À Victor
Andromaque, je pense à vous!
Ce petit fleuve,
Pauvre et triste miroir où jadis resplenditL'immense majesté de vos douleurs de veuve,
Ce Simoïs menteur qui par vos pleurs grandit,
A fécondé soudain ma mémoire fertile,
Comme je traversais le nouveau Carrousel.
Le vieux Paris n'est plus (la forme d'une
Change plus vite, hélas! que le coeur d'un mortel);
Je ne vois qu'en esprit tout ce camp de baraques,
Ces tas de chapiteaux ébauchés et de fûts,
Les herbes, les gros blocs verdis par l'eau des flaques,
Et, brillant aux carreaux, le bric-à-brac confus.
Là s'étalait jadis une ménagerie;
Là je vis, un matin, à l'heure où sous les
Froids et clairs le Travail s'éveille, où la
Pousse un sombre ouragan dans l'air silencieux,
Un cygne qui s'était évadé de sa cage,
Et, de ses pieds palmés frottant le pavé sec,
Sur le sol raboteux traînait son blanc plumage.
Près d'un ruisseau sans eau la bête ouvrant le
Baignait nerveusement ses ailes dans la poudre,
Et disait, le coeur plein de son beau lac natal:«Eau, quand donc pleuvras-tu? quand tonneras-tu, foudre?»Je vois ce malheureux, mythe étrange et fatal,
Vers le ciel quelquefois, comme l'homme d'Ovide,
Vers le ciel ironique et cruellement bleu,
Sur son cou convulsif tendant sa tête
Comme s'il adressait des reproches à Dieu!
Paris change! mais rien dans ma mélancolieN'a bougé! palais neufs, échafaudages, blocs,
Vieux faubourgs, tout pour moi devient
Et mes chers souvenirs sont plus lourds que des rocs.
Aussi devant ce Louvre une image m'opprime:
Je pense à mon grand cygne, avec ses gestes fous,
Comme les exilés, ridicule et
Et rongé d'un désir sans trêve! et puis à vous,
Andromaque, des bras d'un grand époux tombée,
Vil bétail, sous la main du superbe Pyrrhus,
Auprès d'un tombeau vide en extase
Veuve d'Hector, hélas! et femme d'Hélénus!
Je pense à la négresse, amaigrie et
Piétinant dans la boue, et cherchant, l'oeil hagard,
Les cocotiers absents de la superbe
Derrière la muraille immense du brouillard;À quiconque a perdu ce qui ne se
Jamais, jamais! à ceux qui s'abreuvent de
Et tètent la Douleur comme une bonne louve!
Aux maigres orphelins séchant comme des fleurs!
Ainsi dans la forêt où mon esprit
Un vieux Souvenir sonne à plein souffle du cor!
Je pense aux matelots oubliés dans une île,
Aux captifs, aux vaincus!... à bien d'autres encor!
The
To Victor
Andromache,
I think of you! — That little stream,
That mirror, poor and sad, which glittered long
With the vast majesty of your widow's grieving,
That false Simois swollen by your tears,
Suddenly made fruitful my teeming memory,
As I walked across the new Carrousel.— Old Paris is no more (the form of a city Changes more quickly, alas! than the human heart);
I see only in memory that camp of stalls,
Those piles of shafts, of rough hewn cornices, the grass,
The huge stone blocks stained green in puddles of water,
And in the windows shine the jumbled bric-a-brac.
Once a menagerie was set up there;
There, one morning, at the hour when Labor awakens,
Beneath the clear, cold sky when the dismal
Of street-cleaners and scavengers breaks the silence,
I saw a swan that had escaped from his cage,
That stroked the dry pavement with his webbed
And dragged his white plumage over the uneven ground.
Beside a dry gutter the bird opened his beak,
Restlessly bathed his wings in the
And cried, homesick for his fair native lake:"Rain, when will you fall?
Thunder, when will you roll?"I see that hapless bird, that strange and fatal myth,
Toward the sky at times, like the man in Ovid,
Toward the ironic, cruelly blue sky,
Stretch his avid head upon his quivering neck,
As if he were reproaching God!
Paris changes! but naught in my melancholy Has stirred!
New palaces, scaffolding, blocks of stone,
Old quarters, all become for me an allegory,
And my dear memories are heavier than rocks.
So, before the Louvre, an image oppresses me:
I think of my great swan with his crazy motions,
Ridiculous, sublime, like a man in exile,
Relentlessly gnawed by longing! and then of you,
Andromache, base chattel, fallen from the
Of a mighty husband into the hands of proud Pyrrhus,
Standing bowed in rapture before an empty tomb,
Widow of Hector, alas! and wife of Helenus!
I think of the negress, wasted and consumptive,
Trudging through muddy streets, seeking with a fixed gaze The absent coco-palms of splendid Africa Behind the immense wall of mist;
Of whoever has lost that which is never found Again!
