The Fables of Ivan Krylov E-Book

Ivan Krylov

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Ivan Krylov has been loved by Russian people for two hundred years for his Fables, works in which he gently satirizes the manifold weaknesses and failings of human beings, especially figures of authority, while at the same time praising and holding up for emulation the qualities in ordinary people of selflessness, industry, loyalty, love, friendship, perseverance… Solid, earthy common sense and a long acquaintance with the ways of the world lie at the root of Krylov's observations. Some of the Fables are no more than humorous glimpses of life and human nature, or snapshots of the bizarre preoccupations of fantasists, eccentri, idealists and dreamers. Others offer wry, sardonic glimpses of life, and human relationships and behaviour. Yet others offer wise advice on the conduct of life, or are "cautionary tales": warnings about the consequences of ill-considered behaviour. Like other great allegorical writings the Fables can be read on different levels, and enjoyed by all, from young children to the very old.

Leseprobe

The Author

Ivan Andreyevitch Krylov was born near St. Petersburg in 1769 into a poor family of the minor nobility. Krylov trained for the civil service, but from his early years nurtured literary ambitions. As a young man he wrote for satirical magazines and the theatre, but was constantly thwarted by the official censor. At the age of forty he published his first book of Fables, works written after the manner of Aesop and La Fontaine. They were an instant success, and were followed over the next 35 years by another eight books.

The Translator

Stephen Pimenoff was born in Montreal in 1948 of Russian and Estonian parents. He read English and Mathematics at McGill University, and has been a writer and mathematics teacher. As a freelance journalist he has published many articles in The Daily Telegraph, The Guardian, The Times and The Independent, as well as a wide variety of magazines ranging from Homes and Gardens to Index on Censorship.

His main interest is the study of Russian language, literature and history, and he is currently working on a translation of 19th century Russian Fairy Tales by Aleksandr Afanasyev.

Contents

Title

The Author

The Translator

Introduction

Book One: I-XXII

Book Two: I-XXIII

Book Three: I-XXI

Book Four: I-XX

Book Five: I-XXVI

Book Six: I-XXV

Book Seven: I-XXVII

Book Eight: I-XXIII

Book Nine: I-XI

Extras: I-VI

Copyright

Introduction

Ivan Andreyevitch Krylov was a Russian literary figure of the late 18th – early 19th centuries, prominent in his time but today known only for a large number of fables which he wrote after the manner of Aesop and Jean de La Fontaine.

He was born into a poor family in Moscow in 1769. Though he received little formal education, he was a talented child and was determined from an early age to educate himself. He started working life as an office clerk, but from the beginning nurtured hopes of a literary career. He wrote several comic operas and numerous plays – all of which were unsuccessful – before turning to satirical journalism, a field more promising, indeed rich with opportunities considering the extent of official corruption in the Russia of his time.

The Tsarina Catherine II – known to history as Catherine the Great – had acceded to the throne in 1762. She had proved at first an enlightened ruler, drawn to the ideas of the French Encyclopaedists. She corresponded with Voltaire, eagerly read the works of Rousseau and Montesquieu, and welcomed Diderot to Russia. Her liberal inclinations led her to engage the Republican La Harpe as a tutor to her grandson Alexander (later Tsar Alexander I). But after the French Revolution, fearing the spread into Russia of what she saw as subversive and objectionable beliefs regarding liberty and equality, she radically changed her views. Several publications that Krylov was involved in fell foul of strict new censorship laws and were shut down.

Tsar Paul, who succeeded Catherine in 1796, proved even more repressive, and for the five years of his reign Krylov disappeared from the literary scene. Had Krylov died in 1801 he would today be completely unknown, even in Russia. As it is, he went on to become one of the best-loved figures in Russian literature.

With the accession of Alexander I, conditions became more favourable for writers. Krylov wrote two successful plays, and in 1805 began to translate the fables of La Fontaine. He very soon realised that he could write fables of his own that were pithier, sharper, and more relevant to Russian society, and his first collection was published in 1809. These at last were writings in which his full genius came to flower. They are elegantly written, and flavoured with apposite allusions to Classical mythology, a good deal of humour and considerable satire on the manifold weaknesses and failings of human beings, especially figures of authority.

