«Избранные произведения Вольтарины де Клер»

They are clean beside your souls to-night!

Basely born! 'Tis ye are base!

Ye who would guerdon holy trust

With slavish law to a tyrant race,

To sow the earth with the seed of lust.

Base! By Heaven! Prate of peace,

When your garments are red with the stain of wars.

Reeling with passion's mad release

By your sickly gaslight damn the stars!

Blurred with wine ye behold the snow

Smirched with the foulness that blots within!

What of purity can ye know,

Ye ten-fold children of Hell and Sin?

Ye to judge her! Ye to cast

The stone of wrath from your house of glass!

Know ye the Law, that ye dare to blast

The bell of gold with your clanging brass?

Know ye the harvest the reapers reap

Who drop in the furrow the seed of scorn?

Out of this anguish ye harrow deep,

Ripens the sentence: "Ye, bastard born!"

Ay, sin-begotten, hear the curse;

Not mine—not hers—but the fatal Law!

"Who bids one suffer, shall suffer worse;

Who scourges, himself shall be scourgèd raw!

"For the thoughts ye think, and the deeds ye do,

Move on, and on, till the flood is high,

And the dread dam bursts, and the waves roar through,

Hurling a cataract dirge to the sky!

"To-night ye are deaf to the beggar's prayer;

To-morrow the thieves shall batter your wall!

Ye shall feel the weight of a starved child's care

When your warders under the Mob's feet fall!

"'Tis the roar of the whirlwind ye invoke

When ye scatter the wind of your brother's moans;

'Tis the red of your hate on your own head broke,

When the blood of the murdered spatters the stones!

"Hark ye! Out of the reeking slums,

Thick with the fetid stench of crime,

Boiling up through their sickening scums,

Bubbles that burst through the crimson wine,

"Voices burst—with terrible sound,

Crying the truth your dull souls ne'er saw!

We are your sentence! The wheel turns round!

The bastard spawn of your bastard law!"

This is bastard: That Man should say

How Love shall love, and how Life shall live!

Setting a tablet to groove God's way,

Measuring how the divine shall give!

O, Evil Hearts! Ye have maddened me,

That I should interpret the voice of God!

Quiet! Quiet! O angered Sea!

Quiet! I go to her blessed sod!

Mother, Mother, I come to you!

Down in your grasses I press my face!

Under the kiss of their cold, pure dew,

I may dream that I lie in the dear old place!

Mother, sweet Mother, take me back,

Into the bosom from whence I came!

Take me away from the cruel rack,

Take me out of the parching flame!

Fold me again with your beautiful hair,

Speak to this terrible heaving Sea!

Over me pour the soothing of prayer,

The words of the Love-child of Galilee:

"Peace—be still!" Still,—could I but hear!

Softly,—I listen.—O fierce heart, cease!

Softly,—I breathe not,—low,—in my ear,—

Mother, Mother—I heard you!—Peace!

Энтерпрайз, Канзас, январь 1891 г.

ГИМН

(Этот гимн был написан по просьбе друга-христианина, который предложил положить его на музыку. Он не отражал моих убеждений ни тогда, ни сейчас, а скорее то, какими я хотела бы видеть свои убеждения, если бы не обладала неумолимой способностью видеть вещи такими, какие они есть, — огромная схема взаимного убийства, без справедливости где-либо и без Бога в душе или вне ее.)

I am at peace—no storm can ever touch me;

On my clear heights the sunshine only falls;

Far, far below glides the phantom voice of sorrows,

In peace-lifted light the Silence only calls.

Ah, Soul, ascend! The mountain way, up-leading,

Bears to the heights whereon the Blest have trod!

Lay down the burden;—stanch the heart's sad bleeding;

Be ye at peace, for know that Ye are God!

Not long the way, not far in a dim heaven;

In the locked Self seek ye the guiding star:

Clear shine its rays, illumining the shadow;

There, where God is, there, too, O Souls ye are.

Ye are at one, and bound in Him forever,

Ev'n as the wave is bound in the great sea;

Never to drift beyond, below Him, never!

Whole as God is, so, even so, are ye.

Филадельфия, 1892 г.

ТЫ И Я

(Ответ на «Ты и я в золотую погоду» Дайера Д. Лама.)

You and I, in the sere, brown weather,

When clouds hang thick in the frowning sky,

When rain-tears drip on the bloomless heather,

Unheeding the storm-blasts will walk together,

And look to each other—You and I.

You and I, when the clouds are shriven

To show the cliff-broods of lightnings high;

When over the ramparts, swift, thunder-driven,

Rush the bolts of Hate from a Hell-lit Heaven,

Will smile at each other—You and I.

You and I, when the bolts are falling,

The hot air torn with the earth's wild cries,

Will lean through the darkness where Death is calling,

Will search through the shadows where Night is palling,

And find the light in each other's eyes.

You and I, when black sheets of water

Drench and tear us and drown our breath,

Below this laughter of Hell's own daughter,

Above the smoke of the storm-girt slaughter,

Will hear each other and gleam at Death.

You and I, in the gray night dying,

When over the east-land the dawn-beams fly,

Down in the groans, in the low, faint crying,

Down where the thick blood is blackly lying,

Will reach out our weak arms, You and I.

You and I, in the cold, white weather,

When over our corpses the pale lights lie,

Will rest at last from the dread endeavor,

Pressed to each other, for parting—never!

Our dead lips together, You and I.

You and I, when the years in flowing

Have left us behind with all things that die,

With the rot of our bones shall give soil for growing

The loves of the Future, made sweet for blowing

By the dew of the kiss of a last good-bye!

Филадельфия, 1892 г.

ТОСТ ОТЧАЯНИЯ

We have cried,—and the Gods are silent;

We have trusted,—and been betrayed;

We have loved,—and the fruit was ashes;

We have given,—the gift was weighed.

We know that the heavens are empty,

That friendship and love are names;

That truth is an ashen cinder,

The end of life's burnt-out flames.

Vainly and long have we waited,

Through the night of the human roar,

For a single song on the harp of Hope,

Or a ray from a day-lit shore.

Songs aye come floating, marvelous sweet,

And bow-dyed flashes gleam;

But the sweets are Lies, and the weary feet

Run after a marsh-light beam.

In the hour of our need the song departs,

And the sea-moans of sorrow swell;

The siren mocks with a gurgling laugh

That is drowned in the deep death-knell.

The light we chased with our stumbling feet

As the goal of happier years,

Swings high and low and vanishes,—

The bow-dyes were of our tears.

God is a lie, and Faith is a lie,

And a tenfold lie is Love;

Life is a problem without a why,

And never a thing to prove.

It adds, and subtracts, and multiplies,

And divides without aim or end;

Its answers all false, though false-named true,—

Wife, husband, lover, friend.

We know it now, and we care no more;

What matters life or death?

We tiny insects emerge from earth,

Suffer, and yield our breath.

