I have previously posted a short excerpt from Louise Michel’s novel, The Imperial Bastard, which featured Bakunin as a main character. Michel also adapted some elements from that novel in dramatic form as Nadine, a political tragedy set in the Polish rebellions of 1846. I’ve posted a working translation of that play now at the Working Translations blog. As with all of these new translations, there are some rough spots to smooth, but in this case it’s mostly a case of making sense of the details of the stage directions, and I think all the charm of Michel’s Bakunin comes through.
Working Translations
Louise Michel, “Today or Tomorrow” (1893)
[ezcol_1half] Today or Tomorrow. Everything is good that strikes or stings. [1] So much the better if these bandits have finished their work. The scaffold has started the party, and the fire will beat its wings over the apotheosis. The blood of Ravachol splashes, from his false collar to his cuffs, the cold man of the Élysée. The Élysée! That’s the spot that draws the looks! From it the grand finale, the final bouquet will rise into the air, and the cross of Our Lady of the Slaughter will be the streetlamp. [2] The sun has risen red in the […]
Working Translations
Louise Michel, “The Claque-Dents,” Ch. II
[Chapter I] [one_half padding=”0 10px 0 0px”] II At the home of young Stéphane’s mistress there occurred a scene at once burlesque and sinister. Thirty thousand francs, won at the tables when chance was on his side, had allowed him to buy the bed and the jewels; he tried Lucrèce’s coral necklace on Marguerite. On her marble neck, its red line made the mark of the scaffold. Marguerite was vaguely aware of this thought of Stéphane’s. He saw her put her hand to her neck, as if to a wound. An intuition of the crime passed through him, while a […]
poetry
Louise Michel, “Memories of Caledonia” (1887)
[A Final Thought] [one_half padding=”0 10px 0 0px”] MEMORIES OF CALEDONIA (SONG OF THE CAPTIVES) Here the winter has no hold, Here the woods are always green; From the Ocean, the fresh breeze Blows over the dreary deserts, And so profound is the silence That the insect which sways Alone troubles the calm of the air. Evening, on these remotes shores, Sometimes rises a sweet song: It is some poor shellfish Which murmurs while it opens. In the forest, the oleanders, The newly blooming flowers Quiver with love in the wind. See, from the starry waves, Breaks a wandering whiteness! […]