たくさんいる友達の話:ホイットマンについて

アメリカの詩がよいのである。日本の詩ほど内向的じゃないし、中国の詩ほどいかめしくもない。
むかし英米文学に傾倒していて、シリトーだのヘミングウェイだのフィッツジェラルドだのシェイクスピアだの……読めばいちいち感銘を受けて頭を抱えていたのをよく覚えている。英語というのはなんて文学的なのだろうとおもって、英語の詩に手をつけたのは21歳くらいだっけ。

アメリカの詩といえば、やっぱりホイットマンだ。有名な｢おれにはアメリカの歌声が聴こえる｣を紹介しようと思ったが、それよりも印象深いのは子どもが歩く詩。

There was a child went forth.
childだけど、自分が男性だからなのか、なんとなく少年な気がする。少年がゆく。彼は様々なものに出会って、それは少年の一部になる。
少年が目にした早咲きのリラの花は、その子の一部になった。弥生月の子羊も、飲み屋の厠から出てふらふらと家路を辿る呑んだくれの爺も、通りかかった女教師も、この子の両親も太陽も季節も、この子の出会ったものすべてがこの子の一部となった。少年はそのように歩いたし、これからも毎日歩く……。

詩としては比較的長いものなので、かなり端折ったが、こういう詩である。

いっそ原文を引用しよう。ホイットマンは1892年没だからすでにパブリックドメインだし。やったね。素晴らしい作家や音楽家が全員70年以上前に死んでる世界に生まれたかったよね。

There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or for many years or stretching cycles of years.

The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phœbe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barn-yard or by the mire of the pond-side . . and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there . . . and the beautiful curious liquid . . and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads . . all became part of him.

And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him . . . . wintergrain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,
And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward . . . . and woodberries . . and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school . . and the friendly boys that passed . . and the quarrelsome boys . . and the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls . . and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.

His own parents . . he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him . . and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him . . . . they gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day . . . . they and of them became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable,
The mother with mild words . . . . clean her cap and gown . . . . a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture . . . . the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsayed . . . . The sense of what is real . . . . the thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime . . . . the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so . . . . Or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets . . if they are not flashes and specks what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses. . . . the goods in the windows,
Vehicles . . teams . . the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries;
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset . . . . the river between,
Shadows . . aureola and mist . . light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide . . the little boat slacktowed astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;
The strata of colored clouds . . . . the long bar of maroontint away solitary by itself . . . . the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.

なげえ。
雰囲気は伝わるでしょ。
んでね、もっと語ろうと思ったんだけどね。
いまね、部屋にあるホイットマンの詩集開いたんだ。
そしたら｢What am I after ALL｣っていう詩を21歳のわたしが訳したくそ恥ずかしい紙片が挟まってて顔真っ赤で何も語れなくなりました。

これエグいってマジで

｢この身から離れて聞いてみても｣のとことか死にたい。
まず聞くじゃなくて聴くだし。音として聴くのよ名前を。なあ。おい。｢この身から離れて｣っていうのもわかりづらい。これを詩集に挟み込んでるのが恥ずい。

原文
What am I, after all, but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over;
I stand apart to hear, it never tires me.

To you, your name also;
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound of your name?

クソ訳
僕は結局、未だに自分の名前の響きに喜ぶ子どもなのだろうか？
その音を何度も何度も繰り返して……
この身から離れて聴いてみても、飽きることがないんだ
君にとっても同じこと
君の名前には、たったふたつかみっつの音の響きしかないと思っているのか？

本当にすみませんでした。でもこんなことするくらい好きだったのさ。