by Various
J’écoutais cependant cette simple harmonie,
Et comme le bon sens fait parler le génie.
J’admirais quel amour pour l’âpre vérité
Eut cet homme si fier en sa naïveté,
Quel grand et vrai savoir des choses de ce monde,
Quelle mâle gaieté, si triste et si profonde
Que, lorsque’on vient d’en rire, on devrait en pleurer!
Et je me demandais: “Est-ce assez d’admirer?
Est-ce assez de venir un soir, par aventure,
D’entendre au fond de l’âme un cri da la nature,
D’essuyer une larme, et de partir ainsi,
Quoi qu’on fasse d’ailleurs, sans en prendre souci?”
Yet I listened to that simple harmony, and how good sense made genius speak. I admired the love of harsh truth in that man so proud in his ingenuousness, what great and true knowledge of the things of this world, what manly humour, so sad and so profound that, when one has just laughed at it, one should be weeping! And I wondered: ‘Is it enough to admire? Is it enough to come by chance one evening, to hear nature’s cry in the depths of the soul, to wipe away a tear, and so to leave, whatever else one does, without taking any heed?’
Enfoncé que j’étais dans cette rêverie,
Ça et là, toutefois, lorgnant la galerie,
Je vis que, devant moi, se balançait gaîment
Sous une tresse noire un cou svelte et charmant;
Et, voyant cet ébène enchâssé dans l’ivoire,
Un vers d’André Chénier chanta dans ma mémoire,
Un vers presque inconnu, refrain inachevé,
Frais comme le hasard, moins écrit que rêvé.
J’osai m’en souvenir, même devant Molière;
Sa grande ombre, à coup sÛr, ne s’en offensa pas;
Et, tout en écoutant, je murmurais tout bas,
Regardant cette enfant, que ne s’en doutait guère:
“Sous votre aimable tête, un cou blanc, délicat,
Se plie, et de la neige effacerait l’éclat.”
Immersed as I was in these musings, yet glancing here and there at the gallery, I saw before me, delightfully poised beneath a black plait, a slim and charming neck; and, seeing this ebony set in ivory, a line from André Chénier sang in my memory, an almost unknown line, an unfinished refrain, fresh as chance, less written than dreamed. I dared to remember it, even before Molière; his great shade, I’m sure, was not offended; and as I listened, I murmured gently, gazing at that child who could scarcely even guess at it: ‘Beneath your lovely head, a white and delicate neck inclines, and would eclipse the brightness of snow.’
Puis je songeais encore (ainsi va la pensée)
Que l’antique franchise, à ce point délaissée,
Avec notre finesse et notre esprit moqueur,
Ferait croire, après tout, que nous manquons de cœur;
Que c’était une triste et honteuse misère
Que cette solitude à l’entour de Molière,
Et qu’il est pourtant temps, comme dit la chanson,
De sortir de ce siècle ou d’en avoir raison;
Car à quoi comparer cette scène embourbée,
Et l’effroyable honte où la muse est tombée?
La lâcheté nous bride, et les sots vont disant
Que, sous ce vieux soleil, tout est fait à présent;
Comme si les travers de la famille humaine
Ne rejeunissaient pas chaque an, chaque semaine.
Notre siècle a ses moeurs, partant, sa vérité;
Celui qui l’ose dire est toujours écouté.
Then I thought further (for so goes thought) that such an abandonment of the old frankness, along with our subtlety and our mocking wit, would make one believe, after all, that we lack heart; that this solitude around Molière was a sad and shameful disgrace, and that it is high time, as the song says, to quit this age or to get the better of it; for with what can we compare this muddy stage, and the frightful shame into which the muse has fallen? Cowardice bridles us, and the fools say that everything has now been done beneath this aged sun; as if the human family’s foibles were not renewed each year, each week. Our century has its manners, and therefore its truth; he who dares to tell it always finds listeners.
Ah! j’oserais parler, si je croyais bien dire,
J’oserais ramasser le fouet de la satire,
Et l’habiller de noir, cet homme aux rubans verts,
Qui se fâchait jadis pour quelques mauvais vers.
S’il rentrait aujourd’hui dans Paris, la grand’ville,
Il y trouverait mieux pour émouvoir sa bile
Qu’une méchante femme et qu’un méchant sonnet;
Nous avons autre chose à mettre au cabinet.
O notre maître à tous! si ta tombe est fermée,
Laisse-moi, dans ta cendre un instant ranimée,
Trouver une étincelle, et je vais t’imiter!
