Émile Verhaeren (1855 – 1916)
Portrait par Théo van Rysselberghe
Les pêcheurs
Le site est floconneux de brume
Qui s'épaissit en bourrelets,
Autour des seuils et des volets,
Et, sur les berges, fume.
Le fleuve traîne, pestilentiel,
Les charognes que le courant rapporte;
Et la lune semble une morte
Qu'on enfouit au bout du ciel.
Seules, en des barques, quelques lumières
Illuminent et grandissent les dos
Obstinément courbés, sur l'eau,
Des vieux pêcheurs de la rivière,
Qui longuement, depuis hier soir,
Pour on ne sait quelle pêche nocturne
Ont descendu leur filet noir,
Dans l'eau mauvaise et taciturne.
Au fond de l'eau, sans qu'on les voie
Sont réunis les mauvais sorts
Qui les guettent, comme des proies,
Et qu'ils pêchent, à longs efforts,
Croyant au travail simple et méritoire,
La nuit, sous les brumes contradictoires.
Les minuits durs sonnent là-bas,
A sourds marteaux, sonnent leurs glas,
De tour en tour, les minuits sonnent,
Les minuits durs des nuits d'automne
Les minuits las.
Les pêcheurs noirs n'ont sur la peau
Rien que des loques équivoques ;
Et, dans leur cou, leur vieux chapeau
Répand en eau, goutte après goutte,
La brume toute.
Les villages sont engourdis
Les villages et leurs taudis
Et les saules et les noyers
Que les vents d'Ouest ont guerroyés.
Aucun aboi ne vient des bois
Ni aucun cri, par à travers le minuit vide,
Qui s'imbibe de cendre humide.
Sans qu'ils s'aident, sans qu'ils se hèlent,
En leurs besognes fraternelles,
N'accomplissant que ce qu'il doit,
Chaque pêcheur pêche pour soi :
Et le premier recueille, en les mailles qu'il serre,
Tout le fretin de sa misère ;
Et celui-ci ramène, à l'étourdie,
Le fond vaseux des maladies ;
Et tel ouvre ses nasses
Aux deuils passants qui le menacent ;
Et celui-là ramasse, aux bords,
Les épaves de son remords.
La rivière tournant aux coins
Et bouillonnant aux caps des digues
S'en va - depuis quels jours ? - au loin
Vers l'horizon de la fatigue ;
Sur les berges, les peaux des noirs limons
Nocturnement, suent le poison
Et les brouillards sont des toisons,
Qui s'étendent jusqu'aux maisons.
Dans leurs barques, où rien ne bouge,
Pas même la flamme d'un falot rouge
Nimbant, de grands halos de sang,
Le feutre épais du brouillard blanc,
La mort plombe de son silence
Les vieux pêcheurs de la démence.
Ils sont les isolés au fond des brumes,
Côte à côte, mais ne se voyant pas :
Et leurs deux bras sont las ;
Et leur travail, c'est leur ruine.
Dites, si dans leur nuit, ils s'appelaient
Et si leurs voix se consolaient !
Mais ils restent mornes et gourds,
Le dos voűté et le front lourd,
Avec, à côté d'eux, leur petite lumière
Immobile, sur la rivière.
Comme des blocs d'ombre, ils sont là,
Sans que leurs yeux, par au delà
Des bruines âpres et spongieuses
Ne se doutent qu'il est, au firmament,
Attirantes comme un aimant,
Des étoiles prodigieuses.
Les pêcheurs noirs du noir tourment
Sont les perdus, immensément,
Parmi les loins, parmi les glas
Et les là-bas qu'on ne voit pas ;
Et l'humide minuit d'automne
Pleut dans leur âme monotone.
A halászok
Ködvatta gyűl a táj fölött,
És dagadozva, sűrűsödve
Ül spalettára és küszöbre,
S a marton füstölög.
Bűzös a folyó, hordja terhét,
A sodrásban megannyi holt;
Mint egy hulla, olyan a hold,
Az égbolt mélyére temették.
Bárkákon magányos fény szerteszét,
Makacsul görnyedt, óriási hátak
Vetnek a folyóvízre árnyat:
Az ős-öreg halászokét.
Bedobták tegnap este még,
Ki tudja, miféle fogásra várva,
Hálójukat, a feketét,
A gonosz és hallgatag árba.
Nem látják, de a víz alatt
Rájuk rossz sorsok leskelődnek,
Akár a prédára, holott
Ők szeretnék kifogni őket,
Hogy legyen meg munkájuk látszata
Az ellentmondó ködben, éjszaka.
Szól az éjfél a táj felett,
Lélekharangok zengenek,
Majd ez, majd az hallatja hangját,
Konokon, félig félve kongják
Az éjfelet.
