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Letter XXI
Letter XXI of 24. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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sur le comte de rochester et m. waller.
Tout le monde connaît la réputation du comte de Rochester. M. de Saint-Évremond en a beaucoup parlé; mais il ne nous a fait connaître du fameux Rochester que l’homme de plaisir, l'homme à bonnes fortunes. Je voudrais faire connaître en lui l’homme de génie et le grand poëte. Entre autres ouvrages qui brillaient de cette imagination ardente qui n’appartenait qu’à lui, il a fait quelques satires sur les mêmes sujets que notre célèbre Despréaux avait choisis. Je ne sais rien de plus utile, pour se perfectionner le goût, que la comparaison des grands génies qui se sont exercés sur les mêmes matières.
Voici comme M. Despréaux parle contre la raison humaine, dans sa satire sur l’homme:
Cependant, à le voir, plein de vapeurs légères,
Soi-même se bercer de ses propres chimères,
Lui seul de la nature est la base et l’appui,
Et le dixième Ciel ne tourne que pour lui.
De tous les animaux il est ici le maître;
Qui pourrait le nier, poursuis-tu?
Moi, peut-être:
Ce maître prétendu qui leur donne des lois,
Ce Roi des animaux, combien a-t-il de Rois?
Voici à peu près comme s’exprime le comte de Rochester, dans sa satire sur l’homme; mais il faut que le lecteur se ressouvienne toujours que ce sont ici des traductions libres de poètes anglais, et que la gêne de notre versification et les bienséances délicates de notre langue ne peuvent donner l’équivalent de la licence impétueuse du style anglais.
Cet esprit que je hais, cet esprit plein d’erreur,
Ce n’est pas ma raison, c’est la tienne, Docteur;
C’est ta raison frivole, inquiète, orgueilleuse,
Des sages animaux rivale dédaigneuse
Qui croit entre eux et l’Ange occuper le milieu,
Et pense être ici-bas l’image de son Dieu,
Vil atome importun, qui croit, doute, dispute,
Rampe, s’élève, tombe, et nie encor sa chute;
Qui nous dit: « Je suis libre, en nous montrant ses fers,
Et dont l’œil trouble et faux croit percer l’Univers.
Allez, révérends fous, bienheureux fanatiques!
Compilez bien l’amas de vos riens scolastiques!
Pères de visions et d’énigmes sacrés,
Auteurs du labyrinthe où vous vous égarez,
Allez obscurément éclaircir vos mystères,
Et courez dans l’école adorer vos chimères!
Il est d’autres erreurs: il est de ces dévots,
Condamnés par eux-même à l’ennui du repos.
Ce mystique encloîtré, fier de son indolence,
Tranquille au sein de Dieu, qu’y peut-il faire? Il pense.
Non, tu ne penses point, misérable, tu dors,
Inutile à la terre et mis au rang des morts;
Ton esprit énervé croupit dans la mollesse;
Réveille-toi, sois homme, et sors de ton ivresse.
L’homme est né pour agir, et tu prétends penser!
Que ces idées soient vraies ou fausses, il est toujours certain qu’elles sont exprimées avec une énergie qui fait le poëte.
Je me garderai bien d’examiner la chose en philosophe, et de quitter ici le pinceau pour le compas. Mon unique but, dans cette lettre est de faire connaître le génie des poëtes anglais.
On a beaucoup entendu parler du célèbre Waller en France. MM. de La Fontaine, Saint-Évremond et Bayle ont fait son éloge; mais on ne connaît de lui que son nom. Il eut à peu près à Londres la même réputation que Voiture eut à Paris, et je crois qu’il la méritait mieux. Voiture vint dans un temps où l’on sortait de la barbarie, et où l’on était encore dans l’ignorance. On voulait avoir de l’esprit, et on n’en avait pas encore. On cherchait des tours au lieu de pensées: les faux brillants se trouvent plus aisément que les pierres précieuses. Voiture, né avec un génie frivole et facile, fut le premier qui brilla dans cette aurore de la littérature française; s’il était venu après les grands hommes qui ont illustré le siècle de Louis XIV, ou il aurait été inconnu, ou l’on n’aurait parlé de lui que pour le mépriser, ou il aurait son style. M. Despréaux le loue, mais c’est dans ses premières satires; c’est dans le temps où le goût de Despréaux n’était pas encore formé: il était jeune, et dans l’âge où l’on juge des hommes par la réputation, et non pas par eux-mêmes. D’ailleurs, Despréaux était souvent bien injuste dans ses louanges et dans ses censures. Il louait Segrais, que personne ne lit; il insultait Quinault, que tout le monde sait par cœur; et il ne dit rien de La Fontaine. Waller, meilleur que Voiture, n’était pas encore parfait; ses ouvrages galants respirent la grâce; mais la négligence les fait languir, et souvent les pensées fausses les défigurent. Les Anglais n’étaient pas encore parvenus de son temps à écrire avec correction. Ses ouvrages sérieux sont pleins d’une vigueur qu’on n’attendrait pas de la mollesse de ses autres pièces. Il a fait un éloge funèbre de Cromwell, qui, avec ses défauts, passe pour un chef-d’œuvre. Pour entendre cet ouvrage, il faut savoir que Cromwell mourut le jour d’une tempête extraordinaire.
