Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 61, No. 380, June, 1847», sayfa 7
HORÆ CATULLIANÆ
You now see us again in the library—time, after tea. Gratian enjoys his easy-chair; a small fire—for it is not cold—just musically whispers among the coals, comfort. Gratian says he has had a busy day of it, and, though not wearied, is in that happy state of repose to enjoy rest, and of excitement to enjoy social converse; and after a little, preliminary chat, asked if there was any thing lately from Catullus.
Aquilius.—Yes. He is returned from his unprofitable travel, and you seem to be in that state of sensitive quiescence, to feel with him the pleasures of home. He is now at his own villa, and thus welcomes, and acknowledges the welcome offered him by his beloved Sirmio.
AD SIRMIONEM PENINSULAM
My Sirmio, thou the very gem and eye
Of islands and peninsulas, that lie
In that two-fold dominion Neptune takes
Of the salt sea and sweet translucent lakes!
Oh! with what joy I visit thee again,
Scarce yet believing, how, left far behind,
The tedious Thynian and Bithynian plain,
I see thee, Sirmio, with this peaceful mind.
Oh, what a blessed thing is the sweet quiet,
When the tired heart lays down its load of care,
And after foreign toil and sickening riot,
Weary and worn, to feel at last we are
At our own home—and our own floor to tread,
And lie in peace on the long-wish'd-for bed!
This, this alone, repays all labours past.
Hail to thee, lovely Sirmio! gladly take
Thine own, own master home to thee at last:
And all ye sportive waters of my lake,
Laugh out your welcome to my cheerful voice,
And all that laughs at home, with me rejoice.
Gratian.—I well remember this singularly sweet, kind, affectionate address. It is the best version of "Home is home, be it ever so homely," I know. You have needlessly repeated own. Why not say, loved master?
Curate.—Don't you think the acquiescimus lecto would be better rendered "sink to rest?" I fancy the Latin expresses the sinking down of the wearied limbs, or rather, whole person, into the soft and deep feather bed.
Aquilius.—I Set it down so, but altered it, thinking the "lie in peace" was in reality more quiescent than any thing expressing an act—as sinking is a process in transitu—the result, lying in peace. It has often been translated, among others, by Leigh Hunt, and that prince of translators, Elton—though I think I was not satisfied with his translation of the Sirmio—of the others I do not remember a word.
Curate.—Leigh Hunt overdid his work—there is more labour than ease in the line
"The loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed."
Not simple enough for Catullus; neither is this—a rather affected line—
"Laughs every dimple in the cheek of home."
Gratian.—No, that won't do—it is a conceit. One would imagine it borrowed or translated from some Italian poet.
Aquilius.—The "loosened limbs o'er all the wished-for bed," strikes me as rather of the ludicrous, and not unlike the description of himself by Berni in his fanciful palace, where he ordered a bed, adjoining that of the French cook's, which was to be large enough to swim in—"Come si fa nel mare."
Gratian.—Now then, Mr Curate, let us have your version.
Curate.
TO THE PENINSULA OF SIRMIO
All hail to thee, delightful Sirmio!
Of all peninsulas and isles the gem,
Which lake or sea in its fair breast doth show
With either Neptune's arms encircling them.
What joy to find that Thynia, and that plain
Bithynian gone, and see thee safe again!
Charming it is to rest from care and cumber,
When the mind throws its burden, and we come
Wearied with pains of foreign travel home,
And in the bed so longed for sink to slumber.
This pays for all the toil, this quiet after—
Joy, my sweet Sirmio, for thy master's sake,
Make merry, frolic wavelets of my lake—
Laugh on me, all ye stores of home-bred laughter.
Gratian.—I don't like "the mind throws its burden:" lays it down is better—there is more weariness in it. You must alter that expression, or we see the mind like the "iniquæ mentis ascellus," dropping back its ears, and throwing its not agreeable and easy-sitting rider. Why not—
"When the mind lays its burden down, to come?"
