Per Amica Silentia Lunae. William Butler Yeats. Читать онлайн. Newlib. NEWLIB.NET

Автор: William Butler Yeats
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isbn: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33338
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r Yeats

      Per Amica Silentia Lunae

PROLOGUE

      My Dear “Maurice” – You will remember that afternoon in Calvados last summer when your black Persian “Minoulooshe,” who had walked behind us for a good mile, heard a wing flutter in a bramble-bush? For a long time we called her endearing names in vain. She seemed resolute to spend her night among the brambles. She had interrupted a conversation, often interrupted before, upon certain thoughts so long habitual that I may be permitted to call them my convictions. When I came back to London my mind ran again and again to those conversations and I could not rest till I had written out in this little book all that I had said or would have said. Read it some day when “Minoulooshe” is asleep.

W. B. YEATS.

      May 11, 1917.

      EGO DOMINUS TUUS

Hic

      On the grey sand beside the shallow stream,

      Under your old wind-beaten tower, where still

      A lamp burns on above the open book

      That Michael Robartes left, you walk in the moon,

      And, though you have passed the best of life, still trace,

      Enthralled by the unconquerable delusion,

      Magical shapes.

Ille

      By the help of an image

      I call to my own opposite, summon all

      That I have handled least, least looked upon.

Hic

      And I would find myself and not an image.

Ille

      That is our modern hope, and by its light

      We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind

      And lost the old nonchalance of the hand;

      Whether we have chosen chisel, pen, or brush,

      We are but critics, or but half create,

      Timid, entangled, empty, and abashed,

      Lacking the countenance of our friends.

Hic

      And yet,

      The chief imagination of Christendom,

      Dante Alighieri, so utterly found himself,

      That he has made that hollow face of his

      More plain to the mind’s eye than any face

      But that of Christ.

Ille

      And did he find himself,

      Or was the hunger that had made it hollow

      A hunger for the apple on the bough

      Most out of reach? And is that spectral image

      The man that Lapo and that Guido knew?

      I think he fashioned from his opposite

      An image that might have been a stony face,

      Staring upon a Beduin’s horse-hair roof,

      From doored and windowed cliff, or half upturned

      Among the coarse grass and the camel dung.

      He set his chisel to the hardest stone;

      Being mocked by Guido for his lecherous life,

      Derided and deriding, driven out

      To climb that stair and eat that bitter bread,

      He found the unpersuadable justice, he found

      The most exalted lady loved by a man.

Hic

      Yet surely there are men who have made their art

      Out of no tragic war; lovers of life,

      Impulsive men, that look for happiness,

      And sing when they have found it.

Ille

      No, not sing,

      For those that love the world serve it in action,

      Grow rich, popular, and full of influence;

      And should they paint or write still is it action,

      The struggle of the fly in marmalade.

      The rhetorician would deceive his neighbours,

      The sentimentalist himself; while art

      Is but a vision of reality.

      What portion in the world can the artist have,

      Who has awakened from the common dream,

      But dissipation and despair?

Hic

      And yet,

      No one denies to Keats love of the world,

      Remember his deliberate happiness.

Ille

      His art is happy, but who knows his mind?

      I see a schoolboy, when I think of him,

      With face and nose pressed to a sweetshop window,

      For certainly he sank into his grave,

      His senses and his heart unsatisfied;

      And made – being poor, ailing and ignorant,

      Shut out from all the luxury of the world,

      The ill-bred son of a livery stable keeper —

      Luxuriant song.

Hic

      Why should you leave the lamp

      Burning alone beside an open book,

      And trace these characters upon the sand?

      A style is found by sedentary toil,

      And by the imitation of great masters.

Ille

      Because I seek an image, not a book;

      Those men that in their writings are most wise

      Own nothing but their blind, stupefied hearts.

      I call to the mysterious one who yet

      Shall walk the wet sand by the water’s edge,

      And look most like me, being indeed my double,

      And prove of all imaginable things

      The most unlike, being my anti-self,

      And, standing by these characters, disclose

      All that I seek; and whisper it as though

      He were afraid the birds, who cry aloud

      Their momentary cries before it is dawn,

      Would carry it away to blasphemous men.

December 1915.

      ANIMA HOMINIS

I

      When I come home after meeting men who are strange to me, and sometimes even after talking to women, I go over all I have said in gloom and disappointment. Perhaps I have overstated everything from a desire to vex or startle, from hostility that is but fear; or all my natural thoughts have been drowned by an undisciplined sympathy. My fellow-diners have hardly seemed of mixed humanity, and how should I keep my head among images of good and evil, crude allegories.

      But when I shut my door and light the candle, I invite a Marmorean Muse, an art, where no thought or emotion has come to mind because another man has thought or felt something different, for now there must be no reaction, action only, and the world must move my heart but to the heart’s discovery of itself, and I begin to dream of eyelids that do not quiver before the bayonet: all my thoughts have ease and joy, I am all virtue and confidence. When I come to put in rhyme what I have found it will be a hard toil, but for a moment I believe I have found myself and not my anti-self. It is only the shrinking from toil perhaps that convinces me that I have been no