Dryden's Chaucer

One of the most striking aspects of Fables, Ancient and Modern is its prominent inclusion of Chaucer. In the famous Preface, Dryden has more to say about him than anyone else, and it is in remarks about the Middle English poet that Dryden also makes some of his most important statements about his view of language. This makes sense, however, as translating what is nearest to Dryden's English--which is what Dryden does with Chaucer--would seem to require the most far-reaching justification in order for it to be considered translation. This is not just because Chaucer is arguably more intelligible than those authors Dryden translates who wrote in a genuine foreign language, as much as it is because the nature of the un-foreignness which translation brings to the reader is undefined. Indeed, Dryden doesn't argue that Chaucer's English is in effect foreign: this is accepted from the get-go. What he argues is that translation has a definite, positive linguistic contribution, which is different and distinct from the mere fact of bringing foreignness into English; and this closes the door on arguments maintaining that Dryden just repeats Chaucer--translation at best being the mere transmission of the original. That positive contribution Dryden defines as intelligibility, by which he means something like resonance: translation allows words to be updated, not just historically, but in terms of their "significancy," their ability to hit home within a certain community of language users. The ancient-modern quarrel hangs over all of this, but what's really important, and escapes the dichotomy, is the way Dryden makes translation fight obsolescence:

But there are other judges, who think I ought not to have translated Chaucer into English, out of a quite contrary notion: they suppose there is a certain veneration due to his old language; and that it is little less than profanation and sacrilege to alter it. They are farther of opinion that somewhat of his good sense will suffer in this transfusion, and much of the beauty of his thoughts will infallibly be lost, which appear with more grace in their old habit. [...] Yet my reason was not convinc’d with what [was] urg’d against [the undertaking]. If the first end of a writer be to be understood, then as his language grows obsolete, his thoughts must grow obscure [...] When an ancient word for its sound and significancy deserves to be reviv’d, I have that reasonable veneration for antiquity, to restore it. All beyond this is superstition. Words are not like landmarks, so sacred as never to be remov’d; customs are chang’d, and even statutes are silently repeal’d, when the reason ceases for which they were enacted. As for the other part of the argument, that his thoughts will lose of their original beauty, by the innovation of words; in the first place, not only their beauty, but their being is lost, where they are no longer understood, which is the present case.

Making the original resonate also justifies significant elaboration on the original: the argument allows translation the dignity and freedom of imitation, by giving it this unique and slightly different power:

Chaucer, I confess, is a rough diamond, and must first be polish’d, ere he shines. I deny not, likewise, that, living in our early days of poetry, he writes not always of a piece, but sometimes mingles trivial things with those of greater moment. Sometimes also, tho’ not often, he runs riot, like Ovid, and knows not when he has said enough. But there are more great wits, beside Chaucer, whose fault is their excess of conceits, and those ill sorted. An author is not to write all he can, but only all he ought. Having observ’d this redundancy in Chaucer, (as it is an easy matter for a man of ordinary parts to find a fault in one of greater,) I have not tied myself to a literal translation; but have often omitted what I judg’d unnecessary, or not of dignity enough to appear in the company of better thoughts. I have presum’d farther, in some places, and added somewhat of my own where I thought my author was deficient, and had not given his thoughts their true luster, for want of words in the beginning of our language. and to this I was the more embolden’d, because (if I may be permitted to say it of myself) I found I had a soul congenial to his, and that I had been conversant in the same studies.

But what's most surprising about this view of translation as an active, engaged force, is that however much it obliterates, it allows so much freedom for revision that it creates a sense of historical continuity between the various attempts to update the words. History ceases to be a barrier, and begins to be a tradition that translation alone establishes. Thus Dryden continues:

Another poet, in another age, may take the same liberty with my writings; if at least they live long enough to deserve correction.