But I see you have both of you translated away from the Latin the Lydiæ undæ. How comes it so?
Aquilius.—The reasons given for the word meaning Lydian seem to be insufficient; because it is said the Benacus resembles the Lydian rivers Hermus and Pactolus in having gold; or because the Benacus was in the district of the Thusci, who came from the Lydians. I adopted a conjecture once thrown out—and I think it was by the most accomplished scholar, W. S. Landor, that Lydiæ is the adjective of the word Ludius—ludiæ undæ, or Lydiæ undæ, the same thing, for that ludius is, as the dictionary tells us, "a Lydis, qui erant optimi saltatores." If so, Lydiæ would mean the sportive, or "dancing waters of the lake."
Curate.—I took this hint from Aquilius, though I do not remember from whom the suggestion came. I would venture from the last line—
"Ridete quidquid est domi cachinnorum—"
a remark upon a passage, the celebrated expression in the Prometheus of Æschylus, the ανηριθμον γελασμα. Some call it "countless dimples." Now is it not possible Catullus may have thought of this, and as it were translated it by quidquid est cachinnorum? The question then would be, is it meant to speak to the ear or the eye? Is it of sound or vision? I am inclined to think it is the sound, the communicative laughter of the many waves. "Dimple" is too little for the gigantic conception of Æschylus, but the laughter of the multitudinous ocean-waves is more after his genius. No one could translate cachinnus "a dimple." If, therefore, Catullus had in his mind the Greek passage, it shows his idea of the ανηριθμον γελασμα.
Gratian.—I have often admired how that can be very beautiful which is of uncertain meaning. Is it that either construction conveys distinct thought—clear idea? I confess, I prefer the sound. What comes next?
Curate.—Missing one or two, we take up his "Request to his friend Cæcilius to come to him to Verona"—who, it seems, was a native of that place, and fellow townsman, as well as most dear friend of Catullus.
Aquilius.—Both poets—both kind-hearted; in fact, "The two gentlemen of Verona."
Gratian.—Well, that is saying something for Latin poets. Let us have your version, Curate.
Curate.
INVITATION TO CÆCILIUS
Papyrus, to Cæcilius tell
(A touching bard, my friend as well)
That to Verona he must come,
Where his Catullus is at home,
And new-built Comu's walls forsake,
And that sweet shore of Laris Lake.
A friend of mine and his has brought
To light some passages of thought,
Which he must hear. So if he will
Be thriving and improving still,
His speed will swallow up the distance,
Although with amorous resistance,
And both arms clinging round his neck,
That lovely maid his progress check,
With lips a thousand times that say
"Oh, do not, do not go away!"
I mean that maid who, Fame—not I—
Asserts for love of him would die;
For fire consumes her heart and head,
Since first the opening lines she read
Of Cybele the God's great queen.
Maid, learned as the Sapphic muse,
I cannot sympathy refuse;
For not amiss (the book I've seen)
Begins the tale, "The Mighty Queen."
Aquilius.—I protest against "so if he will be thriving and improving still." That is the Curate's interpolation. The fact is, he must have rhymed a passage from his last sermon; and it has somehow or other slipped into his Catullus.
Curate.—No authority! What, then, is meant by "Quare si sapiet?"
Aquilius.—Simply, if he would know the secret—the "cogitationes."
Gratian.—I am inclined to agree with you. Now, Aquilius, we will listen to your version.
Aquilius.
Hasten, papyrus! greet you well
That tender poet, my sweet friend
Cæcilius—speedily I send,
As speedily my message tell:
That he should for Verona make
All haste—and quit his Larian Lake,
And Novum Comum—for I would
Some certain thoughts he understood
And purposes, that now possess
A friend of mine; and his no less.
And if he takes me rightly, say
His coming will devour the way,
Though that fair girl should bid him stay,
And round his neck her arms should throw,
And cry, Oh, do not, do not go!—
That girl, who, if the truth be told,
E'en in her heart of hearts doth hold
And cherish such sweet love—since he
First read to her of Cybele,
"Great Queen of Dindymus" the tale
Begun. Oh, then she did inhale
The living breath of love, whose heat
Into her very life doth eat.
