Théophile de Viau: Je Songeais Cette Nuit que Philis Revenue

It was quoted by Baudelaire in his Mon coeur mis à nu (published posthumously in 1887). The sonnet was written by Théophile de Viau, some time in the first quarter of the XVIIth century. One of the last baroque poets in French literature, never accepting the classicist constraints of Malherbe, stubborn in remaining in the universe of the late Renaissance, this was Théophile de Viau.

Maybe some explanations are needed for the modern reader. Philis and Damon (Phyllis and Demophoön) belong to the Greek mythology. Athenian king Demophoön was the son of Theseus and on his way back from the Trojan war he met Phyllis, daughter of Thracian king Lycurgus, and married her. The husband left however his wife behind and went further to Athens as he was bound to his royal duties. Phyllis waited for his return in vain and eventually committed suicide. Goddess Athena, taking pity of the unfortunate woman, turned her into an almond tree. The legend is told in Ovid's Heroides (Epistula II).

As for Ixion, this is another story: the guy was lustful for Hera, the wife of Zeus, no more no less! Thus the Supreme God sent to Ixion a cloud in the shape of Hera, to catch him red handed.

Let's come back to our sheep (the sonnet by de Viau).The illustration created by Arnaud d'Hauterives plays on the équivoque; as Neal Philip notes, its atmosphere of suppressed sexuality calls in mind Balthus.

Arnaud d'Hauterives, Le Plus Beau des Amants, 1991
http://www.idburyprints.com/

Je songeais cette nuit que Philis revenue,
Belle comme elle était à la clarté du jour,
Voulait que son fantôme encore fît l'amour,
Et que, comme Ixion, j'embrassasse une nue.

Son ombre dans mon lit se glisse toute nue,
Et me dit : Cher Damon, me voici de retour ;
Je n'ai fait qu'embellir en ce triste séjour
Où depuis mon départ le sort m'a retenue.

Je viens pour rebaiser le plus beau des amants ;
Je viens pour remourir dans tes embrassements !
Alors, quand cette idole eut abusé ma flamme,

Elle me dit : Adieu ! Je m'en vais chez les morts.
Comme tu t'es vanté d'avoir foutu mon corps,
Tu pourras te vanter d'avoir foutu mon âme

Front matter of Boswell's copy of the 1732 edition of the Heroides, edited by Peter Burmann

Here is a German rendering of the legend of Phyllis and Damon. It belongs to Kleist:

Ja, liebster Damon! Ich bin überwunden,
Mein Geist empfindet, was er nie empfunden;
Ich fühl die von mir sonst verlachten Schmerzen
Jezt in dem Herzen.

Als ich die Hand jüngst, die dein Auge deckte,
Vorwitzig fortriß; Himmel! was erweckte
Dein schönes Auge, voller treuen Thränen,
Mir nicht für Sehnen!

Ich floh und weinte. Wie ward mir zu Muthe!
Ein heftig Feuer wallte mir im Blute.
Die Flammen werden unaufhörlich währen,
Die mich verzehren.

Komm treuster Damon! den ich mir erwähle,
Auf meinen Lippen schwebt mir schon die Seele,
Um durch die deinen, unter Scherz und küssen,
In dich zu fliessen.

John William Waterhouse - Phyllis and Demophoön, 1907

(Baudelaire)

Baudelaire, Madrigal Triste

About the prints of Arnaud d'Hauterives, here's what Neil Philip, the curator of Idbury Prints, has to say, their subtle colors required a great deal of technical skill; we have a set of progressive proofs of the print Madrigal Triste revealing that it required no fewer than 14 separate color passes in various shades of pink, magenta and purple to achieve its rich atmosphere.

Arnaud d'Hauterives – Madrigal Triste, 1985
http://www.idburyprints.com

I.

Que m'importe que tu sois sage?
Sois belle! et sois triste! Les pleurs
Ajoutent un charme au visage,
Comme le fleuve au paysage;
L'orage rajeunit les fleurs.

Je t'aime surtout quand la joie
S'enfuit de ton front terrassé;
Quand ton coeur dans l'horreur se noie;
Quand sur ton front présent se déploie
Le nuage affreux du passé.