Like ants we crawl on our brief sand-hill,

Dreaming of "mighty things,"—

Lo, they crunch, like shells in the ocean's wrath,

In the rush of Time's awful wings.

The sun smiles gold, and the planets white,

And a billion stars smile, still;

Yet, fierce as we, each wheels towards death,

And cannot stay his will.

Then build, ye fools, your mighty things,

That Time shall set at naught;

Grow warm with the song the sweet Lie sings,

And the false bow your tears have wrought.

For us, a truce to Gods, loves, and hopes,

And a pledge to fire and wave;

A swifter whirl to the dance of death,

And a loud huzza for the Grave!

Филадельфия, 1892 г.

ПАМЯТИ

(Дайеру Д. Ламу, моему другу и учителю, который умер 6 апреля 1893 года.)

Great silent heart! These barren drops of grief

Are not for you, attained unto your rest;

This sterile salt upon the withered leaf

Of love, is mine—mine the dark burial guest.

Far, far within that deep, untroubled sea

We watched together, walking on the sands,

Your soul has melted,—painless, silent, free;

Mine the wrung heart, mine the clasped, useless hands.

Into the whirl of life, where none remember,

I bear your image, ever unforgot;

The "Whip-poor-will," still "wailing in December,"

Cries the same cry—cries, cries, and ceases not.

The future years with all their waves of faces

Roll shoreward singing the great undertone;

Yours is not there;—in the old, well-loved places

I look, and pass, and watch the sea alone.

Alone along the gleaming, white sea-shore,

The sea-spume spraying thick around my head,

Through all the beat of waves and winds that roar,

I go, remembering that you are dead.

That you are dead, and nowhere is there one

Like unto you;—and nowhere Love leaps Death;—

And nowhere may the broken race be run;—

Nowhere unsealed the seal that none gainsaith.

Yet in my ear that deep, sweet undertone

Grows deeper, sweeter, solemner to me,—

Dreaming your dreams, watching the light that shone

So whitely to you, yonder, on the sea.

Your voice is there, there in the great life-sound—

Your eyes are there, out there, within the light;

Your heart, within the pulsing Race-heart drowned,

Beats in the immortality of Right.

O Life, I love you for the love of him

Who showed me all your glory and your pain!

"Unto Nirvana"—so the deep tones sing—

And there—and there—we—shall—be—one—again.

Гринсбург, Пенсильвания, 9 апреля 1893 г.

ИЗ ТЬМЫ

Who am I? Only one of the commonest common people,

Only a worked-out body, a shriveled and withered soul,

What right have I to sing then? None; and I do not, I cannot.

Why ruin the rhythm and rhyme of the great world's songs with moaning?

I know not—nor why whistles must shriek, wheels ceaselessly mutter;

Nor why all I touch turns to clanging and clashing and discord;

I know not;—I know only this,—I was born to this, live in it hourly,

Go round with it, hum with it, curse with it, would laugh with it, had it laughter;

It is my breath—and that breath goes outward from me in moaning.

O you, up there, I have heard you; I am "God's image defaced,"

"In heaven reward awaits me," "hereafter I shall be perfect";

Ages you've sung that song, but what is it to me, think you?

If you heard down here in the smoke and the smut, in the smear and the offal,

In the dust, in the mire, in the grime and in the slime, in the hideous darkness,

How the wheels turn your song into sounds of horror and loathing and cursing,

The offer of lust, the sneer of contempt and acceptance, thieves' whispers,

The laugh of the gambler, the suicide's gasp, the yell of the drunkard,

If you heard them down here you would cry, "The reward of such is damnation,"

If you heard them, I say, your song of "rewarded hereafter" would fail.

You, too, with your science, your titles, your books, and your long explanations

That tell me how I am come up out of the dust of the cycles,

Out of the sands of the sea, out of the unknown primeval forests,—

Out of the growth of the world have become the bud and the promise,

Out of the race of the beasts have arisen, proud and triumphant,—

You, if you knew how your words rumble round in the wheels of labor!

If you knew how my hammering heart beats, "Liar, liar, you lie!

Out of all buds of the earth we are most blasted and blighted!

What beast of all the beasts is not prouder and freer than we?"

You, too, who sing in high words of the glory of Man universal,

The beauty of sacrifice, debt of the future, the present immortal,

The glory of use, absorption by Death of the being in Being,

You, if you knew what jargon it makes, down here, would be quiet.

Oh, is there no one to find or to speak a meaning to me,

To me as I am,—the hard, the ignorant, withered-souled worker?

To me upon whom God and Science alike have stamped "failure,"

To me who know nothing but labor, nothing but sweat, dirt, and sorrow,

To me whom you scorn and despise, you up there who sing while I moan?

To me as I am,—for me as I am—not dying but living;

Not my future, my present! my body, my needs, my desires! Is there no one,

In the midst of this rushing of phantoms—of Gods, of Science, of Logic,

Of Philosophy, Morals, Religion, Economy,—all this that helps not,

All these ghosts at whose altars you worship, these ponderous, marrowless Fictions,

Is there no one who thinks, is there nothing to help this dull moaning me?

Филадельфия, апрель 1893 г.

МЭРИ УОЛСТОНКРАФТ

The dust of a hundred years

Is on thy breast,

And thy day and thy night of tears

Are centurine rest.

Thou to whom joy was dumb,

Life a broken rhyme,

Lo, thy smiling time is come,

And our weeping time.

Thou who hadst sponge and myrrh

And a bitter cross,

Smile, for the day is here

That we know our loss;—

Loss of thine undone deed,

Thy unfinished song,

Th' unspoken word for our need,

Th' unrighted wrong;

Smile, for we weep, we weep,

For the unsoothed pain,

The unbound wound burned deep,

That we might gain.

Mother of sorrowful eyes

In the dead old days,

Mother of many sighs,

Of pain-shod ways;

Mother of resolute feet

Through all the thorns,

Mother soul-strong, soul-sweet,—

Lo, after storms

Have broken and beat thy dust

For a hundred years,

Thy memory is made just,

And the just man hears.

Thy children kneel and repeat:

"Though dust be dust,

Though sod and coffin and sheet

And moth and rust

Have folded and molded and pressed,

Yet they cannot kill;

In the heart of the world at rest

She liveth still."

Филадельфия, 27 апреля 1893 г.

БОГИ И ЛЮДИ

What have you done, O skies,

That the millions should kneel to you?

Why should they lift wet eyes,

Grateful with human dew?

Why should they clasp their hands,

And bow at thy shrines, O heaven,

Thanking thy high commands

For the mercies that thou hast given?

What have those mercies been,

O thou, who art called the Good,

Who trod through a world of sin,

And stood where the felon stood?

What is that wondrous peace

Vouchsafed to the child of dust,

For whom all doubt shall cease

In the light of thy perfect trust?

