Moby-Dick™

Leben mit Herman Melville

Die ölbaumtragenden Wasser

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Ausgelagerte Quellen zur Quelle in Madness Affecting One Train of Thought und Elkes But while yet all a-rush to encounter the whale, could see naught in that brute but the deadliest ill:

Vincenz Grüner, Ceres und Arethusa, 1791Hier also, in der wirklichen, lebendigen Erfahrung lebender Männer, werden die wundersamen Geschichten, die man […] erzählte, […] und die noch wundersamere Geschichte von der Quelle der Arethusa bei Syrakus (ihre Wasser, so glaubte man, flossen unterirdisch aus dem Heiligen Lande herbei) — werden also diese sagenhaften Erzählungen von der Wirklichkeit des Waljägerlebens beinahe eingeholt.

Kapitel 41, Übs. Matthias Jendis.

Die Arethusa-Sage, wie ich sie verstehe, handelt von den Schwierigkeiten, die sich einer einhandelt, ohne was dafür zu können, nämlich durch seine schiere Existenz, hier: naturverliehene Schönheit — und von einer modernen Form des Umgangs mit sexueller Belästigung.

Übergesiedelt bewohn’ ich Sikanien, aber vor allen
Halt’ ich wert dies Land. Hier hat Arethusa Penaten,
Hier jetzt häuslichen Sitz. Den schone, du gütigste Göttin!
Aber warum ich von dort durch die Wogen des Meers mich entfernte
Und mich begab weit weg nach Ortygia, dies zu erzählen
Kommt wohl schickliche Zeit, wenn du erst wieder von Sorge
Frei sein wirst und erheitert dein Blick. Mir bietet die Erde
Durchgang unten im Grund, und entführt durch dunkle Höhlen
Heb’ ich allhier mein Haupt und schau’ die entbehrten Gestirne.
Als ich im stygischen Schlund so hinfloss unter der Erde,
Sah ich Proserpina dort, dein Kind, mit eigenen Augen.
Zwar ist traurig sie noch und von Angst nicht frei in den Zügen,
Aber doch Königin jetzt, die höchste des finsteren Reiches,
Aber die waltende Frau doch jetzt bei dem Totenbeherrscher.

Ovid: Metamorphosen, 5. Buch, 12.: Ceres’ weitere Suche und Arethusas Bericht (Auszug).

Battista Lorenzi (1527--1594), Alpheus and Arethusa. Alfeo e Aretusa, ca. 1570–74, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New YorkI

Arethusa arose
From her couch of snows
In the Acroceraunian mountains,—
From cloud and from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright fountains.
She leapt down the rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;—
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams;
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.

II

Then Alpheus bold,
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountains strook;
And opened a chasm
In the rocks—with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It unsealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below.
And the beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Seen through the torrent’s sweep,
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph’s flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.

III

‘Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair!’
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;
And under the water
The Earth’s white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:—
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main
Alpheus rushed behind,—
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

IV

Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearlèd thrones;
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of coloured light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest’s night:—
Outspeeding the shark,
And the sword-fish dark,
Under the Ocean’s foam,
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They passed to their Dorian home.

V

And now from their fountains
In Enna’s mountains,
Down on vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of Asphodel;
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;—
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.

Percy Bysshe Shelley: Arethusa, 1820, in: Posthumous Poems, 1824.