Amit visel a sok öreg,
Csak ruharongy az, riherongy,
S közben nyakukba csepereg
Sapkájukból a víz, mi nem más,
Mint ködszitálás.
A falu dermedten vacog,
A falu és minden vacok,
A diófa is és a szil,
Megcibálja őket a szél.
Mind meztelen és nesztelen,
Nem harsan ugatás, nem hangzik pisszenés sem
Az üres, hamunedves éjben.
Közös, de nem osztják a munkát,
Hívni egymást már sose tudnák,
Nincs más, csak a saját dolog,
Annak van hala, aki fog:
Egyikük merítőhálót küszködve rángat,
Nyamvadt halait nyomorának;
Ólmát a másik mélybe mártja,
Iszapfertőbe, melegágyba;
Emez nyitja a varsát,
Úszik sok gyászos végű sors át;
Amaz meg a vízben kutat
Megbánás-uszadékokat.
A folyó kanyarog, s alul,
A gátakon tajtékot ontván
Elenyészik kortalanul
A kimerültség horizontján;
Iszaphordalék pikkelyesedik,
Fekete, part menti sömör,
Vattaköd hömpölyög, tömör
Gyapjúdunyha, a házakig.
Nincs semmi nesz, nem ing a lámpa,
Piros vértócsaként vetül a lángja
A hajókra, s a ködbe metsz,
Meghasad a vastag nemez,
Csöndnyűggel köti a halál át
A téboly sok öreg halászát.
Egymás mellett, egymásról mit se tudva,
Cellákba falazza őket a köd:
Karjuk, akár a kő;
Romba dönti őket a munka.
Nem hívják egymást, mert úgysem felelnek,
Nem tartják egymásban a lelket.
Hátuk hajlott, testük merev,
Minden tagjuk földre mered,
Bámulják a folyót, búsan, gémberedetten,
Lámpásuk fénye rezzenetlen.
Mint árnyéktömbök, állnak ott,
S habár szemük nem láthatott
Semmit a szivacsos ködön túl,
El nem fordulnak a mennyboltozatban
Tündöklő láthatatlan,
De csodálatos csillagoktól.
Fekete halászok, örökre
Elveszettek és meggyötörtek,
Harang zeng, látni nem lehet,
Mert köd lebeg a táj felett,
S nyirkos, őszi éj, monoton,
Sír a lelkükben, konokon.
Fordította: Imreh András
The fisherman
The spot is flaked with mist, that fills,
Thickening into rolls more dank,
The thresholds and the window-sills,
And smokes on every bank.
The river stagnates, pestilent
With carrion by the current sent
This way and that--and yonder lies
The moon, just like a woman dead,
That they have smothered overhead,
Deep in the skies.
In a few boats alone there gleam
Lamps that light up and magnify
The backs, bent over stubbornly,
Of the old fishers of the stream,
Who since last evening, steadily,
--For God knows what night-fishery--
Have let their black nets downward slow
Into the silent water go.
The noisome water there below.
Down in the river's deeps, ill-fate
And black mischances breed and hatch.
Unseen of them, and lie in wait
As for their prey. And these they catch
With weary toil--believing still
That simple, honest work is best--
At night, beneath the shifting mist
Unkind and chill.
So hard and harsh, yon clock-towers tell.
With muffled hammers, like a knell,
The midnight hour.
From tower to tower
So hard and harsh the midnights chime.
The midnights harsh of autumn time,
The weary midnights' bell.
The crew
Of fishers black have on their back
Nought save a nameless rag or two;
And their old hats distil withal,
And drop by drop let crumbling fall
Into their necks, the mist-flakes all.
The hamlets and their wretched huts
Are numb and drowsy, and all round
The willows too, and walnut trees,
'Gainst which the Easterly fierce breeze
Has waged its feud.
No bayings from the forest sound,
No cry the empty midnight cuts--
The midnight space that grows imbrued
With damp breaths from the ashy ground.
The fishers hail each other not--
Nor help--in their fraternal lot;
Doing but that which must be done.
Each fishes for himself alone.
And this one gathers in his net,
Drawing it tighter yet,
His freight of petty misery;
And that one drags up recklessly
Diseases from their slimy bed;
While others still their meshes spread
Out to the sorrows that drift by
Threateningly nigh;
And the last hauls aboard with force
The wreckage dark of his remorse.
The river, round its corners bending,
And with the dyke-heads intertwined.
Goes hence--since what times out of mind?--
Toward the far horizon wending
Of weariness unending.
Upon the banks, the skins of wet
Black ooze-heaps nightly poison sweat.
And the mists are their fleeces light
That curl up to the houses' height.
