French poetry 101 – Alfred de Musset
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apisa_b. Thank you!
1789 saw the little historic incident you might have heard about, usually called the French revolution. For a little moment, some 18th-century idealists, raised on philosophy and enlightment, thought it would be possible to make a fairer, better world without undue bloodshed. They were of course wrong, it turned into a messy, gory affair.
Then the lovers of Law and Order thought that a strong, authoritarian state - an Empire - would be the solution. It had its advantages - gifted individuals from lower social status could make a name for themselves, the law was valid for all people and not just for commoners, and that new system wasn't all that bad on the battlefield. But that too was crushed, the country was defeated, had to submit to the Vienna reorganisation of the civilised world, and came back to a stronger, sterner version of absolute monarchy.
And the sons of the idealist revolutionaries, of the proud bonapartist generals, soon learned that any attempt to change things, any transposition of one's ideals to reality, was doomed from the start. A whole generation was brought up in the nostalgia of Things That Could Not Be, and suffered because they had not been given a chance to be idealists too.
They read Goethe's Sufferings of the Young Werther, and some decided that suicide was indeed the best way out. The others, who were just as cynical about their world, decided to write poetry instead, and Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) was among them.
Musset was from a well-to-do family, connected to the literary circles of the time. He writes, mostly plays, falls in love with George Sand (a female writer and feminist); they go to Italy together, where he falls ill. She calls a doctor, he recovers but she leaves him for the doctor. The incident made him take a turn for added cynicism.
Musset took a minor part in the 1848 revolution. He died, forgotten by all, in 1857 - a year we shall come back to in a later post.
Ballade à la lune
(Ballad to the moon)
Listen to it here!
The Moon corresponded to Artémis / Diane in Greek/Roman mythology. She was reputed to be a huntress, and a virgin. A man called Actéon had the bad idea to spy on her and her equally virginal friends while they were bathing, and she turned him into a stag for his cheek. She's the sister of Apollo, the god of the sun and of artists, including poets, and he is sometimes identified to her (Pheobus is one of his nicknames, and Phoebe is another name for the moon).
See how the antique influences, while still there, are pushed into the background, while "normal people", even humour, come to the front? Even the narrator makes an appearance. And all is bathed in moonlight, in nostalgia, in melancholy...
Coming soon: Victor Hugo.
apisa_b. Thank you!1789 saw the little historic incident you might have heard about, usually called the French revolution. For a little moment, some 18th-century idealists, raised on philosophy and enlightment, thought it would be possible to make a fairer, better world without undue bloodshed. They were of course wrong, it turned into a messy, gory affair.
Then the lovers of Law and Order thought that a strong, authoritarian state - an Empire - would be the solution. It had its advantages - gifted individuals from lower social status could make a name for themselves, the law was valid for all people and not just for commoners, and that new system wasn't all that bad on the battlefield. But that too was crushed, the country was defeated, had to submit to the Vienna reorganisation of the civilised world, and came back to a stronger, sterner version of absolute monarchy.
And the sons of the idealist revolutionaries, of the proud bonapartist generals, soon learned that any attempt to change things, any transposition of one's ideals to reality, was doomed from the start. A whole generation was brought up in the nostalgia of Things That Could Not Be, and suffered because they had not been given a chance to be idealists too.
They read Goethe's Sufferings of the Young Werther, and some decided that suicide was indeed the best way out. The others, who were just as cynical about their world, decided to write poetry instead, and Alfred de Musset (1810-1857) was among them.
Musset was from a well-to-do family, connected to the literary circles of the time. He writes, mostly plays, falls in love with George Sand (a female writer and feminist); they go to Italy together, where he falls ill. She calls a doctor, he recovers but she leaves him for the doctor. The incident made him take a turn for added cynicism.
Musset took a minor part in the 1848 revolution. He died, forgotten by all, in 1857 - a year we shall come back to in a later post.
(Ballad to the moon)
Listen to it here!