Certainly there was in his native land no shortage of ideas for his fertile imagination. In all, nine books, comprising 204 fables, were published in his lifetime. Together, they mark a milestone in the Russian literary heritage.

In 1825, with the suppression of the Decembrist uprising and the accession of Tsar Nicholas, another period of repression set in. The thirty years of Nicholas’ reign were a lamentable period of corruption, incompetence and suffocating convention.

Corruption had always been bad in Russia, but in the first half of the nineteenth century it grew steadily worse, to the point where, in the words of Constantin de Grunwald, a biographer of Nicholas, “it gained even the highest spheres of the government”. (Gogol’s play The Government Inspector, which is well known outside Russia, gives a vivid picture of this corruption.)

In his book, The Shadow of the Winter Palace, Edward Crankshaw has this to say: “Throughout the length and breadth of Russia there were very few judges or officials who could not be bought, if not with crude bribes, then by the promise of favours to come from rich and influential landowners, or of easy promotion or threats of professional ruin for failing to cover up the misdeeds of superiors.”

A provincial official, A. M. Unkovsky, said in 1859: “The whole of our administration is one vast system of malfeasance raised to the dignity of state government.” (quoted by de Grunwald).

Censorship kept the public from discovering the worst abuses. And not just censorship: the two greatest poets, Pushkin and Lermontov, were both at times exiled for what were called “subversive verses”. Nevertheless, ordinary people had a pretty good idea about what went on.

And to official corruption was added indolence and incompetence. Early on in his reign Nicholas showed great frustration with the bureaucracy, threatening in 1826 to prosecute provincial governors who were negligent in enforcing government orders.

One of Krylov’s last fables, The Grandee (Book 9: XI), on this subject, was rejected by the official censor. But by then the author’s fame was so great that the censor’s decision was over-ruled by the Tsar himself. Indeed, it is said that privately Nicholas roared with laughter when he read The Grandee.

The Fables struck an immediate chord with the public, and as they came out Krylov’s fame grew among people of all ages and from all strata of society. The royal family were said to be enthusiastic admirers of his work, while children in even humble homes grew up knowing many of the fables by heart. He was heaped with honours, given a generous pension and the rank of State Advisor, and awarded the sinecure of a position in the newly opened public library.

As he aged he developed a reputation for being a genial eccentric, slovenly in his habits and scruffy in his appearance. Some called him “the laziest man in Europe”. He was also a glutton, who could dispose of mountains of food at a sitting. Anecdotes of his behaviour abound. At a dinner party once he was said to have eaten a dish of open-topped pies, three or four plates of fish soup, several chops, a plate of roast turkey and some “miscellaneous things”. On returning home he ate a bowl of sauerkraut and a loaf of black bread.

He never married, though his cook’s daughter Sasha was widely thought to be his.

After his death in 1844 his fame continued to grow: streets throughout the land were named after him, and numerous monuments were erected to his memory.

Although the Fables are written in the form of poems (which have rhythm and rhyme, but are of irregular metre), Krylov is not generally considered to be among the front rank of Russian poets. He is simply a very wise and shrewd observer of human nature who was forced, because of the censorship laws, to cast his observations in the form of fables. The poet Zhukovsky called these fables “poetic lessons of wisdom”, while Pushkin called their author “a true people’s poet”. Some of his observations have passed into the language as maxims and proverbs.

Many of the fables are very funny, and like other great allegorical writings such as A Pilgrim’s Progress, Don Quixote, Animal Farm or The Lord of the Rings, can be read on different levels, and enjoyed by all, from young children to the very old. They are not intended to arouse indignation, but amusement.

One abiding puzzle about Krylov’s Fables is that they are, like their author, almost unknown among the English public. This may be because of the form in which they are cast. Russian poetry is more difficult to translate than that of some other languages, for example French, the grammar, syntax and vocabulary of which are closer to English. (English speakers are sometimes baffled by the esteem in which Russians hold Pushkin and Lermontov.)

