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12. An Empty Threat / New Hampshire(1923) - Robert Frost
I stay;
But it isn't as if
There wasn't always Hudson's Bay
And the fur trade,
A small skiff
And a paddle blade.
skiff : 소형보트
I can just see my tent pegged,
And me on the floor,
Cross-legged,
And a trapper looking in at the door
With furs to sell.
His name's Joe,
Alias John,
And between what he doesn't know
And won't tell
About where Henry Hudson's gone,
I can't say he's much help;
But we get on.
The seal yelp
On an ice cake.
It's not men by some mistake?
No,
There's not a soul
For a windbreak
Between me and the North Pole―
Except always John-Joe,
My French Indian Esquimaux,
And he's off setting traps―
In one himself perhaps.
Give a headshake
Over so much bay
Thrown away
In snow and mist
That doesn't exist,
I was going to say,
For God, man, or beast's sake,
Yet does perhaps for all three.
Don't ask Joe
What it is to him.
It's sometimes dim
What it is to me,
Unless it be
It's the old captain's dark fate
who failed to find or force a strait
In its two-thousand-mile coast;
An his crew left him where he failed,
And nothing came of all he sailed.
It's to say, "You and I―"
To such a ghost―
"You and I
Off here
With the dead race of the Great Auk!"
And, "Better defeat almost,
If seen clear,
Than life's victories of doubt
That need endless talk-talk
To make them out."
auk : 바다쇠오리
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공허한 버티기
나는 버틴다.
그러나 허드슨 만
그리고 모피 거래,
작은 보트와 노깃은
항상 있다고 보고,
버틴다.
나는 텐트를 치고,
그 바닥에 다리를 포개고 앉아있고,
팔을 모피를 든 덫 사냥꾼이
문에서 내 텐트 안을 들여다보는
상황을 상상할 수 있을 뿐이다.
그 사냥꾼의 이름은 조,
에일리어스 존이다.
헨리 허드슨의 행방에 대해,
그가 알지 못하는 것과
말하려 하지 않는 것 사이에서,
그가 큰 도움이 된다고 말할 순 없지만,
우리는 사이좋게 지낸다.
얼음과자 위에서
바다표범이 짖는다.
혹여 사람들을 보고 짖나?
아니다.
나와 북극 사이에
바람막이가 될
사람은 한 사람도 없다―
있다면 언제나 존―조 뿐,
나의 프렌치 인디안 에스키모다.
그리고 그는 덫을 놓으러 가서 없다―
그 자신이 덫에 걸렸는지 모른다.
눈과 안개 속에
내던져진
많은 만들을 살펴보고,
머리를 가로 저어라.
내가 말하려는 것은,
그것들은 신, 인간, 아니면 짐승을 위해
존재하는 게 아니고 아마도
셋 모두를 위해 존재한다는 것이다.
그것이 그에게 무엇이냐고
조에게 묻지 말라.
그것이 나에게 무엇인지도
때로는 아리송하니,
그건 아마도
그 늙은 선장의 어두운 운명이리라.
그는 2,000마일 해안에서
해협을 발견하거나 개척하려다 실패했고,
선원들이 그를 실패의 현장에 두고 떠났기에,
그의 모든 항해는 무위(無爲)로 끝났다.
그것은 그런 혼령에게―
“당신과 나―
당신과 나는
멀리 이곳 타향에서
멸종한 큰 바다오리와 합류한 것!”이라면서,
"똑똑히 보면,
사람들을 이해시키기 위해
끝없는 말과 말이 필요한
삶의 의심스런 승리들 보다는
아쉬운 패배가 더 낫습니다.”고 말하는 것이다.
-신재실 옮김-
단상(斷想): 영국 탐험가 헨리 허드슨은 1607년 이후 영국으로부터 중국에 이르는 북서 항로(北西航路)를 개척하고자 4회에 걸쳐 탐험에 나섰으며, 1609년에는 아메리카의 동해안에 이르러 허드슨 강을 발견하여 뉴 암스테르담 식민지(지금의 뉴욕)의 기초를 구축하였다. 1610년에는 다시 영국 상인들의 원조로 마지막 북서항로 탐험에 나서 캐나다 북방의 한 해협과 거대한 허드슨 만을 발견, 영국의 북 캐나다 지배의 기초를 닦았으나, 1611년 식량 부족 등으로 대부분의 선원들이 반란하여, 허드슨은 아들 및 7명의 대원과 함께 작은 보트로 표류하는 신세가 되었고, 이들은 결국 행방불명이 되었다.
