LE CLOWNTHE CLOWN
Paul Verlainetrans. James Kirkup



À Laurent Tailhade


Bobèche, adieu! bonsoir, Paillasse! arrière, Gille!
Place, bouffons vieillis, au parfait plaisantin,
Place! très grave, très discret et très hautain,
Voici venir le maître à tous, le clown agile



Plus souple qu'Arlequin et plus brave qu'Achille,
C'est bien lui, dans sa blanche armure de satin;
Vides et clairs ainsi que des miroirs sans tain,
Ses yeux ne vivent pas dans son masque d'argile.



Ils luisent bleus parmi le fard et les onguents,
Cependant que la tête et le buste, élégants,
Se balancent sur l'arc paradoxal des jambes.



Puis il sourit. Autour le peuple bête et laid,
La canaille puante et sainte des Iambes
Acclame l'histrion sinistre qui la hait.



for Laurent Tailhade

Out of the way, Grock!
Start packing, Punchinello!
Get lost, Marx Brothers!
You old buffoons, make way now
for the perfect fool, most grave,

most courteous, most proud!
Here comes the lord of them all,
that agile clown who’s
more supple than Harlequin
and braver than Achilles!

He’s really here,
armoured in snow-white satin,
blank and brilliant as
a spotless silvered mirror -
his eyes hardly seem to be

alive in the mask
of clay that is his face - they
gleam bright blue among
all the paint and the powder,
with his elegant figure’s

head and shoulders poised
on the paradoxical
arcade of his legs ...
Then, he smiles! People all round,
stupid, ugly, the stinking

hoi-polloi with their
holier-than-thou iambics
acclaiming him now -
sinister historian
whose hatred damns them to hell!

Trans. copyright © James Kirkup 2003


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