Je n'ai pas oublié/La servante au grand coeur

Oh my sweet, somber beautiful one. The days of throat-choking passion have passed and are replaced by big plans and doors closing. My life here is almost over. The jury is out and I am in. Too much imbibing and a game of hide-and-seek; I fell, I stood. I will bid them goodbye: the endearing, eccentric, asinine, wonderful people who I cherish and adore above all others. Where will you go? When I came here I found my home and now that I must leave it I get a little sad inside. R. and I talked about this the other night as the rain drowned our dark little porch. It will be over soon enough and I will not make the same mistakes as before. Christ, I am growing up. Who would have ever thought that?

I have not forgotten, near the city
I have not forgotten, near the city,
Our white house, small but calm,
Her plaster Pomona and her old Venus
Hiding their naked limbs in a meager grove,
And the sun, the evening, streaming and superb,
That, behind the window where her shower broke
Seemed, great open eye in the curious heaven,
To contemplate our long and silent dinners,
Spreading widely her beautiful candle-lights
Over the frugal tablecloth and the twill curtains.

Je n'ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville
Je n'ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville,
Notre blanche maison, petite mais tranquille;
Sa Pomone de plâtre et sa vieille Vénus
Dans un bosquet chétif cachant leurs membres nus,
Et le soleil, le soir, ruisselant et superbe,
Qui, derrière la vitre où se brisait sa gerbe
Semblait, grand oeil ouvert dans le ciel curieux,
Contempler nos dîners longs et silencieux,
Répandant largement ses beaux reflets de cierge
Sur la nappe frugale et les rideaux de serge.


The greathearted servant of whom you were jealous
The greathearted servant of whom you were jealous,
And who sleeps her sleep under humble grass,
We must however bring her some flowers,
The dead, the poor dead, have great pains,
And when October breathes, pruner of old trees,
His melancholy wind around their marbles,
Certainly, they mist find the living most ungrateful,
Sleeping, as they do, warmly in their sheets,
While, devoured by black dreams,
Without bedfellow, without good conversation,
Frozen old skeletons worked by the worm,
Feel the winter snows dripping
And the century flowing, without friends or family
Replacing the tatters that hang on their graves.
When the log whistles and sings, if the evening
Calms, I saw her sitting in the armchair,
If, on a cold blue night in December,
I found her crouching in a corner of my chamber,
Solemn, and coming from the depths of her eternal bed
To protect the grown child with her motherly eye,
What could I answer to that pious soul,
Seeing tears fall from her sunken eyelids?

La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse
La servante au grand coeur dont vous étiez jalouse,
Et qui dort son sommeil sous une humble pelouse,
Nous devrions pourtant lui porter quelques fleurs.
Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont de grandes douleurs,
Et quand Octobre souffle, émondeur des vieux arbres,
Son vent mélancolique à l'entour de leurs marbres,
Certe, ils doivent trouver les vivants bien ingrats,
À dormir, comme ils font, chaudement dans leurs draps,
Tandis que, dévorés de noires songeries,
Sans compagnon de lit, sans bonnes causeries,
Vieux squelettes gelés travaillés par le ver,
Ils sentent s'égoutter les neiges de l'hiver
Et le siècle couler, sans qu'amis ni famille
Remplacent les lambeaux qui pendent à leur grille.
Lorsque la bûche siffle et chante, si le soir
Calme, dans le fauteuil je la voyais s'asseoir,
Si, par une nuit bleue et froide de décembre,
Je la trouvais tapie en un coin de ma chambre,
Grave, et venant du fond de son lit éternel
Couver l'enfant grandi de son oeil maternel,
Que pourrais-je répondre à cette âme pieuse,
Voyant tomber des pleurs de sa paupière creuse?
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And all of this I cannot and will not ever forget.