Je t'aime quand ton grand oeil verse
Une eau chaude comme le sang;
Quand, malgré ma main qui te berce,
Ton angoisse, trop lourde, perce
Comme un râle d'agonisant.

J'aspire, volupté divine!
Hymne profond, délicieux!
Tous les sanglots de ta poitrine,
Et crois que ton coeur s'illumine
Des perles que versent tes yeux.

II.

Je sais que ton coeur, qui regorge
De vieux amours déracinés,
Flamboie encor comme une forge,
Et que tu couves sous ta gorge
Un peu de l'orgueil des damnés;

Mais tant, ma chère, que tes rêves
N'auront pas reflété l'Enfer,
Et qu'en un cauchemar sans trêves,
Songeant de poisons et de glaives,
Éprise de poudre et de fer,

N'ouvrant à chacun qu'avec crainte,
Déchiffrant le malheur partout,
Te convulsant quand l'heure tinte,
Tu n'auras pas senti l'étreinte
De l'irrésistible Dégoût,

Tu ne pourras, esclave reine
Qui ne m'aimes qu'avec effroi,
Dans l'horreur de la nuit malsaine,
Me dire, l'âme de cris pleine:
Je suis ton égale, ô mon Roi!

(video by lailusionesgratis)

¿Qué me importa que seas casta? Sé bella y triste.
Las lágrimas aumentan de tu faz el encanto.
Reverdece el paisaje de la fuente al quebranto;
la tormenta a las flores de frescura reviste.

Eres más la que amo si la melancolía
consterna tu mirada; si en lago de negrura
tu corazón naufraga; si el ayer su pavura
tiende sobre tus horas como nube sombría.

Eres la Bien-Amada si tu pupila vierte
-tibia como la sangre- su raudal; si aunque blanda
mi caricia te arrulle, lenta y ruda se agranda
tu angustia con el trémulo presagio de la muerte.

¡Oh voluptuosidades profundas y divinas!
¡Salmo de los deleites entonado en sollozos!
Tus ojos, como perlas, son fuegos misteriosos
con que las interiores penumbras iluminas.

Tu corazón es fragua; la pasión insepulta
como ascua inextinta, dispersa su destello;
y bajo la celeste blancura de tu cuello
un poco de satánica rebeldía se oculta.

Pero en tanto, Adorada, que no pueblen tus sueños
pesadillas sin término, reflejos avernales,
y en lívidas visiones de azufre mil puñales
tajen tu carne ebria de filtros y beleños,

y a todas las quimeras pávida esclavizada
el augurio funesto mires a cada paso,
y convulsa te acojas al letárgico abrazo
del tedio irresistible que anuncia la alborada.

Tú no podrás, -oh sierva que me impones tu ley
y a tu amor me encadenas perversa y temblorosa,
decirme desde el antro de la noche morbosa,
con el alma en un grito: Yo soy tú mismo, ¡oh Rey!

Versión de Carlos López Narváez

Photo by Emma Parra
(http://photo.net/photodb/folder?folder_id=883098)

Gloomy Madrigal

I

What's it to me that you are sage?
Be beautiful! and be sad! Tears
Add a charm to the countenance
As a stream does to a landscape;
Storms make the flowers fresh again.

I love you most of all when joy
Flees from your oppressed brow,
When your heart is drowned in horror,
When the frightful cloud of the Past
Is spread out over your Present.

I love you when your large eyes shed
Tears as hot as blood, when
In spite of my hand which lulls you
Your unbearable pain comes through
Like a dying man's death-rattle.

I breathe in, heavenly pleasure!
Profound, delightful hymn!
Every sob from your breast
And I believe your heart lights up
With the pearls that your eyes pour out!