How hast Thou heard their prayers

Smoking up from the bleeding sod,

Who, crushed by their weight of cares,

Cried up to Thee, Most High God?

Where the swamps of Humanity sicken,

Read the answer, in dumb, white scars!

You, Skies, gave the sore and the stricken

The light of your far-off stars!

The children who plead are driven,

Shelterless, through the street,

Receiving the mercy of Heaven

Hard-frozen in glittering sleet!

The women who prayed for pity,

Who called on the saving Name,

Through the walks of your merciless city

Are crying the rent of shame.

The starving, who gazed on the plenty

In which they might not share,

Have died in their hunger, rent by

The anguish of unheard prayer!

The weary who plead for remission,

For a moment, only, release,

Have sunk, with unheeded petition:

This is the Christ-pledged Peace.

These are the mercies of Heaven,

These are the answers of God,

To the prayers of the agony-shriven,

From the paths where the millions plod!

The silent scorn of the sightless!

The callous ear of the deaf!

The wrath of might to the mightless!

The shroud, and the mourning sheaf!

Light—to behold their squalor!

Breath—to draw in life's pain!

Voices to plead and call for

Heaven's help!—hearts to bleed—in vain!

What have you done, O Church,

That the weary should bless your name?

Should come with faith's holy torch

To light up your altar'd fane?

Why should they kiss the folds

Of the garment of your High Priest?

Or bow to the chalice that holds

The wine of your Sacred Feast?

Have you blown out the breath of their sighs?

Have you strengthened the weak, the ill?

Have you wiped the dark tears from their eyes,

And bade their sobbings be still?

Have you touched, have you known, have you felt,

Have you bent and softly smiled

In the face of the woman, who dwelt

In lewdness—to feed her child?

Have you heard the cry in the night

Going up from the outraged heart,

Masked from the social sight

By the cloak that but angered the smart?

Have you heard the children's moan,

By the light of the skies denied?

Answer, O Walls of Stone,

In the name of your Crucified!

Out of the clay of their heart-break,

From the red dew of its sod,

You have mortar'd your brick, for Christ's sake,

And reared a palace to God!

Your painters have dipped their brushes

In the tears and the blood of the race,

Whom, LIVING, your dark frown crushes—

And limned—a DEAD Savior's face!

You have seized, in the name of God, the

Child's crust from famine's dole;

You have taken the price of its body

And sung a mass for its soul!

You have smiled on the man, who, deceiving,

Paid exemption to ease your wrath!

You have cursed the poor fool who believed him,

Though her body lay prone in your path!

You have laid the seal on the lip!

You have bid us to be content!

To bow 'neath our master's whip,

And give thanks for the scourge—"heav'n sent."

These, O Church, are your thanks;

These are the fruits without flaw,

That flow from the chosen ranks

Who keep in your perfect law;

Doors hard-locked on the homeless!

Stained glass windows for bread!

On the living, the law of dumbness,

And the law of need, for—the dead!

Better the dead, who, not needing,

Go down to the vaults of the Earth,

Than the living whose hearts lie bleeding,

Crushed by you at their very birth.

What have you done, O State,

That the toilers should shout your ways;

Should light up the fires of their hate

If a "traitor" should dare dispraise?

How do you guard the trust

That the people repose in you?

Do you keep to the law of the just,

And hold to the changeless true?

What do you mean when you say

"The home of the free and brave"?

How free are your people, pray?

Have you no such thing as a slave?

What are the lauded "rights,"

Broad-sealed, by your Sovereign Grace?

What are the love-feeding sights

You yield to your subject race?

The rights!—Ah! the right to toil,

That another, idle, may reap;

The right to make fruitful the soil

And a meagre pittance to keep!

The right of a woman to own

Her body, spotlessly pure,

And starve in the street—alone!

The right of the wronged—to endure!

The right of the slave—to his yoke!

The right of the hungry—to pray!

The right of the toiler—to vote

For the master who buys his day!

You have sold the sun and the air!

You have dealt in the price of blood!

You have taken the lion's share

While the lion is fierce for food!

You have laid the load of the strong

On the helpless, the young, the weak!

You have trod out the purple of wrong;—

Beware where its wrath shall wreak!

"Let the Voice of the People be heard!

O——" You strangled it with your rope!

Denied the last dying word,

While your Trap and your Gallows spoke!

But a thousand voices rise

Where the words of the martyr fell;

The seed springs fast to the Skies

Watered deep from that bloody well!

Hark! Low down you will hear

The storm in the underground!

Listen, Tyrants, and fear!

Quake at that muffled sound!

"Heavens, that mocked our dust,

Smile on, in your pitiless blue!

Silent as you are to us,

So silent are we to you!

"Churches that scourged our brains!

Priests that locked fast our hands!

We planted the torch in your chains:

Now gather the burning brands!

"States that have given us LAW,

When we asked for THE RIGHT TO EARN BREAD!

The Sword that Damocles saw

By a hair swings over your head!

"What ye have sown ye shall reap:

Teardrops, and Blood, and Hate,

Gaunt gather before your Seat,

And knock at your palace gate!

"There are murderers on your Thrones!

There are thieves in your Justice-halls!

White Leprosy cancers their stones,

And gnaws at their worm-eaten walls!

"And the Hand of Belshazzar's Feast

Writes over, in flaming light:

Thought's kingdom no more to the Priest;

Nor the Law of Right unto Might."

ДЖОН П. АЛЬТГЕЛЬД

(После шести долгих лет заключения в тюрьме штата Джолиет за деяние, в котором они были совершенно невиновны, а именно за бросание бомбы на Хеймаркете в Чикаго 4 мая 1886 года, Оскар Нибе, Майкл Шваб и Сэмюэл Филден были освобождены губернатором Альтгельдом, который таким образом пожертвовал своей политической карьерой ради акта справедливости.)

There was a tableau! Liberty's clear light

Shone never on a braver scene than that.

Here was a prison, there a Man who sat

High in the Halls of state! Beyond, the might

Of ignorance and Mobs, whose hireling press

Yells at their bidding like the slaver's hounds,

Ready with coarse caprice to curse or bless,

To make or unmake rulers!—Lo, there sounds

A grating of the doors! And three poor men,

Helpless and hated, having naught to give,

Come from their long-sealed tomb, look up, and live,

And thank this Man that they are free again.

And He—to all the world this Man dares say,

"Curse as you will! I have been just this day."

Филадельфия, июнь 1893 г.

КРИК НЕПРИСПОСОБЛЕННЫХ

The gods have left us, the creeds have crumbled;

There are none to pity and none to care:

Our fellows have crushed us where we have stumbled;

They have made of our bodies a bleeding stair.

Loud rang the bells in the Christmas steeples;

We heard them ring through the bitter morn:

The promise of old to the weary peoples

Came floating sweetly,—"Christ is born."

