Tales and Novels of J. de La Fontaine Part 20

SISTER JANE

WHEN Sister Jane, who had produced a child, In prayer and penance all her hours beguiled Her sister-nuns around the lattice pressed; On which the abbess thus her flock addressed: Live like our sister Jane, and bid adieu To worldly cares:--have better things in view.

YES, they replied, we sage like her shall be, When we with love have equally been free.

AN IMITATION OF ANACREON

PAINTER in Paphos and Cythera famed Depict, I pray, the absent Iris' face.

Thou hast not seen the lovely nymph I've named; The better for thy peace.--Then will I trace For thy instruction her transcendent grace.

Begin with lily white and blus.h.i.+ng rose, Take then the Loves and Graces... But what good Words, idle words? for Beauty's G.o.ddess could By Iris be replaced, nor one suppose The secret fraud--their grace so equal shows.

Thou at Cythera couldst, at Paphos too, Of the same Iris Venus form anew.

ANOTHER IMITATION OF ANACREON

p.r.o.nE, on my couch I calmly slept Against my wont. A little child Awoke me as he gently crept And beat my door. A tempest wild Was raging-dark and cold the night.

"Have pity on my naked plight,"

He begged, "and ope thy door."--"Thy name?"

I asked admitting him.--"The same "Anon I'll tell, but first must dry "My weary limbs, then let me try "My mois'ened bow."--Despite my fear The hearth I lit, then drew me near My guest, and chafed his fingers cold.

"Why fear?" I thought. "Let me be bold "No Polyphemus he; what harm "In such a child?--Then I'll be calm!"

The playful boy drew out a dart, Shook his fair locks, and to my heart His shaft he launch'd.--"Love is my name,"

He thankless cried, "I hither came "To tame thee. In thine ardent pain "Of Cupid think and young Climene."-- "Ah! now I know thee, little scamp, "Ungrateful, cruel boy! Decamp!"

Cupid a saucy caper cut, Skipped through the door, and as it shut, "My bow," he taunting cried, "is sound, "Thy heart, poor comrade, feels the wound."

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO HIS SECOND BOOK OF THESE TALES

These are the last works of this style that will come from the pen of the Author, and consequently this is the last opportunity he has of vindicating the boldness and privilege which he has a.s.sumed. We make no mention of villainous rhymes, of lines that run into the next, of two vowels without elision, nor, in general, of such kinds of carelessness as he would not allow himself in another style of poetry, but which are part and parcel, so to say, of this style. Too anxious a care in avoiding such would force a tale-writer into a labyrinth of s.h.i.+fts, into narratives as dull as they are grand, into straits that are utterly useless, and would make him disregard the pleasure of the heart in order to labour for the gratification of the ear. We must leave studied narrative for lofty subjects, and not compose an epic poem of the Adventures of Renaud d'Ast. Suppose the Author, who has put these tales into rhyme, had brought to bear on them all the care and preciseness required of him; not only would this care be observed, especially as it is unnecessary, but it would also transgress the precept lain down by Ouintilian, still the Author would not have attained the main object, which is to interest the reader, to charm him, to rivet his attention in spite of himself,--in a word, to please him. As everybody knows, the secret of pleasing the reader is not always based on regulation, nor even on symmetry; there is need of smartness and tastefulness, if we would strike home. How many of those perfect types of beauty do we see which never strike home, and of which n.o.body feels enamoured! We do not wish to rob Modern Authors of the praise that is due to them. Nicely turned lines, fine language, accuracy, elegance of rhyme are accomplishments in a poet. However that may be, let us consider of our own epigrams wherein all these qualities are combined, perhaps we shall find in them far less point, nay, I would venture to add, far less charm than in those of Marot or Saint-Gelais, although almost all the works of the latter poets are full of the same faults as are attributed to us. We will be told that these were not faults in their day, whereas they are very great faults in ours. To this we answer by a similar kind of argument, by saying, as we have already said, that these would undoubtedly be faults in another style of poetry, but not in this. The late M. de Voiture is a proof in point. We need only read the works in which he brings to life again the character of Marot. For our Author does not lay claim to praise for himself, nor to rounds of applause from the public for having put a few tales into rhyme. Without doubt he has entered on quite a new path, and has pursued it to the utmost of his power, choosing now one road, now another, and always treading with surer step when he has followed the manner of our old poets "quorum in hae re imitari negligentiam exoptat potius quam istorum diligentiam."

