Norman R. Shapiro lionizes the feline's limitless allure in this one-of-a-kind collection. Spanning centuries and styles, he draws on she-cats and toms, and an honor roll of French poets, well known and lesser known, who have served as their devoted champions. He reveals the remarkable range of French cat poems, with most works presented here for the first time in English translation. Scrupulously devoted to evoking the meaning and music of the originals, Shapiro also respects the works' formal structures. Pairing Shapiro's translations with Olga Pastuchiv's elegant illustrations, Fe-Lines guides the reader through the marvels and inscrutabilities of the Mystique féline.
Norman R. Shapiro lionizes the feline's limitless allure in this one-of-a-kind collection. Spanning centuries and styles, he draws on she-cats and toms, and an honor roll of French poets, well known and lesser known, who have served as their devoted champions. He reveals the remarkable range of French cat poems, with most works presented here for the first time in English translation. Scrupulously devoted to evoking the meaning and music of the originals, Shapiro also respects the works' formal structures. Pairing Shapiro's translations with Olga Pastuchiv's elegant illustrations, Fe-Lines guides the reader through the marvels and inscrutabilities of the Mystique féline.
Fe-Lines: French Cat Poems through the Ages
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Overview
Norman R. Shapiro lionizes the feline's limitless allure in this one-of-a-kind collection. Spanning centuries and styles, he draws on she-cats and toms, and an honor roll of French poets, well known and lesser known, who have served as their devoted champions. He reveals the remarkable range of French cat poems, with most works presented here for the first time in English translation. Scrupulously devoted to evoking the meaning and music of the originals, Shapiro also respects the works' formal structures. Pairing Shapiro's translations with Olga Pastuchiv's elegant illustrations, Fe-Lines guides the reader through the marvels and inscrutabilities of the Mystique féline.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780252097676 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | University of Illinois Press |
| Publication date: | 09/30/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 352 |
| File size: | 18 MB |
| Note: | This product may take a few minutes to download. |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Fe-Lines
French Cat Poems through the Ages
By Norman R. Shapiro, Olga Pastuchiv
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS PRESS
Copyright © 2015 Board of Trustees of the University of IllinoisAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-252-09767-6
CHAPTER 1
THE TRANSLATIONS
French nursery rhyme
Gray Kitty-Cat
Gray kitty's mother, seeing
Him on a gray rug, peeing,
Tells him: "I say! You're being
Naughty — no disagreeing! —
Lifting your tail like that
For folks to ogle at."
Marie de France (ca. 1160–ca. 1210)
Of the Cat, the Field Mouse, and the House Mouse
or
The Cat Who Played Bishop
Sprawled on a stove, a certain cat,
All the day long, was leering at
A brace of mice, with eager eyes,
To whom he called in comely wise,
Telling them that His Grace was he,
Their bishop, and that they would be
Ill-advised not to come be blessed
By him forthwith. The mice confessed
That they, perforce, had best be dead,
Rather than let his claws be spread
Round and about their heads! Whereat,
They turned and fled ... At that, the cat
Chased after them, as they, a-crawl,
Slithered their way into a wall.
For sooner would they choose to hide
Inside than with this bishop bide,
For all his blessings! Well they knew
The ill this blessèd rogue would do!
Moral
Learn what I teach you here. To wit,
That, at your peril, you submit
To evildoer's fell persistence.
Best you stand clear, and keep your distance!
Eustache Deschamps (ca. 1346–ca. 1406)
The Cat and the Mice
The mice — they tell us, verily! —
Once had a wondrous rendezvous:
Plotting to foil their enemy,
They sought some path they might pursue
Against the cats, who, thitherto,
Had terrorized their habitat.
Said one: "I know just what to do:
Who's going to go and bell the cat?"
Excellent plan, they all agree!
And when their colloquy is through,
A neighbor mouse comes by, and she
Inquires of them: "Well, friends, what's new?"
Reply the mice without ado:
"The cats have had their day! That's that!
We're going to bell them! ..." "Really? Who? ...
Who's going to go and bell the cat?"
"Aye, there's the rub!" sighs cynically
An old grey rat. "I wish I knew!"