II

I know, your heart, overflowing
With old, uprooted loves,
Still blazes like a forge
And that there smolders in your breast
Something of the pride of the damned;

But my sweet, so long as your dreams
Have not reflected Hell,
While in a nightmare without respite,
Dreaming of poisons and daggers,
Enamored with powder and steel,

Answering the door fearfully,
Seeing misfortune everywhere,
Convulsing when the hour strikes,
You have not felt yourself embraced
By irresistible Disgust;

You cannot, slave and queen
Who love me only with terror,
In the unhealthy night's horror
Say to me, your soul full of cries,
I am your equal, O my King!

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

(http://hallsofmandos.blogspot.com/2005/06/madrigal-triste-charles-baudelaire.html)

Sad Madrigal

I

That you are good what does it matter?
Be sad: be beautiful! The rain
Rejuvenates the flowering plain.
As streams do landscapes, teardrops flatter
Your face. Your looks, by weeping, gain.

When joy from your dejected forehead
Has fled, your heart is in the power
Of torment, and, to make you cower,
The huge cloud of your past, with horrid
Black shadow, overlooms the hour,

I love you most: and when your eye
Pours water hot as blood in battle,
And when, despite the fact that I
Am nursing you, you give a cry
Like death, an agonising rattle.

Delicious hymn, profound delight,
Pleasure divine!1 breathe with zest
The sobs arising from your breast.
I think your heart must blaze the light
Of pearls that from your eyes are pressed.

II

I know your heart once more disgorges
Its old uprooted love-affairs:
And flaming with the heat of forges
You feel the pride of vanished orgies,
Which makes the damned put on such airs.

But now ere yet your evil dreams
Reflect the red flames of the Pit,
While in an endless nightmare scheming
Of poison-draughts and daggers gleaming,
Cold steel and powder tempt your wit:

While yet in fear the door you answer
And see all things with vague mistrust:
Free from his grasp, O dear entrancer,
And not yet partnered for a dancer
With irresistible Disgust,

You'll never claim, both queen and slave,
Who only love me with affright
In the sick silence of the night,
And while your feelings inly rave —
To match with me in power or might.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

(http://malucaresponsavel.blogs.sapo.pt/arquivo/lagrima.jpg)

I

what care I, love, that thou be wise?
be fair! be sad! for tears contain
an added charm in lovely eyes,
like vales a river glorifies;
the rose is fresher in the rain.

I love thee best when joy has fled
thy cowering brow and eyes aghast;
when all thy heart is drowned in dread;
when life for thee is overspread
by dreadful storm-clouds from the past.

I love thee when thy heart's distress
pours blood-warm from thy streaming eye;
when, notwithstanding my caress,
thine anguish in its heaviness
bursts from thee like a dying cry.

celestial rapture 'tis to breathe
— like some profound melodious hymn —
the sobs that in thy bosom seethe,
for me thy heart grows bright beneath
the pearls upon those eyes abrim!

II

I know what long infernal hours
thy heart, with loves uprooted crammed,
flames like a forge in leaping flowers;
I know that in thy bosom glowers
some of the pride of all the Damned;

and yet, my dear, till fate contrives
that all thy dreams resemble hell,
and, in an endless nightmare's gyves,
musing of poisons and of knives,
craving for steel and bursting shell,

fearful when opening to a knock,
full of a boundless vast distrust
and quivering at the striking clock,
thou liest crushed beneath the rock
of irresistible Disgust,

thou canst not, o my queen and slave
who lovest me with shuddering,
here in the Night's unwholesome grave,
cry from thy heart, that shrieking cave:
I am thine equal, o king!

-- Lewis Piaget Shanks, Flowers of Evil (New York: Ives Washburn, 1931)

(http://sakkarah-1.blogspot.com/2009/07/madrigal-triste.html)

MADRIGAL TRIST

I

De esti sau nu cuminte, mi-e totuna!
Fii trista si frumoasa, draga mea!
Invie-n zvon de riu si vagauna,
In ochii plinsi e farmec, si furtuna
Din orice floare face cit o stea.

Cind in restriste fruntea ti se pleaca,
Iubirea mea isi incordeaza dorul
Simtind ca-n groaza inima-ti se-neaca
Si peste viata ta de azi, saraca,
Trecutul hid isi desfasoara norul.