Thy passion I can well excuse,
Fair maid! more learn'd than the tenth muse,
The Lesbian maid—nor couldst thou fail
To find for love an ample plea,
In that so nobly open'd tale
Of the great Goddess Cybele.
Curate.—What's all this?—the "tenth muse!" where is she in the Latin?
Aquilius.—Sapphicâ musâ, Doctor. That is Sappho, is it not? and pray was Sappho one of the nine muses? No; then of course she was the tenth—and was not she "the Lesbian maid?"
Curate.—Well, I admit it—you have vindicated your muse fairly, and I will not pronounce against her, though tempted by an apt quotation from the mouth of Bacchus, in the Frogs of Aristophanes.
"Αυτη ποθ' η Μουσ' ουκ ελεσβιαζεν ου."
For your muse is certainly a Lesbian; but you have omitted "misellæ," which shows that the passion was not returned.
Gratian.—I don't see that; for she throws her arms about his neck. But neither of you have well spoken the "millies euntem revocet," the calling him back after departure, and that is very good too. I see the note upon Sapphicâ Musâ, speaks of various interpretations to the passage; but adopts this—that the maiden loving Cæcilius has more sense (is that doctior? I doubt) than Sappho, who loved a youth too stupid ever to write a line; but this maid did not love till she had read the commencement of his poem. I don't see the necessity for thinking the passion hopeless either, because of the comparison with Sappho. Few Roman maidens took the Leucadian leap.
Curate.—It is very odd, and might first appear a mark of their good manners—that the Romans never mention "old maids." I fear there was another cause. I suppose the omission may be accounted for by the state of society, which was not favourable to their existence at all; for then a man could put away his wife at any moment, and for any plea, most women must have managed to get a husband for a long or a short time.
Aquilius.—The only ancient old maids were the Fates and Furies—of the latter, the burden of the song was—
"Oh no, we never mention them,
Their names are never heard!"
Gratian.—Come back to your duty: we are wandering, and leaving Catullus behind. What are we to have now?
Aquilius.—An attack upon one Egnatius, who, having white teeth, took care to show them upon all occasions. He was not, however, celebrated for his tooth-powder. He is a fair mark for the wit of our author. The arrow of his satire was occasionally keen enough and free to fly.
IN EGNATIUM
Egnatius's teeth are very white,
And therefore is he ever grinning:
Let pleaders in the court excite
All hearts to weep—from the beginning
E'en to the end he laughs. The while
The mother on the funeral bier,
Sheds o'er her only son the tear,
Alone Egnatius seems to smile,
Then opes his mouth from ear to ear:
Where'er he is, whatever doing,
He laughs and grins. The thing in fact is
A tasteless, foolish, silly practice,
Egnatius, and well worth eschewing.
Spare all this risible exertion,
And were you Roman or Tiburtian,
Sabine, Lanuvian, fat Etruscan,
Or porcine Umbrian with rare show
Of tusks—columnar—order Tuscan:
Or born the other side the Po,}
(And my compatriot, therefore know,)}
Where folk are civilised I trow,}
And wash their teeth with water cleanly—
Pure water such as folk might quaff—
I would entreat you still—don't laugh.
You look so sillily, so meanly,
As if you were but witted half.
Yet being but a Celtiberian,
Holding the custom of your nation,
Using that lotion called Hesperian;
The more you grin, folk say, forsooth,
What pity 'tis the whitest tooth
Should have the foulest application!
Curate.—I did not translate—and our host will think one translation quite enough.
Gratian.—Go on then to the next. What are we to have?
Curate.—His address to his farm. Authors were happy in those days to have their landed estate. Horace always speaks of his with delight; so does Catullus, as we have seen, of his Sirmio. This farm was, it should seem, like Horace's, among the Sabine hills.