Deborah Chantal Cristinelli by Luca Ram, 13. August 2010“O Arethusa, peerless nymph! why fear
Such tenderness as mine? Great Dian, why,
Why didst thou hear her prayer? O that I
Were rippling round her dainty fairness now,
Circling about her waist, and striving how
To entice her to a dive! then stealing in
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin.
O that her shining hair was in the sun,
And I distilling from it thence to run
In amorous rillets down her shrinking form!
To linger on her lily shoulders, warm
Between her kissing breasts, and every charm
Touch raptur’d!—-See how painfully I flow:
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe.
Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead,
A happy wooer, to the flowery mead
Where all that beauty snar’d me.”—-“Cruel god,
Desist! or my offended mistress’ nod
Will stagnate all thy fountains:—-tease me not
With syren words—-Ah, have I really got
Such power to madden thee? And is it true—-
Away, away, or I shall dearly rue
My very thoughts: in mercy then away,
Kindest Alpheus for should I obey
My own dear will, ’twould be a deadly bane.”—-
“O, Oread-Queen! would that thou hadst a pain
Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn
And be a criminal.”—-“Alas, I burn,
I shudder—-gentle river, get thee hence.
Alpheus! thou enchanter! every sense
Of mine was once made perfect in these woods.
Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods,
Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave;
But ever since I heedlessly did lave
In thy deceitful stream, a panting glow
Grew strong within me: wherefore serve me so,
And call it love? Alas, ’twas cruelty.
Not once more did I close my happy eyes
Amid the thrush’s song. Away! Avaunt!
O ’twas a cruel thing.”—-“Now thou dost taunt
So softly, Arethusa, that I think
If thou wast playing on my shady brink,
Thou wouldst bathe once again. Innocent maid!
Stifle thine heart no more;—-nor be afraid
Of angry powers: there are deities
Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs
’Tis almost death to hear: O let me pour
A dewy balm upon them!—-fear no more,
Sweet Arethusa! Dian’s self must feel
Sometimes these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal
Blushing into my soul, and let us fly
These dreary caverns for the open sky.
I will delight thee all my winding course,
From the green sea up to my hidden source
About Arcadian forests; and will shew
The channels where my coolest waters flow
Through mossy rocks; where, ’mid exuberant green,
I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen
Than Saturn in his exile; where I brim
Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim
Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees
Buzz from their honied wings: and thou shouldst please
Thyself to choose the richest, where we might
Be incense-pillow’d every summer night.
Doff all sad fears, thou white deliciousness,
And let us be thus comforted; unless
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream
Hurry distracted from Sol’s temperate beam,
And pour to death along some hungry sands.”—-
“What can I do, Alpheus? Dian stands
Severe before me: persecuting fate!
Unhappy Arethusa! thou wast late
A huntress free in”—-At this, sudden fell
Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell.
The Latmian listen’d, but he heard no more,
Save echo, faint repeating o’er and o’er
The name of Arethusa. On the verge
Of that dark gulph he wept, and said: “I urge
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage,
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage,
If thou art powerful, these lovers pains;
And make them happy in some happy plains.

John Keats: Endymion. A Poetic Romance, Book II, 936 bis 1017.

Pisa vorbei stürzt nieder zum salzigen Meer der Alfeios,
Lenkt dann zur Arethusa die ölbaumtragenden Wasser,
Festliches Laub und Blumen zur Gab’ ihr bringend, und Siegsstaub,
Und tief steigt er hinab in die Brandungen; dann in des Meeres
Abgrund rollet er unter, und mischt nicht Wasser den Wassern;
Nicht auch erkennet das Meer, wie der mächtige Strom es durchwandelt.
Unheilbrütender Knab’, arglistiger, Lehrer des Gräuels!
Selber den Strom lehrt’ Eros vor Lüsternheit unterzutauchen!

Moschos: Des Eros Macht, 2. Jhdt. v.C., Übs. Johann Heinrich Voss.

Warum ihre Wasser hier [in Kapitel 41] aus dem “Heiligen Lande” kommen sollen, ist unklar, aber auch andere hatten die Geschichte von Griechenland verlegt. Shelley läßt sie in Albanien spielen, und Cervantes erklärt mit Hilfe des Mythos im Don Quijote den Ursprung des südspanischen Guadianaflusses.

Daniel Göske in den Anmerkungen zu Moby-Dick, Seite 966.

