Читать онлайн "The Glass Bead Game" - Гессе Герман - RuLit

These noble thoughts beguiled us yesterday; We savored them like choicest vintage wines. But now they sour, meanings seep away, Much like a page of music from whose vines

The clefs and sharps are carelessly erased: Take from a house the center of gravity, It sways and falls apart, all sense debased, Cacophony what had been harmony.

So too a face we saw as old and wise, Loved and respected, can wrinkle, craze, As, ripe for death, the mind deserts the eyes, Leaving a pitiful, empty, shriveled maze.

So too can ecstasy stir every sense And barely felt can quickly turn to gall, As if there dwelt within us cognizance That everything must wither, die, and fall.

Yet still above this vale of endless dying Man’s spirit, struggling incorruptibly, Painfully raises beacons, death defying, And wins, by longing, immortality.

The colored beads, his playthings, in his hand, He sits head bent; around him lies a land Laid waste by war and ravaged by disease. Growing on rubble, ivy hums with bees; A weary peace with muted psalmody Sounds in a world of aged tranquility. The old man tallies up his colored beads; He fits a blue one here, a white one there, Makes sure a large one, or a small, precedes, And shapes his Game ring with devoted care. Time was he had won greatness in the Game, Had mastered many tongues and many arts, Had known the world, traveled in foreign parts — — From pole to pole, no limits to his fame. Around him pupils, colleagues always pressed. Now he is old, worn-out; his life is lees. Disciples come no longer to be blessed, Nor masters to invite an argument. All, all are gone, and the temples, libraries, And schools of Castalia are no more. At rest Amid the ruins, the glass beads in his hand, Those hieroglyphs once so significant That now are only colored bits of glass, He lets them roll until their force is spent And silently they vanish in the sand.

Frozen silence… Darkness prevails on darkness. One shaft of light breaks through the jagged clouds Coming from nothingness to penetrate the depths, Compound the night with day, build length and breadth, Prefigure peak and ridge, declivities, redoubts, A loose blue atmosphere, earth’s deep dense fullness.

That brilliant shaft dissevers teeming generation Into both deed and war, and in a frenzy of creation Ignites a gleaming terrified new world. All changes where the seeds of light descend, Order arises, magnificence is heard In praise of life, of victory to light’s great end.

The mighty urge glides on, to move Its power into all creatures’ being, Recalling far divinity, the spirit of God’s doing: Now joy and pain, words, art, and song, World towering on world in arching victory throng With impulse, mind, contention, pleasure, love.

Guest at a monastery in the hills, I stepped, when all the monks had gone to pray, Into a book-lined room. Along the walls, Glittering in the light of fading day, I saw a multitude of vellum spines With marvelous inscriptions. Eagerly, Impelled by rapturous curiosity, I picked the nearest book, and read the lines: The Squaring of the Circle — Final Stage. I thought: I’ll take this and read every page! A quarto volume, leather tooled in gold, Gave promise of a story still untold: How Adam also ate of the other tree… The other tree? Which one? The tree of life? Is Adam then immortal? Now I could see No chance had brought me to this library. I spied the back and edges of a folio Aglow with all the colors of the rainbow, Its hand-painted title stating a decree: The interrelationships of hues and sound: Proof that for every color may be found In music a proper corresponding key. Choirs of colors sparkled before my eyes And now I was beginning to surmise: Here was the library of Paradise. To all the questions that had driven me All answers now could be given me. Here I could quench my thirst to understand, For here all knowledge stood at my command. There was provision here for every need: A title full of promise on each book Responded to my every rapid look. Here there was fruit to satisfy the greed Of any student’s timid aspirations, Of any master’s bold investigations. Here was the inner meaning, here the key, To poetry, to wisdom, and to science. Magic and erudition in alliance Opened the door to every mystery. These books provided pledges of all power To him who came here at this magic hour.

A lectern stood near by; with hands that shook I placed upon it one enticing book, Deciphered at a glance the picture writing, As in a dream we find ourselves reciting A poem or lesson we have never learned. At once I soared aloft to starry spaces Of the soul, and with the zodiac turned, Where all the revelations of all races, Whatever intuition has divined, Millennial experience of all nations, Harmoniously met in new relations, Old insights with new symbols recombined, So that in minutes or in hours as I read I traced once more the whole path of mankind, And all that men have ever done and said Disclosed its inner meaning to my mind. I read, and saw those hieroglyphic forms Couple and part, and coalesce in swarms, Dance for a while together, separate, Once more in newer patterns integrate, A kaleidoscope of endless metaphors — — And each some vaster, fresher sense explores.

Bedazzled by these sights, I looked away From the book to give my eyes a moment’s rest, And saw that I was not the only guest. An old man stood before that grand array Of tomes. Perhaps he was the archivist. I saw that he was earnestly intent Upon some task, and I could not resist A strange conviction that I had to know The manner of his work, and what it meant. I watched the old man, with frail hand and slow, Remove a volume and inspect what stood Written upon its back, then saw him blow With pallid lips upon the title — could A title possibly be more alluring Or offer greater promise of enduring Delight? But now his finger wiped across The spine. I saw it silently erase The name, and watched with fearful sense of loss As he inscribed another in its place And then moved on to smilingly efface One more, but only a newer title to emboss. For a long while I looked at him bemused, Then turned, since reason totally refused To understand the meaning of his actions, Back to my book — I’d seen but a few lines — — And found I could no longer read the signs Or even see the rows of images. The world of symbols I had barely entered That had stirred me to such transports of bliss, In which a universe of meaning centered, Seemed to dissolve and rush away, careen And reel and shake in feverish contractions, And fade out, leaving nothing to be seen But empty parchment with a hoary sheen. I felt a hand upon me, felt it slide Over my shoulder. The old man stood beside My lectern, and I shuddered while He took my book and with a subtle smile Brushed his finger lightly to elide The former title, then began to write New promises and problems, novel inquiries, New formulas for ancient mysteries. Without a word, he plied his magic style. Then, with my book, he disappeared from sight.