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I was alone, the other evening, at the Théâtre Français,
Or almost alone; the author had not much success.
It was only Molière, and we know full well
That this great bungler, who one day created Alceste,
Ignored the fine art of tickling the mind
And of serving up a well-cooked denouement at the right moment.
Thank God, our authors have changed their method,
And we much prefer some fashionable drama
Where the plot, entangled and rolled into festoons,
Turns like a rebus around a mirliton.
I was listening, however, to that simple harmony,
And as good sense makes genius speak.
I admired what love for harsh truth
This man so proud in his naivety had,
What great and true knowledge of the things of this world,
What manly gaiety, so sad and so profound
That, when one has just laughed at it, one should weep!
And I asked myself: Is it enough to admire?
Is it enough to come, one evening, by chance,
To hear in the depths of the soul a cry of nature,
To wipe away a tear, and to leave thus,
Whatever else one does, without taking heed?
Sunk as I was in this reverie,
Here and there, however, eyeing the gallery,
I saw that, before me, there swayed gaily
Beneath a black braid a slender and charming neck;
And, seeing this ebony set in ivory,
A verse of André Chénier sang in my memory,
An almost unknown verse, unfinished refrain,
Fresh as chance, less written than dreamed.
I dared to remember it, even before Molière;
His great shadow, to be sure, was not offended by it;
And, while listening, I murmured under my breath,
Looking at that child, who had no idea of it:
“Beneath your lovely head, a white, delicate neck,
Bends, and would efface the brightness of snow.”
Then I mused further (thus thought goes)
That ancient frankness, so abandoned,
With our finesse and our mocking wit,
Would make one believe, after all, that we lack heart;
That it was a sad and shameful misery
That this solitude around Molière,
And that it is yet time, as the song says,
To leave this century or to set it right;
For to what compare this mired scene,
And the dreadful shame into which the muse has fallen?
Cowardice bridles us, and fools go saying
That, under this old sun, everything is done at present;
As if the failings of the human family
Did not grow young again each year, each week.
Our century has its customs, hence, its truth;
He who dares to speak it is always heard.
Ah! I would dare to speak, if I believed I spoke well,
I would dare to pick up the whip of satire,
And dress him in black, that man with green ribbons,
Who once grew angry over a few bad verses.
If he returned today to Paris, the great city,
He would find better there to stir his bile
Than a wicked woman and a wicked sonnet;
We have other things to put in the cabinet. O our master of us all, if your tomb is closed,
Let me in your ashes, revived for an instant,
Find a spark, and I will imitate you!
I will have done enough if I can attempt it.
Teach me in what tone, in your bold mouth,
Truth spoke, your only passion,
And, to make myself heard, lacking genius,
I will have its courage and indignation!
Thus I caressed a mad chimera.
Before me, however, beside her mother,
The child remained always, and the slender white neck
Under the long black hair swayed softly.
The play over, the charming unknown
Rose. The beautiful neck, the half-bare shoulder,
Veiled themselves; the hand slipped into the muff;
And, when I saw her at the threshold of her house
Flee, I realized that I had followed her.
Alas! my dear friend, that is my whole life.
While my mind sought its will,
My body knew its own and followed beauty;
And, when I awoke from this reverie,
Nothing remained to me but the cherished image:
“Beneath your lovely head, a white, delicate neck,
Bends, and would efface the brightness of snow.”
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-a-lost-evening-alfred-de-musset/