Apprends-moi de quel ton, dans ta bouche hardie,
Parlait la vérité, ta seule passion,
Et, pour me faire entendre, à défaut du génie,
J’en aurai le courage et l’indignation!
Ah! I would dare to speak, if I thought I could speak well, I would dare to pick up satire’s whip and dress in black that man in green ribbons who once was angered by a few bad lines of verse. If he came back to Paris now, the great city, he would find more to move him to anger than a mischievous woman and a wretched sonnet; we have other things to flush away. O master of us all, if your tomb is closed, let me find a spark in your briefly rekindled ashes, and I will follow your example! Teach me in what tone, in your fearless mouth, spoke truth, your only passion, and to make myself heard, in the absence of genius, I will have its courage and its indignation!
Ainsi je caressais une folle chimère.
Devant moi cependant, à côté de sa mère,
L’enfant restait toujours, et le cou svelte et blanc
Sous les longs cheveux noirs se berçait mollement.
Le spectacle fini, la charmante inconnue
Se leva. Le beau cou, l’épaule à demi nue,
Se voilèrent; la main glissa dans le manchon;
Et, lorsque je la vis au seuil de sa maison
S’enfuir, je m’aperçus que je l’avais suivie.
Hélas! mon cher ami, c’est là toute ma vie.
Pendant que mon esprit cherchait sa volonté,
Mon corps savait la sienne et suivait la beauté;
Et, quand je m’éveillai de cette réverie,
Il ne m’en restait plus que l’image chérie:
“Sous votre aimable tête, un cou blanc, délicat,
Se plie, et de la neige effacerait l’éclat.”
So I indulged a foolish fancy. Before me meanwhile, beside her mother, the child remained, and her slender white neck rocked softly beneath the long black hair. When the play was finished, the enchanting stranger rose. The beautiful neck, the half-naked shoulder were veiled; the hand slipped into the muff; and when I saw her melt away at the threshold of her home, I realized that I had followed her. Alas! my dear friend, there is my whole life. While my mind sought its will, my body knew its own, and followed beauty; and when I awoke from this dream, there remained for me only the precious image: ‘Beneath your lovely head, a white and delicate neck inclines, and would eclipse the brightness of snow.’
A Julie
On me demande, par les rues,
Pourquoi je vais bayant aux grues,
Fumant mon cigare au soleil,
A quoi se passe ma jeunesse,
Et depuis trois ans de paresse
Ce qu’ont fait mes nuits sans sommeil.
Donne-moi tes lèvres, Julie;
Les folles nuits qui t’ont pâlie
Ont séché leur corail luisant.
Parfume-les de ton haleine;
Donne-les-moi, mon Africaine,
Tes belles lèvres de pur sang.
To Julie
They ask me in the streets why I go gaping at the tarts, smoking my cigar in the sun, how my youth is spent, and what my three lazy years’ sleepless nights have produced.
Give me your lips, Julie; the wild nights that made you pale have dried their shining coral. Perfume them with your breath; give them to me, my African beauty, your lovely thoroughbred lips.
Mon imprimeur crie à tue-tête
Que sa machine est toujours prête,
Et que la mienne n’en peut mais.
D’honnêtes gens, qu’un club admire,
N’ont pas dédaigné de prédire
Que je n’en reviendrai jamais.
Julie, as-tu du vin d’Espagne?
Hier, nous battions la campagne;
Va donc voir s’il en reste encor.
Ta bouche est brÛlante, Julie;
Inventons donc quelque folie
Qui nous perde l’âme et le corps.
On dit que ma gourme me rentre,
Que je n’ai plus rien dans le ventre,
Que je suis vide à faire peur;
Je crois, si j’en valais la peine,
Qu’on m’enverrait à Sainte-Hélène,
Avec un cancer dans le coeur.
My printer is shouting his head off that his machine is always ready, and that mine is at the end of its tether. Decent folk, admired by a club, have condescended to predict that I will never get over it.
Julie, have you Spanish wine? Yesterday, we were roving wild; just go and see if there is still some left. Your mouth is burning, Julie; let’s conjure up some madness to destroy us body and soul.
They say I’m reaping my wild oats, that I have nothing more in my belly, that I am frighteningly empty; I think that if I were worth it they would send me to Saint Helena with a cancer in my heart.
Allons, Julie, il faut t’attendre
A me voir quelque jour en cendre,
Comme Hercule sur son rocher.
Puisque c’est par toi que j’expire,
Ouvre ta robe, Déjanire,
Que je monte sur mon bÛcher.
Come, Julie, you must expect to see me in ashes some day, like Hercules on his rock. Since it is through you I breathe my last, open your dress, Deianira,1 that I may climb upon my funeral pyre.