| C'était, dans la nuit brune, Sur le clocher jauni, La lune, Comme un point sur un i. Lune, quel esprit sombre Promène au bout d'un fil, Dans l'ombre, Ta face et ton profil ? Es-tu l'œil du ciel borgne ? Quel chérubin cafard Nous lorgne Sous ton masque blafard ? N'es-tu rien qu'une boule ? Qu'un grand faucheux bien gras Qui roule Sans pattes et sans bras ? Es-tu, je t'en soupçonne, Le vieux cadran de fer Qui sonne L'heure aux damnés d'enfer ? Sur ton front qui voyage, Ce soir ont-ils compté Quel âge A leur éternité ? Est-ce un ver qui te ronge Quand ton disque noirci S'allonge En croissant rétréci ? Qui t'avait éborgnée L'autre nuit ? T'étais-tu Cognée A quel arbre pointu ? Car tu vins, pâle et morne, Coller sur mes carreaux Ta corne, A travers les barreaux. Va, lune moribonde, Le beau corps de Phoebé La blonde Dans la mer est tombé. Tu n'en es que la face, Et déjà, tout ridé, S'efface Ton front dépossédé. Rends-nous la chasseresse, Blanche, au sein virginal, Qui presse Quelque cerf matinal ! Oh ! sous le vert platane, Sous les frais coudriers, Diane, Et ses grands lévriers ! Le chevreau noir qui doute, Pendu sur un rocher, L'écoute, L'écoute s'approcher. Et, suivant leurs curées, Par les vaux, par les blés, Les prés, Ses chiens s'en sont allés. Oh ! le soir, dans la brise, Phoebé, sœur d'Apollo, Surprise A l'ombre, un pied dans l'eau ! Phoebé qui, la nuit close, Aux lèvres d'un berger Se pose, Comme un oiseau léger. Lune, en notre mémoire, De tes belles amours L'histoire T'embellira toujours. Et toujours rajeunie, Tu seras du passant Bénie, Pleine lune ou croissant. T'aimera le vieux pâtre, Seul, tandis qu'à ton front D'albâtre Ses dogues aboieront. T'aimera le pilote Dans son grand bâtiment, Qui flotte, Sous le clair firmament ! Et la fillette preste Qui passe le buisson, Pied leste, En chantant sa chanson. Comme un ours à la chaîne, Toujours sous tes yeux bleus Se traîne L'Océan monstrueux. Et qu'il vente ou qu'il neige, Moi-même, chaque soir, Que fais-je, Venant ici m'asseoir ? Je viens voir à la brune, Sur le clocher jauni, La lune Comme un point sur un i. Peut-être quand déchante Quelque pauvre mari, Méchante, De loin tu lui souris. Dans sa douleur amère, Quand au gendre béni La mère Livre la clef du nid, Le pied dans sa pantoufle, Voilà l'époux tout prêt Qui souffle Le bougeoir indiscret. Au pudique hyménée La vierge qui se croit Menée, Grelotte en son lit froid, Mais monsieur tout en flamme Commence à rudoyer Madame, Qui commence à crier. « Ouf ! dit-il, je travaille, Ma bonne, et ne fais rien Qui vaille; Tu ne te tiens pas bien. » Et vite il se dépêche. Mais quel démon caché L'empêche De commettre un péché ? « Ah ! dit-il, prenons garde. Quel témoin curieux Regarde Avec ces deux grands yeux ? » Et c'est, dans la nuit brune, Sur son clocher jauni, La lune Comme un point sur un i. |
It was, in the brown night On the yellowed bell-tower The moon Like a dot on an i. Moon, what dark spirit Walks, at the end of a string, In the dark, Your face and your profile? Are you the one-eyed sky's orb? What cherub roach Peers at us Under your bleak mask? Are you but a ball? But a big fat harvestman Who rolls Paw- and armless? Are you, as I suspect, The old iron dial That rings For hell's damned ? On your travelling brow Have they counted tonight How old Their eternity is? Are you gnawed at by a worm When your darkened disk Lengthens Into a narrowed crescent? Who poked your eye out The other night? Did you Bump against Some pointed tree? For you did come, pale and doleful To glue your horn On my panes Through the bars. Go, expiring moon, Blond Phoebe’s beautiful body Has fallen In the sea You are but its face And, already, your wrinkled Brow Disappears. Give us the white huntress Back, whose virgin chest Presses Some morning stag! Ah! Under the green plane-tree Under the fresh hazels Diane And her big greyhounds! The black goatling who doubts Hung on a rock Listens Listens as she comes near. And, following their quarries, By the vales, by the corns, The meadows, Her hounds went. Oh! The evening, in the breeze Phoebe, Apollo’s sister Surprised In the shade, a foot in the water! Phoebe who, as night closes To the shepherd’s lips Comes Like a light bird. Moon, as far as we remember, Around your beautiful loves History Will always make you prettier. And always made younger You shall be blessed By the walker-by Full moon or crescent. The elderly herdsman will love you Alone, while at his alasbaster Brow His mastiffs will bark. The pilot will love you In the great ship That floats Under the clear firmament! And the nimble little girl Who passes the bush Sure-footed Singing her song. Like a chained bear Always under you blue eyes Trudges The monstruous Ocean. By wind or snow I myself, every evening What do I do As I come to sit here? I come at night to see On the yellowed bell-tower The moon Like a dot on an i. Perhaps, when some Poor husband becomes disillusioned Mean, From afar you smile at him. In her bitter sorrow, For to her son-in-law The mother Gives the key to the nest, Foot in his slipper Here comes the husband, all ready Who blows The indiscreet candleholder. To her chaste marriage The virgin bride thinks She is led As she shivers in the cold bed, But Mister, all aflame Starts to mistreat Madam, Who begins to weep. “Oof!” he says, “I work, My dear, and you do nothing Worthwhile; You are not behaving well.” And quickly he hastens But what hidden demons Prevents him From committing a sin? “Ah!” says he, “let us be careful. What nosy witness Looks on With these two big eyes?” And it is, in the brown night On her bell-tower The moon Like a dot on an i. |
The Moon corresponded to Artémis / Diane in Greek/Roman mythology. She was reputed to be a huntress, and a virgin. A man called Actéon had the bad idea to spy on her and her equally virginal friends while they were bathing, and she turned him into a stag for his cheek. She's the sister of Apollo, the god of the sun and of artists, including poets, and he is sometimes identified to her (Pheobus is one of his nicknames, and Phoebe is another name for the moon).
See how the antique influences, while still there, are pushed into the background, while "normal people", even humour, come to the front? Even the narrator makes an appearance. And all is bathed in moonlight, in nostalgia, in melancholy...
Coming soon: Victor Hugo.
