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So, my dear, you have come back
From the land I remember
As if from a dream,
From those fair places where the orange tree
Was born to compensate us
For Eve’s sin.
You have seen it, that enchanted sky
That shows with such clarity
The great mystery;
So pure that a sigh rises to God
More freely than in any place
That is on earth.
You have seen them, the old manors
Of that city with black palaces
That was Florence,
More boring than Milan
Where, at least, four or five times a year,
Cerrito dances.
You have seen her, seated in the water,
Gaily wearing her mezzaro,
Beautiful Genoa,
Her face painted, her eye bright,
Who babbles and plays laughing
With her chains.
You have seen it, that ancient port,
Where, in its great dead language,
The wave murmurs,
Where Stendhal, that charming spirit,
So devoutly filled
His sinecure.
You have seen it, that haughty phantom
That once had the whole world
Under its empire.
Caesar in his purple has fallen:
In a little abbot’s cloak
His widow expires.
You have been lulled on that pure wave
Where Naples sets in the azure
Its mosaic,
Pillow of the lazzaroni
Where macaroni were born
And music.
Whether cunning, simple, or mocking,
Does it not leave in our heart
A strange charm,
This people friendly to gaiety
Who would give glory and beauty
For an orange?
Catania and Palermo pleased you.
I say nothing of it; we have read you;
But you are accused
Of having spoken very tenderly,
Less as a traveler than as a lover,
Of Syracuse.
They are beautiful, when the weather is fine,
Those almost Mohammedan eyes
Of Sicily;
Their calm gaze is ardent,
And to speak well in response
Is not easy.
They are gentle especially when, in the evening,
Passes in her black domino
The toppatelle.
One can approach her without danger,
And say: “I am a foreigner,
You are beautiful.”
Ischia! It is there that one has eyes,
It is there that an amorous bodice
Tightens the hip.
On a well-drawn red stocking
Shines, under the gilded petticoat,
The white mule.
Poor Ischia! many people have seen
Your young girls only barefoot
In the dust.
They are dressed up at the price of gold;
But your pure sun still shines
On their misery.
Be that as it may, it is certain
That Latin is not spoken
In the Abruzzi,
And that never a postilion
Will there be the child of Apollo
Nor of the nine Muses.
It is bizarre, assuredly,
That Minturnae is precisely
Near Capua.
There fell two demigods,
All besmeared, one with old wine,
The other with mud.
Did the brigands stop you
On the much-dreaded road
Of Terracina?
Did you see them in the reeds
Where the buffalo with broad nostrils
Sleeps and ruminates?
Alas! alas! you saw nothing.
O (as they say) time deprived
Of poetry!
These great roads, safe night and day,
Are as boring as a love
Without jealousy.
If you turned aside a little,
You surely strolled
Near Ravenna,
In that sad and charming place
Where Byron drowned in love
All his hatred.
It was a poor little coachman
Who drove me without scraping
As far as Ferrara.
I hope he drove you.
He was not afraid, though it was night;
The case is rare.
Padua is a very fine place,
Where very great doctors of law
Performed wonders;
But I prefer polenta
That one eats on the banks of the Brenta
Under a vine arbor.
No doubt you also saw her,
Still alive, thank God!
Despite our weapons,
The poor old woman of the Lido,
Swimming in a drop of water
Full of tears.
Superb roofs! cold monuments!
Golden shroud on bones!
Here lies Venice.
There my poor heart remained.
If it must be brought back to me,
God guide it!
My poor heart, did you find it
On the road, under a paving stone,
At the bottom of a glass?
Or in that great Nani palace;
Whose noble stone so many suns have yellowed?
Did you see it on the meadow flowers,
Or on the purpled grapes
Of a trellis?
Or in some frail boat.
Gliding in the shade and cleaving the water
At full speed?
Did you find it all in tatters
On the bank where the tombs are?
It must be there.
I do not know who will look for it there,
But I believe well that one will not be able
To recognize it there.
It was gay, young, and bold;
It threw itself headlong
Into adventure.
Freely it breathed the air,
And sometimes it showed itself proud
Of a wound.
It was credulous, being loyal,
Defending itself from believing in evil
As from a crime.
Then suddenly it melted
Like a glacier suspended
Over an abyss…
But what am I saying here?
What would I do to grieve,
When you, dear brother,
These places where I almost died,
You come back from having traveled them
To amuse yourself?
You return calm and content;
You cut your pen while singing
A romance.
You bring back into our nest
That hope that always ends
And begins again.
The return makes one love farewell;
We sit by the fire,
And you tell us
All that your mind has seen,
Pleasures, dangers, and the unexpected,
And disappointments.
And all that without getting angry,
Without complaining, without touching on it
Except to laugh;
You know how to give thanks to happiness,
And you mock misfortune
Without speaking ill of it.
Friend, do not go so far away again.
I have great need of a little help,
Whatever happens to me.
I do not know where my path goes,
But I walk better when my hand
Clenches yours.
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-to-my-brother-returning-from-italy-alfred-de-musset/