Mi-esti draga mult, cind ochiul tau prelung
O unda calda ca de singe-l doare,
Cind alintindu-te nu pot s-alung
Prea grele chinuri care te strapung
Ca un suspin adinc de om ce moare.

Iti sorb-dumnezeiasca voluptate,
Launtric imn cu mladieri suave
Din pieptul dornic gemetele toate,
Si inima-ti cind plingi, s-aprinde, poate,
Straluminind de perlele jilave !

II

Stiu bine eu ca inima ta plina
Si-acum de vechile iubiri jertfite
Se mistuie-n jeratic de lumina,
Si ca-n gitlejul tau dospesti cu vina
Trufiile femeii osindite ;

Dar, pina cind in visurile tale
Nu se va oglindi fara zabava,
Iubito, Iadul tot, in vis de jale,
De groaza si de fum si de pumnale,
Inamorata vajnic de otrava,

Cu frica deschizind oricui si-n toate
Descoperind ce-i rau si ce-i bolnav,
Zbatindu-te cumplit cind ceasul bate,
De nu te-or prinde bratele-ncordate
Ale ne-nfrintului dezgust puhav,

Nu vei putea, regina in robie,
Iubindu-ma cu spaima ta mereu,
In noaptea-ngrozitoare de orgie
Sa-mi spui, cu tipetele ce te-mbie :
Sint pe potriva ta, stapinul meu!

-- M. D. Ioanid, in Florile Raului - editie bilingva alcatuita de Geo Dumitrescu (Bucuresti: Editura pentru Literatura Universala, 1968)

(Baudelaire)

Baudelaire, L'Albatros

Arnaud d' Hauterives – L'Albatros, 1985
http://www.idburyprints.com/

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

Claude Serre, The Albatross, 1982
http://www.idburyprints.com/

Here are some English versions of the poem, followed by renderings into Romanian. Enjoy!

The Albatross

Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew
Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds
That indolently follow a ship
As it glides over the deep, briny sea.

Scarcely have they placed them on the deck
Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed,
Pathetically let their great white wings
Drag beside them like oars.

That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is,
So beautiful before, now comic and ugly!
One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe;
Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew!

The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)

(Léo Ferré chante L'Albatros)
(video by bredouilleSKB)

Sometimes for sport the men of loafing crews
Snare the great albatrosses of the deep,
The indolent companions of their cruise
As through the bitter vastitudes they sweep.

Scarce have they fished aboard these airy kings
When helpless on such unaccustomed floors,
They piteously droop their huge white wings
And trail them at their sides like drifting oars.

How comical, how ugly, and how meek
Appears this soarer of celestial snows!
One, with his pipe, teases the golden beak,
One, limping, mocks the cripple as he goes.

The Poet, like this monarch of the clouds,
Despising archers, rides the storm elate.
But, stranded on the earth to jeering crowds,
The great wings of the giant baulk his gait.

— Roy Campbell, Poems of Baudelaire (New York: Pantheon Books, 1952)

(L'Albatros - Une Interpretation Visuelle)
with Thomas Vande Castele and Yann Vanhalewin
(video by Yannie penguin)

Sometimes, to entertain themselves, the men of the crew
Lure upon deck an unlucky albatross, one of those vast
Birds of the sea that follow unwearied the voyage through,
Flying in slow and elegant circles above the mast.

No sooner have they disentangled him from their nets
Than this aerial colossus, shorn of his pride,
Goes hobbling pitiably across the planks and lets
His great wings hang like heavy, useless oars at his side.

How droll is the poor floundering creature, how limp and weak —
He, but a moment past so lordly, flying in state!
They tease him: One of them tries to stick a pipe in his beak;
Another mimics with laughter his odd lurching gait.

The Poet is like that wild inheritor of the cloud,
A rider of storms, above the range of arrows and slings;
Exiled on earth, at bay amid the jeering crowd,
He cannot walk for his unmanageable wings.

— George Dillon, Flowers of Evil (NY: Harper and Brothers, 1936)

(video by mocasaki)

Often our sailors, for an hour of fun,
Catch albatrosses on the after breeze
Through which these trail the ship from sun to sun
As it skims down the deep and briny seas.

