“The child, he, pure pensive, reassuring and happy…feels his soul grow. He has just seen Eden and God; nothing scares him…”
This blog post is a translation of the eighth poem of Hugo’s Jardin Des Plantes, part two (b) [see link] I have been so encouraged to see many blog followers respond to my posts of these beautiful poems which Hugo wrote for his grandchildren, Georges and Jeanne. These ten poems from the section, Le Poeme du Jardin Des Plantes, are dedicated A Georges!
Most recently, my readers from India, Sweden and Russia have been inspired by these poems. (A special shout-out to my WordPress follower in Zambia, for the great insights on these posts). How cool that Hugo’s prose and intellect continues to imbue this vast, diverse world and amass new followers! While my recent posts have been from my new-found interest in Russian and German literature, this has been a good reminder for me to finish what I started six months ago: to translate all ten poems of Hugo’s impressions of the Jardin des Plantes, my favorite respite in Paris, from L’Art D’Être Grand-Père.
In his eighth poem, Hugo continues to reflect on God’s lovely creation in this jardin, with comparisons to the original “Garden” in Eden. As was first recorded in the book of Genesis, this perfect garden becomes soiled by human sin; what God created as a “tableau of azure and beauty and good, mingled with myrrh and cinnamon, of flowers and sun-rays” will soon become “this hideous abyss…an immense debauchery that we call ‘chaos’… whom Orpheus calls Hades, whom Homer calls Erèbe”. Hugo refers to Satan as the “animal; and the hideous beast who roared/ And vomited in the middle of the night from this orgy”.
However, in the midst of this abyss is this innocent child, Georges, who is “pure, pensive, reassuring and happy”. Georges is admiring the little songbirds in the Jardin des Plantes that God created just for his pleasure: the mésange, the hochequeue, the warbler and sparrow who sing with lively voices. I love Hugo’s imagery using anthropomorphism to show that Georges, like these songbirds, will soon begin to sense the “pushing of his wings as he feels his soul grow”.
Georges is not afraid of anything including les renards (foxes) et les loups (wolves) which he possibly discovered in La Fontaine’s Fables. I like to imagine Hugo reading La Fontaine fables to Georges and Jeanne at bedtime.
For this blog, I have combined the French and English translations together for my FFL and ESL readers. The English translation of the stanzas is denoted by **. I always welcome your translation questions and comments as they help me in this process of understanding Hugo’s original intentions and voice. There is one more section of the eighth poem which I will translate as VIIIc.
Le Poême du Jardin Des Plantes, VIIIb
De quelle nuit sortent ces deux ébauches ?
L’une sort de l’azure ; l’autre de ces débauches
De ce hideux baiser de l’abîme au néant
Qu’on nomme le chaos.
Oui, cette cave immonde,
Dont le soupirail blême apparaît sous le monde.
Le chaos, ces chocs noirs, ces danses d’ouragans,
Les éléments gâtés et devenus brigands
Et changés en fléaux dans le cloaque immense,
Le rut universel épousant la démence,
La fécondation de Tout produisant Rien,
Cet engloutissement du vrai, du beau, du bien,
(ENGLISH)
**What night comes from these two tableaux?
One comes from azure; the other from abundance
From this hideous kiss from the abyss to nothingness
That we call chaos.
Yes, this filthy cavern,
Whose pale window appears under the world.
The chaos, these black emotions, these stormy dances,
The elements become spoiled and brigand
And changed into plagues in the immense cesspool,
The universal mire joining the demented,
The fertilization of All produces Nothing,
This engulfing of truth, of beauty, of good,
Qu’Orphée appelle Hadès, qu’Homère appelle Erèbe,
Et qui rend fixe l’œil fatal des sphinx de Thèbe,
C’est cela, c’est la folle et mauvaise action
Qu’en faisant le chaos fit la création,
C’est l’attaque de l’ombre au soleil vénérable
C’est la convulsion du gouffre misérable
Essayant d’opposer l’informe à l’idéal,
C’est Tisiphone offrant son ventre à Bélial,
C’est cet ensemble obscur de forces échappées
Où périrent Janus, l’âge d’or et Rhéa,
Qui, si nous en croyons les mages, procréa
L’animal ; et la bête affreuse fut rugie
Et vomie au milieu des nuits par cette orgie.
C’est de là que nous vient le monstre inquiétant.