“2,000마일 해안에서 해협을 발견하거나 개척하려다”무위(無爲)로 끝난 탐험가 허드슨의 실패는 인간의 딜레마를 상징한다. 반란의 이유를 확실히 알 수는 없으나, 허드슨과 선원들 사이의 소통부재가 원인이라고 추측할 수 있을 것이다. 소통엔 “끝없는 말과 말”이 필요하지만 그 성공을 보장할 수 없다. 더구나 절박한 상황에서는 “의심스런 승리”보다 “패배”가 더 나을지 모른다. 탐험가 허드슨은 패배의 길을 택했다. 타협과 협상, 양보와 굴복보다는 명예로운 자기희생의 길을 갔다고 말할 수 있을 것이다. 그게 정말 정도(正道)였을까? 판단하기 어렵다. 세상과 타협할 것인가? 나만의 길을 갈 것인가? 수시로 이런 갈림길에 부딪히는 게 우리의 인생 아닐까?
허드슨의 혼령은 허드슨 만 근처의 어딘가에서 표류하고 있을지 모른다. 시인 프로스트의 가상적 인물은 허드슨 만에서 허드슨의 흔적을 수색한다. 패배가 거의 확실함에도 철수하지 않고 버틴다. 그 역시 어쩌면 가정불화 등 “끝없는 말과 말”을 요구하는 세속의 사람들을 벗어나, 황량하고 죽음의 위협이 도사리지만 적어도 독립적인 삶을 추구하는 것이다. 그의 동지가 전혀 없는 것은 아니다. 눈과 얼음에 뒤덮인 허드슨 만의 황야에서 홀로 바다표범 덫을 놓아 생계를 유지하는 조가 있다. 화자는 그의 탐색에서 조의 동지적 도움을 기대하지만, 사실 그는 큰 도움이 되지는 않는다. 여기서도 “주고받기"의 타협이 요구되는 것인가? 팔 모피를 들고 텐트 안을 기웃거리는 조는“헨리 허드슨의 행방에 대해, 그가 알지 못하는 것과 말하려 하지 않는 것 사이”를 오간다. 인간은 운명적으로 사회적 동물일 수밖에 없는가?
시의 마지막에서 화자는 허드슨의 혼령에게 이렇게 말한다. “당신과 나는/ 멀리 이곳 타향에서/ 멸종한 큰 바다오리와 합류한 것!/ … 똑똑히 보면,/ 사람들을 이해시키기 위해/ 끝없는 말과 말이 필요한/삶의 의심스런 승리들 보다는/ 아쉬운 패배가 더 낫습니다.”
-신재실 씀-
출처 : http://blog.naver.com/PostList.nhn?from=postList&blogId=js9660&categoryNo=31¤tPage=49
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ROBERT FROST
SPEAKING ON CAMPUS
Contents
Introduction
Getting up things to say for yourself
Where poetry comes in
Handling figures of speech
“Anxiety for the Liberal Arts”
A book side to everything
Not freedom from, but freedom of
Of rapid reading and what we call “completion”
No surprise to me, no surprise to anybody else
Pieces of knitting to go on with
Everything in the world comes in pairs
My kind of fooling
About “the great misgiving”
Wondering how convictions are had
Something you live by till you live by something else
Some gamble—something of uncertainty
The future of the world
Hang around for the refinement of sentiment
What I think I’m doing when I write a poem
Of the “elect” and the “elected”
Fall in love at sight
Thinking about generalizations
“In on the Ground Floor”
A certain restlessness
About thinking and of perishing to shine
A gentler interest in the fine things
Let’s say bravely…that poetry counts
I’ll tell you a little about my walks
Editor’s Note
References
Everything in the world comes in pairs
In beginning this talk to the students at Phillips Exeter Academy on October 11, 1956, Mr. Frost made mention of H. Darcy Curwin, a member of the academy’s English Department.