Be that as it may, although many English people have read, or at least heard of, the fables of Aesop and La Fontaine, few – even those with a good general knowledge of literature – know anything about those of Krylov. This is a state of affairs I hope to remedy with this book. Krylov deserves a reputation equal to that of the other two fable writers.

In the Fables, Krylov pithily and astringently satirises the hypocrisy, nepotism, chicanery and venality of those in authority; the stupidity, incompetence and arrogance of officialdom and the bureaucracy; and the manifold weaknesses and failings of ordinary people: their fickleness, sycophancy, greed, selfishness, vanity, conceit, ingratitude… There is no failing that escapes the eye of this shrewd observer of humanity.

Although all seven of the deadly sins (except gluttony, for obvious reasons) loom large, not all the Fables are negative and critical. Many human qualities are praised and held up for emulation: selflessness, industry, loyalty, love, friendship, perseverence… Some of the Fables are no more than humorous glimpses of life and human nature, or snapshots of the bizarre preoccupations of fantasists, eccentrics, idealists and dreamers. Others offer wry, sardonic glimpses of life and human relationships and behaviour. Yet others offer wise advice on the conduct of life, or are what journalists call “cautionary tales”: warnings about the consequences of ill-considered behaviour.

A favourite device of Krylov’s is to present a rivalry between a small, humble, unassuming creature – a hedgehog or bee or worm – and a powerful, arrogant, boastful one – a lion or eagle. Sometimes this contrast is between inanimate objects; for example, a great river and a little stream. The little creature or thing invariably gets the better of the bigger one. Sometimes the bigger one comes to a sticky end, but as in all morality tales he comes to realise the error of his ways. Retribution and justice figure largely in Krylov’s vision, and a recurring theme is the concept of hubris leading to nemesis.

People sometimes talk of “the world of Shakespeare”, and in the same way it is possible to talk of the world of Krylov, and what an astonishing world it is!

These are the people, creatures and objects which have speaking parts in the Fables. There are twenty-nine animals, ranging from the elephant and the bullock, to the mole and the mouse; there are eighteen species of bird, from the eagle to the swan to the siskin; four fish; and nine insects. There are nine species of plant life, from the oak tree to the corn-flower, two spirits, eighteen mythological creatures, twenty-seven humans, from kings to beggars and knights to thieves, and twenty-three inanimate objects, from mountains to stones, and ponds to seas. And that is not even to mention the ones with just walk-on roles.

All these characters exhibit their own distinctive personality. The fox is scheming and crafty, the donkey is stupid, the wolf is dangerous, the lamb is innocent, the eagle is proud and majestic, the ox is honest but dull-witted, the ant is industrious, and so on.

Some of the Fables – thirty-seven, in fact, and mostly found in the first three books – are reworkings of those by either Aesop or La Fontaine, or both. But even those that Krylov adapted from earlier writers tend to be stamped with his own personality and brand of humour. Aesop’s fables are for the most part very spare and to the point. Krylov developed and expanded them, and brought them to life by introducing local colour and detail; and he made them more vivid through the use of dialogue.

For some of his Fables, Krylov took a well-known saying or proverb and illustrated it by spinning it out into a tale: “As you sow, so shall you reap”, or, “Shoemaker, stick to thy last”, or, “A stitch in time saves nine”. Other Fables are merely illustrations of maxims and folk sayings: “The leopard does not change its spots,” or, “A poor workman blames his tools”.

Solid, earthy common sense and a long acquaintance with the ways of the world lie at the root of Krylov’s observations. Moreover, these observations are timeless: one has only to open a newspaper or turn on the television to see ordinary people as well as public figures who today display the very failings he writes about. It is a reminder, if one is needed, that human nature is unchanging.

