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The Poet
The ill I suffered has fled like a dream.
I can compare its distant memory
only to those light mists that dawn lifts,
and that with the dew one sees vanish.
The Muse
What ailed you then, O my poet!
And what is the secret sorrow
that separated you from me?
Alas! I still feel it.
What is this ill I do not know
and for which I have so long wept?
The Poet
It was a common ill, well known to men;
but when we have some trouble in the heart,
we imagine, poor fools that we are,
that no one before us has felt the pain.
The Muse
There is no vulgar grief
but that of a vulgar soul.
Friend, let this sad mystery
escape today from your breast.
Believe me, speak with confidence;
the severe god of silence
is one of the brothers of Death;
by complaining one is consoled,
and sometimes a word
has delivered us from a remorse.
The Poet
If I had now to speak of my suffering,
I do not know quite what name it should bear,
whether it is love, madness, pride, experience,
nor whether anyone in the world could profit from it.
Yet I am willing to tell you its story,
since here we are alone, seated by the hearth.
Take this lyre, come near, and let my memory
at the sound of your chords gently awaken.
The Muse
Before telling me your sorrow,
O poet! are you cured of it?
Remember that today you must
speak of it without love and without hate.
If you recall that I received
the sweet name of consoler,
do not make of me the accomplice
of the passions that ruined you.
The Poet
I am so well cured of this malady
that I sometimes doubt it when I try to think of it;
and when I think of the places where I risked my life,
I seem to see in my place a stranger’s face.
Muse, be therefore without fear; to the breath that inspires you
we can both entrust ourselves without peril.
It is sweet to weep, it is sweet to smile
at the memory of the ills one could forget.
The Muse
Like a watchful mother
at the cradle of a beloved son,
so I lean trembling
over this heart that was closed to me.
Speak, friend, — my attentive lyre
with a faint and plaintive note
already follows the accent of your voice,
and in a ray of light,
like a light vision,
the shadows of the past pass by.
The Poet
Days of work! only days when I have lived!
O thrice dear solitude!
God be praised, I have therefore returned
to this old study!
Poor little room, walls so many times deserted,
dusty armchairs, faithful lamp,
O my palace, my little universe,
and you, Muse, O young immortal,
God be praised, we shall therefore sing!
Yes, I want to open my soul to you,
you shall know all, and I will tell you
the harm a woman can do;
for it is one, O my poor friends
(Alas! perhaps you knew it),
it is a woman to whom I was subjected,
as the serf is to his master.
Hated yoke! it is through this that my heart
lost its strength and its youth;
and yet, near my mistress,
I had glimpsed happiness.
By the stream, when we walked together,
in the evening, on the silvery sand,
when before us the white specter of the aspen
showed us the way from afar;
I still see, in the moon’s rays,
that beautiful body bending in my arms…
Let us speak no more of it… — I did not foresee
where Fortune would lead me.
Doubtless then the wrath of the gods
needed a victim;
for she punished me as for a crime
for having tried to be happy.
The Muse
The image of a sweet memory
has just offered itself to your thought.
On the trace it has left
why do you fear to return?
Is it to tell a faithful story
to disown one’s fair days?
If your fortune was cruel,
young man, at least do as she does,
smile at your first loves.
The Poet
No — it is at my misfortunes that I intend to smile.
Muse, I have told you: I want, without passion,
to tell you my troubles, my dreams, my delirium,
and to tell you the time, the hour, and the occasion.
It was, I remember, on an autumn night,
sad and cold, almost like this one;
the murmur of the wind, with its monotone sound,
lulled my dark care in my weary brain.
I was at the window, waiting for my mistress;
and, while listening in that darkness,
I felt in my soul such distress
that the suspicion of an infidelity came to me.
The street where I lodged was dark and deserted;
some shadows passed, a lantern in hand;
when the north wind whistled in the half-open door,
one heard from afar something like a human sigh.
I do not know, to tell the truth, to what evil omen
my anxious mind then abandoned itself.
I recalled in vain a remnant of courage,
and felt myself shudder when the hour struck.
She was not coming. Alone, head bowed,
I looked for a long time at the walls and the road,
and I have not told you what mad ardor
this inconstant woman kindled in my breast;
I loved only her in the world, and to live a day without her
seemed to me a fate more frightful than death.
I remember yet that on that cruel night
to break my bond I made a long effort.
I called her a hundred times perfidious and disloyal,
I counted all the ills she had caused me.
Alas! at the memory of her fatal beauty,
what ills and what sorrows were not appeased!
Day appeared at last. — Weary of a vain wait,
on the edge of the balcony I had dozed off;
I opened my eyelids at the newborn dawn,
and let my dazzled gaze float.
Suddenly, at the turn of the narrow lane,
I hear on the gravel a soft footstep…
Great God! preserve me! I see her, it is she;
she enters. — Where do you come from? What have you done tonight?
Answer, what do you want of me? who brings you at this hour?
That beautiful body, until day, where did it lie?
While at this balcony, alone, I watch and weep,
in what place, in what bed, at whom were you smiling?
Perfidious! audacious! is it still possible
that you come to offer your mouth to my kisses?
What then do you ask? by what horrible thirst
dare you draw me into your exhausted arms?
Go away, withdraw, specter of my mistress!
Return to your tomb, if you have risen from it;
let me forever forget my youth,
and, when I think of you, believe that I dreamed!
