Το Σκάκι της Ανησυχίας
Ο Άγγλος αποκρυφιστής Aleister Crowley και ο Πορτογάλος λογοτέχνης Fernando Pessoa παίζουν σκάκι. Όταν πέθανε ο Pessoa, ανακαλύφθηκε, μεταξύ άλλων, και η αλληλογραφία του με τον διάσημο αποκρυφιστή. Ευχαριστώ την Composition Doll για την αποστολή.
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THE CHESS PLAYERS
I've heard that once, during I don't know
· What war of Persia,
When invaders rampaged through the City
· And the women screamed,
Two chess players kept on playing
· Their endless game.
In the shade of a leafy tree they stared
· At the old chessboard,
And next to each player was a mug of wine,
· Solemnly ready
To quench his thirst in moments when,
· Having made his move,
He could sit back and relax, waiting
· On his opponent.
Houses were burning, walls were torn down
· And coffers plundered;
Women were raped and propped against
· The crumbling walls;
Children, pierced by spears, were so much
· Blood in the streets . . .
But the two chess players stayed where they were,
· Close to the city
And far from its clamor, and kept on playing
· Their game of chess.
Even if, in the bleak wind's messages,
· They heard the screams
And, upon reflection, knew in their hearts
· That surely their women
And their tender daughters were being raped
· In the nearby distance,
Even if, in the moment they thought this,
· A fleeting shadow
Passed over their hazy, oblivious brows,
· Soon their calm eyes
Returned with confident attention
· To the old chessboard.
When the ivory king's in danger, who cares
· About the flesh and blood
Of sisters and mothers and little children?
· When the rook can't cover
The retreat of the white queen, what
· Does pillaging matter?
And when with sure hand the opponent's king
· Is placed in check,
It hardly concerns one's soul that children
· Are dying in the distance.
Even if the infuriated face
· Of an invading warrior
Should suddenly peer over the wall and cause
· The solemn chess player
To fall right there in a bloody heap,
· The moment before that
Was still devoted to the favorite game
· Of the supremely indifferent.
Let cities fall and people suffer
· Let life and freedom
Perish, let secure, ancestral properties
· Be burned and uprooted,
But when war interrupts the game, make sure
· The king's not in check
And the most advanced of the ivory pawns
· Is ready to redeem the rook.
My brothers in loving Epicurus
· And in understanding him
More in accord with our view than with his,
· Let's learn from the story
Of the impassive chess players how
· To spend our lives.
Let serious things scarcely matter to us
· And grave things weigh little,
And let the natural drive of instincts yield
· To the futile pleasure
(In the peaceful shade of the trees)
· Of playing a good game.
Whatever we take from this useless life
· Be it glory or fame,
Love, science, or life itself,
· It's worth no more
Than the memory of a well-played game
· And a match won
· Against a better player.
Glory weighs like an overlarge burden
· And fame like a fever,
Love wearies, for it ardently searches,
· Science never finds,
And life grieves, for it knows it is passing . . .
· The game of chess
Completely absorbs one's heart but weighs little
· When lost, for it's nothing.
Ah, in the shade that unconsciously loves us
· And with a mug of wine
At our side, intent only on the useless
· Effort of the chess game,
Even if this game is only a dream
· And we have no partner,
Let's do as the Persians of this story:
· Whatever out there,
Near or faraway, war and our country
· And life are calling us,
Let them call in vain, while we dream
· In the friendly shade
Of our partners, and the chess game dreams
· Of its indifference.
O Fernando Pessoa χρησιμοποίησε διάφορα ψευδώνυμα γράφοντας τα ποιήματά του, τα οποία αντανακλούν διαφορετικές πτυχές της προσωπικότητάς του. Fernando Reis, Alberto Caeiro, 'Alvaro de Campos. Το παραπάνω ποίημα είναι γραμμένο το 1916 με το ψευδώνυμο Fernado Reis.
