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

• Список стихотворений поэта

Перевод стихотворения
«Le Mauvais Moine»
на английский язык.

The Evil Monk

The ancient cloisters on their lofty walls
   Had holy Truth in painted frescoes shown,
And, seeing these, the pious in those halls
   Felt their cold, lone austereness less alone.

At that time when Christ's seed flowered all around,
   More than on monk, forgotten in his hour,
Taking for studio the burial-ground,
   Glorified Death with simple faith and power.

And my soul is a sepulchre where I,
Ill cenobite, have spent eternity:
   On the vile cloister walls no pictures rise.

O when may I cast off this weariness,
And make the pageant of my old distress
   For these hands labour, pleasure for these eyes?

The Evil Monk

The walls of cloisters on their frescoed lath
Displayed, in pictures, sacred truths of old,
Whose sight would warm the entrails of one's faith
To temper their austerity and cold.

In times when every sowing flowered for Christ
Lived famous monks, now out of memory's reach;
The graveyard for their library sufficed,
And Death was glorified in simple speech.

My soul's a grave, where, evil cenobite,
To all eternity I have been banned.
Nothing adorns this cloister full of spite.

O idle monk! Say, to what end were planned
The living spectacle of my sad plight,
Love of my eye, or labour of my hand?

The Bad Monk

Cloisters in former times portrayed on their high walls
The truths of Holy Writ with fitting pictures
Which gladdened pious hearts and lessened the coldness,
The austere appearance, of those monasteries.

In those days the sowing of Christ's Gospel flourished,
And more than one famed monk, seldom quoted today,
Taking his inspiration from the graveyard,
Glorified Death with naive simplicity.

— My soul is a tomb where, bad cenobite,
I wander and dwell eternally;
Nothing adorns the walls of that loathsome cloister.

O lazy monk! When shall I learn to make
Of the living spectacle of my bleak misery
The labor of my hands and the love of my eyes?

Le Mauvais Moine

Les cloîtres anciens sur leurs grandes murailles
Étalaient en tableaux la sainte Vérité,
Dont l’effet, réchauffant les pieuses entrailles,
Tempérait la froideur de leur austérité.

En ces temps où du Christ florissaient les semailles,
Plus d’un illustre moine, aujourd’hui peu cité,
Prenant pour atelier le champ des funérailles,
Glorifiait la Mort avec simplicité.

— Mon âme est un tombeau que, mauvais cénobite,
Depuis l’éternité je parcours et j’habite ;
Rien n’embellit les murs de ce cloître odieux.

Ô moine fainéant ! quand saurai-je donc faire
Du spectacle vivant de ma triste misère
Le travail de mes mains et l’amour de mes yeux ?

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