But the words were mocking, sorely mocking,

As we sought the sky through our freezing tears,

We children, who've hung the Christmas stocking,

And found it empty two thousand years.

No, there is naught in the old creed for us;

Love and peace are to those who win;

To them the delight of the golden chorus,

To us the hunger and shame and sin.

Why then live on since our lives are fruitless,

Since peace is certain and death is rest;

Since our masters tell us the strife is bootless,

And Nature scorns her unwelcome guest?

You who have climbed on our aching bodies,

You who have thought because we have toiled,

Priests of the creed of a newer goddess,

Searchers in depths where the Past was foiled.

Speak in the name of the faith that you cherish!

Give us the truth! We have bought it with woe!

Must we forever thus worthlessly perish,

Burned in the desert and lost in the snow?

Trampled, forsaken, foredoomed, and forgotten,—

Helplessly tossed like the leaf in the storm?

Bred for the shambles, with curses begotten,

Useless to all save the rotting grave-worm?

Give us some anchor to stay our mad drifting!

Give, for your own sakes! for lo, where our blood,

A red tide to drown you, is steadily lifting!

Help! or you die in the terrible flood!

Филадельфия, 1893 г.

ПАМЯТИ

Генералу М. М. Трамбуллу.

(Никто лучше генерала Трамбулла не защищал моих замученных товарищей в Чикаго.)

Back to thy breast, O Mother, turns thy child,

He whom thou garmentedst in steel of truth,

And sent forth, strong in the glad heart of youth,

To sing the wakening song in ears beguiled

By tyrants' promises and flatterers' smiles;

These searched his eyes, and knew nor threats nor wiles

Might shake the steady stars within their blue,

Nor win one truckling word from off those lips,—

No—not for gold nor praise, nor aught men do

To dash the Sun of Honor with eclipse,

O Mother Liberty, those eyes are dark,

And the brave lips are white and cold and dumb;

But fair in other souls, through time to come,

Fanned by thy breath glows the Immortal Spark.

Филадельфия, май 1894 г.

ВЕЧНЫЙ ЖИД

(Вышеупомянутое стихотворение было навеяно прочтением статьи, описывающей интервью с «вечным жидом», в котором он был представлен как неисправимый ворчун. Еврей был и будет оставаться ворчуном земли — до тех пор, пока не будет реализован пророческий идеал справедливости: «БЛАГОСЛОВЕН БУДЬ ОН».)

«Иди». — «ТЫ будешь идти, пока я не приду».

Pale, ghostly Vision from the coffined years,

Planting the cross with thy world-wandering feet,

Stern Watcher through the centuries' storm and beat,

In those sad eyes, between those grooves of tears,—

Those eyes like caves where sunlight never dwells

And stars but dimly shine—stand sentinels

That watch with patient hope, through weary days,

That somewhere, sometime, He indeed may "come,"

And thou at last find thee a resting place,

Blast-driven leaf of Man, within the tomb.

Aye, they have cursed thee with the bitter curse,

And driven thee with scourges o'er the world;

Tyrants have crushed thee, Ignorance has hurled

Its black anathema;—but Death's pale hearse,

That bore them graveward, passed them silently;

And vainly didst thou stretch thy hands and cry,

"Take me instead";—not yet for thee the time,

Not yet—not yet: thy bruised and mangled limbs

Must still drag on, still feed the Vulture, Crime,

With bleeding flesh, till rust its steel beak dims.

Aye, "till He come,"—He,—freedom, justice, peace—

Till then shalt thou cry warning through the earth,

Unheeding pain, untouched by death and birth,

Proclaiming "Woe, woe, woe," till men shall cease

To seek for Christ within the senseless skies,

And, joyous, find him in each other's eyes.

Then shall be builded such a tomb for thee

Shall beggar kings' as diamonds outshine dew!

The Universal Heart of Man shall be

The sacred urn of "the accursed Jew."

Филадельфия, 1894 г.

ПИР СТЕРВЯТНИКОВ

(Когда трех анархистов, Вайяна, Анри и Казерио, вели на их казни, голос из тюрьмы громко крикнул: «Vive l'anarchie!» Сквозь стражу и надзор крик прорвался, и никто не признал этот голос; но крик до сих пор звучит по всему миру.)

A moan in the gloam in the air-peaks heard—

The Bird of Omen—the wild, fierce Bird,

Aflight

In the night,

Like a whizz of light,

Arrowy winging before the storm,

Far away flinging,

The whistling, singing,

White-curdled drops, wind-blown and warm,

From its beating, flapping,

Thunderous wings;

Crashing and clapping

The split night swings,

And rocks and totters,

Bled of its levin,

And reels and mutters

A curse to Heaven!

Reels and mutters and rolls and dies,

With a wild light streaking its black, blind eyes.

Far, far, far,

Through the red, mad morn,

Like a hurtling star,

Through the air upborne,

The Herald-Singer,

The Terror-Bringer,

Speeds—and behind, through the cloud-rags torn,

Gather and wheel a million wings,

Clanging as iron where the hammer rings;

The whipped sky shivers,

The White Gate shakes,

The ripped throne quivers,

The dumb God wakes,

And feels in his heart the talon-stings—

The dead bodies hurled from beaks for slings.

"Ruin! Ruin!" the Whirlwind cries,

And it leaps at his throat and tears his eyes;

"Death for death, as ye long have dealt;

The heads of your victims your heads shall pelt;

The blood ye wrung to get drunk upon,

Drink, and be poisoned! On, Herald, on!"

Behold, behold,

How a moan is grown!

A cry hurled high 'gainst a scaffold's joist!

The Voice of Defiance—the loud, wild Voice!

Whirled

Through the world,

A smoke-wreath curled

(Breath 'round hot kisses) around a fire!

See! the ground hisses

With curses, and glisses

With red-streaming blood-clots of long-frozen ire,

Waked by the flying

Wild voice as it passes;

Groaning and crying,

The surge of the masses

Rolls and flashes

With thunderous roar—

Seams and lashes

The livid shore—

Seams and lashes and crunches and beats,

And drags a ragged wall to its howling retreats!

Swift, swift, swift,

'Thwart the blood-rain's fall,

Through the fire-shot rift

Of the broken wall,

The prophet-crying

The storm-strong sighing,

Flies—and from under Night's lifted pall,

Swarming, menace ten million darts,

Uplifting fragments of human shards!

Ah, white teeth chatter,

And dumb jaws fall,

While winged fires scatter

Till gloom gulfs all

Save the boom of the cannon that storm the forts

That the people bombard with their comrades' hearts;

"Vengeance! Vengeance!" the voices scream,

And the vulture pinions whirl and stream!

"Knife for knife, as ye long have dealt;

The edge ye whetted for us be felt,

Ye chopper of necks, on your own, your own!

Bare it, Coward! On, Prophet, on!"

Behold how high

Rolls a prison cry!

Филадельфия, август 1894 г.

