Шарль Бодлер (Charles Baudelaire) (1821-1867)
французский поэт, критик, эссеист и переводчик

• Список стихотворений поэта

Перевод стихотворения
«Le Vin de l’Assassin»
на английский язык.

The Murderer's Wine

My wife is dead and I am free!
Now I can drink my fill;
When I'd come home without a sou,
Her screaming would drive me crazy.

I am as happy as a king;
The air is pure, the sky superb...
We had a summer like this
When I fell in love with her!

To satisfy the awful thirst
That tortures me, I'd have to drink
All the wine it would take to fill
Her grave — that is not a little:

I threw her down a well,
And what is more, I dropped on her
All the stones of the well's rim.
I will forget her if I can!

In the name of love's vows,
From which nothing can release us,
And to become the friends we were
When we first knew passion's rapture,

I begged of her a rendezvous
At night, on a deserted road.
She came there! — mad creature!
We're all more or less mad!

She was still attractive,
Although very tired! and I,
I loved her too much! that is why
I said to her: Depart this life!

None can understand me. Did one
Among all those stupid drunkards
Ever dream in his morbid nights
Of making a shroud of wine?

That dissolute crowd, unfeeling
As an iron machine,
Never, nor summer, nor winter,
Has known what true love is,

With its black enchantments,
Its hellish cortege of alarms,
Its phials of poison, and its tears,
Its noise of chains and dead men's bones!

— Here I am free and all alone!
I'll get blind drunk tonight;
Then without fear, without remorse,
I'll lie down on the ground

And I'll sleep like a dog!
The dump-cart with its heavy wheels
Loaded with mud and rocks,
The careening wagon may well

Crush in my guilty head
Or cut my body in two;
I laugh at God, at the Devil,
And at the Holy Table as well!

The Drunkard

My wife is dead, and I am free!
Now I can drink both night and day.
When I came home without my pay
Her crying upset me horribly.

I am as happy as a king.
The air is soft. The sky is clear.
Ah, what a lovely spring, this year!
I courted her in such a spring.

Now I can drink to drown my care
As much wine as her tomb would hold —
The tomb where she lies pale and cold.
And that will be no small affair,

For I have thrown her, body and limb,
In an old well; I even threw
All the loose stones around the brim
On top of her. Good riddance, too!

I asked her in the name of Christ,
To whom our marriage vows were told,
To be my sweetheart as of old —
To come to a forsaken tryst

We had when we were young and gay,
That everything might be the same:
And she, the foolish creature, came!
We all have our weak moments, eh?

She was attractive still, all right,
Though faded. I still loved her — more
Than there was rhyme or reason for.
I had to end it, come what might!

Nobody understands me. What's
The use of wasting my good breath
Explaining to these stupid sots
The mysteries of love and death?

They take their women by routine,
These louts — the way they eat and drink.
Which one has ever stopped to think
What the word love might really mean?

Love, with its softness in your reins,
With all its nightmares, all its fears,
Its cups of poison mixed with tears,
Its rattling skeletons and chains.

— Well, here I am, alone and free!
Tonight I will be drunk for fair,
And I will lay me down, I swear,
Upon the highroad happily,

And sleep like an old dog, be sure,
Right where the heavy trucks go by,
Loaded with gravel and manure.
The wheel can smear my brains out — ay,

Or it can break me like a clod
In two, or it can mash me flat.
I care about as much for that
As for the long white beard of God!

Le Vin de l’Assassin

Ma femme est morte, je suis libre !
Je puis donc boire tout mon soûl.
Lorsque je rentrais sans un sou,
Ses cris me déchiraient la fibre.

Autant qu’un roi je suis heureux ;
L’air est pur, le ciel admirable…
Nous avions un été semblable
Lorsque j’en devins amoureux !

L’horrible soif qui me déchire
Aurait besoin pour s’assouvir
D’autant de vin qu’en peut tenir
Son tombeau ; – ce n’est pas peu dire :

Je l’ai jetée au fond d’un puits,
Et j’ai même poussé sur elle
Tous les pavés de la margelle.
– Je l’oublierai si je le puis !

Au nom des serments de tendresse,
Dont rien ne peut nous délier,
Et pour nous réconcilier
Comme au beau temps de notre ivresse,

J’implorai d’elle un rendez-vous,
Le soir, sur une route obscure.
Elle y vint ! – folle créature !
Nous sommes tous plus ou moins fous !

Elle était encore jolie,
Quoique bien fatiguée ! et moi,
Je l’aimais trop ! voilà pourquoi
Je lui dis : Sors de cette vie !

Nul ne peut me comprendre. Un seul
Parmi ces ivrognes stupides
Songea-t-il dans ses nuits morbides
À faire du vin un linceul ?

Cette crapule invulnérable
Comme les machines de fer
Jamais, ni l’été ni l’hiver,
N’a connu l’amour véritable,

Avec ses noirs enchantements,
Son cortège infernal d’alarmes,
Ses fioles de poison, ses larmes,
Ses bruits de chaîne et d’ossements !

– Me voilà libre et solitaire !
Je serai ce soir ivre mort ;
Alors, sans peur et sans remord,
Je me coucherai sur la terre,

Et je dormirai comme un chien !
Le chariot aux lourdes roues
Chargé de pierres et de boues,
Le wagon enragé peut bien

Écraser ma tête coupable
Ou me couper par le milieu,
Je m’en moque comme de Dieu,
Du Diable ou de la Sainte Table !

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