Again the mouse asks: "Who will be
Our catbell-hanger? ... You? ... You? ... You? ..."
But one by one, bidding adieu,
Our mice withdraw ... Their plan falls flat.
And yet, the question still rings true:
"Who's going to go and bell the cat?"
Envoi
Prince, when advice unstintingly
Flows from loquacious diplomat,
Best is the old rat's repartee:
"Who's going to go and bell the cat?"
Guillaume Haudent (?–ca. 1557)
Of a Cat and Mice
One day long since, there stood a house wherein
Dwelt a great horde of mice; where came and went,
As well, a cat, feasting day out day in,
A-glut on mouse, to his belly's content!
The rest — when his designs were evident,
Whereby he would surprise and gorge on them,
Impenitent — put forth an edict meant
To keep them safe on high. Fine stratagem!
For, when the cat saw, in effect, that they
Suspected his skullduggery, thought he
That he ought find, perforce, a subtler way
To strike, were he to feed his gluttony.
And thus, indeed, he would pretend to be
Dead — quite! — that they might have no need to fear him,
But, calm, would come as they did formerly,
And have no qualm at all to venture near him.
The which they did. Whereat, by his pretense,
The day long playing dead, he, as before,
Wrought vast destruction. They, with no defense,
Fell victim, done in by the predator,
Until, once he had gobbled mice galore,
They realized his feint, scorned him and scoffed,
Resolved that they should fear the cat no more;
And, turning tail, scurried back to their loft.
But he, determined to dine on the rest,
Hung upside-down against a wall, his head
Below, his paws above — pose most funest! —
Plying his trick again! Again sham-dead!
Whereat a mouse approached, hung back, and said:
"Fie, shameless cat! You might as well eschew us!
Play dead? You think we are dull-spirited?
No! We know now what mayhem you would do us!"
Moral
This moral fable clearly shows
How wise and prudent, he, who spurns
Fell fate, and by experience learns
From others' ways to shun their woes.
Guillaume Haudent (?–ca. 1557)
Of a Cat and a Cock
In time gone by a surly cat there was,
Who held a poor cock locked betwixt his paws,
And who, seeking a proper cause to do
Him in, explained: "Full ill it is of you
To rouse folk from their slumber with your song
And even keep them from their sleep, night long,
With cackling din." To which the cock replies
That wrong is he to blame him, for his cries —
Most lame excuse! — are meant, indeed, to wake
Good worker-folk and urge them to betake
Themselves unto their waiting labors, lest
They fail to rise up from night's deepmost rest.
Whereat the cat, hearing the peremptory
Pretext the cock concocted, changed his story.
"Dare you deny that, in your carnal life,
Incest prevails, and that you take to wife
Your sisters and your very mother? Dare you
Deny that holy-flaming stake is where you
Ought end your shameful days?" Our cock, once more,
Found an excuse, and to the cat he swore
That profit was the cause; that, by his deeds,
He multiplied his race to nature's needs.
When the cat sees that each and every time
He speaks, the cock will justify his crime
With sound, plausible explanation, he
Seeks no more what a proper cause may be,
But, "Since," he says, "here, now, for good or ill, you
Lie in my clutches, I shall simply kill you."
Moral
This fable shows how vain it is
For one to blame and reprimand
The rogue, when scurvy ways of his
Are fashioned by his nature's hand.
Gilles Corrozet (1510–1568)
The Cat Turned Woman
"Change of state cannot change one's manners"
By no endeavor, I'm afraid, you
Ever turn owl to hawk; and hence,
I pray you stay as Nature made you,
Free of the taint of false pretense.
A youth there was, of wit bedulled and dim,
Who kept a cat that doted so on him —
Because, forsooth, he fed her well! — that he
Prayed to the goddess Venus, earnestly,
To turn the fawning feline then and there
Into a living, loving lady fair.
Venus, to serve his lecherous intent,
Transformed the beast into a beauty, bent
On making love, and doing so quite well —
As well as any human damosel! —
Such that our boor, a-twitter and a-stir,
Eagerly did his lustful will with her ...