Παραθέτω για την ιστορία το πορτογαλικό πρωτότυπο:
Ouvi contar que outrora, quando a Pérsia
Tinha não sei qual guerra,
Quando a invasão ardia na Cidade
E as mulheres gritavam,
Dois jogadores de xadrez jogavam
O seu jogo contínuo.
À sombra de ampla árvore fitavam
O tabuleiro antigo,
E, ao lado de cada um, esperando os seus
Momentos mais folgados,
Quando havia movido a pedra, e agora
Esperava o adversário.
Um púcaro com vinho refrescava
Sobriamente a sua sede.
Ardiam casas, saqueadas eram
As arcas e as paredes,
Violadas, as mulheres eram postas
Contra os muros caídos,
Traspassadas de lanças, as crianças
Eram sangue nas ruas...
Mas onde estavam, perto da cidade,
E longe do seu ruído,
Os jogadores de xadrez jogavam
O jogo de xadrez.
Inda que nas mensagens do ermo vento
Lhes viessem os gritos,
E, ao refletir, soubessem desde a alma
Que por certo as mulheres
E as tenras filhas violadas eram
Nessa distância próxima,
Inda que, no momento que o pensavam,
Uma sombra ligeira
Lhes passasse na fronte alheada e vaga,
Breve seus olhos calmos
Volviam sua atenta confiança
Ao tabuleiro velho.
Quando o rei de marfim está em perigo,
Que importa a carne e o osso
Das irmãs e das mães e das crianças?
Quando a torre não cobre
A retirada da rainha branca,
O saque pouco importa.
E quando a mão confiada leva o xeque
Ao rei do adversário,
Pouco pesa na alma que lá longe
Estejam morrendo filhos.
Mesmo que, de repente, sobre o muro
Surja a sanhuda face
Dum guerreiro invasor, e breve deva
Em sangue ali cair
O jogador solene de xadrez,
O momento antes desse
(É ainda dado ao cálculo dum lance
Pra a efeito horas depois)
É ainda entregue ao jogo predileto
Dos grandes indif'rentes.
Caiam cidades, sofram povos, cesse
A liberdade e a vida.
Os haveres tranqüilos e avitos
Ardem e que se arranquem,
Mas quando a guerra os jogos interrompa,
Esteja o rei sem xeque,
E o de marfim peão mais avançado
Pronto a comprar a torre.
Meus irmãos em amarmos Epicuro
E o entendermos mais
De acordo com nós-próprios que com ele,
Aprendamos na história
Dos calmos jogadores de xadrez
Como passar a vida.
Tudo o que é sério pouco nos importe,
O grave pouco pese,
O natural impulso dos instintos
Que ceda ao inútil gozo
(Sob a sombra tranqüila do arvoredo)
De jogar um bom jogo.
O que levamos desta vida inútil
Tanto vale se é
A glória, a fama, o amor, a ciência, a vida,
Como se fosse apenas
A memória de um jogo bem jogado
E uma partida ganha
A um jogador melhor.
A glória pesa como um fardo rico,
A fama como a febre,
O amor cansa, porque é a sério e busca,
A ciência nunca encontra,
E a vida passa e dói porque o conhece...
O jogo do xadrez
Prende a alma toda, mas, perdido, pouco
Pesa, pois não é nada.
Ah! sob as sombras que sem qu'rer nos amam,
Com um púcaro de vinho
Ao lado, e atentos só à inútil faina
Do jogo do xadrez
Mesmo que o jogo seja apenas sonho
E não haja parceiro,
Imitemos os persas desta história,
E, enquanto lá fora,
Ou perto ou longe, a guerra e a pátria e a vida
Chamam por nós, deixemos
Que em vão nos chamem, cada um de nós
Sob as sombras amigas
Sonhando, ele os parceiros, e o xadrez
A sua indiferença.
Ricardo Reis, 1-6-1916
Διορθώνω: Ricardo Reis
Η ελπίδα της ισοπαλίας 2005
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