La pièce commence ainsi:
Il n’est plus; c’en est fait; soumettons-nous au sort:
Le ciel a signalé ce jour par des tempêtes,
Et la voix du tonnerre, éclatant sur nos têtes,
Vient d’annoncer sa mort.
Par ses derniers soupirs il ébranle cette île,
Cette île que son bras fit trembler tant de fois,
Quand, dans le cours de ses exploits,
Il brisait la tête des rois
Et soumettait un peuple à son joug seul docile.
Mer, tu t’en es troublée. Ô mer! tes flots émus
Semblent dire en grondant aux plus lointains rivages
Que l’effroi de la terre, et ton maître, n’est plus.
Tel au Ciel autrefois s’envola Romulus,
Tel il quitta la terre au milieu des orages,
Tel d’un peuple guerrier il reçut les hommages:
Obéi dans sa vie, à sa mort adoré,
Son palais fut un temple, etc.
C’est à propos de cet éloge de Cromwell que Waller fit au roi Charles second cette réponse, qu’on trouve dans le dictionnaire de Bayle. Le Roi, pour qui Waller venait, selon l’usage des rois et des poëtes, de présenter une pièce farcie de louanges, lui reprocha qu’il avait fait mieux pour Cromwell. Waller: « Sire, nous autres poëtes, nous réussissons mieux dans les fictions que dans les vérités. » Cette réponse n’était pas si sincère que celle de l’ambassadeur hollandais, qui, lorsque le même roi se plaignait que l’on avait moins d’égards pour lui que pour Cromwell, répondit: « Ah! Sire, ce Cromwell était tout autre chose. » Il y a des courtisans, même en Angleterre, et Waller l'était; mais je ne considère les gens après leur mort que par leurs ouvrages; tout le reste est anéanti pour moi. Je remarque seulement que Waller, né à la cour, avec soixante mille livres de rente, n’eut jamais ni le sot orgueil ni la nonchalance d’abandonner son talent. Les comtes de Dorset et de Roscommon, les deux ducs de Buckingham, milord Halifax et tant d’autres n’ont pas cru déroger en devenant de très grands poètes et d’illustres écrivains. Leurs ouvrages leur font plus d’honneur que leurs noms. Ils ont cultivé les lettres comme s’ils en eussent attendu leur fortune; ils ont, de plus, rendu les arts respectables aux yeux du peuple, qui, en tout, a besoin d’être mené par les grands, et qui pourtant se règle moins sur eux en Angleterre qu’en aucun lieu du monde.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the French text of all twenty-four letters (Garnier edition, 1879, French Wikisource) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
On the Earl of Rochester and Mr. Waller
Everyone knows the Earl of Rochester's reputation. Mr. de Saint-Évremond has spoken of him at length; but he has shown us only the pleasure seeker, the man of amorous conquests, in the famous Rochester. I should like to show the man of genius and the great poet in him. Among other works that glowed with an ardent imagination all his own, he wrote several satires on the same subjects our celebrated Despréaux had chosen. I know nothing more useful for refining one's taste than comparing great minds who have tried their powers on the same themes.
Here is how Mr. Despréaux attacks human reason in his satire on man:
Yet see him, full of airy fumes,
Lulling himself with his own dreams:
He alone is nature's foundation and support,
And the tenth Heaven turns for him alone.
Of all the animals he is master here;
Who could deny it, you persist?
I, perhaps:
This would-be master who gives them laws,
This King of animals—how many Kings has he?
Here is approximately how the Earl of Rochester expresses himself in his satire on man; but the reader must always remember that these are free translations of English poets, and that the constraints of our versification and the delicate proprieties of our language cannot furnish an equivalent for the headlong freedom of English style.
That mind I hate, that mind so full of error,
Is not my reason, Doctor, but your own;
Your frivolous, restless, proud reason,
Disdainful rival of the wiser beasts,
That thinks it stands midway between them and the Angel
And fancies itself God's image here below:
Vile, troublesome atom that believes, doubts, disputes,
Crawls, rises, falls, and still denies its fall;
That tells us, “I am free,” while showing us its chains,
Whose clouded, lying eye thinks it can pierce the Universe.
Go, reverend fools, blessed fanatics!
