|
29. Two Look at Two
Love and forgetting might have carried them
A little further up the mountainside
With night so near, but not much further up.
They must have halted soon in any case
With thoughts of the path back, how rough it was
With rock and washout, and unsafe in darkness;
washout : 토사의 유실, 파손장소
When they were halted by a tumbled wall
tumble : 하락, 굴러 떨어지다
With barbed-wire binding. They stood facing this,
Spending what onward impulse they still had
In one last look the way they must not go,
On up the failing path, where, if a stone
Or earthslide moved at night, it moved itself;
No footstep moved it. "This is all," they sighed,
"Good-night to woods." But not so; there was more.
A doe from round a spruce stood looking at them
doe : 암사슴
spruce : 가문비나무
Across the wall, as near the wall as they.
She saw them in their field, they her in hers.
The difficulty of seeing what stood still,
Like some up-ended boulder split in two,
boulder : 둥근 돌, 바위, 볼더
Was in her clouded eyes: they saw no fear there.
She seemed to think that, two thus, they were safe.
Then, as if they were something that, though strange,
She could not trouble her mind with too long.
She sighed and passed unscared along the wall.
"This, then, is all. What more is there to ask?"
But no, not yet. A snort to bid them wait.
A buck from round the spruce stood looking at them
Across the wall, as near the wall as they.
This was an antlered buck of lusty nostril,
Not the same doe come back into her place.
He viewed them quizzically with jerks of head,
As if to ask, "Why don't you make some motion?
Or give some sign of life? Because you can't.
I doubt if you're as living as you look."
Thus till he had them almost feeling dared
To stretch a proffering hand―and a spell-breaking.
proffer : 제의, 제공물, 제공하기
Then he too passed unscared along the wall.
Two had seen two, whichever side you spoke from.
"This must be all." It was all. Still they stood,
A great wave from it going over them,
As if the earth in one unlooked-for favor
Had made them certain earth returned their love.
둘이 둘을 바라보다
그들은 물불을 가리지 않고 사랑하기에
밤이 가까웠어도 산을 조금 더 높이
올라갔을 수도 있었겠지만, 중도(中途)에서 멈췄다.
어쨌든 곧 멈췄을 것이 틀림없으니, 그들 생각에
되돌아갈 길이 바위와 유실(流失)로 험하고,
깜깜한 밤에는 아주 위험했기 때문이다.
때마침 가시철사가 엉켜있는 무너진 담장이
그들을 가로막았다. 그들은 여전히 가지고 있는
전진(前進)의 충동을 불태우며, 담장을 마주보고 서서
가서는 안 되는 길을 마지막으로 한 번 살피니,
이제부터는 길이랄 게 없어서, 밤에 돌이 구르거나
미끄러운 흙이 움직이면, 길 자체가 움직였다.
사람 발자국은 전혀 없었다. “이거로 끝이네,”그들은 탄식했다,
“잘 자라, 숲." 그러나 그게 아니었다. 아직 다른 게 있었다.
암사슴이 담장 맞은편에서 가분비나무를 돌아오더니
그들만큼이나 담장 가까운 곳에 서서, 그들을 바라보았다.
그녀는 그들 영역의 그들을, 그들은 그녀 영역의 그녀를 보았다.
마치 둘로 갈라진 둥근 돌멩이가 거꾸로 서있듯이, 부동자세로
서있는 그들이 무엇인지 분간하기 난감하다는 표정이
그녀의 흐린 눈에 감돌았지만, 두려움의 낌새는 전혀 없었다.
둘이 저렇게 부동(不動)하니 안전하다고 생각하는 듯 했다.
그다음, 그들이 낯설긴 하지만, 그녀가 너무 오래
신경 쓸 만한 가치는 없는 존재이기나 한 것처럼,
그녀는 안도의 숨을 쉬고는 태연히 그 담장을 지나갔다.
"그래, 이것으로 끝이군. 더 이상 생각할 게 뭐 있겠어?"
천만에, 아직 아니었다. 그들은 콧방귀 소리에 걸음을 멈췄다.
수사슴이 담장 맞은편에서 가분비나무를 돌아오더니
그들만큼이나 담장 가까운 곳에 서서, 그들을 바라보았다.
이것은 원기 왕성한 콧구멍에 가지진 뿔의 수사슴으로,
같은 암사슴이 제자리에 돌아온 것이 아니었다.
그가 머리를 홱홱 움직이며 의아한 듯 그들을 쳐다보는 것이,
"당신들은 왜 조금도 움직이지 않는 거야. 아니면 살아있다는
증거라도 제시해야 되잖소? 그럴 수 없어서 못하는 구나.
