Ahead of All Parting Read Online Free PDF Page A

kept on drinking and did not feel the stealthy
    entrance of the god, who held his aura
    as tight against his body as a wet cloak,
    and seemed to be like any one of them
    as he walked on. But abruptly, halfway through
    a sentence, one guest saw how the young master
    was startled from his couch at the table’s head,
    as though he had been snatched up into the air
    and mirroring, all over, with all his being,
    a strangeness that addressed him, horribly.
    And then, as though the mixture cleared, there was
    silence; on the bottom, just the dregs
    of muddy noise and a precipitate
    of falling babble, already giving off
    the rancid smell of laughter that has turned.
    For now they recognized the slender god,
    and, as he stood before them, filled with his message
    and unentreatable,—they almost knew.
    And yet, when it was uttered, it was beyond
    all understanding; none of them could grasp it.
    Admetus must die. When? Within the hour.
    But by this time he had broken through the shell
    of his terror; and he thrust out both his hands
    from the jagged holes, to bargain with the god.
    For years, for only one more year of youth,
    for months, for weeks, for just a few more days,
    oh not for days: for nights, for just a night,
    for one more night, for just this one: for this.
    The god refused; and then
he
started screaming,
    and screamed it out, held nothing back, screamed
    as his own mother once had screamed in childbirth.
    *
     
    Und die trat zu ihm, eine alte Frau,
    und auch der Vater kam, der alte Vater,
    und beide standen, alt, veraltet, ratlos,
    beim Schreienden, der plötzlich, wie noch nie
    so nah, sie ansah, abbrach, schluckte, sagte:
    Vater,
    liegt dir denn viel daran an diesem Rest,
    an diesem Satz, der dich beim Schlingen hindert?
    Geh, gieß ihn weg. Und du, du alte Frau,
    Matrone,
    was tust du denn noch hier: du hast geboren.
    Und beide hielt er sie wie Opfertiere
    in Einem Griff. Auf einmal ließ er los
    und stieß die Alten fort, voll Einfall, strahlend
    und atemholend, rufend: Kreon, Kreon!
    Und nichts als das; und nichts als diesen Namen.
    Aber in seinem Antlitz stand das Andere,
    das er nicht sagte, namenlos erwartend,
    wie ers dem jungen Freunde, dem Geliebten,
    erglühend hinhielt übern wirren Tisch.
    Die Alten (stand da), siehst du, sind kein Loskauf,
    sie sind verbraucht und schlecht und beinah wertlos,
    du aber, du, in deiner ganzen Schönheit—
    Da aber sah er seinen Freund nicht mehr.
    Er blieb zurück, und das, was kam, war
sie
,
    ein wenig kleiner fast als er sie kannte
    und leicht und traurig in dem bleichen Brautkleid.
    Die andern alle sind nur ihre Gasse,
    durch die sie kommt und kommt—: (gleich wird sie da sein
    in seinen Armen, die sich schmerzhaft auftun).
    Doch wie er wartet, spricht sie; nicht zu ihm.
    Sie spricht zum Gotte, und der Gott vernimmt sie,
    und alle hörens gleichsam erst im Gotte:
    Ersatz kann keiner für ihn sein. Ich
bins.
    Ich bin Ersatz. Denn keiner ist zu Ende
    *
     
    And she came up beside him, an old woman,
    and his father came up also, his old father,
    and both stood waiting—old, decrepit, helpless—
    beside the screaming man, who, as never before
    so closely, saw them, stopped, swallowed, said:
    Father,
    do you care about the wretched scrap of life
    still left you, that will just stick in your throat?
    Go spit it out. And you, old woman, old
    Mother,
    why should you stay here? you have given birth.
    And grabbed them both, like sacrificial beasts,
    in his harsh grip. Then suddenly let them go,
    pushed the old couple off, inspired, beaming,
    breathing hard and calling: Creon! Creon!
    And nothing else; and nothing but that name.
    Yet in his features stood the other name
    he could not utter, namelessly expectant
    as, glowing, he held it out to the young guest,
    his dearest friend, across the bewildered table.
    These two old people (it stood there) are no ransom,
    they are used up, exhausted, nearly worthless,
    but you, Creon, you, in all your beauty—
    But now he could no longer