Compile your heap of scholastic nothings well!
Fathers of visions and sacred riddles,
Authors of the labyrinth in which you lose yourselves,
Go shed your obscure light upon your mysteries,
And hurry to the schools to worship your illusions!
There are other errors: there are those devotees
Condemned by their own hands to the tedium of repose.
That cloistered mystic, proud of his indolence,
At peace in God's embrace—what can he do there? He thinks.
No, wretch, you do not think: you sleep,
Useless to the earth and counted among the dead;
Your feeble mind lies stagnant in its softness;
Wake, be a man, and leave your stupor.
Man was born to act, and you presume to think!
Whether these ideas are true or false, it remains certain that they are expressed with an energy that makes the poet.
I shall take care not to examine the matter as a philosopher and exchange the paintbrush here for the compass. My sole aim in this letter is to make the genius of the English poets known.
Much has been heard in France of the celebrated Waller. Messrs. de La Fontaine, Saint-Évremond, and Bayle have praised him; but only his name is known. In London he enjoyed much the same reputation that Voiture enjoyed in Paris, and I think he deserved it more. Voiture came at a time when we were emerging from barbarism and still lived in ignorance. People wished to have wit, but had none yet. They sought turns of phrase instead of thoughts: false glitter is more readily found than precious stones. Voiture, born with a facile, frivolous genius, was the first to shine at the dawn of French literature; had he come after the great men who brought glory to the age of Louis XIV, either he would have been unknown, or spoken of only with contempt, or he would have his style. Mr. Despréaux praises him, but in his early satires, when Despréaux's taste had not yet formed: he was young, at the age when men are judged by their reputations, not by themselves. Besides, Despréaux was often very unjust in both his praise and his censure. He praised Segrais, whom no one reads; he insulted Quinault, whom everyone knows by heart; and he says nothing of La Fontaine. Waller, better than Voiture, was not yet perfect. His love poems breathe grace, but carelessness makes them languish, and false thoughts often mar them. The English had not yet learned in his day to write with precision. His serious works are full of a vigor one would not expect from the softness of his other pieces. He wrote a funeral eulogy of Cromwell that, despite its faults, is considered a masterpiece. To understand this work, one must know that Cromwell died on the day of an extraordinary storm.
The piece begins thus:
He is no more; it is done; let us bow to fate:
Heaven has marked this day with storms,
And thunder's voice, bursting above our heads,
Has come to announce his death.
With his last breaths he shakes this island,
This island that his arm so often made to tremble
When, in the course of his exploits,
He shattered the heads of kings
And subjected a people obedient to his yoke alone.
Sea, you have felt the turmoil. O sea! Your troubled waves
Seem to tell the farthest shores with their roar
That the terror of the earth, and your master, is no more.
So Romulus once flew up to Heaven,
So he left the earth amid the storms,
So he received the homage of a warrior people:
Obeyed in life, adored in death,
His palace became a temple, etc.
It was in connection with this eulogy of Cromwell that Waller made to King Charles II the reply recorded in Bayle's dictionary. The King, to whom Waller had just presented, as kings and poets customarily do, a piece stuffed with praise, reproached him for having written better for Cromwell. Waller replied, “Sire, we poets succeed better at fictions than at truths.” That reply was less candid than the Dutch ambassador's, when the same king complained that he was treated with less respect than Cromwell: “Ah, Sire, that Cromwell was something else altogether.” There are courtiers even in England, and Waller was one; but after their deaths I consider people only by their works; all the rest has vanished for me. I note only that Waller, born at court with an income of sixty thousand livres, never had either the foolish pride or the indolence to abandon his talent. The Earls of Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham, Lord Halifax, and so many others did not think it beneath them to become very great poets and illustrious writers. Their works do them more honor than their names. They cultivated letters as though they expected to make their fortunes by them; and what is more, they made the arts respectable in the eyes of the people, who in everything need to be led by the great, though in England they follow their lead less than anywhere else in the world.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the French text of all twenty-four letters (Garnier edition, 1879, French Wikisource).
On the Count of Rochester and Mr. Waller
Everyone knows the Count of Rochester's reputation. Mr. de Saint-Évremond has said a great deal about him. But he has shown us only the pleasure seeker and the successful lover in the famous Rochester. I want to show the man of genius and the great poet. Among other works that show his uniquely fiery imagination, he wrote some satires on the same subjects our famous Despréaux had chosen. I know nothing more useful for improving one's taste than comparing great minds who have worked on the same subjects.
Here is how Mr. Despréaux speaks against human reason in his satire on man:
Yet look at him, full of passing fancies,
Rocking himself with his own illusions.
He alone is nature's foundation and support,
And the tenth Heaven turns only for him.
He is master of all the animals here.
Who could deny it, you go on to ask?
