[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.It is because Otway s foolishness is modern while Shakespeare s isancient.You will no doubt complain that those who have told you aboutEnglish theater, and especially about this famous Shakespeare, haveuntil now shown you only his errors, and that no one has translatedthose wonderful moments that excuse all his faults.I will reply thatit is easy to reproduce in prose the defects of a poet, but very diffi-cult to translate his beautiful verse.All those scribblers who setthemselves up as critics of celebrated writers have filled volumes; Iwould prefer two pages that acquaint us with some excellence.I willalways maintain, as do people who have good taste, that more is tobe gained from twelve lines of Homer and Virgil than from all thecritical commentaries on these two great men.I have dared to translate a few fragments of the best English poets.Here is one by Shakespeare; be generous to the copy for the sake ofthe original, and remember always, when you see a translation, thatyou see only a poorly engraved print of a beautiful painting.I have chosen the monologue from the tragedy of Hamlet, whichis known by all, and which begins with this line: To be, or not to be?That is the question![The following is the original Shakespeare:]To be, or not to be? that is the question:Whether t is nobler in the mind to suffer[Voltaire s French, pp.71 72, does not include the following linesof the original Shakespeare:The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,And by opposing, end them? To die, to sleepNo more, and by a sleep to say we endThe heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocksThat flesh is heir to. T is a consummationDevoutly to be wished.To die, to sleepTo sleep; perchance to dream Ay, there s the rub; 18_Voltaire_Letter18 1/10/07 2:28 PM Page 71Eighteenth Letter, On Tragedy 71For in that sleep of death, what dreams may comeWhen we have shuffled off this mortal coil,Must give us pause.There s the respectThat makes a calamity of so long life:For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,The oppressor s wrong, the proud man s contumely,The pangs of despised love, the law s delay,The insolence of office, and the spurnsThat patient merit of the unworthy takes,When he himself might his quietus makeWith a bare bodkin.Who would fardels bearTo grunt and sweat under a weary life,But that the dread of something after death,The undiscovered country, from whose bournNo traveller returns, puzzles the will,And makes us rather bear those ills we have,Than fly to others that we know not of?Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;And thus the native hue of resolutionIs sicklied o er with the pale cast of thought:And enterprises of great weight and momentWith this regard their currents turn awry,And lose the name of action ][Voltaire s original French translation of Shakespeare:5]Demeure, il faut choisir et passer à l instantDe la vie à la mort, ou de l être au néant.Dieux cruels, s il en est, éclairez mon courage.Faut-il vieillir courbé sous la main qui m outrage,Supporter ou finir mon malheur et mon sort?Qui suis je? Qui m arrête! et qu est-ce que la mort?C est la fin de nos maux, c est mon unique asileAprès de longs transports, c est un sommeil tranquile.On s endort, et tout meurt.Mais un affreux réveilDoit succéder peut-être aux douceurs du sommeil.On nous menace, on dit que cette courte vie,De tourments éternels est aussi-tôt suivie.O mort! moment fatal! affreuse éternité!Tout cSur à ton seul nom se glace épouvanté.Eh! qui pourroit sans toi supporter cette vie, 18_Voltaire_Letter18 1/10/07 2:28 PM Page 7272 Philosophical LettersDe nos prêtres menteurs benir l hypocrisie;D une indigne maîtresse encenser les erreurs,Ramper sous un ministre, adorer ses hauteurs;Et montrer les langueurs de son âme abattüe,A des amis ingrats qui detournent la vue?La mort seroit trop douce en ces extrémitez,Mais le scrupule parle, et nous crie, arrêtez;Il defend à nos mains cet heureux homicideEt d un heros guerrier, fait un Chrétien timide &c.Do not think I have given you the English word for word; a curse onthose who concoct literal translations, and who, translating eachword, destroy the meaning! Here indeed one can say that the letterkilleth, and the spirit giveth life.Here is another passage from a famous English tragedian,Dryden, a poet6 in the time of Charles II, an author, more prolificthan judicious, who would have a better reputation had he writtenbut a tenth of his works, and whose great defect was to wish to be theuniversal poet.This fragment begins thus:[Dryden s text follows:]When I consider life, tis all a cheat.Yet fool d by hope men favor the deceit.7[Voltaire s translation of Dryden s text:]De desseins en regrets et d erreurs en désirsLes mortels insensés promènent leur folie.Dans des malheurs présents, dans l espoir des plaisirs,Nous ne vivons jamais, nous attendons la vie.Demain, demain, dit-on, va combìer tous nos voeux;Demain vient, et nous laisse encore plus malheureux.Quelle est l erreur, hélas! du soin qui nous dévore?Nul de nous ne voudrait recommencer son cours:De nos premiers moments nous maudissons l aurore,Et de la nuit qui vient nous attendons encoreCe qu ont en vain promis les plus beaux de noss jours, etc. 18_Voltaire_Letter18 1/10/07 2:28 PM Page 73Eighteenth Letter, On Tragedy 73[English translation of Voltaire s French translation of Dryden:From plans to regrets, from errors to desires,Insane mortals parade their folly.In present misery, in the hope of pleasureWe never live, we wait for life.Tomorrow, tomorrow, we say, will satisfy our hopes;Tomorrow comes, and leaves us still more miserable.What is the flaw, alas, in the care that devours us?None of us would wish to begin our lives again;From our first moments we curse the dawn,And yet we still expect, from the night that comes,What the most beautiful of days but promises in vain
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]