L'Expiation, part 1, by Victor Hugo

It snowed. We were defeated in the battle.
For the first time the eagle’s head hung down.
Sombre days! The emperor came back slowly;
Behind him in the smoke, Moscow burned.
It snowed. The biting winter melted in avalanche.
After the white plain, another white plain.
We no longer knew our flag, our leaders.
Yesterday the splendid army, now
A herd in which one saw no wings or centre.
It snowed. The wounded sheltered from the wind
Behind dead horses. From doors of sorry camps
One saw the buglers frozen at their posts,
Still upright in the saddle, white with frost,
Their lips as hard as stone, stuck to their bugles.
Round-shot, grape-shot, shells, snowed with the white flakes;
The grenadiers, surprised that they were trembling,
Walked, brooding, with ice on their grey moustaches.
It snowed, it always snowed! The cold wind whistled;
In unknown towns, the people had no bread
And walked in bare feet on the frosty ground.
This was no longer living hearts, men of war:
It was a dream wandering in the fog,
A mystery; shades crossed the black sky.
Vast solitude, appalling to the eyes,
The mute avenger, appeared everywhere.
The sky dropped its thick snow noiselessly:
For an immense army, an immense shroud.
Each felt that he was dying, he was alone.
—Will we never leave this deadly empire?
Two enemies! The Tsar and, worse, the North.
We threw away our cannons to burn their mountings.
Whoever stopped to rest died in the snow.
A sad, confused group, we fled,
The wilderness devouring our procession.
Snow-hills showed where regiments had gone to sleep.
Oh, Hannibal’s downfall! Attila’s carnage!
The fleeing, the wounded, the dying; wagons, carts, stretchers;
Men trampled each other trying to cross the bridges;
Ten thousand fell asleep, and one hundred woke.
Ney, not long before followed by an army,
Now ran away, quarrelling
Over his pocketwatch with three Cossacks.
Every night, Who goes there? Alert! Attacks!
These phantoms took their guns, and saw a charge,
A dreadful, terrifying pounce, coming upon them
With vulture cries, a whirlwind of wild men;
And so, in the night, an entire army was lost.
The emperor was there, and stood, watching.
He was like a tree under the feller’s axe.
This giant’s grandeur had, until then, been spared,
But misfortune, that sinister woodsman, rose up,
And this proud oak, insulted by the axe,
Recoiled from the spectre’s bitter revenge
And saw his branches fall all around him.
Leaders, soldiers: each died in his turn.
Surrounding his tent loyally, those who stayed
To guard his moving shadow on the canvas—
Believing always in the power of the stars—
Accused destiny of treason,
And felt a sudden terror in their hearts.
Dazed by disaster, knowing only that
He had to believe, the emperor turned to God;
This glorious man trembled; Napoleon, sensing that it
Might atone for something, said—livid and restless
Before his scattered legions on the snow—
“Is this my punishment, God of war?”
Then he heard his name called,
And something in the darkness said: “No.”

My Former Life, by Charles Baudelaire

I'm in full hermit mode composing my dissertation now, so I won't be doing any new translations until after May the tenth. I do, however, have some old ones sitting around that I haven't posted to the blog yet, so in the spirit of daily April poems, I'll put them up. Today: La vie antérieure, by Charles Baudelaire, from Les Fleurs du Mal. The French, along with numerous other English translations, can be found HERE; the most entertaining (and oddly thought-provoking) English "translation", from the book of Baudelaire mistranslations "Flowers of Bad/Flurries of Mail" by David Cameron (not that David Cameron), can be found HERE, under the title "This Anti-Terror Life".

My Former Life

I lived for a long time under vast porticos
Which the ocean sun lit with a thousand colours,
Where the enormous, straight and majestic pillars
Made them, in the evening, like basaltic grottos.

The billows, rolling round the image of the skies,
Mingled in a fashion solemn and mystical,
The almighty harmony of their rich music all
In sunset colours reflected in my eyes.

It was there that I lived in a voluptuous calm
In splendour in between the blue skies and the waves,
And I was attended by naked, perfumed slaves,

And they refreshed and cooled my brow with fronds of palm,
And all their earthly care was solely to divine
What was the dolorous secret which made me pine.