A word on my translations themselves. Sometimes new translations of literary classics are described approvingly as being “modern”; that is, they employ current vogue expressions, as well as contemporary idiom and vocabulary, and catch phrases with only modern associations. I have avoided such language, feeling that as Krylov is not a contemporary writer, there is no reason why his works should read as if he is. Nowhere in the pages that follow will the reader find words, cliches or idiomatic constructions of recent coining, whether of British, Australian, American or other provenance, such as edgy, feisty, gutsy, fantabulous, no-brainer, brownie points, stitch-up, and thousands of others. Nor are there any modern, over-worked catch phrases like: to tick all the boxes, to step up to the plate, to throw in the towel, and so on. I felt that such ephemeral expressions with only modern associations would jar upon the reader’s sense of fitness.

On the other hand, I have avoided also gratuitously using archaic language solely in an effort to add “period colour” by imparting a spurious old-world tone to the fables. Such a result would be as artificial as the other. Thus, I have used no words like mayhap, methinks, withall, sith, prithee, and so on, or expressions like “an I wist”, “for the nonce”and “beshrew me”. These English archaisms would be as much out of place in a translation of Krylov as would be many contemporary English expressions. In those places where Krylov has himself used an archaic or colloquial Russian word or expression, I have chosen the nearest English equivalent which, without being a modern coining, would be intelligible to modern readers. In short, I have tried to present a living picture of the era in which Krylov writes by using plain, intelligible English and without having recourse to any linguistic tricks.

I have not translated certain Russian words like kasha, kaftan, borscht, or dacha, even though they have rough English equivalents (gruel, tunic, vegetable soup and country-house); nor have I translated some words which have no precise English equivalent (rouble, kopek, tsar, arshin), as they are words found in any good English dictionary. This is because I wished to maintain the flavour of Russian-ness in the fables, and not have them read as if they had been written in English, or set in Yorkshire or the Australian outback. I have also translated literally certain expressions which would not normally be found in English writing. For example, when disaster befalls a Russian peasant he often says, “God visited me.” This somewhat un-English sentiment conveys very well the uniquely Russian combination of resignation, fatalism and superstition which marks their religion and outlook on life generally, and I thought it worth preserving.

By the time Krylov was writing, in the first half of the 19th century, the modern Russian language was already well-established. It is true that the alphabet contained several unnecessary letters, which were eliminated after the Revolution, but the presence of these provides no serious obstacle to the understanding. A Russian person today reads Krylov as easily as a modern English person reads Jane Austen.

Though the lines of the Fables are of irregular metre, they do have a pleasing rhythm, and there is a strict rhyming pattern to most of them. Krylov had a great advantage in that Russian is a language well-suited to poetry. It is rich, expressive and beautiful, and is capable of great economy and conciseness. It is also a language in which it is easy to rhyme. (Lermontov once said in a letter to a friend that he felt it to be a stroke of great good fortune that their language was Russian, as he felt no other to be its equal.)

And so a conundrum I had to face was: what is the best form to put the Fables into? I rejected the idea of presenting them as prose, thinking that would make them lose their vigour, make them bland and sterile. I also dismissed the idea of maintaining the rhyming patterns. I felt that the necessity of choosing a less appropriate synonym for a particular word simply because it happened to rhyme would lead to a loss of accuracy and hence a straying from, if not an outright distortion of the author’s meaning.

In the end, bearing in mind that it is not primarily as a poet, but rather as a satirist and social critic that Krylov is known, I decided to put the Fables into free verse. But I kept the format and structure of the originals, which explains why the lines are of different length. I felt that this would offer at least one of the advantages of modern poetry, chiefly more freedom to alter word order so as to preserve a satisfactory rhythm in the lines, without sacrificing precision of meaning. And although I have not padded out the lines unnecessarily, I have in places inserted a word that is not strictly necessary, so as not to produce too jarring a cadence. In short, I went as much as possible for sound as well as sense. So what has resulted are not adaptations, nor indeed literal translations, but what I call “faithful” translations.

I was very aware of the great danger to be guarded against in the translation of poetry. If a translator has no gift for the writing of poetry, but tries to reproduce both rhyme and metre, the result may prove to be just doggerel or, at best, verse of a lower quality than the original. This would give readers no indication of the greatness of the original, and would leave them questioning the high reputation of its author. One solution might be for a translator to collaborate with a recognised poet in the translation of a work. However, in that case the result would not strictly be a translation, but an adaptation. Those fables which Krylov adapted from Aesop should, if one is to be pedantic, be said to be by Krylov, “with acknowledgements to Aesop”.