당신들은 살아있는 게 아니군 그래," 라고 묻는 것 같았다.
그의 이런 태도에 그들은 결국 손을 내밀고,
정적(靜寂)을 깨버릴 용기를 느낄 정도가 되었다.
이윽고 그 역시 태연히 그 담장을 지나갔다.
어느 쪽에서 말하던, 둘이 둘을 보았다.
"틀림없이 이것뿐이다." 그것뿐이었다. 그들은 여전히 서있었다.
그것의 큰 파도가 그들에게 밀려오니, 뜻밖의 호의로
땅이 그들의 사랑에 응답했다고 그들은 확신하게 되었다.
-신재실 옮김-
단상(斷想): 산은 연인들을 부른다. 등산 차림이 아니라도 좋다. 손을 맞잡고 사랑을 확인하기엔 가벼운 등산이 안성맞춤이다. 둘만의 공간과 둘만의 시간을 가지기에 좋기 때문이다. 정장 차림으로 산에 오르는 연인들이 가끔 눈에 띄는 것은 이 때문이리라. 더 이상 오르기에 불편하면 돌아서서 내려오면 그만이다.
두 연인이 산을 오른다. 무너진 담장 앞에서 걸음을 멈춘다. 어둠이 깔리기 시작했고 돌아갈 길도 험하기에, 그만 돌아갈 생각이다. 하지만 갑작스런 암사슴의 출현에 이들은 걸음을 멈춘다. 담장을 사이에 두고 마주선 암사슴은 “그들 영역의 그들을” 그리고 그들은 “그녀 영역의 그녀를” 빤히 쳐다보았다. 암사슴은 “둘로 갈라진 둥근 돌멩이가 거꾸로 서있 듯,”서있는 그들이 낯설긴 하지만, 움직이지 않으니 안전하다고 생각하는 듯, “안도의 숨을 쉬고는 태연히 그 담장을 지나갔다.”
두 연인이 발걸음을 다시 떼려던 찰나에 이번에는 수사슴이 코를 벌름거리며 그들 앞에 나타난다. 도전적인 눈으로 그들을 응시한다. 하지만 도무지 움직이지 않는 그들을 보고 신경쓸만한 존재가 아니라고 생각하는 듯, “그 역시 태연히 그 담장을 지나갔다.”그뿐이었다. 손을 내밀며 말을 걸고 싶은 충동을 억제하고, 두 연인 역시 그 자리를 떠난다.
어떤 비전이 그들의 뇌리를 스쳤다. 담은 인간과 자연, 현실과 이상 사이의 장벽을 상징하지만, 그들을 경계하지 않고“태연히”지나는 한 쌍의 사슴에 그 장벽이 무너진다. 한 쌍의 사슴과 한 쌍의 연인 사이에 사랑의 고리가 연결된 것이다. 사랑은 사랑으로 갚는다. 자연은 사랑하는 인간을 두려워하기는커녕 사랑으로 보답한다.
두 연인은 문명의 영역을 뒤로 하고 잠시 자연의 품에 안겼다. 두 사슴이 그들을 응시할 때, 그들은 바위나 나무처럼 부동(不動)의 자세를 취했다. 사슴 보기에 자연의 일부임에 틀림없었다. 자연은 사랑을 사랑으로 보답한다. 한 쌍의 사슴의 출현은 한 쌍의 연인의 사랑에 대한 자연의 사랑의 보답이다. 이것은 자연의 희귀한 은사(恩賜)다. 그들은 “뜻밖의 호의로 땅이 그들의 사랑에 응답했다고 확신하게 되었다.”사람들이 산을 즐겨 찾는 이유다.
-신재실 씀-
---------
--------
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
I’ll tell you a little about my walks
During the autumn of 1962, still actively “barding around,” speaking and giving readings of his poems before both college and community audiences across the nation, Mr. Frost traveled to Michigan in order to receive on November thirteenth an honorary Doctor of Humane Letters degree from the University of Detroit. The “evening of poetry and informal talk,” excerpted from here, which took place at the university on the following day, proved to be one of the last of the poet’s platform appearances. Less than a month later he entered a Boston hospital, where he died on January 29, 1963, just eight weeks before his eighty-ninth birthday.
ICOUNT CITIESmine, my trophies in my life, if I’ve talked in them, but more particularly if I’ve slept in ’em and walked in ’em alone. It begins with San Francisco, and it’s just now got to Detroit. […] I’ll tell you a little about my walks in them when I read you some of my poems.