And you can see some of these principles in the amazing translations. I'll end the post by just selecting two. First, the opening of the Knight's tale, and then the unbelievable translation of the description of the Parson. Here's Chaucer's opening of the Knight's tale:

Whilom, as olde stories tellen us,
There was a duke that highte Theseus.
Of Athens he was lord and governor,
And in his time such a conqueror
That greater was there none under the sun.
Full many a riche country had he won.
What with his wisdom and his chivalry,
He conquer'd all the regne of Feminie,
That whilom was y-cleped Scythia;
And weddede the Queen Hippolyta
And brought her home with him to his country
With muchel glory and great solemnity,
And eke her younge sister Emily,
And thus with vict'ry and with melody
Let I this worthy Duke to Athens ride,
And all his host, in armes him beside.

And certes, if it n'ere too long to hear,
I would have told you fully the mannere,
How wonnen was the regne of Feminie,
By Theseus, and by his chivalry;
And of the greate battle for the nonce
Betwixt Athenes and the Amazons;
And how assieged was Hippolyta,
The faire hardy queen of Scythia;
And of the feast that was at her wedding
And of the tempest at her homecoming.
But all these things I must as now forbear.
I have, God wot, a large field to ear;
And weake be the oxen in my plough;
The remnant of my tale is long enow.
I will not letten eke none of this rout.
Let every fellow tell his tale about,
And let see now who shall the supper win.
There as I left, I will again begin.

And here's Dryden:

In days of old, there lived, of mighty fame,
A valiant prince, and Theseus was his name:
A chief, who more in feats of arms excell'd,
The rising nor the setting sun beheld.
Of Athens he was lord; much land he won,
And added foreign countries to his crown.
In Scythia with the warrior queen he strove,
Whom first by force he conquer'd, then by love;
He brought in triumph back the beauteous dame,
With whom her sister, fair Emilia, came.
With honour to his home let Theseus ride,
With love to friend, and fortune for his guide,
And his victorious army at his side.
I pass their warlike pomp, their proud array,
Their shouts, their songs, their welcome on the way.
But, were it not too long, I would recite
The feats of Amazons, the fatal fight
Betwixt the hardy queen and hero knight;
The town besieged, and how much blood it cost
The female army, and the Athenian host;
The spousals of Hippolita the queen;
What tilts and tourneys at the feast were seen;
The storm at their return, the ladies' fear:
But these, and other things, I must forbear.
The field is spacious I design to sow,
With oxen far unfit to draw the plough:
The remnant of my tale is of a length
To tire your patience, and to waste my strength;
And trivial accidents shall be forborne,
That others may have time to take their turn;
As was at first enjoin'd us by mine host:
That he whose tale is best, and pleases most,
Should win his supper at our common cost.

Despite the amazing reordering that goes on in Dryden's version--most significantly in terms of the syntax of the sentences themselves--the use of triplets and particular rhyme words to me actually seems to give some spirit of the original. What's gone is the rambling tone we attribute to Middle English, and I find that it actually makes me think about whether I really do take Chaucer seriously when I read him in the original--no small feat of Dryden's.

Now, for the Parson. Dryden notes under the title that it is "imitated from Chaucer," not translated. He also says it is "enlarged." Now, this is because (as you will see) he sticks in many lines that turn Chaucer's original into reflection on the state of religion under William and Mary--a clear instance of not only giving the words resonance, but the content as well. But, while he perhaps nowhere else used this much freedom with the content (for 13 lines in the Chaucer, Dryden takes over 40), I still think it is still a great example of how the language is updated as well. Here's Chaucer:

A good man was ther of religioun,
And was a povre PERSOUN OF A TOUN,
But riche he was of hooly thoght and werk.
He was also a lerned man, a clerk,
That Cristes gospel trewely wolde preche;
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche.
Benynge he was, and wonder diligent,
And in adversitee ful pacient,
And swich he was ypreved ofte sithes.
Ful looth were hym to cursen for his tithes,
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute,
Unto his povre parisshens aboute
He koude in litel thyng have suffisaunce.