ЗАЩИТА САМОУБИЙЦЫ

(Из всех глупостей, которыми законодательная власть сигнализировала о своей неспособности справиться с беспорядками в обществе, ни одна не кажется столь совершенно глупой, как закон, наказывающий за попытку самоубийства. На вопрос «Что вы можете сказать в свою защиту?» я полагаю, бедный несчастный мог бы ответить следующее:)

To say in my defense? Defense of what?

Defense to whom? And why defense at all?

Have I wronged any? Let that one accuse!

Some priest there mutters I "have outraged God"!

Let God then try me, and let none dare judge

Himself as fit to put Heaven's ermine on!

Again I say, let the wronged one accuse.

Aye, silence! There is none to answer me.

And whom could I, a homeless, friendless tramp,

To whom all doors are shut, all hearts are locked,

All hands withheld—whom could I wrong, indeed

By taking that which benefited none

And menaced all?

Aye, since ye will it so,

Know then your risk. But mark, 'tis not defense,

'Tis accusation that I hurl at you.

See to't that ye prepare your own defense.

My life, I say, is an eternal threat

To you and yours; and therefore it were well

To have foreborne your unasked services.

And why? Because I hate you! Every drop

Of blood that circles in your plethoric veins

Was wrung from out the gaunt and sapless trunks

Of men like me, who in your cursed mills

Were crushed like grapes within the wine-press ground.

To us ye leave the empty skin of life;

The heart of it, the sweet of it, ye pour

To fete your dogs and mistresses withal!

Your mistresses! Our daughters! Bought, for bread,

To grace the flesh that once was father's arms!

Yes, I accuse you that ye murdered me!

Ye killed the Man—and this that speaks to you

Is but the beast that ye have made of me!

What! Is it life to creep and crawl and beg,

And slink for shelter where rats congregate?

And for one's ideal dream of a fat meal?

Is it, then, life, to group like pigs in sties,

And bury decency in common filth,

Because, forsooth, your income must be made,

Though human flesh rot in your plague-rid dens?

Is it, then, life, to wait another's nod,

For leave to turn yourself to gold for him?

Would it be life to you? And was I less

Than you? Was I not born with hopes and dreams

And pains and passions even as were you?

But these ye have denied. Ye seized the earth,

Though it was none of yours, and said: "Hereon

Shall none rest, walk or work, till first to me

Ye render tribute!" Every art of man,

Born to make light of the burdens of the world,

Ye also seized, and made a tenfold curse

To crush the man beneath the thing he made.

Houses, machines, and lands—all, all are yours;

And us you do not need. When we ask work

Ye shake your heads. Homes?—Ye evict us. Bread?—

"Here, officer, this fellow's begging. Jail's

The place for him!" After the stripes, what next?—

Poison!—I took it!—Now you say 'twas sin

To take this life which troubled you so much.

Sin to escape insult, starvation, brands

Of felony, inflicted for the crime

Of asking food! Ye hypocrites! Within

Your secret hearts the sin is that I failed!

Because I failed ye judge me to the stripes,

And the hard toil denied when I was free.

So be it. But beware!—A prison cell's

An evil bed to grow morality!

Black swamps breed black miasms; sickly soils

Yield poison fruit; snakes warmed to life will sting.

This time I was content to go alone;

Perchance the next I shall not be so kind.

Филадельфия, сентябрь 1894 г.

ЦВЕТНОЙ РОМАН

(Ниже приводится правдивый и подробный отчет о том, что произошло в ночь на 11 декабря 1895 года; но он, вероятно, будет непонятен всем, кроме Бурундуков и Слона, которые, однако, несомненно узнают себя.)

Глава I.

Chipmunks three sat on a tree,

And they were as green as green could be;

They cracked nuts early, they cracked nuts late,

And chirruped and chirruped, and ate and ate;

"'Tis a pity of chipmunks without nuts,

And a gnawing hunger in their guts;

But they should be wise like you and me,

And color themselves to suit the tree.

Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!

Gay chaps are we, we chipmunks three!"

An elephant white in sorry plight,

Hungry and dirty and sad bedight,

Straggled one day on the nutting ground;

"Lo," chattered the chipmunks, "our chance is found!

Behold the beast's color; were he as we,

Green and sleek and nut-full were he!

But the beast is big, and the beast is white,

And his skin full of emptiness serves him right!

Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!

Let us 'sit on him, sit on him,' chipmunks three."

Глава II.

Three chipmunks green right gay were seen

To leap on the beast his brows between;

They munched at his ears and chiffered his chin,

And sat and sat and sat on him!

Not a single available spot of hide

Where a well-sleeked chipmunk could sit with pride,

But was chipped and chipped and chip-chip-munked,

Till aught but an elephant must have flunked.

"Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah chee!

What a ride we're having, we chipmunks three!"

Глава III.

Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-f-f-f-f-f!!!

Глава IV.

"What was it blew? Ah whew, ah whew!"

Three green chipmunks have all turned blue!

The elephant smiles a peaceful smile,

And lifts off a tree-trunk sans haste or guile.

"Seize him, seize him! He's stealing our tree!

We're undone, undone," shriek the chipmunks three.

The elephant calmly upraised his trunk,

And said, "Did I hear a green chipmunk?"

"Ah chee, ah chee, ah chee, ah choo!"

"Chippy, you're blue!" "So're you!" "So're you!"

Филадельфия, декабрь 1895 г.

ЖЕРМИНАЛЬ

(Последнее слово Анджолилло.)

Germinal!—The Field of Mars is plowing,

And hard the steel that cuts, and hot the breath

Of the great Oxen, straining flanks and bowing

Beneath his goad, who guides the share of Death.

Germinal!—The Dragon's teeth are sowing,

And stern and white the sower flings the seed

He shall not gather, though full swift the growing;

Straight down Death's furrow treads, and does not heed.

Germinal!—The Helmet Heads are springing

Far up the Field of Mars in gleaming files;

With wild war notes the bursting earth is ringing.

Within his grave the sower sleeps, and smiles.

Лондон, октябрь 1897 г.

«СВЕТ НАД ВАЛЬДХАЙМОМ»

(Фигура на памятнике над могилой чикагских мучеников на кладбище Вальдхайм — это женщина-воин, левой рукой роняющая корону на чело павшего человека, только что пережившего агонию, а правой вынимающая кинжал из своей груди.)

Light upon Waldheim! And the earth is gray;

A bitter wind is driving from the north;

The stone is cold, and strange cold whispers say:

"What do ye here with Death? Go forth! Go forth!"

Is this thy word, O Mother, with stern eyes,

Crowning thy dead with stone-caressing touch?

May we not weep o'er him that martyred lies,

Slain in our name, for that he loved us much?

May we not linger till the day is broad?

Nay, none are stirring in this stinging dawn—

None but poor wretches that make no moan to God:

What use are these, O thou with dagger drawn?

