls into not being’s night and an unbroken silence reigns As once again the universe its primal peace and void regains... ......................................................................... Commencing with the multitude that swarms uncounted on the ground And rising to the palace where the Emperor sits with glory crowned, All are as one, and each is by riddle of his life pursued, And none can say which man of them is most with misery endued, For unto all comes each man’s lot, to all the fate of each applies. Little it aids if one of them above his class succeeds to rise While all the others stay below and gaze on him humble hearts, For he and they are all unknown, playing the same ephemeral parts. What reckons fate of their desires, what they would have, or do, or be? Fate rides as blindly o’er their lives as does the wind across the sea. Now writers out of every land and all the world high plaudits raise... What cares the old philosopher? And what to him is all men’s praise? Immortality, people will say! True, all his hard lived days were spent In clinging to a single thought, as ivy round a tree is bent. After I die, he tells himself, my name will live to endless time, From age to age, from mouth to mouth, and carried to the farthest clime, Unto the farthest realms of earth, and to the world’s remotest mind’ Behind the rampart of my works may not my name a refuge find?’ Poor soul ! Do you yourself retain everything that passed your head? All the dreams that you have dreamed, all the words that you have said? Little enough: but here there some of images, some bit Of tattered thought, some phrase, some scrap of yellow paper closely writ. If you forget the life you had, the things that you have done and seen, With other men spend fruitless days discovering how it must have been? Perhaps somewhere in days to come, some green-eyed pedant’s gaze will fall Upon a pile of faded books, himself more faded than them all, To scan the wonder of your words and weigh them in his niggard scale, While from their bindings dust will rise and on his glasses spread a veil. Then will he place your works in rows upon his shelves and summaries Upon a ragged paper slip; he’ll write of your philosophies. Though you create or sink a world, one end there is to all your toil, For over you and all your works a spade will heap a mound of soil. An emperor’s head, or one in which a world of wisdom has been stored Finds ample room within a box composed of four short bits of board.... And all will hasten to attend the honoured funeral you will get, Splendid in their irony, with posturing of feigned regret ... And from some carven pulpit tall a nobody will glibly prate; Not for your honour will he speak, but on his own great gifts dilate Under the shadow of your name: a windy, pompous, empty speech. Posterity? What is it but a phantom far beyond your reach! For who should dream posterity will ever think to talk of you, Except perhaps in some small tone written with grudging words and few, Compiled by some old soulless scribe to prove that you were common clay, A man like any one of them. For fully satisfied are they To prove you even as themselves. Their learned nostrils wide extending Dilated with a splendid pride, when at some learned meeting’s ending Your name pedantically is used, knowing beforehand there will be, Uttered by ironic mouth, some gilded word in praise of thee. Fallen among these wolfish fools your glory will be torn to shreds, While all that is not understood will be decried by wagging heads. Then they will probe your private life, dissecting that, discounting this, And searching out with eager eyes each little thing you’ve done amiss, To make you even as themselves. They will not care for all the light Your labour poured upon the world, but for the sins and every slight And human failing they can find, and every petty thing that must Befall the life of hapless days, of every mortal child of dust. And every little misery that harassed a tormented mind Will seem more notable to them than all the truths that you did find. ........................................................................... Within a garden’s closing walls, where fruit-tree blossom strews the ground, And over which the full moon sails with all her shining splendour crowned, Out