Scarce have these birds been set upon the poop,
Than, awkward now, they, the sky's emperors,
Piteous and shamed, let their great white wings droop
Beside them like a pair of idle oars.

These wingèd voyagers, how gauche their gait!
Once noble, now how ludicrous to view!
One sailor bums them with his pipe, his mate
Limps, mimicking these cripples who once flew.

Poets are like these lords of sky and cloud,
Who ride the storm and mock the bow's taut strings,
Exiled on earth amid a jeering crowd,
Prisoned and palsied by their giant wings.

— Jacques LeClercq, Flowers of Evil (Mt Vernon, NY: Peter Pauper Press, 1958)

(Poème interprété librement)
(video by Bakou Zaka)

Often, to amuse themselves, the men of the crew
Catch those great birds of the seas, the albatrosses,
lazy companions of the voyage, who follow
The ship that slips through bitter gulfs.

Hardly have they put them on the deck,
Than these kings of the skies, awkward and ashamed,
Piteously let their great white wings
Draggle like oars beside them.

This winged traveler, how weak he becomes and slack!
He who of late was so beautiful, how comical and ugly!
Someone teases his beak with a branding iron,
Another mimics, limping, the crippled flyer!

The Poet is like the prince of the clouds,
Haunting the tempest and laughing at the archer;
Exiled on earth amongst the shouting people,
His giant's wings hinder him from walking.

— Geoffrey Wagner, Selected Poems of Charles Baudelaire (NY: Grove Press, 1974)

(video by jaidumalachanter)

And here are two Romanian versions: the renderings of Alexandru Philippide and Tudor Arghezi. Gorgeous verses! Look at mari pasari calatorind pe mare and pasari tacute ale marii! At corabia pornita pe valurile-amare and corabiile duse de razvratirea marii! And the poet, Printul dintre nori!

Albatrosul

Din joaca, marinarii pe bord, din cand in candc
Prind albatrosi, mari pasari calatorind pe mare
Care-nsotesc, tovarasi de drum cu zborul bland
Corabia pornita pe valurile-amare.

Pe punte jos ei care sus in azur sunt regi
Acuma par fiinte stangace si sfiioase
Si-aripile lor albe si mari le lasa, blegi
Ca niste vasle grele s-atarne caraghioase

Cat de greoi se misca drumetul cu aripe!
Frumos candva, acuma ce slut e si plapand
Unu-i loveste pliscul cu gatul unei pipe
Si altul fara mila il stramba schiopatand.

Poetul e asemeni cu printul vastei zari
Ce-si rade de sageata si prin furtuni alearga
Jos pe pamant si printre batjocuri si ocari
Aripele-i imense l-impiedica sa mearga.

- Alexandru Philippide, in Florile Raului - editie bilingva alcatuita de Geo Dumitrescu (Bucuresti: Editura pentru Literatura Universala, 1968)

1880's wood engraving by Specht and Closs
http://mogolospolemistisvalkaniosagrotis.blogspot.com/2008/09/v.html

Ca sa se joace uneori unii marinari
Prind albatrosii, pasari tacute ale marii,
Care-nsotesc de-aproape, ca niste steaguri mari,
Corabiile duse de razvratirea marii.

Abia lasati din brate pe scanduri, sub catarg,
Acestor soimi puternici ai marelui azur
Incep sa le atarne, ca un vestmant prea lard,
Aripile greoaie, din umeri, imprejur.

Infuntatorul boltii e-acum stangaci si sui.
Semet pin'adineauri, viteazul s-a prostit.
Glumind, un om ii vara in cioc luleaua lui
Ori il maimutareste cu mersul izmenit.

Asemeni e poetul cu Printul dintre nori.
Stapan peste furtuna, prapastie si vant,
E-mpiedicat sa mearga, hulit de muritori,
Cand aripile-i vaste l-arunca de pamant.

- Tudor Arghezi, in Florile Raului - editie bilingva alcatuita de Geo Dumitrescu (Bucuresti: Editura pentru Literatura Universala, 1968)

(Baudelaire)