A Very Upsetting Poem
Oct. 11th, 2019 03:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kainositeAfter the 1848 revolution brought down the July Monarchy and restored democracy to France for the first time in fifty years, Béranger wrote a poem about the victory and his beloved friend Manuel, the great republican politician who did not live to see it.
Stances de Béranger aux mânes de Manuel sur la révolution de février 1848
О Manuel, la France s'est levée!
Sa liberté n'a plus un ennemi.
C'est bien ainsi, que nous l'avions rêvée!
Peuple géant qui n'est rien à demi!
Puisqu'il nous mène à la terre promise,
Dieu parmi nous aurait dû le laisser.
Qu'avais-tu fait pour mourir en Moïse?
Mon pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Sortant vainqueur de ces luttes sublimes,
Tu penserais à mon petit coin.
C'est dans ces jours de liévn s magnanimes
Que I'un de l'autre on a souvent besoin.
Long temps muets, dans une étreinte antique,
Puis, refoulant nos pleurs dans un baiser,
Nous nous dirions: Vive la République!
Mon pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Le sait-on bien? Depuis qu'au Jeu-de-Paume
S' ouvi il l'époque où le peuple vainqueur
Fit affluer en notre beau royaume
Le monde entier, comme le sangau cœur,
Du livre d'or sanglant sublime ou sage
Ou chaque lustre cul sa gloire à tracer,
Quarante-huit est la plus belle page!
Mon pauvre ami, je voudiais t'embrasser.
La royauté stérilisait l'Empire
Et jetait l'ancre en ce sable mouvant
La foudre passe et le trône chavire,
Et j'ai cherché sa trace vainement;
Mais je retrouve une France féconde
Qu'un noble sang vient de fertiliser;
Sol généreux qui nourrira le monde.
Mou pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
La République est grande et sera stable,
Elle remplit nos vœux; mais je t'aimais,
Je me souviens de ce cri lamentable:
Plaignons les morts, ils dorment à jamais!
Dormir, hélas! quand la France se lève,
Lorsque pour vaincre et pour se surpasser
Elle a besoin de l'esprit et du glaive
Mon pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Gloire à toi ! peuple, à tes succès rapides !
Je, t'aime mieux lorsque je pense à lui.
Mes bras ouverts ne lesteront pas vides;
Tous les Français sont frères aujourd'hui.
Vieillard courbé, quand tu courais aux armes,
Comme les morts j'ai dû me reposer;
Mon sang est froid, mais j'ai de chaudes larmes.
Peuple français, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Paris, 10 mars 1848
It starts out sad and becomes infinitely more so when you reflect on what became of Béranger's "great and stable" republic in just four years' time, or indeed within three months of his writing these verses.
Here is a dreadful English translation by William Dowe, which is an awful piece of poetry but does manage to convey the gist of it:
Béranger to Manuel
O, Manuel, la France s'est levee, &c.
O, Manuel, France has raised herself at last—
Her freedom by no hostile power controlled.
Thus have we dreamed of her, in days long past;—
Nothing by halves, this giant people bold.
Since God has led us to this land of promise,
He should have left thee with us on the way.
What had'st thou done, like Moses taken from us?
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
Coming, a victor, from this strife sublime,
Thou'dst seek my little corner, as a brother;
And, mid the heroic fevers of the time,
The one would often stand in need of the other.
Long mute, beneath an ancient yoke we sighed,
Then brushing, with a cheer, our tears away,
Live the Republic! we've together cried!
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
Is it not so?—since the old Tennis-court—
What time the conquering people proudly viewed
The tending of the world, in full resort,
To this fair realm, as to the heart the blood,—
That crimson Book of Gold, sublime or sage,
Where Glory sets her lustres in array,
Exhibits '48, its brightest page.
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day I
The realm grew barren under kingly sway,
That cast its anchor on this moving sand;
The thunder rolled—the throne was swept away,
And has not left a trace in all the land!
