PRONE, 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 assumed. 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 shifts,
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 nobody 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 assumed 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 fictitious 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 passes from hand to hand without receiving some fresh touch
of embellishment. How comes it then, we may be asked, that in many
passages 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
compass of a Preface so allowed.