"Go forth, go forth! Stand not to weep for these,

Till, weakened with your weeping, like the snow

Ye melt, dissolving in a coward peace!"

Light upon Waldheim! Brother, let us go!

Лондон, октябрь 1897 г.

КОМПЕНСАЦИЯ ЛЮБВИ

I went before God, and he said,

"What fruit of the life I gave?"

"Father," I said, "It is dead,

And nothing grows on the grave."

Wroth was the Lord and stern:

"Hadst thou not to answer me?

Shall the fruitless root not burn,

And be wasted utterly?"

"Father," I said, "forgive!

For thou knowest what I have done;

That another's life might live

Mine turned to a barren stone."

But the Father of Life sent fire

And burned the root in the grave;

And the pain in my heart is dire

For the thing that I could not save.

For the thing it was laid on me

By the Lord of Life to bring;

Fruit of the ungrown tree

That died for no watering.

Another has gone to God,

And his fruit has pleased Him well;

For he sitteth high, while I—plod

The dry ways down towards hell.

Though thou knowest, thou knowest, Lord,

Whose tears made that fruit's root wet;

Yet thou drivest me forth with a sword,

And thy Guards by the Gate are set.

Thou wilt give me up to the fire,

And none shall deliver me;

For I followed my heart's desire,

And I labored not for thee:

I labored for him thou hast set

On thy right hand, high and fair;

Thou lovest him, Lord; and yet

'Twas my love won Him there.

But this is the thing that hath been,

Hath been since the world began,—

That love against self must sin,

And a woman die for a man.

And this is the thing that shall be,

Shall be till the whole world die,

Kismet:—My doom is on me!

Why murmur since I am I?

Филадельфия, август 1898 г.

СТРОИТЕЛИ ДОРОГ

(«Кто построил эти прекрасные дороги?» — спросил друг нынешнего порядка, когда мы однажды гуляли по мощеной дороге Фэрмаунт-парка.)

I saw them toiling in the blistering sun,

Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone,

Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools,

Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest,

The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads.

I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock,

The helpless hand still clutching at the spade,

The slack mouth full of earth.

And he was dead.

His comrades gently turned his face, until

The fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes,

Wide open, staring at the cruel sky.

The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone;

But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead:

Driven to death beneath the burning sun,

Driven to death upon the road he built.

He was no "hero," he; a poor, black man,

Taking "the will of God" and asking naught;

Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet

Strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road;

Think that for this, this common thing, The Road,

A human creature died; 'tis a blood gift,

To an o'erreaching world that does not thank.

Ignorant, mean and soulless was he? Well,—

Still human; and you drive upon his corpse.

Филадельфия, 24 июля 1900 г.

АНДЖОЛИЛЛО

We are the souls that crept and cried in the days when they tortured men;

His was the spirit that walked erect, and met the beast in its den.

Ours are the eyes that were dim with tears for the thing they shrunk to see;

His was the glance that was crystal keen with the light that makes men free.

Ours are the hands that were wrung in pain, in helpless pain and shame;

His was the resolute hand that struck, steady and keen to its aim.

Ours are the lips that quivered with rage, that cursed and prayed in a breath:

His was the mouth that opened but once to speak from the throat of Death.

"Assassin, Assassin!" the World cries out, with a shake of its dotard head;

"Germinal!" rings back the grave where lies the Dead that is not dead.

"Germinal, Germinal," sings the Wind that is driving before the Storm;

"Few are the drops that have fallen yet,—scattered, but red and warm."

"Germinal, Germinal," sing the Fields, where furrows of men are plowed;

"Ye shall gather a harvest over-rich, when the ear at the full is bowed."

Springing, springing, at every breath, the Word of invincible strife,

The word of the Dead, that is calling loud down the battle ranks of Life!

For these are the Dead that live, though the earth upon them lie:

But the doers of deeds of the Night of the Dead, they are the Live that die.

Торресдейл, Пенсильвания, 1 августа 1900 г.

AVE ET VALE

Comrades, what matter the watch-night tells

That a New Year comes or goes?

What to us are the crashing bells

That clang out the Century's close?

What to us is the gala dress?

The whirl of the dancing feet?

The glitter and blare in the laughing press,

And din of the merry street?

Do we not know that our brothers die

In the cold and the dark to-night?

Shelterless faces turned toward the sky

Will not see the New Year's light!

Wandering children, lonely, lost,

Drift away on the human sea,

While the price of their lives in a glass is tossed

And drunk in a revelry!

Ah, know we not in their feasting halls

Where the loud laugh echoes again,

That brick and stone in the mortared walls

Are the bones of murdered men?

Slowly murdered! By day and day,

The beauty and strength are reft,

Till the Man is sapped and sucked away,

And a Human Rind is left!

A Human Rind, with old, thin hair,

And old, thin voice to pray

For alms in the bitter winter air,—

A knife at his heart alway.

And the pure in heart are impure in flesh

For the cost of a little food:

Lo, when the Gleaner of Time shall thresh,

Let these be accounted good.

For these are they who in bitter blame

Eat the bread whose salt is sin;

Whose bosoms are burned with the scarlet shame,

Till their hearts are seared within.

The cowardly jests of a hundred years

Will be thrown where they pass to-night,

Too callous for hate, and too dry for tears,

The saddest of human blight.

Do we forget them, these broken ones,

That our watch to-night is set?

Nay, we smile in the face of the year that comes

Because we do not forget.

We do not forget the tramp on the track,

Thrust out in the wind-swept waste,

The curses of Man upon his back,

And the curse of God in his face.

The stare in the eyes of the buried man

Face down in the fallen mine;

The despair of the child whose bare feet ran

To tread out the rich man's wine;

The solemn light in the dying gaze

Of the babe at the empty breast,

The wax accusation, the sombre glaze

Of its frozen and rigid rest;

They are all in the smile that we turn to the east

To welcome the Century's dawn;

They are all in our greeting to Night's high priest,

As we bid the Old Year begone.

Begone and have done, and go down and be dead

Deep drowned in your sea of tears!

We smile as you die, for we wait the red

Morn-gleam of a hundred-years

That shall see the end of the age-old wrong,—

The reapers that have not sown,—

The reapers of men with their sickles strong

Who gather, but have not strown.

For the earth shall be his and the fruits thereof

And to him the corn and wine,

Who labors the hills with an even love

And knows not "thine and mine."

And the silk shall be to the hand that weaves,

The pearl to him who dives,

The home to the builder; and all life's sheaves

To the builder of human lives.

And none go blind that another see,

Or die that another live;

And none insult with a charity

That is not theirs to give.

For each of his plenty shall freely share

And take at another's hand:

Equals breathing the Common Air

And toiling the Common Land.

A dream? A vision? Aye, what you will;

Let it be to you as it seems:

Of this Nightmare Real we have our fill;

To-night is for "pleasant dreams."