In the final analysis translations of poetry are always inadequate in one way or another: one simply has to choose the particular way in which one wishes to be inadequate. To derive the fullest all-round benefit from the Fables one would have to learn Russian and read them in the original.

Finally, where Krylov quotes peasant conversation, I have not, the way English writers sometimes do, used any regional or uneducated English dialect to indicate that the speaker comes from the lower stratum of society. Krylov’s language is usually the purest Russian, even when he introduces colloquial expressions, so I have tried to render it into the purest, timeless English – English that would have been understood equally by Jane Austen (Krylov’s contemporary) and a reader today. To what extent I have succeeded in this endeavour must be for others to judge.

I would like to thank Mrs. Masha Lees, a Russian scholar of great accomplishment, for reading over my translations and making many suggestions. But I did not always take her advice, and therefore must assume final responsibility for what follows.

Cheltenham, 2017

Book One

I

The Crow and the Fox

How many times has the world been told

That flattery is vile and harmful? But it has done no good:

In the heart the flatterer always finds a little corner.

______________

God sent to a Crow somewhere a little piece of cheese.

Having settled herself on a fir tree,

The Crow prepared to breakfast.

She grew thoughtful, holding the cheese in her beak.

Unfortunately, a Fox happened to be running near;

The scent of the cheese stopped the Fox in her tracks:

She saw the cheese, and was captivated by it.

The cunning creature approached the tree on tiptoe.

Twitching her tail, and not taking her eyes off the Crow,

She said so sweetly, scarcely breathing:

“My dear, how beautiful you are:

What a neck you have, what wonderful eyes!

They are such as to be found only in fairy tales!

What feathers! What a nose!

And indeed, angelic must be your voice!

Sing, my dear, don’t be shy! If, little sister,

With such beauty you are also good at singing,

Surely you would be our queen of birds!”

From flattery the Crow’s head was turned,

With delight her breath was taken away;

And at the friendly Fox’s words

She cawed with all her might.

The cheese fell – and was caught by the cunning Fox.

II

The Oak and the Reed

A thin Reed was once addressed by an Oak.

“Indeed, you have a right to grumble at nature.

To you, even a sparrow is heavy.

No sooner has a light breeze covered the water with ripples

Than you sway, begin to weaken,

And bend so like a suppliant

That it is a pity to look on you.

Whereas, on a level with the Caucasus,

Not only do I haughtily block out the rays of the sun,

But, laughing at whirlwinds and thunderstorms,

I stand firm and straight,

As if guarded by an inviolable world.

To you, all are storms – to me everything seems a zephyr.

If only you were growing in my vicinity,

Covered by the dense shade of my branches,

From bad weather I might be for you a defence;

But your destiny, allotted by nature, is to inhabit

The turbulent shore of Aeolian possession.

Plainly she does not care at all for you.”

“You are very sympathetic,” said the Reed in reply,

“But don’t worry about me: I am spared many ills.

I do not myself fear whirlwinds;

Though indeed I bend, I do not break:

So storms damage me little;

Indeed, they threaten you much more.

It is true that until now their ferocity

Has not overcome your strength,

And from their blows you have not reeled;

But – let us see what happens!”

Hardly had the Reed said this

When suddenly, from the north, with hail and rain,

A tempest swept in with a roar.

The Oak stood firm: to the ground bent the little Reed.

The wind howled; it re-doubled its strength;

It raged – and tore away from the base

That one whose summit used to touch the sky,

And whose roots stretched to the underworld.

III

The Musicians

A man invited his neighbour to a meal.

The host’s pretext was: he loved music,

And enticed the neighbour to his place to hear some singers.

The choir began to sing: out of tune and all at odds,

But with all the feeling they could summon.

The guest’s ears ached from the cacophony,

And his head began to spin.