TO MY FARM
My farm! which those who wish to please
Thy master's heart, Tiburtian call;
But they who call thee Sabine, these
Respect his feelings not at all:
And wishing more to tease and fret,
Will wager thou art Sabine yet—
How well it pleased me to retreat
To thy suburban country-seat;
Where I sent summarily off
That plaguy pulmonary cough;
Which, half-deserved, my stomach gave
Just for a hint no more to crave
Luxurious living. I had hoped
With a good dinner to have coped
At Sextius' table; when he read
A poisonous speech might strike one dead,
All gall and venom, to refute
One Attius in a certain suit.
Since when, a cold cough and catarrh
Against my battered frame made war;
Until I came in thee to settle,
And cured it with repose and nettle.
So, now I'm well, I thank thee, farm!
And that I got so little harm,
From such great fault. I may be pardon'd
If to this pitch my heart is harden'd:
To pray, when Sextius reads again
Things so abhorr'd of gods and men,
That that my cough and cold catarrh
Not mine but Sextius' health might mar—
Who never sends me invitation
But for such wretched recitation.
Gratian.—A charitable wish this of our good Catullus! But these heathens knew little of "do as you would be done by." One of the neatest wishes of this kind is in a Greek epigram. I can't remember word for word the Greek, so I give the translation:—"Castor and Pollux, who dwell in beauteous Lacedemon, by the sweet-flowing river Eurotas, if ever I wish evil to my friend, may it light upon me; but if ever he wishes evil to me, may he have twice as much."
Aquilius.—In a note on villæ, I see the derivation of that word given, quasi vehilla, because there the fruits of the farm were carried; so that the original idea of a villa was quite another thing from the modern suburban construction. Architects, when they call these suburban edifices villas, might as well remember how inappropriate is the term. But here you have my version of this address to his farm:—
AD FUNDUM
My Farm, or Sabine or Tiburtian,
(What name I care not we confab in,
Though they who hold me in aversion,
Persist and wager you are Sabine,)
In your suburban sweet recesses
Of that vile cough I timely rid me,
Merited well, for those excesses
My stomach failed not to forbid me,
When I with Sextius was convivial,
Who feasting read me his invective,
Vilest, 'gainst Attius his rival,
All venom—and, alas! effective.
For surely 'twas that poison seized me,
A chill—a heat—a cough then shook me
E'en to my vitals—and so teazed me,
That to thy bosom I betook me.
Thanks, my good farm! my fault you pardon'd,
And not revenged. We've much to settle
On score of thanks: my chest you harden'd,
And healed with basil-root and nettle.
But from henceforth, if I such vicious
Invectives read, though Sextius pen 'em,
Who but invites me with malicious
Intent to kill me with their venom—
If e'er I yield to his endeavour,
Expose me to his scrip infectious—
I call down ague, cold, and fever,
Oh! fall ye not on me,—but Sextius.
Gratian.—I see the next is that one which has been not unfrequently translated and imitated. Is there not one by Cowley,—if I remember, much lengthened?
Aquilius.—It can scarcely be called a translation. The Latin measure is certainly here very sweet and tender.
DE ACME ET SEPTIMIO
Septimius, to his bosom pressing
His Acme, said, "I love thee, Acme—
All my life-long will love thee, Acme!
Nor day shall come to love thee less in.
Or should it come, like common lover,
In such poor love I love thee only;
May Libyan lion dun discover,
Or torrid India's beast attack me,
Wandering forlorn from thee, and lonely
On desert shore."—
He said: Love, as before,
Upon the left hand aptly sneezed.
The omen showed that he was pleased
To give his blessing.
Then gentle Acme, softly turning
Upon the breast of her Septimius,
And unto his her face upraising,
And looking in his eyes so burning,
As if inebriate with gazing;
With that her rich red mouth she kissed them,
And said,—"My love, dear, dear Septimius!
