Anotacions rizomàtiques

Escena de Cyrano de Bergerac refussant a un protector poderós, text d’Edmond Rostand (1.868-1.918), en versió anglesa i en versió francesa original .

LE BRET:
Oh! lay aside that pride of musketeer,
Fortune and glory wait you!. . .

CYRANO:
Ay, and then?. . .
Seek a protector, choose a patron out,
And like the crawling ivy round a tree
That licks the bark to gain the trunk’s support,
Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force?
No, grammercy! What! I, like all the rest
Dedicate verse to bankers?–play buffoon
In cringing hope to see, at last, a smile
Not disapproving, on a patron’s lips?
Grammercy, no! What! learn to swallow toads?
–With frame aweary climbing stairs?–a skin
Grown grimed and horny,–here, about the knees?
And, acrobat-like, teach my back to bend?–
No, grammercy! Or,–double-faced and sly–
Run with the hare, while hunting with the hounds;
And, oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise,
Flatter the great man to his very nose?
No, grammercy! Steal soft from lap to lap,
–A little great man in a circle small,
Or navigate, with madrigals for sails,
Blown gently windward by old ladies’ sighs?
No, grammercy! Bribe kindly editors
To spread abroad my verses? Grammercy!
Or try to be elected as the pope
Of tavern-councils held by imbeciles?
No, grammercy! Toil to gain reputation
By one small sonnet, ‘stead of making many?
No, grammercy! Or flatter sorry bunglers?
Be terrorized by every prating paper?
Say ceaselessly, ‘Oh, had I but the chance
Of a fair notice in the “Mercury”!’
Grammercy, no! Grow pale, fear, calculate?
Prefer to make a visit to a rhyme?
Seek introductions, draw petitions up?
No, grammercy! and no! and no again! But–sing?
Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free,
With eyes that look straight forward–fearless voice!
To cock your beaver just the way you choose,–
For ‘yes’ or ‘no’ show fight, or turn a rhyme!
–To work without one thought of gain or fame,
To realize that journey to the moon!
Never to pen a line that has not sprung
Straight from the heart within. Embracing then
Modesty, say to oneself, ‘Good my friend,
Be thou content with flowers,–fruit,–nay, leaves,
But pluck them from no garden but thine own!’
And then, if glory come by chance your way,
To pay no tribute unto Caesar, none,
But keep the merit all your own! In short,
Disdaining tendrils of the parasite,
To be content, if neither oak nor elm–
Not to mount high, perchance, but mount alone!

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