Now then, it happened that, to ease his mind
And test the new-made mortal's humankind,
Venus let loose a mouse before the creature,
Who, still the cat in all but form and feature —
Doing what any cat was wont to do,
Without so much as "what?" or "why?" or "who?" —
Threw beauty to the winds, went chasing after,
Amid haws and guffaws and gales of laughter.
Venus, irate, observing, jaws agape,
Forthwith returned her to her former shape.
Those who would play at Nature's counterfeit
Debase themselves and profit not a whit.
No good can come of ill; nay, not a jot:
So be yourself and not something you're not.
Joachim Du Bellay (ca. 1522–1560)
Epitaph for a Cat
Life weighs upon me heavily,
And I ought tell you, dear Magny,
Why so distraught am I, so sore
Of heart. Ah no, it is not for
Loss of my purse — my wealth, my rings
And baubles, or such trifling things
As those. Then why? It is because
For three days now, alas, what was
My life, my love, my joy is lost
To me! Oh, grievous is the cost
To muse upon my fate accursed,
And my poor heart is like to burst
If I but speak or write my woe:
My little cat, my gray Belaud,
Dead! Gone! He, nature's first and best
Model of Catdom's worthiest
Son to draw breath! Belaud! He who
Was death to rats, whose beauty, too,
Surpassing all, deserves to be
Writ into immortality!
As for his color, he was not
Of common hue, nay, much like what
We see in France — found every day,
Round and about — but silver-gray,
Such as abound in Rome, the very
Image of Cat extraordinary.
Hair short and sleek as satin fine,
In soft waves flowing down his spine,
Whilst underneath, fur velvet-white,
That shone rich, as an ermine's might.
Little mouth, tiny teeth, and eyes
Aglow, but not unseemly-wise;
Pupils now hazel-green, now blue,
Like rainbow colors spanning through
The skies' expanse in arching bow;
Head fair-proportioned, formed just so;
Neck firm of flesh gracing the nape;
Ears modest-sized and pert of shape;
Ebony snout set in a pure
Leonine face in miniature,
With silvered whiskers flaring out
On both sides, mustache-like, about
His pouting urchin-lips; legs slim,
Gentle-pawed, that protected him
With scratching claws exposed when need
Arose, as well it might indeed;
Throat smooth as plush; a dappled tail
Grown long, that no monkey would fail
To sport with pride, its fur bedecked
With spot and speckle, mottle-flecked;
Loins nobly wrought, broad belly, fit
To bear the weight spread over it;
Back middling long ... Epitome
Of sneering mouse-cat, peerless he.
Such was my comely pet Belaud,
So fair of form from tip to toe
That one would be hard put, I swear,
To find his equal anywhere.
O my loss! O the woe, the pain,
Never to be made whole again!
O torment of my soul! Although
Death is not human, yet I know
That, whilst a haughty bear she be,
Had she taken the pains to see
Such a cat, her hard heart, I vow,
Would have been merciful, and now
My anguished days would not be spent
Languishing in one long lament,
Resentful, even, of each breath
I take. But no, not so: cruel Death
Never had known the frolicsome
Feats of Belaud, ad libitum,
The lissome leaps, the springing, scratching,
Bounding, and all his mischief-hatching,
Bouncing about; or when he would
Pounce on a rat, then, quiet, stood
Taunting, teasing it for a bit,
Feigning merely to play with it,
Then let it be ... A thousand things
Tickled his fancy's dallyings;
Or when he wiped, with fluttering paw,
About his muzzle-jowl and jaw;
Or when my little household scamp
Would, all at once, jump up and camp,
Sprawled on my bed; or when, in fact,
He saw me eating, and attacked
The very meat my teeth were chewing —
Though I ignored what he was doing! —
Or what devious tricks he played
On me! Or when, lithely, he made
Brash somersaults, tail over head,
Whilst bobbing for a ball of thread!
What joy to see him turning, twisting
Round, like a spinning-wheel, persisting
Time and again; or watch as he —
Stretching, leg in the air — made me
Think of a gartered lady who
Struggled to pull her stocking to,
And showed his soft white underside —
His curly belly-fur — with pride
(Or so it seemed), a-squat, a-perch,
Like Sorbonne Doctor of the Church;
Or when, in angry self-defense,
His paw would lurch with truculence
Against any who might impede him,
Quick to grow calm when I would feed him ...
