Seven variations on El Desdichado

Following yesterday's post, Jane Librizzi of The Blue Lantern asked for illumination on the texts incorporated in the engravings by Henri-Georges Adam. They are all from the 1853 sonnet sequence Les Chimères by Gérard de Nerval, the man who used to take his pet lobster for walks on a lead in the gardens of the Palais Royal. These are densely allusive, complex poems, and although it occurred to me to try to translate one, good sense prevailed. But in the spirit of "Be careful what you wish for", here is the original French text of Gérard de Nerval's best-known poem, El Desdichado (famously quoted by T.S. Eliot in The Waste Land), plus 7 English versions, the fashioning of which has gently whiled away a summer's morning.... The first version is a bare literal translation, the second an attempt at a rhymed equivalent, and the remainder wander steadily further and further from the source text. I would have just posted Martin Bell's translation, which I remember from 40 years ago, but I couldn't put my hand on the book! And for those of you who come to this blog for prints not poems, there are two further engravings by Henri-Georges Adam.

Henri-Georges Adam, El Desdichado (texte)

Engraving, 1950

EL DESDICHADO

Je suis le ténébreux, - le veuf, - l’inconsolé,

Le prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie:

Ma seule étoile est morte, - et mon luth constellé

Porte le Soleil noir de la Mélancolie.

Dans la nuit du tombeau, toi qui m’as consolé,

Rends-moi le Pausilippe et la mer d’Italie,

La fleur qui plaisait tant à mon coeur désolé,

Et la treille où la pampre à la rose s’allie.

Suis-je Amour ou Phébus? . . . Lusignan ou Biron?

Mon front est rouge encor du baiser de la reine;

J’ai rêvé dans la grotte où nage la syrène. .  .

Et j’ai deux fois vainqueur traversé l’Achéron:

Modulant tour à tour sur la lyre d’Orphée

Les soupirs de la sainte et les cris de la fée.

Henri-Georges Adam, El Desdichado

Engraving, 1947

SEVEN VARIATIONS ON EL DESDICHADO BY GÉRARD DE NERVAL

I

EL DESDICHADO (THE DISINHERITED ONE)

I am the shadow man, the widower, the unconsoled,

The Prince of Aquitaine, his tower in ruins:

My only star is dead, and my constellated lute

Bears the Black Sun of Melancholy.

In the darkness of the tomb, you who consoled me,

Restore to me Posilipo and the Italian sea.

The flower that so pleased my desolate heart

And the trellis where the vine twined round the rose.

Am I Love or Phoebus? Lusignan or Biron?

My forehead is still red from the kiss of the queen;

I have dreamed in the cave where the siren swims.

And I have twice victorious crossed the Acheron:

Modulating in turn on the lyre of Orpheus

The sighs of the saint and the cries of the fairy.

II

MAN OF SHADOWS

I am a man of shadows; disinherited.

A prince defeated in a ruined tower.

From the black sun of sadness the light has fled.

My lute is silent; dead my only star.

In the close tomb, the darkness thickens.

Console me with Posilipo and the Italian sea,

The flower that heals a heart so stricken,

With memories of you and me.

Am I Eros or Apollo? Melusine’s husband, or Lord Byron?

My forehead imprinted with a queen’s desire,

I have dreamed of swimming with the siren.

Twice I have crossed the river of death

And all the while Orpheus twanged his lyre

To the sighs of a saint, a fairy’s breath.

III

DISINHERITED

Shadowman. Widower. I am inconsolable.

The lost prince of a burned-out tower.

My guiding light is gone, and my starry lute

resounds to the thud of a sad black sun.

In the blackness of my tomb, you who consoled me,

give me back Posilipo and the bay of Naples—

the flower that restored my desolated heart,

the trellis where the rose and the vine entwine.

Am I Eros or Apollo? . . . a lover or a warrior?

My brow is stamped red by the kiss of a queen—

my head swims with dreams of the siren’s cave.

And I have swum twice across the waters of death—

and at each stroke Orpheus strummed his lyre

to the whimpers of a saint, and a fairy’s cries.

IV

DISPOSSESSED

I lurk in the shadows. Bereft. Inconsolable.

The disenchanted prince of a tower that never was.

My lodestar extinguished, and my star-pocked lute

thrumming to the beat of a sad black sun.

You who comforted me in the darkness of the tomb,

lead me back to Virgil’s cave and the bay of Naples—

garland my shattered heart with flowers,

entwine it with roses and rambling vines.

Am I Eros or Apollo? . . . Roland or Tam Lin?

My brow tattooed by the kiss of a queen—

my head awash with dreams of sirens.

And I have twice tamed the waters of Acheron—

as Orpheus wrung from his rippling lyre

the tears of a saint, and a fairy’s cries.

V

THE LOST DOMAIN

Having lost everything, I live in the shadowland,

a dispossessed prince in his fallen tower.

My star has died, and my lute is branded

with the black sun of everlasting grief.

What consolation is it in the lightless tomb

to recall the bright sun glancing off the sea

to dapple a posy of heartsease

or twine the rose around the vine?

Am I love’s fool? When a queen’s red kiss

Burned onto my brow, my dreams were all

of swimming with the mermaids beneath the waves.

Twice now I have crossed the forbidden river

while Orpheus shaped his melodies

from the moans of a saint, and a fairy’s cries.

VI

DARK STAR

I skulk in the black hole of my imploded dreams,

a prince who can’t accept his tower has fallen down.

The starshine that once fell on my guitar

flattened by the rays of a dead black sun.

In this dark night of my soul, comfort me

with memories of Italy  and the sea,

when you were coming into bloom

and we forgot whose limbs were whose.

Your lipsticked kiss still throbs on my face—

I could have been whoever you wanted me to be

that night we spent in the mermaid’s cave.

Once more I have reached the river of forgetfulness

and the echoes of your cries still fill the air.

I tune my guitar to the sound of your despair.

VII

MUSIC OF THE STARS

I live in the shadows cast

by a blackened sun.

The music of the stars

is the sound of time imploding.

Speak to me of Skenfrith,

give me back the walk along the Isis

The Wind in the Willows

and the first true day of spring.

Neither the heart nor the head can help us now—

the wave is coming

to drag us down to the mermaid’s lair.

How many times have we walked the line

between life and death? The air thrilling

with unearthly yelps and cries.

copyright © Neil Philip 2010