Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist (piggymouse) wrote,
Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist
piggymouse

Sweeney Agonistes, Pt. II, Fragment of an Agon

А вот хреновина, которой я всё собирался с вами поделиться, но руки всё никак не доходили. "Sweeney Agonistes" это два сохранившиеся куска неоконченной пьесы, которую Элиот начал и бросил в районе 1926-27 годов.

Ну то есть для примерно знакомых с биографией Тома это сразу звучит как очевидный ахтунг — какие ещё пьесы в середине 1920-х? Пьесы он начал писать к середине 1930-х, уже решив личные проблемы и обратившись в англиканство, и они все такие уже сверхчеловечески мудрые и всепонимающие. А в первой половине 1920-х Элиоту был пиздец-пиздец и писал он совершенно ебанутые поэмы, в которые выплёскивал своё непростое эмоциональное состояние (а нехрен было пацану-социопату из приличной семьи жениться на стерве-невротичке, чтобы что-то непонятно кому доказать).

"Sweeney Agonistes" торчит в биографии Элиота как нечто совершенно неуместное. Не включается в сборники "The Best Of" (а только в полные собрания), не особо упоминается в обзорах его творчества, полностью, напрочь отсутствует в интернетах (!) и в общем считается чем-то неудачным, проходным и не стоящим внимания. Что в общем не лишено основания, потому что это как бы и не совсем обычный Элиот. В ранних стихах и поэмах Том упаковывает свой пиздец-пиздец в толстый слой зауми (чтение комментариев к "The Waste Land" даёт примерное представление о том, насколько там всё не просто). Поздние пьесы и поэмы написаны нормальным человеческим языком, но бьют по мозгам этаким успокоенным всеведением. "Sweeney Agonistes" это явный продукт пиздеца, но написан он специально просто, проще даже, чем поздние тексты. Я бы сказал, уличным языком написан.

Из-за этой крайней простоты первая параллель, которая приходит в голову — это конечно "Кошки", сиречь "Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats". "Кошки" писались для детей (конкретно для томовских крёстных) и поэтому содержание в них зауми близко к нулю. Но если "Кошки" весёлые и прикольные, то в "Sweeney Agonistes" Том, который как ни крути был общепризнанно лучшим англоязычным поэтом прошлого века, столь же просто и без выкрутас объясняет, что пиздец вот он, пришёл за тобой, сидит за столом и ждёт, когда гости разойдутся. Это всё-таки Европа двадцатого века, а эти товарищи умели снести тебе крышу, когда хотели. Даже менеджеры среднего звена (Том подвизался в Lloyds Bank, а небезызвестный Кафка у нас например родом из страхового бизнеса).

"Кошки"-мюзикл это наверное единственное из оставшегося от Элиота, что известно действительно широкой публике (тут сразу вспоминается Пугачёва на стихи Мандельштама). Песенки из "Sweeney Agonistes" просто просятся, чтобы их положили на музыку (в конце концов Том формулировал свою задачу здесь как "пьесу, написанную джазовым стихом"), но очевидно, что массового мюзикла из этого не выйдет. Зацените например ремарочку к самой крутой песне: "Swarts as tambo, Snow as bones". Если кто-то может адекватно класть такие вещи на музыку, это конечно Том наш Вэйтс со своим опытом в "The Black Rider" ("T'ain't no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones").

Как я уже упомянул, от "Sweeney Agonistes" осталось два кусочка, "Fragment of a Prologue" и "Fragment of an Agon". Выкладываю вам сегодня второй. Первый тоже крутой, но второй гораздо круче. И в первом нет песенок.

Диспозиция: группа товарищей, включающая демобилизованных офицеров-англичан и приехавших в Лондон их приятелей-американцев, тоже бывших военных, завалилась в гости к бабам и бухает.


Fragment of an Agon

SWEENEY, WAUCHOPE, HORSFALL, KLIPSTEIN, KRUMPACKER, SWARTS, SNOW, DORIS, DUSTY

 

SWEENEY: I'll carry you off
To a cannibal isle.

DORIS: You'll be the cannibal!

SWEENEY: You'll be the missionary!
You'll be my little seven stone missionary!
I'll gobble you up. I'll be the cannibal.

DORIS: You'll carry me off? To a cannibal isle?

SWEENEY: I'll be the cannibal.

DORIS: I'll be the missionary.
I'll convert you!

SWEENEY: I'll convert you!
Into a stew.
A nice little, white little, missionary stew.

DORIS: You wouldn't eat me!

SWEENEY: Yes I'd eat you!
In a nice little, white little, soft little, tender little,
Juicy little, right little, missionary stew.
You see this egg
You see this egg
Well that's life on a crocodile isle.
There's no telephones
There's no gramophones
There's no motor cars
No two-seaters, no six-seaters,
No Citroën, no Rolls-Royce.
Nothing to eat but the fruit as it grows.
Nothing to see but the palmtrees one way
And the sea the other way,
Nothing to hear but the sound of the surf.
Nothing at all but three things

DORIS: What things?