And so, Magny, my pet Belaud's
Pastimes were such. Now, goodness knows,
Has he not earned my sympathy
And grief at his demise? Ah! We
Never shall find cats half as clever
At hunting rats and mice, however
Much they might try. A myriad snares
He knew to trap them in their lairs.
Or, had they hidden holes, escapes
Unknown, unseen? My jackanapes
Was sure to catch them all the same!
For none was swifter in the game
Of Cat and Rat than my Belaud!
Clever no less at mealtime! So!
Was meat upon the bill of fare?
Did I hold out a piece? Ah, there
Was he to snatch it! Otherwise,
He would hang back with flashing eyes,
Close by the table, scratch it duly —
Eager-pawed — and yet calmly, coolly,
Most well-behaved; nor would he act
With anything but utmost tact,
Never unruly, nor do more
Than filch an old cheese, ripe before,
But past its time, in fact! Then too,
He dined on finch and linnet, who
Disturbed him with their singing, such
As cats will do betimes; for much
Do they resemble us, Magny:
Cats and men! Scarcely perfect, we,
No more than they! Belaud was not
One of those cats — a-crawl, a-trot —
Ever, by day and night, intent
On finding morsels opulent
To fill their bellies! Simple were
His tastes, and more the connoisseur
Was he than glutton-cat ... And when
Nature would call — as now and then
She must — he tidied up his slops
Unlike the cat that drips and drops
Everything, everywhere! Not my
Belaud! Ah, no! Though, by the by,
So proper, he, that if, indeed,
He heeded Nature's sudden need,
He would, under hearth-embers, hide
What could no more be held inside,
Concealing — such his courtesy
And pride! — his impropriety.
Belaud, my plaything, he! No mere
Wife at her wheel, spinning a drear
And cheerless tune, forever grumbling
Angry complaints, muttering, mumbling ...
No. His laments — how I recall
Them, how I cherish them! — were all
Sweet, gentle mewings, childlike, soft,
That did me no worse ill than oft
Waking me, nights, to find him pawing,
Clawing at rats he could hear gnawing
Noisily at my pallet, whom
He would then chase about the room,
So deft, when all was said and done,
That none was left uncaught! Not one! ...
But woe is me. Now that the hand
Of haughty Death wrought her command
To lay him low and leave me quite
Defenseless in my bed by night,
I lie with neither rest nor slumber.
Rats crawl apace, mice without number,
Nibbling my ears and — even worse —
Spread on my table, shred my verse!
How cruel, how scurvy is the Gods'
Treatment of Man! He trudges, plods
The rugged road of Life, as they
Herald his woes in many a way —
Be it by animals' demises
Or omens clad in other guises —
Doomed by the Fates. When Atropos
Decided to inflict dire loss
Upon my waning skein of life —
Well I recall! — and when her knife
Rent Belaud's thread, the Gods above
Menaced my very days, my love,
With thunderbolt unparalleled.
For, when she struck him dead, she felled
Not only my dear pet, but me
As well! What worse calamity
Could she call down upon my head!
Belaud, belovèd quadruped —
Now dead and gone! My darling, my
Constant companion, with whom I
Shared bed and board! Belaud, who sat
And supped with me! O wondrous cat!
More eager for affection yet
Than any pup; and never a fret
Or fuss to set the ears astir
With hiss or growl, and quieter
By far than those great tabbies bawling
With their incessant caterwauling.
Pure-blood, my kitten's race, taint-free,
Dealt naught to the heredity
Of common cat! And now, I fear,
He was the last ... Belaud, my dear,
My joy! I pray that God permit
My meager talent to befit
The noble style you showed in life.
May it, in verses passion-rife,
And writ in lines graceful as you
Yourself had been, ring through and through
All time! Yes, may you live once more —
As long as cats and rats wage war!
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Fe-Lines by Norman R. Shapiro, Olga Pastuchiv. Copyright © 2015 Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois. Excerpted by permission of UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS PRESS.
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