Act 2 — SCENE VIII.
Charles Renauld translation
CYRANO, LE BRET, THE CADETS, who have taken seats at the tables, and are eating and drinking.
CYRANO (bowing out in an affectedly polite way those who are leaving without taking any further notice of him).
Gentlemen—delighted—Delighted—gentlemen—
LE BRET (lifting his arms in despair).
A pretty mess you've made of it!
CYRANO.
Oh! of course! As usual, you must growl!
LE BRET.
Come, now, you must admit that this constant assassination—that is the word—of every passing opportunity is, to say the least, a gross exaggeration.
CYRANO.
Well, yes, I do exaggerate. There!
LE BRET (triumphant).
You see!
CYRANO.
But I do so as a matter of principle, for the sake of example. In my opinion, such exaggeration is good.
LE BRET.
Suppose you set aside, a while, your soul Heroic and success....
CYRANO.
What should I do?.... Set out to find a power, influence, A master, then? A lowly ivy be That licks the trunk it uses for support? Creep up by stealth, instead of rising strong? I thank you, no!—Inscribe the verse I write To money bags, and play the low buffoon, To cause, on lips that I despise, a smile? I thank you, no! For breakfast eat a toad? Wear out, or soil, especially my knees? Forever prove how pliant is a spine? I thank you, no! Give—only to exact? Have ready praise for all, and strive to be A pygmy hero in a puny ring? I thank you, no! Ask publishers to print My verse—at my expense? I thank you, no! Seek favour from the solemn councils held By pompous fools in taverns and the like? I thank you, no! Or try to build a name Upon a single sonnet, sooner than Write other sonnets? No. I thank you, no! Be terrorized by journals vague and small, And hope the while they'll not forget me? No, I thank you! Ever weigh, observe and fear? Place gossip far above poetic lines? Solicit, beg, crave notoriety? I thank you, no! I thank you, nay!.... But, oh!.... To sing, to dream, to laugh, to be alone And free, with eyes that naught will cause to turn, And with a voice that naught will cause to shake! To cock your hat, if you feel so disposed: For this, or that, to fight—or write a verse! To plan, without a thought of gold or fame, A novel trip, perhaps unto the moon! To write but what is honestly your own, And, diffident for once, reflect: my boy, Be satisfied with flower, fruit.... or leaf, If they have grown on soil that's strictly yours! Then, if perchance a bit of fame is earned, To feel that none of it to Cæsar's due! The truth is there, and so is honesty: Despise to ape the ivy-parasite, And try to be an oak, or elm, to rise, Not very high, perhaps, but rise alone!
LE BRET.
Alone, you're right! But not opposing all! Why should you make so many enemies?
CYRANO.
Because I see you make so many friends, And smile on them with mouths I'll not describe.[19] I'm glad to pass with fewer greetings met, And proud to think: another enemy!
LE BRET.
You are insane!
CYRANO.
Perhaps. My vice is such. I'm pleased if I displease. Indeed, I love To gather hatred. Friend, you've never felt The thrill that's caused by walking on erect, While fifty pairs of eyes are sending shot, As if they were so many guns! And then.... How comical the spots on doublets made By envy's gall and cowardice's slaver! —Loose friendships like to those you cultivate Resemble the Italian collars, soft And open-worked, that feminize your necks. They're easy and of tranquil-going mien; Your head with them can bend to any will. Not so with me! For Hatred, every morn, Makes stiff the ruff that forces up my head! An enemy I gain's another fold That straightens me the more, perhaps, but adds A beam to my renown. The Spanish ruff, Though sitting on the neck as would a yoke, With some can be a halo 'round the head!
LE BRET (after a pause, passing his arm through Cyrano's).
Speak out aloud your pride and bitterness, But whisper to me then: she loves me not!