Translating Longfellow: The Belfry of Bruges
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the town.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, The Belfry of Bruges, is a literacy couplet narrative of his experience while standing atop a medieval tower, or belfort, in Bruges. On a summer morn in 1842, Longfellow viewed the towns and hamlets from the tower “with streams and vapors gray” and summoned the ghosts of Flemish past and paid homage to them.
I love this poem as it transported me back to 2013 when I also stood atop the Belfry in Bruges while the world beneath me slept and “seemed more distant than the sky”. This poem brought to mind the eerie silence from this aerie viewpoint, only broken by the “iron beating in the ancient tower” of the melancholy chimes.
The heroic “phantoms” that Longfellow summons date back to the Foresters of Flanders: the mighty Baldwin I (879 AD), the first ruler of Flanders who fell in love with the king’ daughter Judith; Guy de Dampierre from the Third Crusade who intiated the Siege of Acre; and the knights from the Order of the Golden Fleece who were founded in Bruges by Phillip II, Duke of Burgundy. Longfellow also pays homage to the bold Flemish weavers, Namur and Juliers, who fought in the Spurs of Gold.
Afterward, Longfellow recalls hearing the bells of Ghent, which is over 40 miles away. This brings to his mind the oldest surviving major work of French Literature, The Song of Roland, about the Battle of Roncevaux in 778 AD, during the reign of Charlemagne. As this story was originally a chanson de geste and was passed down orally for generations before it was put to print, perhaps Longfellow hears the battle cry in the bell chiming: “I am Roland, I am Roland! there is victory in the land”.
Longfellow concludes his poem as he is brought back to the present by the sound of drums, which also chase away the phantoms back to their graves. He is then aware of a “sun-illuminated square” of the city of Bruges below him.
Bruges is one of the few medieval cities untouched by time. It is one of my favorite European cities to visit as one can still stroll down cobbled streets lining canals and view 11th century buildings and cathedrals such as The Church of Our Lady which houses Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child (1501). The Christmas Market in Burg square is something out of a fairy tale, but I will warn you that many hotels have little heating in the winter time! My daughter, Lorin, and I slept in our coats, hats and mittens in our -1 Celsius bed and breakfast. Perhaps this is one reason Longfellow visited during the summer almost two hundred and fifty years ago!
**For the second part of this blog, I have translated this poem to French. It was an easy translation as Longfellow was himself a translator for many European languages, including French, and therefore uses many cognates. Special Notes: 1) the many paradoxes: “proud” Maximillian kneeling “humbly” and the “gentle” Mary the huntress; 2) I’m not sure what to do with the poetric contractions such as “o’er”-translate to the literal “over” or keep English; and, 3) finally, the compound adjectives are not hyphenated in French, therefore “ghost-like”, “snow-white”,“deep-laden” and “sun-illuminated” follow the French rule.
The Belfry in Bruges (1842)
In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and
brown;
Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o’er the
town.
As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I
stood,
And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of
widowhood.
Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and
vapors gray,
Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the
landscape lay.
At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and
there,
Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like,
into air.
Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour,
But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.
From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild
and high;
And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant
than the sky.
Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden
times,
With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy
chimes,
Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the
choir;
And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a
friar.
Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my
brain;
They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;
All the Foresters of Flanders,–mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer,
Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.
I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of
old;
Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the
Fleece of Gold
Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies;
Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and
ease.
I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground;
I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;
And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the
queen,
And the armed guard around them, and the sword
unsheathed between.
I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold,
Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of
Gold;
Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving
west,
Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon’s
nest.
And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror
smote;
And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin’s throat;
Till the bell of Ghent responded o’er lagoon and dike of
sand,
“I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!”
Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city’s
roar
Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves
once more.
Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware,
Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.
My French Translation:
Le Beffroi de Bruges
Sur le marché de Bruges se dresse le beffroi ancien et brun ;
Trois fois consommés et trois fois reconstruits, il regarde o’er toujours le
ville .
Comme le matin de l’été se brisait, sur cette haute tour, je me tenais debout,
Et le monde, il a jeté l’obscurité, comme les mauvaises herbes de veuvage.
Des épais avec des villes et des hameaux cloutés, et avec des ruisseaux et des vapeurs gris,
Comme un bouclier en relief, argenté et vaste, le paysage allonger.
À mes pieds, la ville dormait. Des cheminées, ici et là,
Des guirlandes de fumée de neige blanche, ascendantes, disparues, des fantômes, en plein air.
Pas un bruit de la ville à cette heure du matin,
Mais j’ai entendu un cœur de fer battant dans l’ancienne tour.
De leurs nids sous les chevrons ont chanté les hirondelles sauvages et haute;
Et le monde, sous moi dormant, semblait plus éloigné que le ciel.
Ensuite, le plus musical et solennel, rapportant les temps anciens,
Avec leurs étranges, les changements surnommés ont touché les carillons mélancoliques,
Comme les Psaumes d’un vieux cloître, lorsque les religieuses chantent dans le chorale;
Et la grande cloche sonna parmi eux, comme le chant d’un frère.
Les visions des jours disparaissaient, des fantômes sombres remplissaient mon cerveau;
Ceux qui vivent dans l’histoire ne semblaient que marcher sur la terre;
Tous les Foresters de Flandre, —le puissant Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq et Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dampierre.
Je vis les concours splendides qui ornaient ces jours-là;
Les dames majestueuses, comme les reines ont assisté, les chevaliers qui portaient la Toison d’Or ;
Les Marchands Lombard et Vénitien aux argoises chargées de fond;
Ministres de vingt nations ; Plus que la pompe royale et la facilité.
Je contemplais Maximilien fier, agenouillé humblement sur le sol;
Je contemplais la douce Marie, chassant avec son faucon et son chien;
Et sa chambre de mariée éclairée, où un duc dormait avec la reine,
Et le garde armé autour d’eux, et l’épée démontée entre.
J’ai vu les tisserands Flamands, avec Namur et Juliers audacieux,
Marchant du retour de la bataille sanglante des Spurs of Gold;
J’ai vu le combat à Minnewater, j’ai vu les White Hoods se déplaçant vers l’ouest,
J’ai vu Artevelde grande victorieuse escalade du nid du dragon d’or.
Et de nouveau, l’espagnol moustaché, toutes les terres avec terreur frappaient;
Et encore, l’alarum sauvage résultait de la gorge du tocsin ;
Jusqu’à ce que la cloche de Ghent répondît o’er la lagune et à la digue du sable,
“Je suis Roland! Je suis Roland! Il y a une victoire dans la terre !”
Alors le son de la batterie m’a suscité. Le rugissement de la ville
éveillée
Chassé les fantômes que j’avais rassemblés dans leurs tombes
une fois plus.
Les heures avaient disparu comme des minutes ; Et, avant que je sache,
Lo ! L’ombre du beffroi traversait la place éclairée par le soleil.
Copyright 2017 by Robyn Lowrie. May be quoted in part or full only with attribution to Robyn Lowrie (www.frenchquest.com)
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