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REALITY It was evening : they were reading Shakespeare's Death of Julius Caesar, And though they all knew that masterpiece, Yet they would either all fall silent together, Trembling, or they wouldn't all listen together, And were like a harp in a master's hands. The air was balmy towards dusk, windows Open to the balcony drew laurel scent indoors, And from above - a hazy crown of white stars In that constellation which, having fallen To the side of the Milky Way, is called Sobieski's Shield. They read the well-known scene : The night-scene in lonely Brutus's tent When he set his dagger to pen sarcasm About virtue. So when I say, "They were like a harp", I am borrowing from Shakespeare, who's calling the boy To play to Brutus in this very scene, And then to make him sleep and bring forth visions. The visions came, since memory no longer feels, Having first disappeared, string by string, beneath the fingers Of the boy falling asleep. This is the youth, Apparently a page, that Shakespeare used as a tool For experience - then fell silent and ghosts enter, Even though Shakespeare had no trick in mind Simply was creative - the logic of creation is not ours That's why so wonderously mysterious that many See it as nought. He composed - just as a goblet Full to the brim reflects the high heavenly blue And sheds its liquid only when tears Should fall upon liquid-reflected clouds, Tears used not as measure, but brimming over. Archimedes had no thought of solving equations When he entered the public baths, For creation is both certainty and chance, Accidental to the outside, internally coherent. When conscience sees it; it will appear to you Made up of successive merits, until fulfilled, Being like a just crown of labour; From the outside creativity will indeed strike you As a gift of heavenly generosity and a crooked line Without which the straight seems lifeless; A line representing revolt in geometry, But it ensures that geometry is exploited, Otherwise it would be an illiterate sign, Undoubtedly a certain kind of puzzle! So they read it as an imaginative work, but familiar, They would interrupt and restart the reading Until after Caesar came the Republic And the politics of the period, which one touches With that thunder of words still painful and obscure, Which history by-passes and reality muddles With judgment of the serious, with hearts of forgetful men, Uniting annually over what they had quarrelled. "Oh, experience - Robert was saying - experience, What are you to us ? Let's look closely, For, not being too old, we can push back remembrance Beyond us: a hundred battlefields, four rebellions, And all our youth spent in reading Despatches about various uprisings. And amongst themselves the blue-blooded, like cornflowers, Say: From the last to the very latest incidents And before you've uttered that Christian date, It's already changed! - times rich in incidents. Would they were in thoughts, virtues and accomplished aims ! Do not watch babies sleeping in their cots, Do not reflect on children's games, Don't be a father, don't count yourself amongst sons, Do not be a child-minder, For if you die selfish, you'll leave pains And nothing else." He spoke and with his hand sought the heart, Calm like a surgeon, like a murderer pale, For he knew they would reply, "Be a god!", And he felt at once those truths were a monologue. Hearing these words, Theodore spoke in a different vein: "Humanity calls for sacrifice - humanity is collective, When an individual is ill or dying, She walks on - a strong and healthy wench. Occasionally, someone will push away doctors, Leap over the grave; And move on - this is reality's law : Be a god! or don't come here with a pale face Like a sickle catacomb moon - Humanity has grown." "I admit - Robert replied - she is a tough lady, But, I also conjecture, sensitive and lofty, Nor would I call progress a pagan reversal I even deny the name of `Reality' to Energy, Which only knows it is in pursuit!" "How then ?" - "Who is it ?" - suddenly they all cried : "Thus quickly you've concluded To differ about reality itself? If so - that's the end. The discussion should continue, But if you differ even in this regard, That what one calls life, another styles death, That's too much - let's rather read Shakespeare." "Let's!" - then silence Someone's gently opening The window which Robert had shut - someone Wrapped in a cloak "Ha ! ha ! he's come to haunt us" "Guess who it is !" - they call and urge The silent figure not to pull back The velvet hood - - "Be assured, gentlemen - The guest replies - no one will guess ! I'll tell myself, I'm mindful to keep my head covered, And I won't bore you long - I go - I will not tarry." Uttering these words slowly, he sat at table, Propped his head on his hand, while the hood Folded over his brow, cast a shadow on his face, And his elbow pressed against That opened Shakespeare play. They were silent, half-smiling, "I represent Doubt about Reality - said the uninvited guest - For, if, for instance, the fatherly shade Were to appear to the Prince and say, as in Shakespeare, "This whole court and train are but a dream, And all that sheen that licks the armour Like a snake - and these banners, and that Whole reality, all that is but a dream" - And, if, I say, he were to describe each thing truly As it is - first maidens would call him a fool, Then the flatterers, then the courtiers, Then the empty skulls - then - graveyard Birds - and people would throw bones at him, Crying: "Ideologue! He's spoiling reality, For he is a fool" - such a graveyard tragedy Would be played, played at little expense - Cheaper today than that Shakespeare play..." - - Here He chuckled, then stretched his hand Towards the balcony, plucked a flower and smelled it Like one who favours a clean scent, or dreams and sighs. At this Theodore called: "The lamp's flickering, gentlemen! Lights !" - and at once the candelabrum, Resting on a sphinx's bronzed head, vanished - they rang: And after a brief silent interval A servant ran in with another twin-like candelabrum Bearing a sphinx's head - a gilded head. 1847 The poem apparently contains quotations from Shakespeare. There is however no equivalent in the original to the purported phrase from Julius Caesar, although it and the surrounding description correctly reflect the play at Act IV, scene iii. More puzzling is the totally spurious quotation from Hamlet, which, if anything, echoes Prospero's celebrated speech in The Tempest (Act IV, scene i). The most that can be said is that in "Reality", as in Hamlet (and of course The Tempest) the theme of reality and appearance dominates (transl.). |