Dreams that shall waken the hope that sleeps

And knock at each torpid Heart

Till it beat drum taps, and the blood that creeps

With a lion's spring upstart!

For who are we to be bound and drowned

In this river of human blood?

Who are we to lie in a swound,

Half sunk in the river mud?

Are we not they who delve and blast

And hammer and build and burn?

Without us not a nail made fast!

Not a wheel in the world should turn!

Must we, the Giant, await the grace

That is dealt by the puny hand

Of him who sits in the feasting place,

While we, his Blind Jest, stand

Between the pillars? Nay, not so:

Aye, if such thing were true,

Better were Gaza again, to show

What the giant's rage may do!

But yet not this: it were wiser far

To enter the feasting hall

And say to the Masters, "These things are

Not for you alone, but all."

And this shall be in the Century

That opes on our eyes to-night;

So here's to the struggle, if it must be,

And to him who fights the fight.

And here's to the dauntless, jubilant throat

That loud to its Comrade sings,

Till over the earth shrills the mustering note,

And the World Strike's signal rings.

Филадельфия, 1 января 1901 г.

БОЛОТНЫЙ ЦВЕТ

(Гаэтано Бреши.)

Requiem, requiem, requiem,

Blood-red blossom of poison stem

Broken for Man,

Swamp-sunk leafage and dungeon bloom,

Seeded bearer of royal doom,

What now is the ban?

What to thee is the island grave?

With desert wind and desolate wave

Will they silence Death?

Can they weight thee now with the heaviest stone?

Can they lay aught on thee with "Be alone,"

That hast conquered breath?

Lo, "it is finished"—a man for a king!

Mark you well who have done this thing:

The flower has roots;

Bitter and rank grow the things of the sea;

Ye shall know what sap ran thick in the tree

When ye pluck its fruits.

Requiem, requiem, requiem,

Sleep on, sleep on, accursed of them

Who work our pain;

A wild Marsh-blossom shall blow again

From a buried root in the slime of men,

On the day of the Great Red Rain.

Филадельфия, июль 1901 г.

НАПИСАННОЕ — КРАСНЫМ [A]

(Нашим живым мертвецам в борьбе Мексики.)

Written in red their protest stands,

For the Gods of the World to see;

On the dooming wall their bodiless hands

Have blazoned "Upharsin," and flaring brands

Illumine the message: "Seize the lands!

Open the prisons and make men free!"

Flame out the living words of the dead

Written—in—red.

Gods of the World! Their mouths are dumb!

Your guns have spoken and they are dust.

But the shrouded Living, whose hearts were numb,

Have felt the beat of a wakening drum

Within them sounding—the Dead Men's tongue—

Calling: "Smite off the ancient rust!"

Have beheld "Resurrexit," the word of the Dead,

Written—in—red.

Bear it aloft, O roaring flame!

Skyward aloft, where all may see.

Slaves of the World! Our cause is the same;

One is the immemorial shame;

One is the struggle, and in One name—

Manhood—we battle to set men free.

"Uncurse us the Land!" burn the words of the Dead,

Written—in—red.

[A] Последнее стихотворение Вольтарины де Клер.

ЭССЕ

Доминирующая идея

Во всем, что живет, если присмотреться, очерчена теневая линия идеи — идеи, мертвой или живой, иногда более сильной, когда она мертва, с жесткими, непоколебимыми линиями, которые отмечают живое воплощение суровым, неподвижным отпечатком неживого. Ежедневно мы движемся среди этих непреклонных теней, менее проницаемых, более долговечных, чем гранит, с чернотой веков в них, доминирующих над живыми, меняющимися телами, с мертвыми, неизменными душами. И мы встречаем также живые души, доминирующие над умирающими телами — живые идеи, властвующие над распадом и смертью. Не думайте, что я говорю только о человеческой жизни. Отпечаток настойчивой или изменчивой Воли виден как в травинке, укоренившейся в комке земли, так и в тончайшей паутине бытия, которая плавает и плывет высоко над нашими головами в свободном мире воздуха.

Властвующие идеи, повсюду! Вы когда-нибудь видели, как цветет мертвая лоза? Я видела. Прошлым летом я пустила несколько лоз ипомеи вверх по балкону второго этажа; и каждый день они развевались и вились на ветру, их белые, с фиолетовыми штрихами лица подмигивали солнцу, сияя восходящей жизнью. С каждым днем все выше ползли зеленые головы, неся свой шлейф раскидистых вееров, развевающихся перед тянущимися к солнцу цветами. Затем внезапно случилась беда — какая-то гусеница или озорной ребенок оторвали одну лозу внизу, самую лучшую и самую амбициозную, конечно. Через несколько часов листья поникли, сочный стебель завял и начал сохнуть; через день она была мертва — вся, кроме верхушки, которая все еще тоскливо цеплялась за свою опору с поднятой яркой головой. Я немного скорбела о бутонах, которые теперь никогда не могли раскрыться, и жалела ту гордую лозу, чья работа в мире была потеряна. Но на следующую ночь была буря, тяжелая, проливная буря, с хлещущим дождем и ослепительными молниями. Я встала, чтобы посмотреть на вспышки, и о чудо мира! В черноте полуночи, в ярости ветра и дождя, мертвая лоза зацвела. Пять белых, луноликих цветков весело развевались вокруг скелета лозы, торжествующе сияя в ответ на красную молнию. Я смотрела на них в немом изумлении. Дорогая, мертвая лоза, чья воля была настолько сильна, чтобы цвести, что в час своего внезапного отрыва от питающей земли она направила последний сок к своим цветам; и, не дожидаясь утра, явила их в бурю и вспышки, как белые ночные цветы, которые должны были быть детьми солнца.

При дневном свете мы все пришли посмотреть на это чудо, удивляясь и говоря: «Конечно, это последние». Но каждый день в течение трех дней мертвая лоза цвела; и даже неделю спустя, когда каждый лист был сухим и коричневым, и таким тонким, что можно было видеть сквозь него, один последний бутон, карликовый, слабый, совсем крошечный цветок, но все еще белый и нежный, с пятью фиолетовыми пятнышками, как на живой лозе рядом с ним, раскрылся и помахал звездам, и ждал раннего солнца. Над смертью и распадом улыбалась Доминирующая Идея: лоза была в мире, чтобы цвести, чтобы приносить белые трубчатые цветы, сбрызнутые фиолетовым; и она сохранила свою волю после смерти.

Наше современное учение гласит, что идеи — это лишь сопутствующие явления, бессильные определять действия или отношения жизни, как образ в зеркале, который сказал бы телу, которое он отражает: «Я сформирую тебя». На самом деле мы знаем, что как только тело уходит от зеркала, преходящий образ становится ничем; но реальное тело имеет свое бытие, чтобы жить, и будет жить им, не обращая внимания на исчезнувшие призраки самого себя, в ответ на постоянно меняющееся давление вещей вне его.