SWEENEY: Birth, and copulation, and death.
That's all, that's all, that's all, that's all,
Birth, and copulation, and death.

DORIS: I'd be bored.

SWEENEY: You'd be bored
Birth, and copulation, and death.

DORIS: I'd be bored.

SWEENEY: You'd be bored
Birth, and copulation, and death.
That's all the facts when you come to brass tacks:
Birth, and copulation, and death.
I've been born, and once is enough.
You don't remember, but I remember,
Once is enough.

 

SONG BY WAUCHOPE AND HORSFALL
SWARTS AS TAMBO, SNOW AS BONES

Under the bamboo
Bamboo bamboo
Under the bamboo tree
Two live as one
One live as two
Two live as three
Under the bam
Under the boo
Under the bamboo tree.

Where the breadfruit fall
And the penguin call
And the sound is the sound of the sea
Uner the bam
Under the boo
Under the bamboo tree.

Where the Gauguin maids
In the banyan shades
Wear palmleaf drapery
Under the bam
Under the boo
Under the bamboo tree.

Tell me in what part of the wood
Do you want to flirt with me?
Under the breadfruit, banyan, palmleaf
Or under the bamboo tree?
Any old tree will do for me
Any old wood is just as good
Any old isle is just my style
Any fresh egg
Any fresh egg
And the sound of the coral sea.

 

DORIS: I don't like eggs; I never liked eggs;
And I don't like life on your crocodile isle.

 

SONG BY KLIPSTEIN AND KRUMPACKER
SNOW AND SWARTS AS BEFORE

My little island girl
My little island girl
I'm going to stay with you
And we won't worry what to do
We won't have to catch any trains
And we won't go home when it rains
We'll gather hibiscus flowers
For it won't be minutes but hours
For it won't be hours but years
An the morning
And the evening
And noontide
And night
Morning
Evening
Noontime
Night

 

DORIS: That's not life, that's no life
Why I'd just as soon be dead.

SWEENEY: That's what life is. Just is

DORIS: What is?
What's that life is?

SWEENEY: Life is death.
I knew a man once did a girl in —

DORIS: Oh Mr. Sweeney, please don't talk,
I cut the cards before you came
And I drew the coffin

SWARTS: You drew the coffin?

DORIS: I drew the COFFIN very last card.
I don't care for such conversation
A woman runs a terrible risk.

SNOW: Let Mr. Sweeney continue his story.
I assure you, Sir, we are very interested.

SWEENEY: I knew a man once did a girl in
Any man might do a girl in
Any man has to, needs to, wants to
Once in a lifetime, do a girl in
Well he kept her there in a bath
With a gallon of lysol in a bath

SWARTS: These fellows always get pinched in the end.

SNOW: Excuse me, they don't all get pinched in the end.
What about them bones on Epsom Heath?
I seen that in the papers
You seen it in the papers
They don't all get pinched in the end.

DORIS: A woman runs a terrible risk.

SNOW: Let Mr. Sweeney continue his story.

SWEENEY: This one didn't get pinched in the end
But that's another story too.
This went on for a couple of months
Nobody came
And nobody went
But he took in the milk and he paid the rent.

SWARTS: What did he do?
All that time, what did he do?

SWEENEY: What did he do! what did he do?
That don't apply.
Talk to live men about what they do.
He used to come and see me sometimes
I'd give him a drink and cheer him up.

DORIS: Cheer him up?

DUSTY: Cheer him up?

SWEENEY: Well here again that don't apply
But I've gotta use words when I talk to you.
But here's what I was going to say.
He didn't know if he was alive
and the girl was dead
He didn't know if the girl was alive
and he was dead
He didn't know if they were both alive
or both were dead
If he was alive than the milkman wasn't
and the rent-collector wasn't
And if they were alive than he was dead.
There wasn't any joint
There wasn't any joint
For when you're alone
When you're alone as he was alone
You're either or neither
I tell you again it don't apply
Death or life or life or death
Death is life and life is death
I gotta use words when I talk to you
But if you understand or if you don't
That's nothing to me and nothing to you
We all gotta do what we gotta do
We're gona sit here and drink this booze
We're gona sit here and have a tune
We're gona stay and we're gona go
And somebody's gotta pay the rent

DORIS: I know who

SWEENEY: But that's nothing to me and nothing to you.

 

FULL CHORUS: WAUCHOPE, HORSFALL, KLIPSTEIN, KRUMPACKER

When you're alone in the middle of the night and
you wake in a sweat and a hell of a fright
When you're alone in the middle of the bed and
you wake like someone hit you in the head
You've had a cream of a nightmare dream and
you've got the hoo-ha's coming to you.
Hoo hoo hoo
You dreamt you waked up at seven o'clock and
it's foggy and it's damp and it's dawn and it's dark
And you wait for a knock and the turning of the lock
for you know that hangman's waiting for you.
And perhaps you're alive
And perhaps you're dead
Hoo ha ha
Hoo ha ha
Hoo
Hoo
Hoo
Knock Knock Knock
Knock Knock Knock
Knock
Knock
Knock

Tags: eliot, personal, poetry
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