THE SUREST THING you know is that everything in the world comes in pairs that you’re living between in great uncertainty. You have two certainties that are always there. They are the surest thing you know. I’m very sure that your life between them is a daily uncertainty that the psychologists can’t do anything about.
Now, I was led to think of that by a line in my own verse that Mr. Curwin had me write today. “When I was young my teachers were the old,” the poem begins. “I gave up fire for form till I was cold.”24
Now, fire and form, inspiration and know-how. You see, you’re between inspiration and know-how. You’re between fire and form. And you have a feeling as you come along in school, the further you get, they’ve taken all the feeling out of you and given you in exchange for it a certain amount of know-how.
And you wouldn’t believe it, maybe—(I’m speaking to the right age here.)—you might not believe it, but you’ll get worried about that sometime in your life. I get worried about it now. I think I know too much for my spirit.
It’s like a volcano that runs fire, but it crusts on itself and checks itself with its own crust and has to break crust again to flow—flows and crusts and flows and crusts. And everything you’re doing in writing and thinking, all your learning and everything, has that about it.
It’s too easy for my enemies to say, at my age that I know how too well, that I’m doing it on my know-how—the way you might play tennis on your inspiration when you’re young and when you can get about everywhere, on all parts of the court at once. And then the day comes when you just have to stand in one place and do it on your old foxiness, your know-how.
You can see that happening in the sports; see a man outlast himself a little while on his know-how—outlast himself. And the poets have that same thing, as I have said.
Now, that’s just one thing. Let’s take another one that you’re always going to spend your life worrying about—another uncertainty—about selfishness and unselfishness.
In school it comes this way. Let me tell you about a poem I read for years without noticing a certain word in it:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky…
And he goes on to say at the end of it—(I’m only here to recite my own poems!)—he goes on to say at the end of it:
I could wish my days to be
Joined…
“Bound each to each” is it or “Joined…”?—
Joined each to each by natural piety.25
Now, “natural piety” to me for years and years meant only a piety that’s natural to have, piety to God or anything. But it doesn’t mean that. It means piety toward nature. And it never occurred to me for years and years and years.
And I’m so selfish in my nature, in my ego, that I’m glad I waited all those years to find it out for myself and never had it pointed out to me by a teacher. That’s the selfishness of it, you see. And I’d ten times rather go without a lot of knowledge than have it pointed out to me.
And that’s so in my own poems. Somebody says to me, “I see what you mean, but just what are you driving at?” (That’s, “What’s ulterior there?”) And I don’t want to have to tell that. And I’d think everybody’d be selfish enough to want to see that for himself.
And I look at a lot of our teaching as a kind of trespass on a lofty selfishness that young people ought to have.
Don’t tell me. Somebody gives me a conundrum, and I can see he’s so anxious to tell me, that I don’t have a chance to think it out for myself. It makes me nervous, and I give in quickly, of course, to please his selfishness. He means to tell me.
I want to be left alone. I want to make my own observations and have my own experience. This is speaking of books, and so out in life, too.
But I know that I should be unselfish enough to let people tell me some things—teachers and professors and friends and relatives; and enemies, as well as friends.
You could go on multiplying. I’ll tell you another, one of the vastest uncertainties of our time. The two opposites that you’re sure of, one is called “civilization” and the other is—its opposite—is “utopia.”
Now, you think that over, and you’ll see that every time you vote you’re voting between utopia and civilization. Civilization means all the freedoms, even the dangerous freedoms, the risky freedoms. And the utopia means security.
You want some security, you know. And you want some civilization; you want some risk. Everybody is in the same difficulty. Every day is an uncertainty—especially election day. […]
I have a feeling that many people that get educated, they get into a state of pressing everything too hard for meaning. They get discouraged about it all. They get afraid that there’s something there that they aren’t educated enough to see. Give ’em one more year in college, and they must know how to read it—or one more teacher. There’s a cowardice about that, isn’t there?