Why I Talk about Poetry

I talk about poetry
not because I think
it’s important, not really;
or if it does rank
among the things that matter,
surely it’s only
as a communication
from writer to book
and thence to reader,
needing no further conversation
to make it work.

I talk about poetry
because it’s something
to talk about. I don’t care
what we’re talking
about, just as long as we
talk. If all my speech
was of true things, vital things,
just the important
things, just what I really meant;
why, then all my speech
would communicate nothing
to my companions
except love, love and longing:
a longing to be
close, closer than their own skins
to them, to be them,
to occupy the same air.

For each human soul
is alone: mind never speaks
to mind except through
two unfaithful messengers,
a mouth and an ear.

And so my study through all
my life has been of the fittest words
to transmit thoughts between minds,
and that, I suppose, is why
I talk about poetry.

NPWM: from Persée

Well, I've missed a few days, so to make up for it, today's translation is a long one: two whole scenes from Jean-Baptiste Lully's opera Persée.

I've only just got into opera, and I've found (as many do, I'm sure) that it's pretty tough going as a new initiate. Which is why I'm grateful to Lully, because his operas are totally accessible to beginners. Persée has pretty tunes, gorgeous three-part harmonies wherever possible, a real machina from which a Deus is lowered on more than one occasion, and TWO sword fights. And on top of all that, it has an excellent libretto by Philippe Quinault, the author of the words on which today's translation is based.

This translates Act II, Scenes 4 & 5 of Persée; the full libretto can be found here, and an excellent version in parts on Youtube begins here.

[II.4] Merope.
Alas! He will be killed! Do I tremble? Wherefore
Should I feel for Andromeda’s lover such fear?
Have I lost all my former spite?
What interest have I in his life?
He lives for another, he is lost to me...
No matter! When I see him in his deadly peril,
When I see him seeking a horrible slaughter,
I do not think, “He loves me not;”
I only think, “I love him.”

[II.5] Enter Andromeda.

Andromeda, apart.
Ill-starred ones, who have been transformed
Into stone by the glance of a dreadful monster,
You feel no more your unmerciful destinies,
And your hardened hearts now are forever peaceful.
Ah! Those hearts which still can feel
Are a thousand times unhappier.

Merope, apart.
Andromeda seems distracted;
She comes in a dream to this place.
Yes. In her face I recognise
The same bitter thoughts which trouble me.

Andromeda, apart.
He loves me but too much, and all he asks of me
Is to love him in my turn;
From the highest of the gods he receives this day.
Can it be love that gives him, in this mortal peril,
The means to hold up against such merit,
And against so much love?

Merope, to Andromeda.
Ah! you love Perseus, and that excites your fears.
Do not disavow your tears.
Your tender sentiments are all too well expressed:
You love him.

Andromeda.
You love him.
The hope of his hand had bewitched your very soul,
And I know the project that you formed. I can see
Your spite has not extinguished the flame you keep for him;
Perseus is in danger, and so you are afraid.
You love him.

Merope.
You love him.

Both.
How pitiful the tender heart
That is reduced to hiding!
What pain is there one does not feel
From love that one cannot reveal,
Deep in the dark abiding?
How pitiful the tender heart
That is reduced to hiding!

Merope.
My spite tries in vain to overthrow my pity.
It’s true. I can’t keep up this anger against you.
Perseus is an ingrate who cannot love me;
It doesn’t mean I can forget him.
But he loves you too much, alas!
Yes, yes, why wouldn’t you love him.

Andromeda.
The love he has for me has made
Him bravely seek his end with foolish eagerness.
Do not reproach me for this dolorous advantage;
I will pay dearly for it.

Merope.
United our regrets; the same love binds us both.
What does it matter which of us Perseus wants?
We both of us shall lose him:
Our common loss shall reconcile us.

Both.
This hero goes; oh let him not
From us be plucked away;
Oh let him live for you, so long
As he live through this day.

Andromeda.
My love I must hide and betray not... O Venus!
He comes to seek me in this place before he goes.

Merope.
I go: I'll not be a witness
To the torment of your fond goodbyes.