In their dark boats, where nothing stirs,
Not even the red-flamed torch that blurs
With halos huge, as if of blood.
The thick felt of the mist's white hood,
Death with his silence seals the sere
Old fishermen of madness here.
The isolated, they abide
Deep in the mist--still side by side.
But seeing one another never;
Weary are both their arms--and yet
Their work their ruin doth beget.
Each for himself works desperately,
He knows not why--no dreams has he;
Long have they worked, for long, long years,
While every instant brings its fears;
Nor have they ever
Quitted the borders of their river,
Where 'mid the moonlit mists they strain
To fish misfortune up amain.
If but in this their night they hailed each other
And brothers' voices might console a brother!
But numb and sullen, on they go,
With heavy brows and backs bent low,
While their small lights beside them gleam,
Flickering feebly on the stream.
Like blocks of shadow they are there.
Nor ever do their eyes divine
That far away beyond the mists
Acrid and spongy--there exists
A firmament where 'mid the night.
Attractive as a loadstone, bright
Prodigious planets shine.
The fishers black of that black plague,
They are the lost immeasurably,
Among the knells, the distance vague,
The yonder of those endless plains
That stretch more far than eye can see:
And the damp autumn midnight rains
Into their souls' monotony.
Thickening into rolls more dank,
The thresholds and the window-sills,
And smokes on every bank.
The river stagnates, pestilent
With carrion by the current sent
This way and that--and yonder lies
The moon, just like a woman dead,
That they have smothered overhead,
Deep in the skies.
In a few boats alone there gleam
Lamps that light up and magnify
The backs, bent over stubbornly,
Of the old fishers of the stream,
Who since last evening, steadily,
--For God knows what night-fishery--
Have let their black nets downward slow
Into the silent water go.
The noisome water there below.
Down in the river's deeps, ill-fate
And black mischances breed and hatch.
Unseen of them, and lie in wait
As for their prey. And these they catch
With weary toil--believing still
That simple, honest work is best--
At night, beneath the shifting mist
Unkind and chill.
So hard and harsh, yon clock-towers tell.
With muffled hammers, like a knell,
The midnight hour.
From tower to tower
So hard and harsh the midnights chime.
The midnights harsh of autumn time,
The weary midnights' bell.
The crew
Of fishers black have on their back
Nought save a nameless rag or two;
And their old hats distil withal,
And drop by drop let crumbling fall
Into their necks, the mist-flakes all.
The hamlets and their wretched huts
Are numb and drowsy, and all round
The willows too, and walnut trees,
'Gainst which the Easterly fierce breeze
Has waged its feud.
No bayings from the forest sound,
No cry the empty midnight cuts--
The midnight space that grows imbrued
With damp breaths from the ashy ground.
The fishers hail each other not--
Nor help--in their fraternal lot;
Doing but that which must be done.
Each fishes for himself alone.
And this one gathers in his net,
Drawing it tighter yet,
His freight of petty misery;
And that one drags up recklessly
Diseases from their slimy bed;
While others still their meshes spread
Out to the sorrows that drift by
Threateningly nigh;
And the last hauls aboard with force
The wreckage dark of his remorse.
The river, round its corners bending,
And with the dyke-heads intertwined.
Goes hence--since what times out of mind?--
Toward the far horizon wending
Of weariness unending.
Upon the banks, the skins of wet
Black ooze-heaps nightly poison sweat.
And the mists are their fleeces light
That curl up to the houses' height.
In their dark boats, where nothing stirs,
Not even the red-flamed torch that blurs
With halos huge, as if of blood.
The thick felt of the mist's white hood,
Death with his silence seals the sere
Old fishermen of madness here.
The isolated, they abide
Deep in the mist--still side by side.
But seeing one another never;
Weary are both their arms--and yet
Their work their ruin doth beget.
Each for himself works desperately,
He knows not why--no dreams has he;
Long have they worked, for long, long years,
While every instant brings its fears;
Nor have they ever
Quitted the borders of their river,
Where 'mid the moonlit mists they strain
To fish misfortune up amain.
If but in this their night they hailed each other
And brothers' voices might console a brother!
But numb and sullen, on they go,
With heavy brows and backs bent low,
While their small lights beside them gleam,
Flickering feebly on the stream.
Like blocks of shadow they are there.
Nor ever do their eyes divine
That far away beyond the mists
Acrid and spongy--there exists
A firmament where 'mid the night.
Attractive as a loadstone, bright
Prodigious planets shine.
The fishers black of that black plague,
They are the lost immeasurably,
Among the knells, the distance vague,
The yonder of those endless plains
That stretch more far than eye can see:
And the damp autumn midnight rains
Into their souls' monotony.
Translated by Alma Strettell
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