“Pardon me,” he said with astonishment,

“What is there to admire here?

Your choir is just making a din!”

“That is true,” replied the host with admiration.

“They do rather tend to bawl;

On the other hand, they take no alcohol,

And are all very well behaved.”

______________

But I say: it is better to drink,

And know what you are doing.

IV

The Crow and the Hen

When the Prince of Smolensk,

Craftily arming himself against invasion,

Placed a trap for a new wave of vandals,

And to their ruin left them Moscow,

Then all the inhabitants, both large and small,

Not wasting an hour, prepared to leave.

From the walls of Moscow they rose up,

Like a swarm of bees from a hive.

A Crow from a roof on all this alarming activity

Quietly, cleaning her beak, looked.

“And you, my friend, are you not going away?”

A Hen cried to her from a cart.

“Don’t you know, they say that near the gates

Lies our enemy.”

“What has that to do with me?”

Said the other to her in reply. “I shall stay here bravely.

You and your like can do as you wish;

But you know, they neither boil nor roast crows:

So I am bound to get on with the newcomers,

And may even succeed in profiting by

A piece of cheese, or a little bone, or something else.

Goodbye, crested one, pleasant journey!”

The Crow indeed remained;

But, instead of benefit from hoped-for scraps,

As the Prince of Smolensk began to starve the invaders,

She herself ended up in the pot.

______________

Thus, often in calculations people are blind and foolish.

They seem to follow on the heels of fortune,

But the conclusion of the matter is:

They fall like the Crow into the pot.

V

The Casket

It sometimes happens to us

To think that labour and skill are needed,

Where we only have to guess

What simple course to take.

______________

Someone acquired a Casket from a craftsman.

All noticed the perfection of the Casket’s decoration,

And admired its beauty.

Then there entered the room a skilled mechanic.

Having examined the Casket, he said: “It has a secret.

Take a look; it does not in fact have a lock;

But I shall undertake to open it; yes, yes, I know I can;

Don’t laugh up your sleeve like that!

I shall discover the secret, and shall open the Casket for you:

I am much admired in the mechanical arts.”

So he set to work on the Casket:

He turned it from side to side,

And racked his brains;

Now he pressed a tack, then another one, then the clamp.

Watching him, others shook their heads;

They whispered, and laughed among themselves.

The only sounds they heard were:

“Not this way, that’s wrong, not like that!”

The Mechanic laboured.

He sweated and sweated, and finally grew tired;

He gave up on the Casket.

He was at a complete loss as to how it opened.

But the Casket opened with a flick of the catch.

VI

The Frog and The Bullock

A Frog, having seen a Bullock in the meadow,

Was envious,

And undertook to become his equal in girth:

She started to pant, to puff herself up and swell out.

“Look at me, froggie,” she said to a friend.

“Will I be his equal?” – “No, neighbour, far from it!”

“But look how wide now I swell;

So what about it?

Am I getting bigger?” – “Hardly at all.”

“Well, how am I now?” – “Still the same.”

She puffed and puffed, and the poor fool finished thus:

That, not having become as big as the Bullock,

She burst from the strain – and died.

______________

Of such examples there are many in life.

Is it really surprising,

When the petty bourgeois want to live like their betters,

And small fry like nobles of distinction?

VII

The Choosy Maiden

A Maiden of marriageable age was thinking of a husband:

No blame in that;

Rather the blame lay in this: she was choosy.

She wished to find a bridegroom who was good, clever,

Highly decorated, honourable, and young

(The Beauty was very demanding);

Well, she wanted him to have everything –

but who has everything?

And note something else:

He had to love her, and not dare to be jealous.

Though it was strange, she happened to be lucky

That a selection of most noble suitors

Rolled up to her house.

But in her choice she had discriminating taste and ideas:

Such fiancés to other brides would have been treasures,

But at a glance she saw that

They were not fiancés, but mere excuses for fiancés!

How could she choose from among these suitors?

One was not high-ranking, another lacked decorations;

A third had rank, but, alas! empty pockets.