The Muse
Calm yourself, I beg you;
your words have made me shudder.
O my beloved! your wound
is still ready to reopen.
Alas! is it then so deep?
And the miseries of this world
are so slow to fade!
Forget, child, and from your soul
drive out the name of that woman,
which I do not wish to pronounce.
The Poet
Shame on you who first
taught me betrayal,
and with horror and anger
made me lose my reason!
Shame on you, woman with the dark eye,
whose fatal loves
buried in shadow
my spring and my fair days!
It is your voice, it is your smile,
it is your corrupting gaze,
that taught me to curse
even the semblance of happiness;
it is your youth and your charms
that made me despair,
and if I doubt tears,
it is because I saw you weep.
Shame on you, I was still
as simple as a child;
like a flower at dawn,
my heart opened in loving you.
Indeed, this defenseless heart
could easily be deceived;
but to leave it its innocence
was still easier.
Shame on you! you were the mother
of my first sorrows,
and you made from my eyelid
spring the source of tears!
It flows, be sure of it,
and nothing will dry it up;
it comes from a wound
that will never heal;
but in this bitter source
at least I will wash myself,
and there I will leave, I hope,
your abhorred memory!
The Muse
Poet, that is enough. Beside an unfaithful woman,
even if your illusion lasted only a day,
do not insult that day when you speak of her;
if you wish to be loved, respect your love.
If the effort is too great for human weakness
to forgive the ills that come to us from others,
spare yourself at least the torment of hatred;
if not pardon, let forgetfulness come.
The dead sleep in peace in the bosom of the earth:
so should our extinguished feelings sleep.
These relics of the heart have also their dust;
let us not lay hands on their sacred remains.
Why, in this tale of a keen suffering,
do you wish to see only a dream and a deceived love?
Is it then without motive that Providence acts,
and do you think the God who struck you is distracted?
The blow of which you complain may have preserved you,
child; for it is through it that your heart opened.
Man is an apprentice, sorrow is his master,
and no one knows himself until he has suffered.
It is a hard law, but a supreme law,
as old as the world and fate,
that we must receive the baptism of misfortune,
and that at this sad price everything must be bought.
Harvests need dew to ripen;
to live and to feel, man needs tears;
joy has as its symbol a broken plant,
still wet with rain and covered with flowers.
Did you not say you were cured of your folly?
Are you not young, happy, welcome everywhere?
And those light pleasures that make life loved,
if you had not wept, what account would you make of them?
When at the decline of day, seated on the heather,
with an old friend you drink in freedom,
tell me, would you raise your glass with as good a heart,
if you had not felt the price of gaiety?
Would you love flowers, meadows, and greenery,
Petrarch’s sonnets and the song of birds,
Michelangelo and the arts, Shakespeare and nature,
if you did not find in them some ancient sobs?
Would you understand the ineffable harmony of the skies,
the silence of nights, the murmur of the waves,
if somewhere down there fever and insomnia
had not made you dream of eternal rest?
Do you not now have a beautiful mistress?
And, when falling asleep you press her hand,
does not the distant memory of the ills of your youth
make her divine smile sweeter?
Will you not also go walking together
deep in flowering woods, on the silvery sand?
And, in that green palace, the white specter of the aspen
does it no longer know, in the evening, how to show you the way?
Do you not see then, in the moon’s rays,
a beautiful body bending in your arms as of old,
and if on the path you found Fortune,
would you not walk behind her, singing?
Of what then do you complain? Immortal hope
has been tempered anew in you under the hand of misfortune.
Why do you wish to hate your young experience,
and detest an ill that has made you better?
O my child! pity her, that beautiful unfaithful woman,
who once made the tears flow from your eyes;
pity her! she is a woman, and God made you, near her,
guess, in suffering, the secret of the happy.
Her task was painful; perhaps she loved you;
but destiny willed that she break your heart.
She knew life, and made you know it;
another has gathered the fruit of your sorrow.
Pity her! her sad love passed like a dream;
she saw your wound and could not close it.
In her tears, believe me, not everything was a lie.
Even if everything had been, pity her! you know how to love.
The Poet
You speak the truth: hatred is impious,
and it is a shudder full of horror
when this drowsy viper
uncoils in our heart.
Listen to me then, O goddess!
and be witness to my oath:
by my mistress’s blue eyes,
and by the azure of the firmament;
by that brilliant spark
that bears the name of Venus,
and, like a trembling pearl,
sparkles far off on the horizon;
by the grandeur of nature,
by the goodness of the Creator,
by the tranquil and pure clarity
of the star dear to the traveler;
by the grasses of the prairie,
by the forests, by the green meadows,
by the power of life,
by the sap of the universe,
I banish you from my memory,
remnant of an insane love,
mysterious and dark story
that will sleep in the past!
And you who, once, of a friend
bore the form and the sweet name,
the supreme instant when I forget you
must be that of pardon.
Let us forgive each other; — I break the charm
that united us before God.
With one last tear
receive an eternal farewell.
— And now, blonde dreamer,
now, Muse, to our loves!
Sing me some joyful song,
as in the first time of fair days.
Already the scented lawn
feels the approach of morning;
come awaken my beloved,
and gather the flowers of the garden.
Come see immortal nature
emerge from the veils of sleep;
we shall be reborn with her
at the first ray of the sun!
Alfred De Musset
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-the-october-night-alfred-de-musset/