NPWM: Alicante, by Jacques Prévert

an orange on the table
your dress on the carpet
and you in my bed
you present me with this present
if only for the present:
the coolness of the night
the heat of life


French text, along with several other poems, here: http://xtream.online.fr/Prevert/beautes.html

NPWM

Looking back over the last four days' poems, I notice they've all been Christian in character (except the lines from Phèdre, but Phèdre's Christian under the surface). Being an atheist myself, I feel I ought to redress the balance and translate something profane and secular for my next piece. Who's ungodly in French poetry? Victor Hugo was unconventional in his beliefs, but still a praying man I think. Jacques Prévert perhaps?

NPWM: Two men in me

Translated from Racine, “Plaintes d’un Chrétien sur les contrariétés qu’il éprouve au dedans de lui-même”.

My God, what a cruel war!
I think there are two men in me:
The one would, full of love for thee,
Make my heart forever faithful.
The other one is ever hostile
And hardens me against thy law.

The one divine, all full of faith,
Would raise me always up on high,
And when he lifts me to the sky
I count as nothing all the world.
But then the other’s mortal load
Oppresses me upon the earth.

Alas! at war within my heart,
How can I ever come to peace?
I would leave sin, but cannot cease.
I would do good, but cannot move.
I fail to do the good I love,
And do the evil that I hate.

O grace, O ray of God, come save
The man who in these lines implores—
Drive out my sin with gentle force
And make accord between us both
Converting thus this slave of death
Into thy voluntary slave.

NPWM: from Phèdre

Madame, before you go:
I know that you have wished to have a different life.
My father lives no more: it is as I suspected;
Only cruel death, extinguishing his light
Could keep it hidden from our eyes for such a time.
Atropos at last has cut the living thread
Of Hercules’s friend and partner and successor.
I know that in your hatred, which cares not for his virtues,
You hear without regret these names I give to Theseus.
One hope there is that tempers my sadness and bereavement.
Now I can lift from you the cruel interdiction
Placed on you by my father: long have I deplored it.
You shall be sovereign over your life, over your heart,
And in this land of Troezen, the land of Pittheus
My ancestor, the rule of which comes now to me,
Whose people with one voice acclaim me as their king,
I will make you as free and freer than myself.

NPWM: High and Low

after Arnaut Daniel

In field below and bough above,
The fresh flowers bloom both high and low,
And every bird unites to sing
And welcome in the growing Spring.
April sun
Shows on each one
The iridescent colours of its wing.
Though Love weighs heavy on me,
Yet joy shall all my song be.

I give my thanks to God above
Who gave me eyes to see and know
The joy these marks of springtime bring
To chase away my suffering.
Troubles run
From the sun
Like beetles when a ray invades their den.
Leaving the sight of men,
I call on Love again.

I thank you for your company, Love!
Though bitter is the way we go,
Yet salutary is the stinging
Sharpness of the brew you bring;
It shall run
Down my tongue
And wet my throat that I may better sing.
He who laughs in contempt of me,
May he by sores tormented be.

’Tis true, I am most true in love,
And I am proud, but will not show
My love to all those who come seeking
Knowledge of me, lest in speaking
Idle tongue
Should make fun
And so blaspheme her name and Love’s wise teaching.
Instead, in joyful mood,
Around the forest rude,
I’ll hymn my fair love's name in solitude.

NPWM: Parsifal, by Verlaine

This April, for National Poetry Writing Month, I will be translating a poem each day instead of writing one out of my head. Today's poem is Verlaine's "Parsifal":

Parsifal

Parsifal has vanquished the Girls, their gentle
Babble, and sweet desire’s precipitous slope
On which a virgin boy in wantonness may stoop
To adore their swelling breasts, to love their gentle babble;

He has vanquished fair Woman and her subtle charms,
The grasp of her soft hands and her pale throat’s excitement;
He has vanquished Hell and returns now to his tent
With a heavy trophy in his boyish arms,

With the spear that pierced the Flank of the Supreme!
He has healed the king; see, he himself is king,
Priest of the sacred Treasure, holy and essential.

In robes of gold he kneels before the glorious Symbol,
The vessel pure wherein the royal Blood is gleaming.
—And O! those children’s voices, singing in the dome!