Bilder: Vincenz Grüner: Ceres und Arethusa, 1791;
Battista Lorenzi (1527–1594): Alpheus and Arethusa (Alfeo e Aretusa), ca. 1570–74, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York;
Luca Ram: Deborah Chantal Cristinelli as Aretusa, 13. August 2010;
Ilaria & Davide: Siracusa, fonte Aretusa, 14. August 2008 im Set Urlaubsfotos Sicilia 2008.
Nicht verwendet: Aretusa 1 von Gaetano Belverde.

Wenn Sie schon in Italien sind: Besuchet auch das Keats-Shelley House zu Rom, verblüffend zentral gleich an der Spanischen Treppe.

Written by Wolf

21. October 2011 at 12:01 am

Posted in Wolfs Koje

2 Responses

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  1. Wie schön, du hast die ganzen arethusischen Wellen und Quellen und Ströme der ganzen ‘Arethusiker’ zusammengedichtet. Ich konnte schon bei der Moby-Einundvierzigung kaum der Ausuferung widerstehen, den Moschos und Ovid hineinplätschern zu lassen.
    Fein! Und dafür kriegst du auch fein noch den Shelley zum Keats :o) :

    I
    ARETHUSA arose
    From her couch of snows
    In the Acroceraunian mountains,—
    From cloud and from crag,
    With many a jag,
    Shepherding her bright fountains.
    She leapt down the rocks,
    With her rainbow locks
    Streaming among the streams;—
    Her steps paved with green
    The downward ravine
    Which slopes to the western gleams;
    And gliding and springing
    She went, ever singing,
    In murmurs as soft as sleep;
    The earth seemed to love her,
    And Heaven smiled above her,
    As she lingered towards the deep.

    II
    Then Alpheus bold,
    On his glacier cold,
    With his trident the mountains strook;
    And opened a chasm
    In the rocks—with the spasm
    All Erymanthus shook.
    And the black south wind
    It unsealed behind
    The urns of the silent snow,
    And earthquake and thunder
    Did rend in sunder
    The bars of the springs below.
    And the beard and the hair
    Of the River-god were
    Seen through the torrent’s sweep,
    As he followed the light
    Of the fleet nymph’s flight
    To the brink of the Dorian deep.

    III
    ‘Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!
    And bid the deep hide me,
    For he grasps me now by the hair!’
    The loud Ocean heard,
    To its blue depth stirred,
    And divided at her prayer;
    And under the water
    The Earth’s white daughter
    Fled like a sunny beam;
    Behind her descended
    Her billows, unblended
    With the brackish Dorian stream:—
    Like a gloomy stain
    On the emerald main
    Alpheus rushed behind,—
    As an eagle pursuing
    A dove to its ruin
    Down the streams of thecloudy wind.

    IV
    Under the bowers
    Where the Ocean Powers
    Sit on their pearlèd thrones;
    Through the coral woods
    Of the weltering floods,
    Over heaps of unvalued stones;
    Through the dim beams
    Which amid the streams
    Weave a network of coloured light;
    And under the caves,
    Where the shadowy waves
    Are as green as the forest’s night:—
    Outspeeding the shark,
    And the sword-fish dark,
    Under the Ocean’s foam,
    And up through the rifts
    Of the mountain clifts
    They passed to their Dorian home.

    V
    And now from their fountains
    In Enna’s mountains,
    Down on vale where the morning basks,
    Like friends once parted
    Grown single-hearted,
    They ply their watery tasks.
    At sunrise they leap
    From their cradles steep
    In the cave of the shelving hill;
    At noontide they flow
    Through the woods below
    And the meadows of asphodel;
    And at night they sleep
    In the rocking deep
    Beneath the Ortygian shore;—
    Like spirits that lie
    In the azure sky
    When they love but live no more.

    [“Arethusa” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1820]

    And gliding and springing I disappear, ever singing… ;o)

    hochhaushex

    23. October 2011 at 1:09 am

  2. Ui — fleißig :o) Das editier ich dieser Tage noch rein. Danke!

    Und jetzt noch die Stelle bei Cervantes?

    Wolf

    23. October 2011 at 3:26 pm


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