Light within the Shade: Eight Hundred Years of Hungarian Poetry

Confessions of the Danube

76 | Light within the Shade Confessions of the Danube Our Danube, this old fox, I’ve just found out, Hides secrets that in all the ages gone Were never dreamed of or imagined Since the first cave-fires began to burn By Europe in its oblivion. I stole those secrets from old Ister, I, Secrets the dark Danube used to bear. Sly the old scoundrel is on Magyar soil, He’s seen the grimmest marvels happen there. But he got gossipy then, I swear. I don’t even know just when he confessed: It was spring; he was drunken-silly. He danced, sang, whooped, told boozy anecdotes, Whistled rude ballads in the valley, Sneered at Budapest satirically. Perhaps it was on famed St. Margaret’s Isle He buttonholed me, in fuddled spate. Even now my heart thrashes out of step, For heigh-ho, this song comes too late. Is it true, Ister, old reprobate? But Danube now got grand and serious. His wild spring mood cooled upon his lips. Eyes hardly daring to look into mine, He seemed some kind of genius in his cups; I questioned him, pressed him, pulled out the stops. ”So, old sot, you’ve seen a miracle Or two, in the years you’ve washed these shores With the pale ghastly shades of your waters, Night of our most ancient ancestors. Confess, old blackguard: open up your doors. e n dr e ady | 77 ”Was the world always so ill-fated here? Primal vice, lukewarm left-handed sin, Shivering, struggle, tears, disastrous drought? On Danube’s marches have there never been Folk happy, laughing, strong, genuine?” Softly murmuring old Danube began The story. Indeed, that we are cursed, As many of us guessed, it’s all too true: No happy folk dwelt here from the first Dark spring through which the ancient river burst. The Danube’s banks are a sad lightning rod For half-people, semi-nationlets, Created for a pillory of shame. Where wings are clipped, where the tired sun sets Into a dusk of deathly silhouettes. ”It was ordained so, it will never change,” Muttered old Danube’s chilly white foam. And through those wretched little countries stretched That old good-for-nothing, quite at home. And laughed, and ran away into the gloam. 1907 ...