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I
The church is vast and high. To its superb steeples
The flowering ogive suspends its trefoils and its sheaves;
Its portal gleams, provided with its rose;
Evening swarms beneath the enormous archway
Angels, virgins, heaven, dark and misshapen hell,
A whole world terrifying as a dream half-seen.
But it is not the church, and its sublime vaults,
Its porches, its stained glass, its glimmers, its abysses,
Its facade and its towers, that fascinate my eyes;
No; it is, close by, in the shadow where the soul loves to descend,
That room from which a resonant and tender song comes forth,
Perched on the edge of a roof like a joyful bird.
Yes, the edifice is beautiful, but this room is gentle.
I love the lofty oak less than the nest of moss;
I love the wind of the meadows more than the harsh hurricane;
My heart, when it strays toward the gaping waves,
Prefers the dark seaweed to the giant cliffs.
And the happy swallow to the splendid ocean.
II
Fresh little nook! through a clear leafy screen
Its window, small and as if amazed,
Blooms beside the Gothic portal.
Its green blind, hung on three nails,
Escaping at one end, held at the other,
Opens coquettishly like a great fan.
Outside a beautiful lily, surrounded by a spell,
Fills with its root and its flower —
Close to the gutter where a sly cat sleeps —
A vase of strange shape in blue porcelain
Where shines, with peacocks spreading their broad tails,
That beautiful azure land the Chinese dream of.
And inside, at moments, gleams and passes
A shadow, a figure, a fairy, a grace,
A young girl of the people with a song full of happiness,
An orphan, they say, and alone in this asylum,
But who sometimes seems, so tranquil is her brow,
To see distinctly the face of the Lord.
One feels, merely seeing her, her profound dignity.
In this heart without mud no wind has troubled the wave.
This tender bird that chatters knows nothing of the fowler.
The butterfly’s wing has all its dust.
The soul of the humble virgin has all its light.
The pearl of dawn is still in the flower.
To the dark garret it seems the eye sees
All a world of joy gently converging,
The square, the passersby, the children, their frolics,
The women disappearing under the church with slow steps,
Brows expanded by the song of the streets,
A thousand rays from above, a thousand reflections from below.
Happy girl! around her as around a temple,
All is modest and gentle, all gives a good example.
The bee makes its honey, the flower laughs at the blue sky,
The tower spreads shade, and, before the window,
Without fail, each evening, to obey the master,
The star humbly lights its crown of fire.
On her beautiful neck, marked by pure virginity,
No haughty lace or rich guipure;
But a simple handkerchief modestly tied.
No pearl on her brow, but also no wrinkle,
But a chaste and lively eye, but a limpid gaze.
Where does the gaze shine that the diamond serves?
III
The corner of the cell shelters a peaceful bed.
On the table is that book where God becomes visible,
The legend of the saints, sole and true pantheon.
And in a dark corner, near the fireplace,
Between the good Virgin and the year’s boxwood,
Four pins on the wall fix Napoleon.
That eagle in this cage! — and why not? in the shadow
Of this narrow and calm room, where nothing is dark,
Where the beautiful child sleeps, gentle as her lily,
Where so much peace, grace, and joy is poured,
I do not hate to hear in the depths of my thought
The noise of heavy cannons rolling toward Austerlitz.
And near the emperor before whom all bows,
— O legitimate pride of the poor orphan! —
Shines a cross of honor, humble and triumphant sign,
Cross of a soldier, fallen as every hero falls,
And who, father asleep, from the depths of his tomb
Keeps a little glory watching beside his child.
IV
Cross of Napoleon! warrior jewel! thought!
Crown of laurel traversed by rays!
When he led his brave men to fierce combats,
He left it, in order to conquer the earth,
Hanging on all brows throughout the whole war;
Then, the great work done, he said to them: Come!
Then he gave his cross to these stoic men,
And tears flowed from their heroic eyes;
Silent, they admired their victorious demigod;
One would have said that, lighting their soul with his soul,
By touching their chest with his finger of flame,
He made this star of the heart spring forth from them!
V
In the morning she sings and then she works,
Serious, her feet on her straw chair,
Sewing, cutting, embroidering some chosen designs;
And, while, thinking of God, simple and without fear,
This virgin accomplishes her august and holy task,
Dreamy silence sits at her door.
Thus, Lord, your hands cover this dwelling.
In this dark asylum, which no care brushes,
Nothing that is not sacred, nothing that is not charming!
This soul, praying to you for those whose dark ship sinks,
Can rise each evening toward you without casting a shadow
In the serenity of your firmament!
No danger! no reef! — Yes! the asp is in the grass!
Alas! alas! the worm is in the superb fruit!
To trouble a life a single glance suffices.
Evil can show itself even in the light of a candle.
The curiosity that the virgin’s mind has
Makes a wound in the woman’s heart later.
Full of these shameful songs, disgust of memory,
An old book is up there on an old cupboard,
Forgotten by some vile passerby in this shadow;
Novel of the last century! work of ignominy!
Voltaire then reigned, that monkey of genius
Sent by the devil to man on a mission.