But while saying that we wished to waive this question, we have unconsciously involved ourselves in its discussion. Perhaps this has not been without advantage; for there is nothing that resembles faults more than these licenses. Let us now consider the liberty which the Author has a.s.sumed in cutting into the property of others as well as his own, without making exception even to the best known stories, none of which he scruples to tamper with. He curtails, enlarges, and alters incidents and details, at times the main issue and the sequel; in short, the story is no longer the same; it is, in point of fact, quite a new tale; its original author would find it no small difficulty to recognise in it his own work. "Non sic decet contaminari fabulas," Critics will say. Why should they not? They twitted Terence in just the same way; but Terence sneered at them, and claimed a right to treat the matter as he did. He has mingled his own ideas with the subjects he drew from Menander, just as Sophocles and Euripides mingled theirs with the subjects they drew from former writers, sparing neither history nor romance, where "decorum"

and the rules of the Drama were at issue. Shall this privilege cease with respect to fict.i.tious stories? Must we in future have more scrupulous or religious regard, if we may be allowed the expression, for falsehood than the Ancients had for truth? What people call a good tale never pa.s.ses from hand to hand without receiving some fresh touch of embellishment. How comes it then, we may be asked, that in many pa.s.sages the Author curtails instead of enlarging on the original?

On that point we are agreed: the Author does so in order to avoid lengthiness and ambiguity,--two faults which are inadmissible in such matters, especially the latter. For if lucidity is to be commended in all literary works, we may say that it is especially necessary in narratives, where one thing is, as a rule, the sequel and the result of another; where the less important sometimes lays the basis of the more important; so that, once the thread becomes broken, the reader cannot gather it up again. Besides, as narratives in verse are very awkward, the author must clog himself with details as little as possible; by means of this you relieve not only yourself, but also the reader, for whom an author should not fail to prepare pleasure unalloyed. Whenever the Author has altered a few particulars and even a few catastrophes, he has been forced to do so by the cause of that catastrophe and the urgency of giving it a happy termination. He has fancied that in tales of this kind everyone ought to be satisfied with the end: it pleases the reader at any rate, if the author has not given the characters too distasteful a rendering. But he must not go so far as that, if possible, nor make the reader laugh and cry in the same tale. This medley shocks Horace above all things; his wish is not that our works should border on the grotesque, and that we should draw a picture half woman half fish. These are the general motives the Author has had in view. We might still quote special motives and vindicate each point; but we must needs leave something to the capacity and leniency of our readers. They will be satisfied, then, with the motives we have mentioned. We would have stated them more clearly and have set more by them, had the general compa.s.s of a Preface so allowed.

FRIAR PHILIP'S GEESE

IF these gay tales give pleasure to the FAIR, The honour's great conferred, I'm well aware; Yet, why suppose the s.e.x my pages shun?

Enough, if they condemn where follies run; Laugh in their sleeve at tricks they disapprove, And, false or true, a muscle never move.

A playful jest can scarcely give offence: Who knows too much, oft shows a want of sense.

From flatt'ry oft more dire effects arise, Enflame the heart and take it by surprise; Ye beauteous belles, beware each sighing swain, Discard his vows:--my book with care retain; Your safety then I'll guarantee at ease.-- But why dismiss?--their wishes are to please: And, truly, no necessity appears For solitude:--consider well your years.