But it has left our France, a fruitful space,
Made rich by generous blood, to be alway
The bounteous storehouse of the human race;
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
The commonweal is great, and shall be strong,
'Tis all we sighed for; but thou wast my friend,
My heart recalls the cry from nature wrung,—
"Pity the dead whose slumber has no end."
No end, alas! when France has risen restored,
When, to surpass herself on Glory's way,
She needs the aid of mind, and of the sword;
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
Glory, O people, to thy swift success!
Remembering Manuel, I but love thee more;
My arms expand not vainly; they shall press
All the brave brethren of the Tricolor.
Bent with old age, while you arise and arm,
I should be with the dead, and sleep as they;
My blood is chilly, but these tears are warm;
I fain would clasp ye all, brave friends, to-day!
William Dowe, Sartain's Union Magazine of Literature and Art
О Manuel, la France s'est levée!
Sa liberté n'a plus un ennemi.
C'est bien ainsi, que nous l'avions rêvée!
Peuple géant qui n'est rien à demi!
Puisqu'il nous mène à la terre promise,
Dieu parmi nous aurait dû le laisser.
Qu'avais-tu fait pour mourir en Moïse?
Mon pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Sortant vainqueur de ces luttes sublimes,
Tu penserais à mon petit coin.
C'est dans ces jours de liévn s magnanimes
Que I'un de l'autre on a souvent besoin.
Long temps muets, dans une étreinte antique,
Puis, refoulant nos pleurs dans un baiser,
Nous nous dirions: Vive la République!
Mon pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Le sait-on bien? Depuis qu'au Jeu-de-Paume
S' ouvi il l'époque où le peuple vainqueur
Fit affluer en notre beau royaume
Le monde entier, comme le sangau cœur,
Du livre d'or sanglant sublime ou sage
Ou chaque lustre cul sa gloire à tracer,
Quarante-huit est la plus belle page!
Mon pauvre ami, je voudiais t'embrasser.
La royauté stérilisait l'Empire
Et jetait l'ancre en ce sable mouvant
La foudre passe et le trône chavire,
Et j'ai cherché sa trace vainement;
Mais je retrouve une France féconde
Qu'un noble sang vient de fertiliser;
Sol généreux qui nourrira le monde.
Mou pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
La République est grande et sera stable,
Elle remplit nos vœux; mais je t'aimais,
Je me souviens de ce cri lamentable:
Plaignons les morts, ils dorment à jamais!
Dormir, hélas! quand la France se lève,
Lorsque pour vaincre et pour se surpasser
Elle a besoin de l'esprit et du glaive
Mon pauvre ami, je voudrais t'embrasser.
Gloire à toi ! peuple, à tes succès rapides !
Je, t'aime mieux lorsque je pense à lui.
Mes bras ouverts ne lesteront pas vides;
Tous les Français sont frères aujourd'hui.
Vieillard courbé, quand tu courais aux armes,
Comme les morts j'ai dû me reposer;
Mon sang est froid, mais j'ai de chaudes larmes.
Peuple français, je voudrais t'embrasser.
It starts out sad and becomes infinitely more so when you reflect on what became of Béranger's "great and stable" republic in just four years' time, or indeed within three months of his writing these verses.
Here is a dreadful English translation by William Dowe, which is an awful piece of poetry but does manage to convey the gist of it:
O, Manuel, la France s'est levee, &c.
O, Manuel, France has raised herself at last—
Her freedom by no hostile power controlled.
Thus have we dreamed of her, in days long past;—
Nothing by halves, this giant people bold.
Since God has led us to this land of promise,
He should have left thee with us on the way.
What had'st thou done, like Moses taken from us?
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
Coming, a victor, from this strife sublime,
Thou'dst seek my little corner, as a brother;
And, mid the heroic fevers of the time,
The one would often stand in need of the other.
