L'Homme et son image.

 

Un homme qui s'aimait sans avoir de rivaux
Passait dans son esprit pour le plus beau du monde.
Il accusait toujours les miroirs d'être faux,
Vivant plus que content dans son erreur profonde.
Afin de le guérir, le sort officieux
Présentait partout à ses yeux
Les Conseillers muets* dont se servent nos Dames :
Miroirs dans les logis, miroirs chez les Marchands,
Miroirs aux poches des galands,
Miroirs aux ceintures des femmes.
Que fait notre Narcisse* ? Il va se confiner
Aux lieux les plus cachés qu'il peut s'imaginer
N'osant plus des miroirs éprouver l'aventure.
Mais un canal, formé par une source pure,
Se trouve en ces lieux écartés ;
Il s'y voit ; il se fâche ; et ses yeux irrités
Pensent apercevoir une chimère vaine.
Il fait tout ce qu'il peut pour éviter cette eau ;
Mais quoi, le canal est si beau
Qu'il ne le quitte qu'avec peine.
On voit bien où je veux venir.
Je parle à tous ; et cette erreur extrême
Est un mal que chacun se plaît d'entretenir.
Notre âme, c'est cet Homme amoureux de lui-même ;
Tant de Miroirs, ce sont les sottises d'autrui,
Miroirs, de nos défauts les Peintres légitimes ;
Et quant au Canal, c'est celui
Que chacun sait, le Livre des Maximes

The Man and his image. (12)

 

To M. The Duke De La Rochefoucauld.

A man, who had no rivals in the love
Which to himself he bore,
Esteem'd his own dear beauty far above
What earth had seen before.
More than contented in his error,
He lived the foe of every mirror.
Officious fate, resolved our lover
From such an illness should recover,
Presented always to his eyes
The mute advisers which the ladies prize;--
Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops,--
Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops,--
Mirrors on every lady's zone,[13]
From which his face reflected shone.
What could our dear Narcissus do?
From haunts of men he now withdrew,
On purpose that his precious shape
From every mirror might escape.
But in his forest glen alone,
Apart from human trace,
A watercourse,
Of purest source,
While with unconscious gaze
He pierced its waveless face,
Reflected back his own.
Incensed with mingled rage and fright,
He seeks to shun the odious sight;
But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still,
He cannot leave, do what he will.

Ere this, my story's drift you plainly see.
From such mistake there is no mortal free.
That obstinate self-lover
The human soul doth cover;
The mirrors follies are of others,
In which, as all are genuine brothers,
Each soul may see to life depicted
Itself with just such faults afflicted;
And by that charming placid brook,
Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book.

[12] This is one of La Fontaine's most admired fables, and is one of the few for which he did not go for the groundwork to some older fabulist. The Duke de la Rochefoucauld, to whom it was dedicated, was the author of the famous "Reflexions et Maximes Morales," which La Fontaine praises in the last lines of his fable. La Rochefoucauld was La Fontaine's friend and patron. The "Maximes" had achieved a second edition just prior to La Fontaine's publication of this first series of his Fables, in 1668. "The Rabbits" (Book X., Fable 15.), published in the second collection, in 1678-9, is also dedicated to the Duke, who died the following year, 1680. See Translator's Preface.
[13] _Lady's zone_.--One of La Fontaine's commentators remarks upon this passage that it is no exaggeration of the foppishness of the times in which the poet wrote, and cites the instance that the canons of St. Martin of Tours wore mirrors on their shoes, even while officiating in church.

L'Uomo e la sua immagine.

 

(Al signor Duca de La Rochefoucauld)

Un uomo molto di se stesso amante
e che, senza rivali, d'un bell'uomo
si dava l'aria, in ciò fisso e beato,
se la prendea di rabbia con gli specchi
ch'ei dicea tutti falsi e accusatori.
Per trarlo d'illusion fece la sorte
benevola che, ovunque egli girasse
coll'occhio, non vedesse altro che specchi.
Specchi dentro le case e in le botteghe
de' merciai, specchi in petto ai bellimbusti
e fin sulle cinture delle belle,
ovunque insomma a risanarlo il caso
gli facea balenar davanti questo
tacito consigliere delle belle.
Al mio Narciso allor altro non resta
che andare, per fuggir tanto tormento,
in paesi selvaggi e sconosciuti,
ove di specchi non vi fosse il segno.
Ma specchio ancora, o illusion, discende
ivi un bel fiume, che da pura fonte
sgorga e l'attira di sì strano incanto
ch'ei non può dal cristal torcer lo sguardo.

Della favola è questa la morale,
che non d'un solo io traggo a beneficio,
ma di quanti son folli in questo mondo.

L'anima umana è l'uomo vanitoso
troppo amante di sé: gli specchi sono
gli altrui difetti in cui come in ispeglio
ogni nostro difetto si dipinge.
E il libro delle Massime, o mio Duca,
è quel fiume che l'anima rapisce.