of the depth of memory’s night countless hidden longings rise; Pain is benumbed as in sleep, we see the world with dreamer’s eyes, For in the calm light of the moon fancy’s gates are open wide And all around us phantoms creep after the candle light has died.... Beneath thy virgin glow, o moon, are thousand deserts glittering And thousand forest shades conceal the wells from which their waters spring! Over how many million waves extends thy timeless empery When on your way you sail above the lonely wonder of the sea! All who sojourn on this earth, within the iron realm of fate, Alike are subject to thy sway, alike inherit death’s estate! Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu		Când cu gene ostenite sara suflu-n lumânare, Doar ceasornicul urmeazã lung-a timpului cãrare, Cãci perdelele-ntr-o parte când le dai, si în odaie Luna varsã peste toate voluptoasa ei vãpaie, Ea din noaptea amintirii o vecie-ntreagã scoate De dureri pe care însã le simtim ca-n vis pe toate. Lunã tu, stãpân-a mãrii, pe a lumii boltã luneci Si gândirilor dând viatã, suferintele întuneci; Mii pustiuri scânteiaza sub lumina ta fecioarã, Si câti codri-ascund în umbrã strãlucire de isvoarã! Peste câte mii de valuri stãpânirea ta strãbate, Când plutesti pe miscãtoarea mãrilor singurãtate! Câte tãrmuri înflorite, ce palate, ce cetãti, Strãbãtute de-al tãu farmec, tie singurã-ti arãti! Si în câte mii de case lin pãtruns-ai prin feresti, Câte frunti pline de gânduri, gânditoare le privesti! Vezi pe-un rege ce-mpânzeste globu-n planuri pe un veac, Când la ziua cea de mâne abia cuget-un sãrac... Desi trepte osebite le-au iesit din urna sortii Deopotrivã-i stãpâneste raza ta si geniul mortii; La acelasi sir de patimi deopotrivã fiind robi, Fie slabi, fie puternici, fie genii ori neghiobi! Unul cautã-n oglindã de-si bucleazã al sãu pãr, Altul cautã în lume si în vreme adevãr, De pe galbenele file el aduna mii de coji, A lor nume trecãtoare le înseamnã pe rãboj; Iarã altu-mparte lumea de pe scândura tãrãbii, Socotind cât aur marea poartã-n negrele-i corãbii, Iar colo bãtrânul dascãl cu-a lui hainã roasã-n coate, Într-un calcul fãrã capãt tot socoate si socoate Si de frig la piept si-ncheie tremurând halatul vechi, Îsi infunda gâtu-n guler si bumbacul în urechi; Uscãtiv asa cum este, gârbovit si de nimic, Universul fãrã margini e în degetul lui mic, Cãci sub frunte-i viitorul si trecutul se încheagã, Noapte-adânc-a veciniciei el în siruri o dezleagã; Precum Atlas în vehime sprijinea cerul pe umãr Asa sprijinã el lumea si vecia într-un numãr. Pe când luna strãluceste peste-a tomurilor bracuri,  Într-o clipã-l poartã gândul îndãrãt cu mii de veacuri, La-nceput pe când fiintã nu era nici nefiintã, Pe când totul era lipsã de viatã si vointã, Când nu s-ascundea nimica, desi tot era ascuns... Când pãtruns de sine însusi odihnea cel nepãtruns. Fu prãpastie? Genune? Fu noian întins de apã?  N-a fost lume priceputã si nici minte s-o priceapã, Cãci era un întuneric ca o mare fãr-o razã, Dar nici de vãzut nu fuse si nici ochiu care sã o vazã. Umbra celor nefãcute nu-ncepuse-a se desface, Si în sine împãcarea stãpânea eterna pace!... Dar deodat-un punct se miscã... cel întâi si singur. Iatã-l Cum din chaos face mumã, iarã el devine Tatãl... Punctu-acela de miscare, mult mai slab ca boaba spumii, E stãpânul fãrã margini peste marginile lumii... De-atunci negura eternã se desface în fâsii, De atunci rãsare lumea, lunã, soare si stihii... De atunci si pâna astazi colonii de lumi pierdute Vin din sure vãi de chaos pe cãrãri necunoscute Si în roiuri luminoase izvorând din infinit, Sunt atrase în viata de un dor nemãrginit. Iar în lumea asta mare, noi copii ai lumii mici, Facem pe pãmântul nostru musunoaie de furnici; Microscopice popoare, regi, osteni si învãtati Ne succedem generatii si ne credem minunati; Musti de-o zi pe-o lume micã de se mãsurã cu cotul, În acea nemãrginire ne-nvârtim uitând cu totul Cum cã lume asta-ntreagã e o clipã suspendatã, Cã-ndãrãtu-i si-nainte întuneric se aratã. Precum pulberea se joacã în imperiul unei raze, Mii de fire viorie ce cu raza înceteazã, Astfel, într-a vecinciei noapte pururea adâncã, Avem clipa, avem raza, care tot mai tine încã... Cum s-o stinge, totul piere, ca o umbrã-n întuneric, Cãci e vis al nefiintii universul cel himeric... În