Long mute, beneath an ancient yoke we sighed,
Then brushing, with a cheer, our tears away,
Live the Republic! we've together cried!
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
Is it not so?—since the old Tennis-court—
What time the conquering people proudly viewed
The tending of the world, in full resort,
To this fair realm, as to the heart the blood,—
That crimson Book of Gold, sublime or sage,
Where Glory sets her lustres in array,
Exhibits '48, its brightest page.
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day I
The realm grew barren under kingly sway,
That cast its anchor on this moving sand;
The thunder rolled—the throne was swept away,
And has not left a trace in all the land!
But it has left our France, a fruitful space,
Made rich by generous blood, to be alway
The bounteous storehouse of the human race;
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
The commonweal is great, and shall be strong,
'Tis all we sighed for; but thou wast my friend,
My heart recalls the cry from nature wrung,—
"Pity the dead whose slumber has no end."
No end, alas! when France has risen restored,
When, to surpass herself on Glory's way,
She needs the aid of mind, and of the sword;
I fain would clasp my poor old friend, to-day.
Glory, O people, to thy swift success!
Remembering Manuel, I but love thee more;
My arms expand not vainly; they shall press
All the brave brethren of the Tricolor.
Bent with old age, while you arise and arm,
I should be with the dead, and sleep as they;
My blood is chilly, but these tears are warm;
I fain would clasp ye all, brave friends, to-day!
(no subject)
Date: 2019-10-16 10:59 am (UTC)But, you know, the whole of it is very upsetting for reasons beyond the translation. I love them so much, and am extremely sad they didn't get their happy ending in life, and I am hoping this is what fic is for ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2019-11-20 04:59 am (UTC)O my Manuel, France rears again her head;
Now has her freedom not a foe to dread:
Thus in our dreams France we were wont to trace;
For nought by halves can suit that giant race!
Since to the promised land God leads the way,
Why did he not with us permit thy stay?
What hadst thou done, like Moses, thus to die?
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
A victor thou — that strife heroic ended —
Soon would thy thoughts to my still nook have tended;
For most we need each other's cordial greeting,
When nobly high the fevered pulse is beating.
Embracing as of old, with voice long pent.
Till in a kiss our tears at last were blent,
"All hail, the Republic!" would have been our cry —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Does the world know it? Since the People's might
Showed, at the Tennis-Court, such road to right,
That the whole earth in our fair land hath part —
Circling round us as blood around the heart —
That golden book, sublime, or wise, or gory,
Wherein each lustre shadows forth its glory,
Hath not one page with '48 can vie —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
The royal presence sterilized the land,
Casting its anchor on that shifting sand;
Swift came the thunderbolt — down fell the throne —
I sought its traces, but all trace was gone.
Instead, I find a France that teems anew.
By noble blood refreshed, as 't were with dew —
Prolific soil that shall the world supply —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Great the Republic is, and long shall last,
Our vows fulfilling: but my love was fast
On thee — I hear those voices sad and deep,
“Mourn for the dead I the dead for ever sleep!"
What, sleep, alas! when France is up anew !
Sleep! when to conquer, and herself outdo.
She needs quick spirits and the sword waved high —
Ah, my poor friend, for thy embrace I sigh!
Hail to thee, People, and thy swift career!
Thinking of Manuel, to me thou art more dear:
No longer empty my open arms shall be —
All Frenchmen, brothers, from this day we see.
Bent down with age, 't was meet for me to lie
Hushed as in death, when thou to arms didst fly:
Yet, with chilled blood, warm tears bedew mine eye —
People of France, for your embrace I sigh!
I MEAN, I am very upset. Of course when the great day happened he would long for his beloved friend to rush from the battlefield to his little nook and to embrace him, and there would be the crying and the kissing (lol, the Dowe translation blurred over the kiss and the, er, other needs!) and "Vive la République!", except that Manuel was taken away from them like Moses was by God ;____________;