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Contre ceux qui ont le goût difficile.
Against the hard to suit. (1)
Were I a pet of fair Calliope,
I would devote the gifts conferr'd on me
To dress in verse old Aesop's lies divine;
For verse, and they, and truth, do well combine;
But, not a favourite on the Muses' hill,
I dare not arrogate the magic skill,
To ornament these charming stories.
A bard might brighten up their glories,
No doubt. I try,--what one more wise must do.
Thus much I have accomplish'd hitherto:--
By help of my translation,
The beasts hold conversation,
In French, as ne'er they did before.
Indeed, to claim a little more,
The plants and trees,[2] with smiling features,
Are turn'd by me to talking creatures.
Who says, that this is not enchanting?
'Ah,' says the critics, 'hear what vaunting!
From one whose work, all told, no more is
Than half-a-dozen baby stories.'[3]
Would you a theme more credible, my censors,
In graver tone, and style which now and then soars?
Then list! For ten long years the men of Troy,
By means that only heroes can employ,
Had held the allied hosts of Greece at bay,--
Their minings, batterings, stormings day by day,
Their hundred battles on the crimson plain,
Their blood of thousand heroes, all in vain,--
When, by Minerva's art, a horse of wood,
Of lofty size before their city stood,
Whose flanks immense the sage Ulysses hold,
Brave Diomed, and Ajax fierce and bold,
Whom, with their myrmidons, the huge machine
Would bear within the fated town unseen,
To wreak upon its very gods their rage--
Unheard-of stratagem, in any age.
Which well its crafty authors did repay....
'Enough, enough,' our critic folks will say;
'Your period excites alarm,
Lest you should do your lungs some harm;
And then your monstrous wooden horse,
With squadrons in it at their ease,
Is even harder to endorse
Than Renard cheating Raven of his cheese.
And, more than that, it fits you ill
To wield the old heroic quill.'
Well, then, a humbler tone, if such your will is:--
Long sigh'd and pined the jealous Amaryllis
For her Alcippus, in the sad belief,
None, save her sheep and dog, would know her grief.
Thyrsis, who knows, among the willows slips,
And hears the gentle shepherdess's lips
Beseech the kind and gentle zephyr
To bear these accents to her lover....
'Stop!' says my censor:
'To laws of rhyme quite irreducible,
That couplet needs again the crucible;
Poetic men, sir,
Must nicely shun the shocks
Of rhymes unorthodox.'
A curse on critics! hold your tongue!
Know I not how to end my song?
Of time and strength what greater waste
Than my attempt to suit your taste?Some men, more nice than wise,
There's nought that satisfies.
[1] Phaedrus, Book IV. 7.
[2] _The plants and trees_.--Aristotle's rule for pure fable is that its _dramatis personae_ should be animals only--excluding man. Dr. Johnson (writing upon Gay's Fables) agrees in this dictum "generally." But hardly any of the fabulists, from Aesop downwards, seem to have bound themselves by the rule; and in this fable we have La Fontaine rather exulting in his assignment of speech, &c., not only to the lower animals but to "plants and trees," &c., as well as otherwise defying the "hard to suit," _i.e._, the critics.
[3] _Half-a-dozen baby stories_.--Here La Fontaine exalts his muse as a fabulist. This is in reply to certain of his critics who pronounced his work puerile, and pretended to wish him to adopt the higher forms of poetry. Some of the fables of the first six Books were originally published in a semi-private way before 1668. See the Translators Preface. La Fontaine defends his art as a writer of fables also in Book III. (Fable I.); Book V. (Fable I.); Book VI.
(Fable I.); Book VII. (Introduction); Book VIII. (Fable IV.), and Book IX. (Fable I).
Contro gl'incontentabili.
Se avesse al nascer mio Calliope istessa
presieduto, e parlasse in me la Musa,
ancora io canterei queste d'Esopo
belle menzogne, ché fu sempre il verso
in tutti i tempi alla menzogna amico.
Ma non mi credo già tanto ad Apollo
prediletto, ch'io possa all'argomento
fornir pregio e splendor. Chi sa lo faccia.
Intanto io mi contento e voce e senno
dar, non solo alla Volpe ed all'Agnello,
ma le piante ed i fior parlano anch'essi,
come tocchi da magica verghetta.- Son bagattelle da ragazzi, - esclamano
alcuni saggi critici, a cui piace
il fatto autenticato in alto stile. -
Son bagattelle rivestite a nuovo -.
Critici miei, volete udir solenni
cose a suono di tromba? Eccone un saggio:"Da cinque e cinque ormai si combattea
anni d'intorno alla superba Troia,
e da mille battaglie affaticati
cedeano il campo i coturnati Achei,
allor che da Minerva escogitato
sorse un cavallo di gran legno intesto,
nuovo e fatale inganno. Entro suoi fianchi
l'astuto Ulisse e Diomede il forte,
Aiace ed altri cento armati eroi
s'appiattarono, e tratti entro le mura,
le case e i templi rovinar di Troia.
Così l'inganno lungamente ordito
pagò dei Greci la costanza...".- Oh basta! -
sento gridarmi da un moderno autore.
- Troppo lunga è la frase, or tira il fiato.
Un cavallo di legno e tutti questi
armati eroi mi sembran fanfaluche,
non meno che veder gabbato il Corvo
da monna Volpe. A te male si addice
di scrivere in codesto epico stile -.Ebbene, se volete un altro tono
più mellifluo sentir, statemi attenti:"Pensa ad Alcindo la gelosa Eurilla,
e di sue pene testimonio intorno
non crede aver che il cane e le pascenti
sue pecorelle: ma tra i salci e l'erba
ecco Tirsi si avanza, e della bella
ode i sospir ch'essa confida al vento,
perché li porti al disperato amante...".
- Oh basta, basta! - grida il mio censore. -
Non ci si sente quel sapore classico
in questi vostri mal torniti versi,
che dimandan l'incudine e la lima -.E non potrò cantar dunque a mio senno,
o maledetti critici? - È da matto
il voler far la pappa a tutti i gusti.
Ah disgraziati i troppo delicati
per cui cibo non v'è che li contenti!