prezent cugetãtorul nu-si opreste a sa minte, Ci-ntr-o clipã gându-l duce mii de veacuri înainte; Soarele, ce azi e mândru, el îl vede trist si ros Cum se-nchide ca o ranã printre nori întunecosi, Cum planetii toti îngheatã si s-azvârl cu toti în spat Ei, din frânele luminii si ai soarelui scãpati; Iar cata petesma lumii în adânc s-au înnegrit,  Ca si frunzele de toamnã toate stelele-au pierit; Timpul mort si-ntinde trupul si devine vecinicie, Cãci nimic nu se întâmplã în întinderea pustie, Si în noaptea nefiintii totul cade, totul tace, Cãci in sine împacatã reîncep eterna pace... ............................................................................ Începând cu talpa însãsi a multimii omenesti Si suind în susul scãrii pân' la fruntile crãiesti, De a vietii LOR enigmã îi vedem pe toti munciti, Fãr-a sti sã spunem care ar fi mai nenorociti... UNUL e în toti, tot astfel precum UNA e în toate, De asupra tuturora se ridicã cine poate, Pe când altii stând în umbrã si cu inima smeritã Nestiuti se pierd în tainã ca si spuma nezãritã -- Ce-o sã-i pese soarte-i oarbe ce vor EI sau ce gândesc?... Ca si vântu-n valuri trece peste traiul omenesc. Fericeascã-l scriitorul, toatã lumea recunoascã-l... Ce-o sã aibã din acestea pentru el bãtrânul dascãl? Nemurire, se va zice. Este drept cã viata-ntreagã, Ca si iedera de-un arbor, de-o idee i se leagã. "De-oi muri -- îsi zice-n sine -- al meu nume o sã-l poarte Secolii din gurã-n gurã si l-or duce mai departe, De a pururi, pretutindeni, în ungherul unor crieri Si-or gãsi, cu al meu nume, adãpost a mele scrieri!" O, sãrmane! tii tu minte câte-n lume-ai auzit, Ce-ti trecu pe dinainte, câte singur ai vorbit? Prea putin. De ici, de colo de imagine-o fãsie, Vreo o umbrã de gândire, ori un petec de hârtie; Si când propria ta viatã singur n-o stii pe de rost, O sã-si batã altii capul s-o pãtrunzã cum a fost? Poate vreun pedant cu ochii cei verzui, peste un veac, Printre tomuri brãcuite, asezat si el, un brac, Aticismul limbii tale o sã-l punã la cântãri, Colbul ridicat din carte-ti l-o sufla din ochelari Si te-o strânge-n douã siruri, asezându-te la coadã, În vro notã prizãritã sub o paginã neroadã. Poti zidi o lume-ntreagã, poti s-o sfarâmi... orice-ai spune, Peste toate o lopata de tãrânã se depune. Mâna care-au dorit sceptrul universului si gânduri Ce-au cuprins tot universul, încap bine-n patru scânduri... Or sã vie pe-a ta urmã în convoi de-nmormântare, Splendid ca o ironie cu priviri nepãsãtoare... Iar de-asupra tuturora va vorbi vrun mititel, Nu slãvindu-te pe tine... lustruindu-se pe el Sub a numelui tãu umbrã. Iatã tot ce te asteaptã. Ba sã vezi... posteritatea este încã si mai dreaptã. Neputând sã te ajungã, crezi c-or vrea sã te admire? Ei vor aplauda desigur biografia subtire Care s-o-ncerca s-arate cã n-ai fost vrun lucru mare, C-ai fost om cum sunt si dânsii... Mãgulit e fiecare Cã n-ai fost mai mult ca dânsul. Si prostatecele nãri Si le umflã orisicine în savante adunãri Când de tine se vorbeste. S-a-nteles de mai nainte C-o ironicã grimasã sã te laude-n cuvinte. Astfel încãput pe mâna a oricãrui, te va drege, Rele-or zice cã sunt toate câte nu vor întelege... Dar afarã de acestea vor cãta vietii tale Sã-i gãseascã pete multe, rãutãti si mici scandale -- Astea toate te-apropie de dânsii... Nu lumina Ce în lume-ai revãrsat-o, ci pãcatele si vina, Oboseala, slãbiciunea, toate relele ce sunt Într-un mod fatal legate de o mânã de pãmânt; Toate micile mizerii unui suflet chinuit Mult mai mult îi vor atrage decât tot ce ai gândit. ............................................................................ ntre ziduri, printre arbori ce se scuturã de floare, Cum revarsã luna plinã linistita ei splendoare! Si în noaptea amintirii mii de doruri ea ne scoate; Amortitã li-i durerea, le simtim ca-n vis pe toate, Cãci în propria-ne lume ea deschide poarta-ntrãrii  Si ridicã mii de umbre dupã stilul lumânãrii... Mii pustiuri scânteiazã sub lumina ta fecioarã, Si câti codri-ascund în umbrã strãlucire de isvoarã! Peste câte mii de valuri stãpânirea ta strãbate, Când plutesti pe miscãtoarea mãrilor singurãtate, Si pe toti ce-n astã lume sunt supusi puterii sortii Deopotriva-i stãpâneste raza ta si geniul mortii! 1881, 1 febr. Mihail Eminescu
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