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To Clary.
You do not know, Clary, when, happy, delighted,
You offer me your shoulder and your forehead in turn,
That in the double cup where I draw life
There is another taste than that of love…
O my dear Clary, you surely do not know
That behind us there is a funereal Cupbearer
Whose hand must first pour, drop by drop,
Into every love a cold poison.
As soon as we love each other, this terrible Cupbearer
Appears, ? and grows, like a fatal specter;
He never leaves us… present, though invisible,
Mysterious vassal of shared love.
Wherever we go, like a sinister Page,
He clings to our steps, he stays at our sides,
And the horrible poison that at first he rations
Soon he pours in torrents!
He pours it and we drink… In the eyes we adore
From the spilled poison are born, alas! tears;
They flow; we drink them; ? but he, he pours again,
And the cruel poison has filtered into our hearts!
He pours; ? and the kiss freezes on pure lips;
He pours; ? and all perishes of the freshest loves!
But, as if indifferent to so much withering,
The Poisoner always pours!…
Have you never seen him, this pale and black Genius
Who is born with love to make it die?
Have you never felt slipping into your life
The poison that, later, must so well wither it?
Have you never felt, on your avid lips,
The frightful philter of the Cupbearer of death pass?…
For the day is perhaps not far off when, hands empty,
He will have nothing left to pour!
And when that day comes all is over for the soul;
All regrets are vain, all tears superfluous!
The lover is no more than a man, and the lover a woman,
And those who loved each other so much, alas! no longer love each other!
A clarity bursts forth, a cruel clarity,
That shows the debris of the broken, vanquished heart;
“It is no longer you!” he says. ? “It is no longer you!” she says
The mask falls, and they have seen each other.
O my poor Clary, my faithful mistress,
Will we see each other one day thus (jealous fate! ),
Without this divine mask that youth puts on us,
Mask of illusions, a hundred times more beautiful than we?
Will we see, my Clary, ? great God! must we believe it? ?
The black Poisoner between us some day,
All ready to pour for us, and we all ready to drink,
The dreadful weariness of love?
Alas! it is already done… I have drunk the cold brew
That the Cupbearer of death pours, ? and that must be drained;
And I have felt, Clary, each day more,
That I would exhaust it without being able to die from it!
If it is sweet for you to love me, preserve your tenderness,
Do not drink until very late, very long after me!
And still dream the love of the heart that abandons you…
Of the sad heart that was yours!
February 1843.
Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly
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-cupbearer-jules-barbey-d-aurevilly/