Την συμφορά όταν έμαθα, που ο Μύρης πέθανε,
«Α,
η σαδιστική κατάρα, πούρθε να αντικαταστήσει (με το "αληθινό" τάχα)
την ολοζώντανη, ορμητική χαρά για ύπαρξη, την ολάνθιστη ακόμα και κατά το
βέβαιο θάνατο, και διεκδικεί πως έκανε και "καλό" σκοτεινιάζοντάς τα
όλα!.. Αυτό κυνηγάει σε μέγα μέρος της ποίησής του ο Καβάφης, για αυτό γράφει
και το «Ιωνικόν», ευελπιστώντας, πως διόλου δεν πέθαναν οι αρχαίοι Θεοί...»
Constantine P. Cavafy, “Myris: Alexandria, A.D. 340”
Udsnit af mumieportræt, Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, København.
When I heard the
terrible news, that Myris was dead,
I went to his house, although I avoid
going to the houses of Christians,
especially during times of mourning or festivity.
I stood in the corridor. I didn’t want
to go further inside because I noticed
that the relatives of the deceased looked at me
with obvious surprise and displeasure.
They had him in a large room,
and from the corner where I stood
I could catch a glimpse of it: all precious carpets,
and vessels in silver and gold.
I stood and wept in a corner of the corridor.
And I thought how our parties and excursions
would no longer be worthwhile without Myris;
and I thought how I’d no longer see him
at our wonderfully indecent night-long sessions
enjoying himself, laughing, and reciting verses
with his perfect feel for Greek rhythm;
and I thought how I’d lost forever
his beauty, lost forever
the young man I’d worshipped so passionately.
Some old women close to me were talking with lowered voices
about the last day he lived:
the name of Christ constantly on his lips,
his hand holding a cross.
Then four Christian priests
came into the room, and said prayers
fervently, and orisons to Jesus,
or to Mary (I’m not very familiar with their religion).
We’d known, of course, that Myris was a Christian,
known it from the very start,
when he first joined our group the year before last.
But he lived exactly as we did.
More devoted to pleasure than all of us,
he scattered his money lavishly on amusements.
Not caring what anyone thought of him,
he threw himself eagerly into night-time scuffles
when our group happened to clash
with some rival group in the street.
He never spoke about his religion.
And once we even told him
that we’d take him with us to the Serapeion.
But—I remember now—
he didn’t seem to like this joke of ours.
And yes, now I recall two other incidents.
When we made libations to Poseidon,
he drew himself back from our circle and looked elsewhere.
And when one of us in his fervor said:
“May all of us be favored and protected
by the great, the sublime Apollo”—
Myris, unheard by the others, whispered: “not counting me.”
The Christian priests were praying loudly
for the young man’s soul.
I noticed with how much diligence,
how much intense concern
for the forms of their religion, they were preparing
everything for the Christian funeral.
And suddenly an odd sensation
took hold of me. Indefinably I felt
as if Myris were going from me;
I felt that he, a Christian, was united
with his own people and that I was becoming
a stranger, a total stranger. I even felt
a doubt come over me: that I’d also been deceived by my passion
and had always been a stranger to him.
I rushed out of their horrible house,
rushed away before my memory of Myris
could be captured, could be perverted by their Christianity.
Gustave
Doré (1832–1883) The Triumph Of
Christianity Over Paganism (c 1868), oil on canvas, 300 x 200 cm, Art
Gallery of Hamilton, Ontario. Wikimedia Commons.
Reprinted
from C. P. CAVAFY: Collected Poems
Revised Edition, translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard, edited by
George Savvidis. Translation copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip
Sherrard. Princeton University Press.