La Nuit de mai
LA MUSE
Poète, prends ton luth, et me donne un baiser;
La fleur de l’églantier sent ses bourgeons éclore.
Le printemps naît ce soir; les vents vont s’embraser;
Et la bergeronnette, en attendant l’aurore,
Aux premiers buissons verts commence à se poser.
Poète, prends ton luth, et me donne un baiser.
May Night
THE MUSE
Poet, take up your lute and kiss me; the flower of the wild rose senses its buds bursting forth. Spring is born tonight; the winds will catch fire; and the wagtail, waiting for the dawn, begins to settle on the first green bushes. Poet, take up your lute and kiss me.
LE POÈTE
Comme il fait noir dans la vallée!
J’ai cru qu’une forme voilée
Flottait là-bas sur la forêt.
Elle sortait de la prairie;
Son pied rasait l’herbe fleurie;
C’est une étrange rêverie;
Elle s’efface et disparaît.
LA MUSE
Poète, prends ton luth; la nuit, sur la pelouse,
Balance le zéphyr dans son voile odorant.
La rose, vierge encor, se referme jalouse
Sur le frelon nacré qu’elle enivre en mourant.
Écoute! tout se tait; songe à ta bien-aimée.
Ce soir, sous les tilleuls, à la sombre ramée
Le rayon du couchant laisse un adieu plus doux.
Ce soir, tout va fleurir: l’immortelle nature
Se remplit de parfums, d’amour et de murmure,
Comme le lit joyeux de deux jeunes époux.
THE POET
How dark it is in the valley! I thought I saw a veiled figure floating there above the forest. She came out of the meadow; her foot was skimming the flower-strewn grass; it is a strange dream; she fades and disappears.
THE MUSE
Poet, take up your lute; the night, above the lawn, rocks the gentle breeze in its fragrant veil. The rose, still virgin, closes jealously on the pearly hornet, intoxicated as it dies. Listen! all is silent; think of your beloved. This evening, under the lime trees, the glow of sunset leaves a sweeter farewell in the dark foliage. This evening, all will blossom; immortal nature is filled with scents, with love and murmuring, like the blissful bed of two young newlyweds.
LE POÈTE
Pourquoi mon cœur bat-il si vite?
Qu’ai-je donc en moi qui s’agite,
Dont je me sens épouvanté?
Ne frappe-t-on pas à ma porte?
Pourquoi ma lampe à demi morte
M’éblouit-elle de clarté?
Dieu puissant! tout mon corps frissonne.
Qui vient? qui m’appelle? – Personne.
Je suis seul; c’est l’heure qui sonne;
O solitude? ô pauvreté!
THE POET
Why does my heart beat so fast? What is it within me that stirs and alarms my senses? Isn’t that a knock at my door? Why is my half-dead lamp dazzling me with brightness? Powerful God! my whole body shudders. Who comes? Who calls me? – No one. I am alone; it is the hour chiming; O solitude? O poverty!
LA MUSE
Poète, prends ton luth; le vin de la jeunesse
Fermente cette nuit dans les veines de Dieu.
Mon sein est inquiet; la volupté l’oppresse,
Et les vents altérés m’ont mis la lèvre en feu.
O paresseux enfant! regarde, je suis belle.
Notre premier baiser, ne t’en souviens-tu pas,
Quand je te vis si pâle au toucher de mon aile,
Et que, les yeux en pleurs, tu tombas dans mes bras?
Ah! je t’ai consolé d’une amère souffrance!
Hélas! bien jeune encor, tu te mourais d’amour.
Console-moi ce soir, je me meurs d’espérance;
J’ai besoin de prier pour vivre jusqu’au jour.
THE MUSE
Poet, take up your lute; the wine of youth ferments this night in the veins of God. My breast is restless; sensuality oppresses it, and the changing winds have set my lips on fire. O indolent child! look, I am beautiful. Our first kiss, do you not remember it, when I saw you so pale at the touch of my wing, and when, with tearful eyes, you fell into my arms? Ah, I consoled you for a bitter suffering! Alas! still very young, you were dying of love. Console me this evening, I am dying of hope; I need to pray to live until daybreak.
LE POÈTE
Est-ce toi dont la voix m’appelle,
O ma pauvre Muse, est-ce toi?
O ma fleur, ô mon immortelle!
Seul être pudique et fidèle
Où vive encor l’amour de moi!
Oui, te voilà, c’est toi, ma blonde,
C’est toi, ma maîtresse et ma sœur!