(ENGLISH)
**Whom Orpheus calls Hades, whom Homer calls Erèbe,
And which fixed the fatal eye of the sphinxes of Thèbe,
It is this, it is the folly of an unfortunate action
Which made chaos from our creation,
It is the attack of shade in the venerable sun
It’s the convulsion of the miserable abyss
Trying to contrast the formless with the ideal,
It’s Tisiphone offering his belly to Bélial,
It is this obscure ensemble of forces evaded
Where perished Janus, the golden age and Rhea,
Who, if we believe the Magi, procreated
The animal; and the hideous beast who roared
And vomited in the middle of the night from this orgy.
It is from this that we come to the ominous monster.
L’enfant, lui, pur songeur rassurant et content,
Est l’autre énigme ; il sort de l’obscurité bleue.
Tous les petits oiseaux, mésange, hochequeue,
Fauvette, passereau, bavards aux fraîches voix,
Sont ses frères ; tandis que ces marmots des bois
Sentent pousser leur aile, il sent croître son âme.
Des azurs embaumés de myrrhe et de cinname,
Des entre-croisements de fleurs et de rayons,
Ces éblouissements sacrés que nous voyons
Dans nos profonds sommeils quand nous sommes des justes,
(ENGLISH)
** The child, he, pure pensive, reassuring and happy,
Is the other enigma; he comes out of the blue darkness.
All the little birds, the mésange, the hochequeue,
Warbler, sparrow, singing with lively voices,
Are his brothers; while these marmots of the woods
Sense the pushing of their wings, he feels his soul grow.
The azures embalmed with myrrh and cinnamon,
Of inter-mingling of flowers and of rays,
These sacred éblouissements we see
In our deep sleep when we are righteous,
Un pêle-mêle obscure de branchages augustes
Dont les anges au vol divin sont les oiseaux,
Une lueur pareille au claire reflet des eaux,
Quand, le soir, dans l’étang les arbres se renversent,
Des lys vivants, un ciel qui rit, des chants qui bercent,
Voilà ce que l’enfant, rose, a derrière lui.
Il s’éveille ici-bas, vaguement ébloui ;
Il vient de voir l’éden et Dieu ; rien ne l’effraie,
Il ne croit pas au mal ; ni le loup, ni l’orfraie,
Ni le tigre, démon taché, ni ce trompeur,
Le renard, ne le font trembler ; il n’a pas peur,
Il chante ; et quoi de plus touchant pour la pensée
Que cette confiance au paradis, poussée
Jusqu’à venir tout près sourire au sombre enfer !
(ENGLISH)
** An obscure jumble of august branches
Whose divine angels are the birds,
Glimmer like the clear reflection of the waters,
When, in the evening, as the pond the trees reach over,
The thriving lilies, a laughing sky, southing songs ,
That’s what the child, pink, has behind him.
He wakes up here below, vaguely dazzled;
He has just seen Eden and God; nothing scares him,
He does not believe in evil; neither the wolf nor the osprey,
Neither the tiger, the touched demon, nor this deceiver,
The foxes do not make him tremble; he is not scared,
He sings; and what is more touching for thought
Is that this trust in paradise, pushes him
Until he comes close, smiling, into the somber inferno!
Quel ange que l’enfant! Tout le mal, sombre mer,
Les hydres qu’en leurs flots roulent les vils avernes
Les griffes, ces forêts, les gueules, ces cavernes.
Les cris, les hurlements, les râles, les abois,
Les rauques visions, la fauve horreur des bois,
Tout, Satan, et sa morne et féroce puissance,
S’évanouit au fond du bleu de l’innocence !
C’est beau. Voir Caliban et rester Ariel !
Avoir dans son humble âme un si merveilleux ciel
Que l’apparition indignée et sauvage
Des être de la nuit n’y fasse aucun ravage,
Et de se sentir si plein de lumière et si doux
Que leur souffle n’éteigne aucune étoile en vous !
(ENGLISH)
** What an angel, this child! All the bad, dark seas,
The Hydras in their waves roll the vile avernes
The claws, these forests, the mouths of these caves.
Shouting at them, howling at them, rattling, barking,
The hoarse visions, the wild horror of the woods,
All, Satan, and his dull and fierce power,
Faint in the depths of the blue innocence!
It’s beautiful. See Caliban and stay Ariel!
To have in his humble soul such a wonderful sky
That the indignant and wild appearance
Of beings of the night cannot make any damage,
And to feel so full of light and so sweet
May not their breath extinguish any star in you!
Copyright 2018. May be quoted in part of full only with attribution to Robyn Lowrie (www.frenchquest.com)
Work Cited
Fayard, Artheme, L’art d’être Grand-Père. L’œuvre de Victor Hugo. Volume 51. Les Meilleurs Livres : Paris. 1877.
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