Oh, let us serve our master duly—
Our master Love, as now caressing;
For never yet have Love so blessed them
As now my thoughts he blesseth truly,
Even to my heart of hearts, Septimius,
The inmost core."
She said: and, as before,
Love on the left hand aptly sneezed.
The omen showed that he was pleased
To give his blessing.
They loved—were loved: this sweet beginning
Omen'd their future bright condition.
Offer all Asia to Septimius—
Add Britain—put in competition
With Acme—wretchedly abstemious
They'd call him of your gifts, Ambition.
The only province worth his winning
Is Acme: Acme's faithful bosom
Knows nought on earth but her Septimius.
Ripe was the fruit, as fair the blossom
Of this their mutual love, and glowing;
And all admired its freshness growing.
Was never pair so fond and loving!
And Venus' self looked on approving.
Curate.—Are you correct in your translation "Love, as before?" Is it not that, as before he sneezed on the left, now he sneezes on the right hand,—was unfavourable—is now propitious?
Gratian.—I see in the note that the passage bears either construction. There is also authority given; for what to us is the left hand, to the gods is the right. Now, Curate, for your Acme and Septimius.
Curate.—
OF SEPTIMIUS AND ACME
Acme to Septimius' breast,
Darling of his heart, was prest—
"Acme mine!" then said the youth,
"If I love thee not in truth,
If I shall not love thee ever
As a lover doated never,
May I in some lonely place,
Scorch'd by Ind's or Libya's sun,
Meet a lion's tawny face;
All defenceless, one to one."—
Love, who heard it in his flight,
To the truth his witness bore,
Sneezing quickly to the right—
(To the left he sneezed before.)
Acme then her head reflecting,
Kiss'd her sweet youth's ebriate eyes,
With her rosy lips connecting
Looks that glistened with replies.
"Thus, my life, my Septimillus!
Serve we Love, our only master:
One warm love-flood seems to thrill us,
Throbs it not in me the faster?"—
Love, who heard it in his flight,
To the truth his witness bore,
Sneezing quickly to the right—
(To the left he sneezed before.)
Thus with omens all-approving,
Each and both are loved and loving.
Poor Septimius with his Acme,
Cares not to whose lot may fall
Syria's glory—wealthy province!—
Or both Britains great and small.
Acme, faithful and unfeigning,
Gives, creates, enjoys all pleasure,
With her dear Septimius reigning.—
Oh! was ever earthly treasure
Greater to man's lot pertaining?
Blessed pair!—thus, without measure,
Venus' choicest gifts attaining.
Gratian.—You have a little run riot, good Master Curate; and run out of your rhyming course too, I see—for you don't mean "province" to rhyme to "Acme."—I see the next is, On Approach of Spring—with that beautiful line, "Jam ver egelidos refert tepores." I wish to see how you would have translated that refreshing and cool warmth of expression—almost a contradiction in terms—the season when we inhale the heavenly air with the chill off—like hot tea thrown into a glass of spring-cold water, and drank off immediately.
Aquilius.—I gave it up in despair, and the Curate too has omitted it. There are two other perhaps untranslatable lines in this short piece:—
"Jam mens prætrepidans avet vagari;
Jam læti studio pedes vigescunt."
After two other little pieces, we come to a few lines to no less a personage than Marcus Tullius Cicero, who had probably in some cause gratuitously assisted the poet with his eloquence; for to sue in formâ poetæ, was, perhaps, pretty much the same as in formâ pauperis. It seems that "omnium patronus" was a flattering title on other occasions, and by other persons bestowed upon Cicero, as well as by our poet here. One would almost think the orator had served the poet an ill turn, and that this superlative praise was but irony; for he not only calls Tullius the most eloquent of men, but as much the best of patrons, as he, Catullus, is the worst of poets. This surely must be a mock humility. Is it a satire in disguise, and meaning the reverse? After this, follows a little piece to his friend Cornellus Licinius Calvus, with whom he had passed a pleasant and too exciting day—but let him tell his own story. Shall I repeat?