Perhaps I could.
This supposed master who gives them laws,
This king of the animals—how many kings does he have?
Here is roughly how the Count of Rochester puts it in his satire on man. But readers must always remember that these are free translations of English poets. The constraints of our verse and the delicate standards of our language cannot match the forceful freedom of English style.
That mind I hate, that mind so full of error,
Is not my reason, Doctor. It is yours.
It is your shallow, restless, proud reason,
Which looks down on wise animals as its rivals,
Believes it holds a place between them and the Angel,
And thinks itself God's image here on earth.
A vile, troublesome atom, it believes, doubts, argues,
Crawls, rises, falls, and still denies its fall.
It tells us, “I am free,” while showing us its chains,
And its clouded, false eye thinks it sees through the Universe.
Go on, reverend fools, happy fanatics!
Keep compiling your heaps of scholastic nonsense!
Fathers of visions and sacred riddles,
Makers of the maze in which you lose your way,
Go explain your mysteries in obscure terms,
And hurry to the school to worship your illusions!
There are other errors. There are devotees
Who condemn themselves to the boredom of rest.
That cloistered mystic, proud of his idleness,
At peace in God's embrace—what can he do there? He thinks.
No, miserable man, you do not think. You sleep,
Useless to the earth and counted among the dead.
Your weakened mind rots in its ease.
Wake up, be a man, and shake off your daze.
Man was born to act, and you claim to think!
Whether these ideas are true or false, they are certainly expressed with the power that makes a poet.
I will be careful not to examine the matter as a philosopher and trade my paintbrush for a compass here. My only purpose in this letter is to introduce the genius of the English poets.
People in France have heard a great deal about the famous Waller. Messrs. de La Fontaine, Saint-Évremond, and Bayle have praised him, but all that people know of him is his name. He had about the same reputation in London that Voiture had in Paris, and I think he deserved it more. Voiture came along when people were emerging from barbarism but were still ignorant. They wanted to be clever but did not yet know how. They looked for verbal tricks instead of ideas. Fake gems are easier to find than precious stones. Voiture, born with an easy, frivolous talent, was the first to shine in that dawn of French literature. If he had come after the great men who made the age of Louis XIV famous, he would either have been unknown, or mentioned only with contempt, or he would have changed his style. Mr. Despréaux praises him, but only in his earliest satires, when Despréaux's taste had not yet developed. He was young, at an age when people judge others by their reputations rather than for themselves. Besides, Despréaux was often quite unfair in both praise and criticism. He praised Segrais, whom no one reads. He insulted Quinault, whom everyone knows by heart. And he said nothing about La Fontaine. Waller was better than Voiture, but still not perfect. His love poems have grace, but carelessness makes them drag, and false ideas often spoil them. In his day, the English had not yet learned to write correctly. His serious works have a vigor you would not expect from the softness of his other pieces. He wrote a funeral tribute to Cromwell which, despite its faults, is considered a masterpiece. To understand it, you must know that Cromwell died on the day of an extraordinary storm.
The piece begins like this:
He is gone. It is done. Let us submit to fate.
Heaven has marked this day with storms,
And the thunder's voice, bursting over our heads,
Has just announced his death.
With his last breaths he shakes this island,
This island his arm so often made tremble
When, in the course of his exploits,
He broke the heads of kings
And forced a people to obey his yoke alone.
Sea, you have been thrown into turmoil. O sea! Your stirred-up waves
Seem to tell the farthest shores with their roar
That the terror of the earth, and your master, is gone.
So Romulus once rose to Heaven,
So he left the earth amid storms,
So he received the homage of a warrior people:
Obeyed in life, worshiped after death,
His palace became a temple, etc.
It was in connection with this tribute to Cromwell that Waller gave King Charles second the reply recorded in Bayle's dictionary. Waller had just presented the king with a piece stuffed with praise, as kings and poets customarily expect. The king reproached him for having done better for Cromwell. Waller replied, “Sire, we poets do better with fiction than with truth.” That answer was not as sincere as the Dutch ambassador's. When the same king complained that he received less consideration than Cromwell had, the ambassador replied, “Ah, Sire, that Cromwell was quite another matter.” There are courtiers even in England, and Waller was one. But after people die, I consider only their works. Everything else has vanished for me. I will simply note that Waller, born at court with an income of sixty thousand livres a year, never had the foolish pride or the laziness to give up his talent. The Counts of Dorset and Roscommon, the two Dukes of Buckingham, Lord Halifax, and many others did not think it beneath them to become great poets and distinguished writers. Their works bring them more honor than their names. They worked at literature as if their fortunes depended on it. They also made the arts respectable in the eyes of ordinary people. In everything, the people need to be led by the great, though in England they follow their lead less than anywhere else in the world.