[Julie Steiner]

"Chant du Grillon" by Théophile Gautier (France, 1811-1872)


VERSE TRANSLATION:

Tale ("Song") of the Cricket

Blow you Norther! Drop a flood, shower!
Palace of mine, my sooty bower,
I laugh at the rain and the wind,
Awaiting winter's last fled hour
By chimney-side as dreams descend.

'Tis I whose spirit is the fire!
The gas, with a tonguing blue spire,
Leisurely licks about the wood;
The smoke, alabaster thread higher,
Spirals at my voice, understood.

The kettle's achatter and giggling;
The silver-footed flame is jiggling
In its backing up of my song;
The log into its down is wriggling;
The embers boil sap before long.

The asthmatic wheeze of the bellows
Compels with music my ear follows;
The spit of steel-created cogs
Mixes some domestic concertos,
As, tick-tocking, its balance jogs.

The twinkling sparks who shone delighted
In stellar blooms where both united,
Crissing, crossing, above the sphere,
Made salamander eyes unsighted
At snickering laughs, thin but clear.

From deep in my cell dark and dusky,
When Bertha spins tales old and musty,
Like Riding Hood or that Bird of Blue,
'Tis I who's her memory's trustee,
'Tis I to hush fires when due.

I smother the noises found plodding
in spinning-wheel creaks monoglotting;
I choose when the tomcat goes mute;
Though cuckoo's intoning and nodding,
None hears the hours quickly scoot.

I sing from night to day's duration
Below the chimney at my station;
Oft in my cricket language I've,
From her big sister's barbed evasions,
Made sweet Cinderella revive.


FRENCH ORIGINAL:

Chant du Grillon

Souffle, bise ! tombe à flots, pluie !
Dans mon palais, tout noir de suie,
Je ris de la pluie et du vent ;
En attendant que l'hiver fuie,
Je reste au coin du feu, rêvant.

C'est moi qui suis l'esprit de l'âtre !
Le gaz, de sa langue bleuâtre,
Lèche plus doucement le bois ;
La fumée, en filet d'albâtre,
Monte et se contourne à ma voix.

La bouilloire rit et babille ;
La flamme aux pieds d'argent sautille
En accompagnant ma chanson ;
La bûche de duvet s'habille ;
La sève bout dans le tison.

Le soufflet au râle asthmatique,
Me fait entendre sa musique ;
Le tourne-broche aux dents d'acier
Mêle au concerto domestique
Le tic-tac de son balancier.

Les étincelles réjouies,
En étoiles épanouies,
vont et viennent, croisant dans l'air,
Les salamandres éblouies,
Au ricanement grêle et clair.

Du fond de ma cellule noire,
Quand Berthe vous conte une histoire,
Le Chaperon ou l'Oiseau bleu,
C'est moi qui soutiens sa mémoire,
C'est moi qui fais taire le feu.

J'étouffe le bruit monotone
du rouet qui grince et bourdonne ;
J'impose silence au matou ;
Les heures s'en vont, et personne
N'entend le timbre du coucou.

Pendant la nuit et la journée,
Je chante sous la cheminée ;
Dans mon langage de grillon,
J'ai, des rebuts de son aînée,
Souvent consolé Cendrillon.


ENGLISH PROSE CRIB:

Tale ("Song") of the Cricket

Blow, North Wind! fall in waves, rain!
In my palace, all black with soot,
I laugh at the rain and the wind;
While waiting for winter to flee,
I remain at the corner of the fire, dreaming.

It is I that am the spirit of the hearth!
The gas, with its bluish tongue,
Licks more softly the wood;
The smoke, in alabaster thread,
Rises and spirals to my voice.

The kettle laughs and chatters;
The siver-footed flame jumps about
In accompaniment to my song;
The log dons itself in down (i.e., white fluffy ash);
The sap boils in the embers.

The asthmatically wheezing bellows,
Makes me listen to his music;
The steel-toothed roasting-spit
Mixes with a domestic concerto
The tick-tock of its balance.

The sparks overjoyed,
In (fully) blossomed stars,
go and come, crossing through the air,
The salamanders were bedazzled (= temporarily blinded),
At the snickering thin and clear.

From the back of my dark cell,
When Bertha tells one a story,
The Hooded One (= Riding Hood) or the Bluebird (= French literary fairy
tale),
It is I who keeps up her memory,
It is I who hushes the fire.

I smother the monotone noise
of the spinning-wheel that creaks and whirs;
I impose silence on the tomcat;
The hours depart, and no one
Hears the timber of the cuckoo.

During night and day,
I sing below the chimney;
In my cricket language,
I have, from the snubs of her elder sister,
Often consoled Cinderella.