Et je sens, dans la nuit profonde,
De ta robe d’or qui m’inonde
Les rayons glisser dans mon cœur.
THE POET
Is it you whose voice calls me, O my poor Muse, is it you? O my flower, my everlasting flower! The only being, chaste and true, in whom lives still a love of me! Yes, there you are, my fair one, you, my mistress and my sister! And in the deep darkness I feel gliding into my heart the radiance of you) golden robe which floods over me.
LA MUSE
Poète, prends ton luth; c’est moi, ton immortelle,
Qui t’ai vu cette nuit triste et silencieux,
Et qui, comme un oiseau que sa couvée appelle,
Pour pleurer avec toi descends du haut des cieux.
Viens, tu souffres, ami. Quelque ennui solitaire
Te ronge; quelque chose a gémi dans ton cœur;
Quelque amour t’est venu, co
mme on en voit sur terre,
Une ombre de plaisir, un semblant de bonheur.
Viens, chantons devant Dieu; chantons dans tes pensées,
Dans tes plaisirs perdus, dans tes peines passées;
Partons, dans un baiser, pour un monde inconnu.
Eveillons au hasard les échos de ta vie,
Parlons-nous de bonheur, de gloire et de folie,
Et que ce soit un rêve, et le premier venu.
Inventons quelque part des lieux où l’on oublie;
Partons, nous sommes seuls, l’univers est à nous.
Voici la verte Ecosse et la brune Italie,
Et la Grèce, ma mère, où le miel est si doux,
Argos, et Ptéléon, ville des hécatombes,
THE MUSE
Poet, take up your lute; it is I, your everlasting one, who saw you sad and silent this night, and who, like a bird called by its brood, come down to weep with you from high in the heavens. Come, you are suffering, friend. Some lonely distress torments you; something moaned in your heart; some love has come to you, of an earthly kind, the shadow of a pleasure, a semblance of happiness. Come, let us sing before God; let us sing in your thoughts, in your lost pleasures, in your bygone sorrows; let us leave, in a kiss, for an unknown world. Let us awake at random the echoes of your life, talk together of happiness, of glory and of madness, and let it be a dream, and the first that comes to mind. Let us conjure up somewhere places of forgetfulness; let us leave, we are alone, the universe is ours. Here is green Scotland and dusky Italy, and Greece, my mother, where the honey is so sweet, Argos, and Pteleos, city of hecatombs, and sacred Messa, favoured haunt of doves, and the hairy brow of fickle Pelion, and the blue Titaresios, and the silver bay that in its waters, where the swan admires its own reflection, shows white Oloosson to white Kameiros. Tell me, what golden dream will be cradled by our songs? From where will come the tears we shall shed? This morning, when daylight touched your eyelid, what pensive seraph, bending over your bedside, shook down lilacs from his airy robe, and told you in a whisper of the loves which he was dreaming? Shall we sing of hope, of sadness or of joy? Shall we soak in blood the steely battalions? Shall we suspend the lover on the silken ladder? Shall we throw to the wind the foam of the charger? Shall we say what hand, among the countless lamps of the celestial house, lights night and day the holy oil of life and of eternal love? Shall we cry to Tarquin: ‘It is time, here is the darkness!’1 Shall we go down to gather pearls in the depths of the seas? Shall we guide the goat to the bitter laburnum? Shall we show the sky to Melancholy? Shall we follow the hunter on the craggy mountains? The doe looks at him; she weeps and begs; her moorland awaits her; her fawns are newly born; he bends, he cuts her throat, he throws to the slaughter among his sweating hounds her still living heart. Shall we depict a virgin with a flushed face, on her way to mass, followed by a page, and with distracted gaze, beside her mother, forgetting the prayer on her half-open lips? She listens, trembling, to the resonance in the echoing pillars of the spur of a bold cavalier. Shall we tell the heroes of olden times in France to climb fully armed to the battlements of their towers, and to revive the innocent romance which their forgotten glory taught the troubadours? Shall we dress in white a soft elegy? Will the man of Waterloo tell us of his life, and how much he scythed down of the human flock before the messenger of eternal darkness came to his green hillock to strike him down with the blow of a wing, and to cross his hands on his iron heart? Shall we nail to the stake with an arrogant epigram the name seven times sold of a pallid critic who, driven by hunger from the depths of his oblivion, comes shivering with envy and helplessness to insult the hope on the brow of genius and to bite the laurel wreath that his breath has sullied? Take up your lute! take up your lute! I can no more be silent. My wing lifts me on the breath of spring. The wind will bear me away; I will leave the earth. A tear from you! God is listening to me; it is time.
