Owen, "Strange Meeting"

ウィルフレッド・オーウェン
「不思議な出会い」

どうやらぼくは戦いから抜け出せたようで、
深く、薄暗い、生気のないトンネルを歩いていた。大昔、
巨人族が戦ったときにできたような花崗岩のトンネルを。

そこにはうめきつつ眠る者たちがびっしり、動けないほど詰めこまれていた。
彼らはもの思いにふけっているかのようだった。あるいは死んでいた。
ぼくが見ていると、そのなかのひとりが立ちあがり、見つめ返してきた。
ぼくを知っているかのような、ぼくを憐れむような、そんな顔で。
そして、痛そうな両手を広げた。まるでぼくのために神に祈るかのように。
ほほえむ彼を見て、ぼくはこの暗い場所がどこだかわかった。
ほほえむ彼は死んでいた。ぼくたちは地獄にいた－－

木目模様のように、彼の顔は千もの恐怖で飾られていた。
が、地上とは違ってそこでは血が流れていなかった。
殴るような、うめくような銃声も、聞こえてこなかった。
「どうしたんだい？ ねえ？」、とぼくはいった、「何が悲しいんだい？」
「別に」、と彼はいった、「ただ、人生がパー、ってだけ、
絶望してる、ってだけさ。君がもっている希望と同じ希望を
ぼくももっていた。何も考えずに走りまわった、
この世でいちばん自由な美、
静かな瞳や編んだ髪には収まりきらない美、
時の流れをものともしない、そんな美を求めて。
悲しんでる姿だって、ここの悲しみとはくらべものにならないような美を。
ぼくの歌を聴けばみんな笑顔になったかもしれない。
悲しいことも詩に書いてきた。
でも、死んだらおしまいだ。誰も語らなかった真実、
悲惨な戦争、戦争が生む悲惨そのものを書いてきたのに。
これまでぼくらが勝って奪ってきたものでもう十分だと思うけど、
まだまだ足りない、って沸きたつ血を流しに行く人もいるんだろうな。
雌の虎みたいな勢いで。
国が進歩の道からはずれていても、みんなきちんと列をつくって戦うんだろうな。
ぼくは勇敢だった。神の後押しもあった。
知恵もあって、人のいいなりにはならなかった。
だから、退行していくあんな世界の行進から抜けたんだ。
誰も守ってくれないところで戦うのをやめたんだ。
で、戦車の車輪が血でかたまって動かなくなったら、
ここからのぼっていってきれいな地下水で洗ってあげるんだ。
血が届かないほど深いところにある真理で洗ってあげるんだ。
魂を捧げるのはまったくかまわないけど、
傷から魂が出ていくってのは嫌だな。戦争税みたいに要求されるのも嫌だな。
戦場で負傷していない人の額だって、いわば血を流してるんだよね。

ぼくは君の敵さ。君に殺されたんだ。
暗くても君がわかったよ。今の顔、昨日と同じだから。
つらそうな顔しながらぼくを刺したよね。
よけようとしたんだけど、手が冷たくていうこと聞いてくれなかった。
さ、もう休もう……」

***
Wilfred Owen
"Strange Meeting"

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,―
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange, friend," I said, “Here is no cause to mourn.”
“None," said the other, “Save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something has been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot―wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . .”

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/strange-meeting

* * *
（Sassoon編の初版テクスト）

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
"Strange, friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."
"None," said the other, "Save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something has been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now . . ."

(This poem was found among the author's papers.
It ends on this strange note.)

*Another Version*

Earth's wheels run oiled with blood. Forget we that.
Let us lie down and dig ourselves in thought.
Beauty is yours and you have mastery,
Wisdom is mine, and I have mystery.
We two will stay behind and keep our troth.
Let us forego men's minds that are brute's natures,
Let us not sup the blood which some say nurtures,
Be we not swift with swiftness of the tigress.
Let us break ranks from those who trek from progress.
Miss we the march of this retreating world
Into old citadels that are not walled.
Let us lie out and hold the open truth.
Then when their blood hath clogged the chariot wheels
We will go up and wash them from deep wells.
What though we sink from men as pitchers falling
Many shall raise us up to be their filling
Even from wells we sunk too deep for war
And filled by brows that bled where no wounds were.

*Alternative line―*
Even as One who bled where no wounds were.

http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1034

***
没バージョン：「彼とぼく」
完成版（？）：「彼＝ぼく」

***
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