You know, poetry seems in the past to have been chiefly of the country. But it always sells itself in the city. And that goes way back.
There’s a general antagonism that they’re trying to work up nowadays between the country and the city, as if the city was an awful thing. There’s been a book about it lately by a couple of professors.
It’s an old story. It’s like the antagonism between town andgown. That’s almost died. But they’re working up this again. It’s a kind of a Thoreausian thing. Thoreau hated cities, I guess. People don’t see why they all want to come to the city.
You see, the word “city” is in our word “police.” It’s in our word “policy.” It’s in our word “polite.” It’s the Greek word always.
And “polish” I presume the word “polish,” what you call “polish,” is a city thing. The country thing is a little uncouth, and sometimes affects a certain uncouthness, to sell itself to the city. It’s a strange, strange situation. I’ve never been caught in that thing.
My walks have been country walks, somewhat. But my first memory of a long walk is up California Street in San Francisco, all alone—when we lived up that way; when I was eight and ten years old, in those two years, when I came away.
And a good many of my poems mention the word “walk.” I think of it now when I see“DON’T WALK”and“WALK”in the city. You see:“WALK” / “DON’T WALK.”
I’m the only walker. I walked this afternoon for one hour and only met two people on foot. That’s right; I counted ’em. I walked the whole hour.
And part of my walking that never brought me much into Detroit before was in Ann Arbor, three years. I walked it up and down and all around. And I might as well begin with a poem that sort of sprung from that. ’Twasn’t that city; it’s city in general. But I remember writing it there.
[Mr. Frost said his poem
“Acquainted with the Night.”]
That light that I’m thinking of—that clock proclaiming “the time was neither wrong nor right”—was certainly in Ann Arbor. I remember the look of it.
Now, to go on—not to make too much of this antagonism between the country and the city—cities have been where people gathered to sell their vegetables and sell their poetry, ever since time began. There’s no reason why there should be this kind of literature going on, right now, about the dreadfulness of these big cities.
I get the same thing about the big universities, they’re so huge. And I say if we go in for bigness, let’s go in; let’s not apologize for it. These great cities give me confidence. They hold the continent down.
The strange thing is to talk against the suburbs as if they were a tangle of snakelike roads, choking the world or something. I saw that somewhere the other day. And, of course, all the going out into the country, into the suburbs, means a general kind of longing for a touch of the country, to go out there.
So many people I know worked in the big city and would live in the big city, but they have little children to think of, and they want them to have some ground to run around on. They’re seeking the country for them.
One thing I tell you they’re seeking, they’re seeking a woodshed and some tools, so that you don’t have to take ’em down into the basement of the schoolhouse and teach them how to pound with a hammer, drive a nail—have it going on naturally more, outside. It’s a kind of a compromise thing, but a thing to praise, an adjustment. Wonderful!
You ride through miles of it. You hear talk as if everything was in decay. But everything looksfine,pretty suburbs.
I know people who go home an hour and a half from New York City, clear to Princeton. And my publisher, the president of my firm, goes home to New Canaan, an hour and a half each way; and says he reads on the way, so it’s all right.
And that was for the children. You’ll find that in both thosecases—for the children, and give them a touch of country life; not much, but a little.
But the refinement—the “polish”—and the “polite”—(Polite police; that’s a funny combination!)—all get their name from the word “city,” “city,” “city.” So, I just wanted to say that.
Then, let’s go on and talk about walking a little more. I’ve walked so many miles, and the word “walking” comes into so many of my poems—and the “town.” […]
But my string of cities, should I name ’em to you? This last one in the string is Detroit, where I walked an hour today and where I slept. San Francisco, first; and, then, Lawrence, Massachusetts; then, New York; then, Boston; then, Miami; and, then, London; and, most recently, where I walked alone—(I don’t count it unless I’ve walked alone.)—Moscow.
That’s my string so far. I could remember others perhaps, but those are the chief ones. And if you were just to my poems—if you want to be just to ’em at all—you’ll know that I don’t join in this antagonism between city and country. I’m a mixed creature, very mixed—confused, maybe, by it. That’s what they say, you know. […]
I said when I was getting my honorary degree yesterday that it was funny the way I had got to be “educated by degrees.” I never went through college, you know; never went through it—just “educated by degrees.” And I made a joke out of it once: “degree-dation”—degree-giving dation. You see, that’s Latin: degreedation. That’s the way I’ve got educated.
I said it just went to show how, if it was in you to get educated, you couldn’t escape.