Never!
Of those who deeply drink of tears And suckle Pain as they would suck the good she-wolf!
Of the puny orphans withering like flowers!
Thus in the dim forest to which my soul withdraws,
An ancient memory sounds loud the hunting horn!
I think of the sailors forgotten on some isle,— Of the captives, of the vanquished! many others too!— Translated by William
The Swan To Victor
Andromache! — This shallow stream, the
Mirror you once so grandly
With your vast majesty of widowed grief,
This lying Simois your tears enlarged,
Evoked your name, and made me think of you,
As I was crossing the new Carrousel.— Old Paris is no more (cities renew,
Quicker than human hearts, their changing spell).
In mind I see that camp of huts, the muddle Of rough-hewn roofs and leaning shafts for miles,
The grass, green logs stagnating in the puddle,
Where bric-a-brac lay glittering in piles.
Once a menagerie parked there.
And there it chanced one morning, when from slumber freed,
Labour stands up, and Transport through still air Rumbles its sombre hurricane of speed, — A swan escaped its cage: and as its feet With finny palms on the harsh pavement scraped,
Trailing white plumage on the stony street,
In the dry gutter for fresh water gaped.
Nervously bathing in the dust, in wonder It asked, remembering its native stream, "When will the rain come down?
When roll the thunder?" I see it now, strange myth and fatal theme!
Sometimes, like Ovid's wretch, towards the sky (Ironically blue with cruel smile) Its neck, convulsive, reared its head on high As though it were its Maker to revile.
Paris has changed, but in my grief no change.
New palaces and scaffoldings and blocks,
To me, are allegories, nothing strange.
My memories are heavier than rocks.
Passing the Louvre, one image makes me sad:
That swan, like other exiles that we knew,
Grandly absurd, with gestures of the mad,
Gnawed by one craving! — Then I think of you,
Who fell from your great husband's arms, to be A beast of freight for Pyrrhus, and for life,
Bowed by an empty tomb in ecstasy — Great Hector's widow!
Helenus's wife!
I think, too, of the starved and phthisic negress Tramping the mud, who seeks, with haggard eye,
The palms of Africa, and for some egress Out of this great black wall of foggy sky:
Of those who've lost what they cannot recover:
Of those who slake with tears their lonely hours And milk the she-wolf,
Sorrow, for their mother:
And skinny orphans withering like flowers.
So in the forest of my soul's exile,
Remembrance winds his horn as on he rides.
I think of sailors stranded on an isle,
Captives, and slaves — and many more besides.— Translated by Roy
Le CygneI Andromache, of thee I think! and ofthe dreary streamlet where, through exiled years,shone the vast grandeur of thy widow's love,that false Simois brimmed with royal tearspoured like the Nile across my memory strange,as past the Louvre new I strolled, apart.— Old Paris is no more (for cities change— alas! — more quickly than a mortal's heart);only my memory sees the capitals,the shafts unfinished once, in pools of rain,the slimy marble blocks, weeds, market-stallswith old brass gleaming through each dusty corner houses a whole menagerie once;and here one day I saw, when 'neath the faircold heavens,
Toil awoke, and over the stonesthe storm of traffic rent the silent air,a swan which from its cage had made escapepatting the torrid blocks with webby feet,trailing great plumes of snow, while beak agapefumbled for water in the parching street;wildly it plunged its wings in dust again,mourning its native lake, and seemed to shrill:"lightning, when comest thou? and when, the rain?"strange symbol! wretched bird,
I see it still,up to the sky, like Ovid's fool accurst,up to the cruelly blue ironic skyraising its neck convulsed and beak athirst,as though reproaching God in each mad cry.
II towns change... but in my melancholy naughthas moved at all! new portals, ladders, blocks,old alleys — all become symbolic thought,in me, loved memories turn to moveless , crushing me, the Louvre gates recallmy huge white swan, insane with agony,comic, sublime, like exiles one and allby truceless cravings torn!
I think of
Andromache, a slave apportioned, whomproud Pyrrhus took from hands more glorious,in ecstasy bent o'er an empty tomb;great Hector's widow, wed to Helenus!
I think of thee, consumptive Nubian,wading the mire, wan-eyed girl, agogto find the absent palms of proud Soudanbehind the boundless rampart of the fog;
I think of all who lose the boons we findno more! no more! who feed on tears and clingto the good she-wolf Grief, whose tears are kind!— of orphans gaunt like flowers withering!thus, in the jungle of my soul's exile,old memories wind a horn I've heard before!
I think of sailors wrecked on some lost isle,of prisoners, captives!... and many more!— Translated by Lewis Piaget Shanks"Le Cygne" (The Swan) is generally acknowledged to be Baudelaire's greatest poem.