VI
Epoch that kept, reddened with wine and blood,
Even in dying, the bearing of an orgy!
O eighteenth century, impious and chastised!
Society without God, by whom you were struck!
You who, shattering under the axe both scepter and sword,
Young offended love, and old, pity!
Table of a long feast that a scaffold ends!
World, blind to Christ, whom Satan illuminates!
Shame on your writers before the nations!
The shadow of your crimes is in their renown
As from a cauldron smoke comes out,
Their dark glory comes from revolutions!
VII
Frail boat dozing a few steps from a gulf!
Take care, child! tender heart where nothing yet suffers!
O poor daughter of Eve! O poor young spirit!
Voltaire, the serpent, doubt, irony,
Voltaire is in a corner of your blessed room!
With his eye of flame he spies on you, and laughs.
Oh! tremble! this sophist has sounded many a mire!
Oh! tremble! this false sage has lost many angels!
This demon, black kite, swoops down on pious hearts,
And breaks them, and often, under his cruel claws,
Feather by feather I have seen fall these white wings
That make a soul fly and flee into the heavens!
He counts the countless beats of your breast.
The slightest movement of your mind in the shadow,
If it leans a little toward him, makes his eye shine.
And, like a wolf prowling, like a tiger lying in wait,
At moments, from Satan, visible only to the poet,
The monstrous head appears at your threshold!
VIII
Alas! if your chaste hand opened this infamous book,
You would suddenly feel God die in your soul.
This evening you would bow your sad and sulking brow
To see passing far off in some green alley
The sparkling chariots with starry wheels,
And tomorrow you would laugh at holy modesty!
Your bed, troubled at night by strange visions,
Would put to flight sleep, the most fearful of angels!
You would no longer sleep, you would no longer sing,
And your spirit, fallen into the ocean of dreams,
Would go, uprooted like the grass of the shores,
From pleasure to opprobrium and from flow to ebb!
IX
Oh! your father’s cross is there watching you!
The cross of the old soldier dead in the old guard!
Let yourself be advised by it, tempted angel!
Let yourself be advised, guided, perhaps saved
By this fraternal lily leaning over your window,
That mingles its perfume with your virginity!
By every shadow that passes lowering its eyelid!
By the old saints ranged under the stone portal!
By the white dove with rapid farewells!
By the ardent organ whose hymn breaks into long sobs!
Let yourself be advised by the pensive church!
Let yourself be advised by the radiant sky!
Let yourself be advised by the worker’s needle,
Present at your labor, present at your prayer,
Which says softly: Work! — Oh! believe it! — God, you see,
Made born from work, which the madman repels,
Two daughters, virtue, which makes gentle gaiety,
And gaiety, which makes virtue charming!
Hear these thousand voices, accented with love,
That pass in the wind, that fall from the clouds,
That rise vaguely from silent thresholds,
That the dew brings with its chaste drops,
That the song of birds repeats to you, and that all
Tell you at once: Be pure under the heavens!
Be pure under the heavens! like the wave and the dawn,
Like the joyful nest, like the sonorous tower,
Like the blond sheaf, love of the reaper,
Like the inclined star, like the leaning flower,
Like all that laughs, like all that sings,
Like all that sleeps in the peace of the Lord!
Be calm. Rest goes from the heart to the face;
Tranquility makes the majesty of the sage.
Be joyful. Faith lives without austerity;
One of the reflections of heaven is the laughter of women;
Joy is the warmth that this clarity from above,
Which is called Truth, casts into souls.
Joy is for the spirit a rich belt.
Joy softens everything in immense nature.
God on the old towers places the charming nest
And the flowering brush that gleams in the thick grass;
For ruin itself around its sadness
Needs youth and radiance!
Be good. Goodness contains the other things.
The indulgent Lord on whom you rest
Composes from goodness the fraternal thinker.
Goodness is the foundation of august natures.
From a single virtue God makes the heart of the just,
As from a single sapphire the dome of the sky.
Thus, you will remain, like a lily, like a swan,
White among pure brows marked with a divine sign
And you will be of those who, without fear, without troubles,
Amassing the wealth of holy actions,
Range their boat in port, their life in wisdom
And, praying every evening, sleep every night!
THE POET TO HIMSELF
While over the woods, the meadows and the bowers,
The light and the splendor of the heavens pour out,
You, serene poet, pour out over the families,
Pour out over the children and over the young girls,
Pour out over the old men your religious song!
Point out the shore to all those whom a sail
Drags on the black flood by wind-tossed waves;
To virgins, innocence, happy and noble star;
To the crowd, the altar that impiety veils;
To the young, the future; to the old, eternity!
Make your reason filter into man and into woman.
Show each the true from the gripping side.
May every thinker find in you what he demands.
Plunge God into hearts, and throw into each soul
A revealing word, suited to what it feels.
Thus, without noise, in the shadow, O solitary dreamer,
Your spirit, from which springs your verse that God blesses,
Pierces the austere skull of the people beneath your feet; —
Like a slow and sure wedge, in the flanks of the earth
The root of the oak splits open the granite.
Victor Hugo
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-a-look-thrown-into-a-garret-victor-hugo/