황무지 (The Waste Land) 中 : 01. 죽은 자의 매장(The Burial of the Dead) / Thomas. Stearns Eliot (1888~1965)

 

 

01. 죽은 자의 매장

 

4월은 가장 잔인한 달, 죽은 땅에서 라일락을 키워내고 추억과 욕정을 뒤섞고 잠든 뿌리를 봄비로 깨운다
겨울은 오히려 따뜻했다
잘 잊게 해주는 눈으로 대지를 덮고 마른 구근 (球根 )으로 약간의 목숨을 대어주었다
슈타른 버거호 너머로 소나기와 함께 갑자기 여름이 왔지요
우리는 주랑(柱廊 )에 머물렀다가 햇빛이 나자 호프가르텐 공원에 가서 커피를 들며 한 시간 동안 얘기 했어요
저는 러시아인이 아닙니다

출생은 리투아니아지만 진짜 독일인입니다
어려서 사톤 태공의 집에 머물렀을 때 설매를 태워줬는데 겁이 났어요
그는 말했죠

"마리 마리 꼭 잡아..." 그리곤 쏜살같이 내려갔지요
산에 오면 자유로운 느낌이 드는군요
밤에는 대개 책을 읽고 겨울엔 남쪽에 갑니다
 
이 움켜잡는 뿌리는 무엇이며, 이 자갈 더미에서 무슨 가지가 자라나 오는가?
사람들이여, 너는 말하기커녕 짐작도 못하리라 네가 아는 것은 파괴된 우상더미뿐,

그곳엔 해가 쪼여대고 죽은 나무에는 쉼터도 없고 귀뚜라미도 위안을 주지 않고 메마른 돌엔 물소리도 없느니라
단지 이 붉은 바위 아래 그늘이 있을 뿐 이 붉은 바위 그늘로 들어오너라
그러면 너에게 아침 네 뒤를 따른 그림자나 저녁에 너를 맞으러 일어서는 네 그림자와는 다른 그 무엇을 보여주리라
한 줌의 먼지 속에서 공포(恐怖)를 보여주리라

바람은 상쾌하게 고향으로 불어요
아일랜드의 님아 어디서 날 기다려 주나?

"일 년 전 당신이 저에게 처음으로 히야신스를 줬지요 
다들 저를 히야신스 아가씨라 불렀어요"
 
하지만 히야신스 정원에서 밤늦게 한아름 꽃을 안고 머리칼 젖은 너와 함께 돌아왔을 때
나는 말도 못 하고 눈도 안 보여 산 것도 죽은 것도 아니었다
빛의 핵심인 정숙을 들여다보며 아무것도 알 수 없었다

황량하고 쓸쓸합니다, 바다는...
유명한 천리안 소소트리스 부인은 독감에 걸렸다
하지만 영특한 카드를 한 벌 가지고 유럽에서 가장 슬기로운 여자로 알려져 있다

"이것 보세요"

그녀가 말했다

"여기 당신 패가 있어요
익사한 페니키아 수부이군요
보세요, 그의 눈은 진주로 변했어요
이건 벨라돈나, 암석의 여인 수상한 여인이에요
이건 지팡이 셋 짚은 사나이, 이건 바퀴 이건 눈 하나밖에 없는 상인
그리고 아무것도 안 그린 이 패는 그가 짊어지고 가는 무엇인데 내가 보지 못하도록 되어 있습니다
교살당한 사내의 패가 안 보이는군요
물에 빠져 죽는 걸 조심하세요
수많은 삶들이 원을 그리며 돌고 있군요
또 오세요
에퀴톤 부인을 만나시거든 천궁도를 직접 갖고 가겠다고 전해주세요
요새는 조심해야죠"

현실감이 없는 도시, 겨울 새벽의 갈색 안개 밑으로 한 떼의 사람들이 런던교 위로 흘러갔다
그처럼 많은 사람을 죽음이 마쳤다고 나는 생각도 못했다
이따금 짧은 한숨들을 내쉬며 각자 발치만 내려 보면서 언덕을 너머 킹 윌리 엄가를 내려가
성 메어리 울로스 성당이 죽은 소리로 드디어 아홉 시를 알리는 곳으로..
거기서 나는 낯익은 자를 만나 소리쳐서 그를 세웠다

"스테츤 자네 밀라에 해전 때 나와 같은 배에 탔었지
작년 뜰에 심은 시체에 싹이 트기 시작했나?
올해엔 꽃이 필까?
혹시 때 아닌 서리가 묘상(苗床 )을 망쳤나?
오오! 개를 멀리하게,
비록 놈이 인간의 친구이긴 해도 그렇잖으면 놈이 발톱으로 시체를 다시 파헤칠 걸세!
그대, 위선적인 독자여! 나와 같은 자 나의 형제여!"

 

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

 

01. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire,

stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.

 

And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish?

Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water.

Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du?

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'

 

Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards.

Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations.

 

Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see.

 

I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you.

If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying:

 

'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
'Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

 

Re:Thomas Stearns Eliot / The Waste Land ( The Burial of the Dead )

 

The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot | Poetry Foundation