And here's Dryden:

A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful, reverend, and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor;
(As God had clothed his own ambassador;)
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore.
Of sixty years he seem'd; and well might last
To sixty more, but that he lived too fast;
Refined himself to soul, to curb the sense;
And made almost a sin of abstinence,
Yet, had his aspect nothing of severe,
But such a face as promised him sincere.
Nothing reserved or sullen was to see;
But sweet regards, and pleasing sanctity:
Mild was his accent, and his action free.
With eloquence innate his tongue was arm'd;
Though harsh the precept, yet the preacher charm'd.
For letting down the golden chain from high,
He drew his audience upward to the sky;
And oft, with holy hymns, he charm'd their ears:
(A music more melodious than the spheres.)
For David left him, when he went to rest,
His lyre; and after him he sung the best.
He bore his great commission in his look:
But sweetly temper'd awe; and soften'd all he spoke.
He preach'd the joys of heaven, and pains of hell;
And warn'd the sinner with becoming zeal;
But on eternal mercy loved to dwell.
He taught the gospel rather than the law,
And forced himself to drive: but loved to draw.
For fear but freezes minds; but love, like heat,
Exhales the soul sublime, to seek her native seat.
To threats the stubborn sinner oft is hard,
Wrapp'd in his crimes, against the storm prepared;
But, when the milder beams of mercy play,
He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak away,
Lightning and thunder (heaven's artillery)
As harbingers before the Almighty fly:
Those but proclaim his style, and disappear;
The stiller sound succeeds, and God is there.

The tithes, his parish freely paid, he took;
But never sued, or cursed with bell and book.
With patience bearing wrong; but offering none:
Since every man is free to lose his own.
The country churls, according to their kind,
(Who grudge their dues, and love to be behind),
The less he sought his offerings, pinch'd the more,
And praised a priest contented to be poor.

Austen's fat joke

I forgot about this notorious passage, and laughed aloud (not a rare occurrence when perusing Austen) when I was rereading Persuasion this weekend:

They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs. Musgrove had most readily made room for him;--they were divided only by Mrs. Musgrove. It was no insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs. Musgrove was of a comfortable substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for.
-Persuasion, Chapter 8

The "son" is "Poor" Dick Musgrove, and the criticism of Mrs. Musgrove's display of false sentiment is merited. But what's fascinating is that Austen wins you over to the other, less defensible part of the ridicule. And if you didn't partake in the joking already, she most definitely gets you on her side with what follows: an amazing sort of apology that actually serves as justification for the mercilessness:

Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions. A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain,--which taste cannot tolerate,--which ridicule will seize.
-Persuasion, Chapter 8

The passage is pretty infamous, a clear instance of "regulated hatred" (D.W. Harding's wonderful, if problematic, notion; which, however, doesn't help to explain Austen's treatment of "Poor Dick," also worried over). But it is also just hilarious, an instance of that penchant for absurdity--the image of the novel's heroine and her "pensive face" eclipsed, as it were, by this behemoth--that readers of Austen see but don't quite acknowledge as much as they should: this is the Austen who can't quite let go of something that strikes her as uproarious, however weird and wonky it may be. Readers forgive such excesses in other authors, but in their reason they often patronize Austen (indeed vainly) for such reveries, even though she is so brilliant as to combine this with a really savage jab at "unbecoming conjunctions," and make us think hard here about the nature of ugliness. Indeed, the mode seems to me more like that of Gillray or Cruikshank, or the really vile stuff one could find a few years earlier in the Jacobin Review (and real Janeites are sensitive to this discrepancy in mode, which is not one of mere propriety): it's supposed to be disturbing, supposed to make us unsure where the poignancy stops and turns ugly itself.