The nose of one was too wide, the eyebrows of another too thick;

Here was one thing, there was another;

Well, no one came who in any way represented her ideal.

The suitors stopped coming; two years passed;

Other suitors sent new matchmakers,

But they were suitors of only mediocre standards.

“What simpletons!” said the Beauty.

“Am I a bride for them?

Well, really, their practical jokes are out of place!

Even better suitors have I

Dismissed from the house with a bow.

How could I marry one of these nondescripts?

It is not as if I am in haste to marry;

To me the life of a maiden is not in the least burdensome:

During the day I amuse myself; and at night I sleep soundly;

Therefore it is not at all necessary for me to rush into marriage.”

So this crowd of suitors also dispersed.

Then, hearing of these refusals,

Other suitors began to turn up more rarely.

A year passed – no one came;

One more year passed, a further whole year passed –

No one sent matchmakers to her.

So our Maiden grew into a mature young woman.

She began to compare herself to her friends

(And she had much leisure to compare):

One long ago had married, another was betrothed;

It was as if she had been forgotten.

Melancholy crept into the Beauty’s heart.

When she looked into the mirror

It told her that each day evil time was stealing

Something of her charm.

First, the colour went from her cheeks; then the animation

from her eyes;

Appealing little dimples disappeared from her cheeks;

It was as if gaiety and playfulness had slipped away;

There, two or three little grey hairs peeped out:

Calamity all around!

Usually, without her, a gathering lacked sparkle;

Captive suitors crowded around her.

But now, oh! the old ladies invited her to play boston!

So now the conceited one changed her tune.

Reason ordered her to hasten into marriage:

She stopped putting on airs.

As a woman, she still looked coyly at men,

But her heart told her always the same.

So as not to finish her life in loneliness,

The Beauty, while she still had not entirely lost her bloom,

Entered into marriage with the first who asked.

And glad, very glad she was

To have married a cripple.

VIII

Parnassus

When from Greece the gods were expelled,

And their estates divided among dwellers of the earth,

Then even Parnassus was allocated to someone.

The new master began to graze donkeys on it.

The donkeys, I don’t know how,

Knew that formerly the Muses had lived there,

And they said: “For good reason

Did they drive us to Parnassus:

Evidently the world had grown tired of the Muses,

And wanted us to sing here.”

“Pay attention!” cried one. “And be of good cheer!

I shall strike up a song, and you join in.

Friends, don’t be shy!

We shall bring glory to our herd,

And louder than the Nine Sisters

Shall we make music with our own choir!

But so that we make the position clear,

We shall establish this rule among us:

That those whose voice lacks a donkey’s mellifluousness,

Will not be admitted to Parnassus.”

The other asses approved of the donkey’s

Fine and subtly-spun speech,

And a new choir of singers raised such a cacophony

That it seemed as if a convoy of carts had set out

In which there were a thousand unoiled wheels.

But how did the richly harmonised concert end?

The master, having lost patience,

Drove them all from Parnassus into the stable.

______________

I would like, though not in anger,

To remind ignoramuses about a very old saying:

That if the head is empty

Then a change of scene will not serve to fill it.

IX

The Oracle

In a certain temple was a wooden god

Which began to deliver oracular utterances,

And to give wise advice.

For that reason, from head to foot,

It was covered in silver and gold,

And magnificently clothed in sumptuous attire.

It was laden with sacrifices, and overwhelmed with supplications,

And with incense over-perfumed.

In the Oracle all had blind faith.

Then, suddenly – oh horror, oh shame! –

The Oracle began to talk nonsense,

Began to give absurd and ridiculous replies;

And those who approached the Oracle, for whatever reason,

Simply heard it utter gibberish;

Well, all were astonished, and sought to discover

Whither had gone its prophetic gift.

But the explanation was that the idol was empty:

The priests had placed themselves in it

To prophesy to the local people. And so,

While there was a clever priest, the idol spoke intelligibly;

But when a fool sat in it,

The idol became a babbling idiot.

______________

I have heard – have I not? – that in olden times

We saw such judges,

Who seemed very clever –

While they had a clever secretary.