I see a boy looking at a poem of mine, and I see he’s encountered it before. He’s looking at it hard, and he’s still worried about it. How much he would like help from me, instead of being brave about it and saying never mind what I do mean. […]
And there’s another one that you’re lost between: carefulness—rightness, exactness—and not sticking at trifles. Another word for not sticking at trifles is “unscrupulousness.” Will you act a little unscrupulous? And how unscrupulous will you be?
Unscrupulous is not sticking at trifles. That’s all it means. Scruples, little things. (You don’t want to have what they call “a soul for buttons.” You don’t want to be bothered by buttons—not in a day of zippers, anyway!)
But there you are, between those two. Between generosity, that is a kind of a largeness about things, and meanness, that is suspicious and careful and all that. You’re there, and you want to be a little mean, I suppose.
How mean you want to be? And how generous you want to be? You don’t want to be so generous that you throw yourself away. And the government doesn’t want to be so generous that it throws itself away. (I’ll be talking politics before I know it. Best to keep out of that.)
Well, I’ll leave that now and say some poems to you. Just that one thing that I’m telling you about: The certainties are double; always a pair of certainties that you’re uncertain between, every day, every minute—friendship, trust; faith, unfaith.
It says, “Lord, I believe”—(And what’s the next, in the same 11 Belief/unbelief; and you’re there between those two or you’re not alive.
What your education is toward is, I’d say, two things. One is action, achievement. And that can begin any time after you’re fourteen or fifteen or sixteen or seventeen—(Somewhere along there it begins.)—in the arts and in science and mathematics and all these things.
The kind of selfishness I talk of begins where you want to do it for yourself and achieve something for yourself. That begins much younger than you’d think. Very young you ought to begin to be a little resentful of people who want to impose too much on you.
You don’t want to contradict anybody, but you want to be in this state of wanting to do it as much as possible for yourself, with a little touch of generosity toward others. You know, an unselfishness; and let ’em tell you a little. Don’t let ’em tell you too much.
I might say that it’s the same for poetry, the same for science. The advertisements in the Scientific America are all for young men and women that want to be original in science. They’re advertising for ’em. I thought science had stolen the show—because it has all these atoms—I thought it had stolen the show, and it hasn’t. They’re advertising, themselves, that they aren’t getting boys enough.
I said: “Where are they going? They’ve left poetry, I’m pretty sure. Where have they all gone? Haven’t they gone to science?” “No,” they say, “they’ve gone to sociology.” So I hear.
But this thing in science, just the same, this selfishness. Not too selfish; but it’s selfishness. It’s do it yourself and get up something and be among the originators of things. Don’t let the Germans all do it and the British all do it. (Who gave us jet propulsion? Who gave us penicillin? Who gave us a lot?)
We won’t prolong this. But, you know, I’m a little unselfish. I want the other nations to do some of it, but I wish we were doing more of it. And I want everybody that goes to M.I.T. to keep away from the culture courses and go far in science—(Tell ’em I said so!)—and way way up, you know, where the originality is, what they call “pure science.”
In the advertisements they don’t like to say “pure.” That doesn’t sound nice in an advertisement. But they say “basic science.” Basic science, that means the same thing—the high; not gadgeteering and engineering, but science, basic science.
It has the same quality that poetry has about it, asks the same thing of you. Two things that make it are the selfishness that wants to be the ones that think it, and the other is a tendency to make metaphor all the time, to seek connections and relations all the time. And that belongs to poetry just the same as it does to science.
—at Johns Hopkins University, November 9, 1958:
LATELY I’ve heard a lot of talk about the Supreme Court. And that set me to thinking, drawing a line between the umpire or the referee—(This broadens out a little into all the sports: the referee/umpire.)—and the handicapper.
No referee, no umpire has a right to be a handicapper. He has no right to say that the underdog needs a little help.
So, now you’re in the question of the Supreme Court that will bear watching—(I don’t mean the question will bear watching, I mean the Supreme Court will bear watching.)—to see whether they sharply make that division between being referee, with no interest especially in upperdog or underdog. That’s for the handicapper; and that’s for Congress and the President.