Dryden's version

I thought that since I was comparing so many translations of this passage from the Iliad, I should also put up Dryden's version, which--I have to say--I like the best:

Achilles cut him short; and thus replied:
My worth allow'd in words, is in effect denied.
For who but a poltroon, possess'd with fear,
Such haughty insolence can tamely bear?
Command thy slaves: my freeborn soul disdains
A tyrant's curb; and restive, breaks the reins.
Take this along; that no dispute shall rise
(Though mine the woman) for my ravish'd prize:
But, she excepted, as unworthy strife,
Dare not, I charge thee dare not, on thy life,
Touch ought of mine beside, by lot my due,
But stand aloof, and think profane to view:
This falchion, else, not hitherto withstood,
These hostile fields shall fatten with thy blood.

He said; and rose the first: the council broke;
And all their grave consults dissolv'd in smoke.
The royal youth retir'd, on vengeance bent,
Patroclus follow'd silent to his tent.

Mean time, the king with gifts a vessel stores;
Supplies the banks with twenty chosen oars:
And next, to reconcile the shooter god,
Within her hollow sides the sacrifice he stow'd:
Chryseis last was set on board; whose hand
Ulysses took, entrusted with command;
They plough the liquid seas, and leave the lessening land.

Atrides then, his outward zeal to boast,
Bade purify the sin-polluted host.
With perfect hecatombs the god they grac'd;
Whose offer'd entrails in the main were cast.
Black bulls, and bearded goats on altars lie;
And clouds of savory stench involve the sky.
-in Fables Ancient and Modern, lines 411-441

The break in the speech, where Homer makes Achilles' speech buckle under the force of his anger, is wonderfully rendered. Where Pope smoothes it out, and Fagles makes too big a deal of it, Dryden simply repeats: "Dare not, I charge thee dare not, on thy life..." You'll notice it takes advantage of the line, which Dryden always segments deftly: never breaking it up, and never shooting for too much equipoise or balance, he nevertheless uses all its parts to help him out. He doesn't treat the form as an empty container, or rather is happy to let what is transfused (his famous metaphor for translation), settle into the form in this or that way, and be moulded by it. It's like blowing glass, to use another metaphor from manufacture (Dryden, by the way, was fond of these: "the genius of our countrymen in general [is] rather to improve an invention than to invent themselves, as is evident not only in our poetry but in many of our manufactures"). You blow the glass and try to get the shape as perfect as you can, but you're constantly having to negotiate the ways this very fluid material changes, under the influence of time, heat, gravity. So you work with these forces and the changes they make in the material: you turn the shape around, smooth it out, or sometimes puff it out more and change its whole dimension (if you can't get it the way you want it on the small scale, you simply switch scales, shifting between them). You'll see what I mean when you look again at the passage and see the amount of enjambment, and find the heavy use of very hard caesuras--which start as medial but then, falling too early and too late, make the middle of the line a space of action instead of a place of balance (this is why the "Dare not" line is so great).

But there are also just some really crazy, creative choices, which just win you over. "Poltroon" is just amazing, a wonderful blurty sort of word, strange and foreign. It doesn't so much break propriety as transform itself into a cussword--the effect of this being differently forceful. Something similar happens with "in effect," which sounds way too familiar to our ears now but, if you hear it and stress it a little can hear has a wonderful sort of poignancy. There's also "ravish'd," which is quite unexpected, though you might miss it the first time through. And "dissolv'd in smoke." And then a wonderful metonymy, "the shooter god." "And leave the lessening land" is wonderful, and works well with the longer hexameter closing the scene. This also highlights Dryden's relatively sparing use of alliteration and assonance: unlike Pope, who (in my opinion) uses it too much in an effort to speed up the line, Dryden uses it economically, in select moments. This makes it stick.

Overall, though, there is that vigorousness that you can see in the first phrase, "cut him short": what a surprising, fresh way to lead you into the rest of the speech. If both Pope makes Homer energetic, nimble, rapid, restoring what he calls the "light" in the classic, Dryden's version of that energy is a sort of directness, forthrightness, even plainness, a willingness to be satisfied with less and with something rougher, but weirder or more curious.