Именно так так называемый Материалистический взгляд на историю, современные социалисты и положительное большинство анархистов хотели бы, чтобы мы смотрели на мир идей — как на изменчивые, нереальные отражения, не имеющие ничего общего с определением жизни Человека, а лишь как на зеркальные появления определенных материальных отношений, совершенно бессильные воздействовать на ход материальных вещей. Разум для них — это само по себе пустое зеркало, хотя на самом деле никогда не бывает полностью пустым, потому что всегда обращено к реальности материального и обязано отражать какую-то тень. Сегодня я кто-то, завтра кто-то другой, если декорации сменились; мое «Я» — это лепечущий призрак, пируэтирующий в стекле, жестикулирующий, трансформирующийся, ежечасно или ежеминутно, сверкающий фосфорным светом обманчивой нереальности, тающий, как туман на холмах. Скалы, поля, леса, ручьи, дома, товары, плоть, кровь, кости, сухожилия — это реальности, с определенными ролями, которые нужно играть, с существенными характерами, которые остаются при всех изменениях; но мое «Я» не остается; оно создается заново с каждым изменением этих вещей.

Я думаю, что этот безоговорочный детерминизм материального является великой и прискорбной ошибкой в нашем современном прогрессивном движении; и хотя я считаю, что это было полезным противоядием от долгого заблуждения теологии Средневековья, а именно: что Разум — это совершенно безответственная сущность, создающая законы сама по себе по манере Абсолютного Императора, без логики, последовательности или связи, правитель над материей и ее собственный верховный определитель, не исключая Бога (который сам был такого же рода разумом, написанным крупно) — хотя я действительно верю, что современная переконцепция Материализма сделала полезное дело, проколов пузырь такого самомнения и вернув человека и его «душу» на «место в природе», я тем не менее верю, что и этому есть предел; и что абсолютное господство Материи — такая же вредная ошибка, как и не связанная природа Разума; даже то, что в своем прямом воздействии на личное поведение она имеет худший эффект из двух. Ибо если доктрина свободной воли породила фанатиков и преследователей, которые, полагая, что люди могут быть хорошими при любых условиях, если они просто хотят этого, стремились убедить волю других людей угрозами, штрафами, тюремным заключением, пытками, шипами, колесом, топором, костром, чтобы сделать их хорошими и спасти их вопреки их упорной воле; если доктрина Спиритуализма, верховной души, сделала это, то доктрина Материалистического Детерминизма породила изменчивых, самооправдывающихся, никчемных, паразитических персонажей, которые являются этим сейчас, а тем — в другое время, и всем и ничем по принципу. «Мои условия сделали меня таким», — кричат они, и больше нечего сказать; бедные зеркальные призраки! как они могли помочь этому! Конечно, влияние такого характера редко достигает того, что у принципиального преследователя; но на каждого из последних приходится сотня этих легких, тестообразных персонажей, которые подойдут к любой форме для выпечки, к которым взывает детерминистское самооправдание; так что баланс зла между двумя доктринами примерно поддерживается.

Что нам нужно, так это истинная оценка силы и роли Идеи. Я не думаю, что способна дать такую истинную оценку; я не думаю, что кто-либо — даже гораздо более великие умы, чем мой — сможет сделать это в течение долгого времени. Но я, по крайней мере, способна предложить это, показать необходимость этого, дать грубое приближение этого.

И прежде всего, против принятой формулы современного Материализма «Люди таковы, какими их делают обстоятельства», я выдвигаю противоположную декларацию: «Обстоятельства таковы, какими их делают люди»; и я утверждаю, что обе эти вещи верны до того момента, пока борющиеся силы не уравновешены или одна не свергнута. Другими словами, моя концепция разума, или характера, заключается не в том, что это бессильное отражение мгновенного состояния материи и формы, а активный модифицирующий агент, реагирующий на окружающую среду и трансформирующий обстоятельства, иногда значительно, иногда, хотя и не часто, полностью.

По всему царству жизни, как я уже сказала, можно увидеть доминирующие идеи в действии, если только натренировать глаза искать их и распознавать. В человеческом мире было много доминирующих идей. Я не могу представить, что когда-либо, в любое время, борьба тела перед распадом могла быть чем-то иным, кроме агонии. Если рассуждение о том, что небезопасность условий, ожидание страданий — это обстоятельства, которые делают душу человека беспокойной, сжимающейся, робкой, то какой ответ вы дадите на вызов старого Рагнара Лодброга, на ту триумфальную песню смерти, извергнутую не тем, кто был брошен на смерть в пылу битвы, а под медленной тюремной пыткой, искусанным змеями, и все же поющим: «Богини смерти приглашают меня прочь — теперь я заканчиваю свою песню. Часы моей жизни истекли. Я буду улыбаться, когда умру»? И нельзя сказать, что это исключительный случай, который нельзя объяснить обычным действием общего закона, ибо старый король Лодброг Скальд делал только то, что делали его отцы, и его сыновья, и его друзья, и его враги на протяжении долгих поколений; они противопоставляли силу доминирующей идеи, идеи сверхасцендентного эго, силе пыток и смерти, заканчивая жизнь так, как они хотели ее закончить, с улыбкой на устах. Но несколько лет назад, разве мы не читали, как беспомощные кафры, ставшие жертвами англичан из-за упрямства буров, будучи вынужденными копать траншеи, в которых для приятного развлечения их должны были расстрелять, были выстроены в ряд на краю и, видя перед собой смерть, начали распевать варварские триумфальные песни, улыбаясь, когда падали? Давайте признаем, что такое ликующее неповиновение было вызвано невежеством, примитивными верованиями в богов и загробную жизнь; но давайте также признаем, что это показывает силу доминирующей идеи.

Повсюду в оболочках мертвых обществ, как и в оболочках морской слизи, мы увидим силу целенаправленного действия, намерения внутри, удерживающего свою цель против препятствий снаружи.

Я думаю, нет в мире никого, кто мог бы смотреть на неподвижное, устремленное вдаль лицо египетской резьбы, или читать описание памятников Египта, или смотреть на мумифицированную глину его старых мертвецов, не чувствуя, что доминирующей идеей того народа в ту эпоху было быть долговечными и создавать долговечные вещи, с неподвижностью их великого спокойного неба над ними и взглядом пустыни в них. Нужно чувствовать, что какие бы другие идеи ни воодушевляли их и ни выражали себя в их жизнях, это была доминирующая идея. То, что было, должно оставаться, чего бы это ни стоило, даже если бы это сломало вечные холмы: идея, которая заставляла живое человечество под ней, рожденное и воспитанное в гробах каст, стонать, корчиться и грызть свои повязки, пока в полноте времени она не ушла: и все же гранитная форма ее смотрит пустыми глазами на мир, суровая старая память о Того-что-было.