I HAVE, and feel convinced they do you wrong, Who think no virtue can to such belong; White crows and phoenixes do not abound; But lucky lovers still are sometimes found; And though, as these famed birds, not quite so rare, The numbers are not great that favours share; I own my works a diff'rent sense express, But these are tales:--mere tales in easy dress.

To beauty's wiles, in ev'ry cla.s.s, I've bowed; Fawned, flattered, sighed, e'en constancy have vowed What gained? you ask--but little I admit; Howe'er we aim, too oft we fail to hit.

My latter days I'll now devote with care, To guard the s.e.x from ev'ry latent snare.

Tales I'll detail, and these relate at ease: Narrations clear and neat will always please; Like me, to this attention criticks pay; Then sleep, on either side, from night till day.

If awkward, vulgar phrase intervene, Or rhymes imperfect o'er the page be seen, Condemn at will; but stratagems and art, Pa.s.s, shut your eyes, who'd heed the idle part?

Some mothers, husbands, may perhaps be led, To pull my locks for stories white or red; So matters stand: a fine affair, no doubt, And what I've failed to do--my book makes out.

THE FAIR my pages safely may pursue, And this apology they'll not refuse.

What recompense can I presume to make?

A tale I'll give, where female charms partake, And prove resistless whatsoe'er a.s.sail: Blessed BEAUTY, NATURE ever should prevail.

HAD Fate decreed our YOUTH, at early morn, To view the angel features you adorn, The captivating pow'rs AURORA bless, Or airy SPRING bedecked in beauteous dress, And all the azure canopy on high Had vanished like a dream, once you were nigh.

And when his eyes at length your charms beheld, His glowing breast with softest pa.s.sion swelled; Superior l.u.s.tre beamed at ev'ry view; No pleasures pleased: his soul was fixed on you.

Crowns, jewels, palaces, appeared as naught.

'Twas solely beauteous woman now he sought.

A WOOD, from earliest years, his home had been, And birds the only company he'd seen, Whose notes harmonious often lulled his care, Beguiled his hours, and saved him from despair; Delightful sounds! from nightingale and dove Unknown their tongue, yet indicant of love.

THIS savage, solitary, rustick school, The father chose his infancy to rule.

The mother's recent death induced the sire, To place the son where only beasts retire; And long the forest habitants alone Were all his youthful sight had ever known.

TWO reasons, good or bad, the father led To fly the world:--all intercourse to dread Since fate had torn his lovely spouse from hence; Misanthropy and fear o'ercame each sense; Of the world grown tired, he hated all around:-- Too oft in solitude is sorrow found.

His partner's death produced distaste of life, And made him fear to seek another wife.

A hermit's gloomy, mossy cell he took, And wished his child might thither solely look.

AMONG the poor his little wealth he threw, And with his infant son alone withdrew; The forest's dreary wilds concealed his cell; There Philip (such his name) resolved to dwell.

BY holy motives led, and not chagrin, The hermit never spoke of what he'd seen; But, from the youth's discernment, strove to hide, Whate'er regarded love, and much beside, The softer s.e.x, with all their magick charms, That fill the feeling bosom with alarms.

As years advanced, the boy with care he taught; What suited best his age before him brought; At five he showed him animals and flow'rs, The birds of air, the beasts, their sev'ral pow'rs; And now and then of h.e.l.l he gave a hint, Old Satan's wrath, and what might awe imprint, How formed, and doomed to infamy below; In childhood FEAR 's the lesson first we know!

THE years had pa.s.sed away, when Philip tried, In matters more profound his son to guide; He spoke of Paradise and Heav'n above; But not a word of woman,--nor of LOVE.

Fifteen arrived, the sire with anxious care, Of NATURE'S works declaimed,--but not the FAIR: An age, when those, for solitude designed, Should be to scenes of seriousness confined, Nor joys of youth, nor soft ideas praised The flame soon spreads when Cupid's torch is raised.