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  You are here: home »  literature »  eminescu  » satire II

SATIRE II		SCRISOAREA II
Why does my rhyme-creating pen stand rusting in the ink you ask? And why has poetry lost its power to tempt me from the daily task? Why do I sleep my days away, with crushed in yellow pages there Climbing iambus, trochees swift, and dactyl with the sprightly air? If you but knew the worries all which fill my waking hours with care, You'd see I have a wealth of words, enough to choke me and to spare. But why, I ask, should I begin to shape again the song that's sung And mould into a form that's new the metal of this wise old tongue? To twist the secret ecstasies that lie asleep within my breast To carefully painted couplets which are goods for sale among the rest? When hungrily I seek the form that best becomes their inward grace, Why write to suit the world at large a legend on the water's face? But you will say it would be well that all the corners of the earth Should come to hear my lovely rhymes, and my name advertise its worth By tickling the illustrious ears of mighty men of high estate, Or sweetly flattering verse, perhaps, to lovely ladies dedicate, And so console my soul's disgust through the prostration of my mind. Dear friend, the path you indicate is one by many trod I find. The world can boast today a wealth of that most curious sort of bard Who his poetry uses as a means to cultivate the great's regard; By writing dexterous poems which the prowess of his patrons boom, His songs in coffee-shops are heard, and in my lady's drawing-room. Knowing the ways of life and how, its narrow road the heart can vex, Such poets launch their labours 'neath the shelter of the weaker sex, And dedicate their little books to those whose husbands may by chance As an appropriate reward their way in politics advance. Why is it that I do not strive for glory's crown and honours grand? What fame is there in standing up and preaching to the desert sand? Today when to his sensual self each mortal man is bounden slave, Renown is but the idle flag which many thousand dunces wave, Who, raising up their Idol Gods, a dwarf like to a giant dress, As bubbles floating in the air amidst an age of nothingness. Or shall my lyre resound in praise of love? That chain held evenly Between the hands of lovers two, sometimes the chain that bind three. What! Suttter on a silver chord where swelling harmony unfolds And join the operetta where 'tis Menelaus the baton holds? Women today, like all the world, are often but a kind of school, Where we can study what is pain, and fraud and make-believe hold rule; To learn in these academies the votaries of Venus go, Fond pupils who, the more they learn, the younger and more blatant grow, Till at the finish of the course we see them in the infant class, And finally the precious school does into nameless ruin pass. O, do you still recall the years through which we sweetly dreaming lay And heard our learned teacher's mumble tailoring time's coat away? The corpses of the moments gone he reassembled in the past And searched around for wisdom in the odds and ends that time has cast. With bland and sleepy murmurings, an endless spring of horum-harum, Babbling, blinking, pointing out nervum rerum generandum; The mind's still windlass turning round in heavy, holy pondering, And now some planet came to view, and now some great Egyptian king. Me seems I see th'astronomer, yawning away in vaporous rest, Take out the world from primal night as though wide chaos were a chest, And spread all time out like a rug; me seems I hear him thoughtfully teach How eons counted off like beads are threaded on a cotton each, Talking, talking till the world a whirling in our heads we found And we like Galileo cried "Upon; my soul, it all goes round." Till dazed by languages forgotten, planets, dates, scholastic rot. We mixed our master with a king in who's beard the moths had got, And gazing at the cobwebs thick that hung from roof and pillar too We listened to king Ramses, and we dreamed . . . we dreamed sweet eyes of blue. While in the margin of our books we scribbled verses debonair, It may be to a rose in bloom or to Clotilda wild and fair; While round us floated images caught up and tangled in time's net Now of the sun, now of a king, and now of some domestic pet. The scratching of our pens gave charm or this array of bending backs That like the sleepy ocean swelled, or rippled like a field of flax. And soon obvlion covered all as bent arms pillowed heavy head Until the clanging class-room bell proclaimed that Ramses must be dead. Then, the realm of our fancy turned into reality, While the actual world seemed a mere impossibility. Now we can see that for a heart loving truth and honesty The only means becoming are so hard and wiry; Dreaming is a real danger in this world of commonplace 'Cause if waft by lofty hopes you'll be mocked and put to shame. And so, my friend, why my good pen rusts in the ink you must not ask Nor why verse has lost its power to tempt me from the daily task, Nor why I sleep my days away, with crushed in yellow pages there Climbing iambus, trochees swift, and dactyl with the sprightly air. If I should further write, I fear my good contemporaries might laud, Perhaps my name in verse, and with their praise my work reward; And if to now I have endured their hatred with a smiling £ace, Such prise would seem to me indeed a truly measureless disgrace. Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu		De ce pana mea rãmâne în cernealã, mã întrebi? De ce ritmul nu m-abate cu ispita-i de la trebi? De ce dorm, îngrãmãdite între galbenele file,  Iambii suitori, troheii, sãltãretele dactile? Dacã tu stiai problema astei vieti cu care lupt, Ai vedea cã am cuvinte pana chiar sã o fi rupt, Cãci întreb, la ce-am incepe sã-ncercãm în lupta dreaptã A turna in formã nouã limba veche si-nteleaptã? Acea tainicã simtire, care doarme-n a ta harfã În cuplete de teatru s-o desfaci cape o marfã, Când cu sete cauti forma ce sã poatã sã te-ncapã, Sã le scrii cum cere lumea, vro istorie pe apã? -- Însã tu îmi vei rãspunde cã e bine cã în lume Prin frumoasã stihuire sã pãtrunzã al meu nume, Sã-mi atrag luare-aminte a bãrbatilor din tarã, Sã-mi dedic a mele versuri la cucoane, bunãoarã, Si dezgustul meu din suflet sã-l împac prin a mea minte. -- Dragul meu, cãrarea asta s-a bãtut de mai nainte; Noi avem în veacul nostru acel soi ciudat de barzi, Care-ncearcã prin poeme sã devie cumularzi, Închinând ale lor versuri la puternici, la cucoane, Sunt cântati în cafenele si fac zgomot în saloane; Iar cãrãrile viertii fiind grele si înguste, Ei încearcã sã le treacã prin protectie de fuste, Dedicând brosuri la dame a cãror bãrbati ei sperã C-ajungând cândva ministri le-a deschide carierã. -- De ce nu voi pentru nume, pentru glorie sã scriu? Oare glorie sã fie a vorbi într-un pustiu? Azi, când patimilor proprii muritorii toti sunt robi, Gloria-i închipuirea ce o mie de neghiobi Idolului lor închinã, numind mare pe-un pitic Ce-o besicã e de spumã, într-un secol de nimic. Încorda-voi a mea lirã sã cânt dragostea? Un lant Ce se-mparte cu frãtie între doi sau trei amanti. Ce? sã-ngâni pe coardã dulce, cã de voie te-ai adaos La cel cor ce-n operetã e condus de Menelaos? Azi adeseori femeia, ca si lumea, e o scoalã, Unde-nveti numai durere înjosire si spoialã; La aceste academii de stiinti a zânei Vineri Tot mai des se perindeazã si din tineri în mai tineri, Tu le vezi primind elevii cei imberbi în a lor clas, Pânã când din scoala toatã o ruinã a rãmas. Vai! Tot mai gândesti la anii, când visam în academii, Ascultând pe vechii dascãli cârpocind la haina vremii, Ale clipelor cadavre din volume stând s-adune Si-n a lucrurilor peteci cãutând întelepciune? Cu murmurele lor blânde, un izvor de HORUM-HARUM Câstigând cu clipocealã NERVUM RERUM GENERANDUM; Cu evlavie adâncã ne-nvârteau al mintii scripet, Legãnând când o planetã, când pe-un rege din Egipet. Parcã-l vãd pe astronomul cu al negurii repaos, Cum usor, ca din cutie, scoate lumile din chaos Si cum neagra vecinicie ne-o întinde si ne-nvatã Cã epocile se-nsirã ca mãrgelele pe atã. Atunci lumea-n cãpãtânã se-nvârtea ca o moriscã De simteau, ca Galilei, cã comedia se miscã. -- Ametiti de limbe moarte, de planeti, de colbul scolii, Confundam pe bietul dascãl cu un crai mâncat de molii Si privind pãienjenisul din tavan, de pe pilastri, Ascultam pe craiul Ramses si visam la ochi albastri Si pe margini de caiete scriam versuri dulci, de pildã Cãtre vreo trandafirie si sãlbatecã Clotildã. Îmi plutea pe dinainte cu al timpului amestic Ba un soare, ba un rege, ba alt animal domestic. Scârtâirea de condeie dãdea farmec astei linisti, Vedeam valuri verzi de grâne, undoirea unei inisti, Capul greu cãdea pe bancã, pãreau toate-n infinit; Când suna, stiam cã Ramses trebuia sa fi murit. Atunci lumea cea gânditã pentru noi avea fiinta, Si din contrã, cea aievea ne pãrea cu neputiintã. Azi abia vedem ce stearpã si ce asprã cale este Cea ce poate sã convie unei inime oneste; Iar în lumea cea comunã a visa e un pericul, Cãci de ai cumva iluzii, esti pierdut si esti ridicul. Si de-aceea de-azi nainte poti sã nu mã întrebi De ce ritmul nu m-abate cu ispita-i de la trebi, De ce dorm, îngrãmãdite între galbenele file,  Iambii suitori, troheii, sãltãretele dactile... De-oi urma sã scriu în versuri, teamã mi-e ca nu cumva Oamenii din ziua de-astãzi sã mã-nceap-a lãuda. Dacã port cu usurintã si cu zâmbet a lor urã, Laudele lor desigur m-ar mâhni peste mãsurã. 1881, 1 aprilie Mihail Eminescu
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