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The poet.
In the days when I was a schoolboy,
I stayed up one evening keeping watch
In our lonely study hall.
Before my table came and sat down
A poor child dressed in black,
Who resembled me like a brother.
His face was sad and beautiful:
By the glow of my candle,
He came to read in my open book.
He rested his brow upon his hand,
And remained until the next day,
Thoughtful, with a gentle smile.
As I was about to turn fifteen,
I was walking one day, with slow steps,
In a wood, on a heath.
At the foot of a tree came and sat down
A young man dressed in black,
Who resembled me like a brother.
I asked him my way;
He held a lute in one hand,
In the other a bouquet of wild rose.
He gave me a friendly bow,
And, turning half away,
Pointed out the hill to me.
At the age when one believes in love,
I was alone in my room one day,
Weeping my first sorrow.
In the corner of my hearth came and sat down
A stranger dressed in black,
Who resembled me like a brother.
He was gloomy and careworn;
With one hand he pointed to the heavens,
And in the other he held a sword.
He seemed to suffer from my pain,
But he only heaved a sigh,
And vanished like a dream.
At the age when one is a libertine,
To drink a toast at a feast,
One day I raised my glass.
Opposite me came and sat down
A guest dressed in black,
Who resembled me like a brother.
He was shaking beneath his cloak
A tattered shred of purple,
On his head a barren myrtle.
His thin arm sought mine,
And my glass, touching his,
Broke in my feeble hand.
A year later, it was night;
I was on my knees beside the bed
Where my father had just died.
At the bedside came and sat down
An orphan dressed in black,
Who resembled me like a brother.
His eyes were drowned in tears;
Like the angels of sorrow,
He was crowned with thorns;
His lute lay on the ground,
His purple the color of blood,
And his sword in his breast.
I remembered it so well,
That I have always recognized him
At every moment of my life.
It is a strange vision,
And yet, angel or demon,
I have seen everywhere that friendly shadow.
When later, weary of suffering,
To be reborn or to make an end,
I wanted to exile myself from France;
When, impatient to walk,
I wanted to leave, and to seek
The vestiges of a hope;
At Pisa, at the foot of the Apennines;
At Cologne, facing the Rhine;
At Nice, on the slope of the valleys;
At Florence, in the depths of the palaces;
At Brigues, in the old chalets;
In the midst of the desolate Alps;
At Genoa, beneath the lemon trees;
At Vevey, beneath the green apple trees;
At Le Havre, before the Atlantic;
At Venice, on the dreadful Lido,
Where on the grass of a tomb
Comes to die the pale Adriatic;
Everywhere, beneath these vast skies,
Where I have wearied my heart and my eyes,
Bleeding from an eternal wound;
Everywhere the limping Ennui,
Dragging my fatigue after him,
Has led me about on a litter;
Everywhere, ceaselessly thirsting
With the thirst of an unknown world,
I have followed the shadow of my dreams;
Everywhere, without having lived,
I have seen again what I had seen,
The human face and its lies;
Everywhere, along the roads,
I have laid my forehead in my hands,
And sobbed like a woman;
Everywhere, like a sheep,
That leaves its wool on the bush,
I have felt my soul laid bare;
Everywhere I have wanted to sleep,
Everywhere I have wanted to die,
Everywhere I have touched the earth,
On my path has come and sat down
An unfortunate dressed in black,
Who resembled me like a brother.
Who then are you, you whom in this life
I always see on my path?
I cannot believe, from your melancholy,
That you are my evil Destiny.
Your gentle smile has too much patience,
Your tears have too much pity.
Seeing you, I love Providence.
Your very sorrow is sister to my suffering;
It resembles Friendship.
Who then are you? — You are not my good angel,
You never come to warn me.
You see my woes (it is a strange thing!)
And you watch me suffer.
For twenty years you have walked in my path,
And I could not call you by name.
Who then are you, if it is God who sends you?
You smile at me without sharing my joy,
You pity me without consoling me!
This evening again I saw you appear to me.
It was on a sad night.
The wing of the winds beat at my window;
I was alone, bent over my bed.
I was looking there at a cherished place,
Still warm from a burning kiss;
And I mused how a woman forgets,
And I felt a shred of my life
Tearing slowly away.
I was gathering letters from the day before,
Some hair, debris of love.
All that past cried in my ear
Its eternal vows of a day.
I contemplated these sacred relics,
That made my hand tremble:
Tears of the heart devoured by the heart,
And which the eyes that had wept them
Will no longer recognize tomorrow!
I wrapped in a piece of coarse cloth
These ruins of happy days.
I told myself that here below what endures
Is a lock of hair.
Like a diver in a deep sea,
I lost myself in so much oblivion.
On all sides I sent the sounding line back down,
And I wept, alone, far from the eyes of the world,
My poor buried love.
I was about to place the seal of black wax
On this fragile and dear treasure.
I was about to give it back, and, unable to believe it,
Weeping, I still doubted it.
Ah! weak woman, proud and foolish,
In spite of yourself, you will remember it!
Why, great God! lie to one’s own thought?
Why these tears, this oppressed breast,
These sobs, if you did not love?
Yes, you languish, you suffer, and you weep;
But your chimera is between us.
Well then! farewell! You will count the hours
That will separate me from you.
Go, go, and into this heart of ice
Carry your satisfied pride.
I still feel mine young and vigorous,
And many woes may find a place in it
For the harm you have done me.
Go, go! immortal Nature
Did not wish to give you everything.
Ah! poor child, who wish to be beautiful,
And do not know how to forgive!
Go, go, follow destiny;
Whoever loses you has not lost everything.
Throw to the wind our consumed love; —
Eternal God! you whom I have loved so much,
If you leave, why do you love me?
But suddenly I saw in the dark night
A form glide by without a sound.
On my curtain I saw a shadow pass;
It comes to sit down on my bed.
Who then are you, gloomy and pale face,
Somber portrait dressed in black?
What do you want of me, sad bird of passage?
Is it a vain dream? is it my own image
That I perceive in this mirror?
Who then are you, specter of my youth,
Pilgrim whom nothing has wearied?
Tell me why I find you ceaselessly
Seated in the shadow where I have passed.
Who then are you, solitary visitor,
Assiduous guest of my sorrows?
What then have you done to follow me on earth?
Who then are you, who then are you, my brother,
Who appear only on the day of tears?
The vision.
— Friend, our father is yours.
I am neither the guardian angel,
Nor the evil destiny of men.
Those whom I love, I do not know
Toward which side their steps go
On this little mire where we are.
I am neither god nor demon,
And you have named me by my name
When you called me your brother;
Where you go, I will always be there,
Until the last of your days,
Where I will go sit upon your stone.
Heaven has entrusted your heart to me.
When you are in sorrow,
Come to me without worry.
I will follow you on the path;
But I cannot touch your hand,
Friend, I am Solitude.
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-december-night-alfred-de-musset/