Happy Bastille Day á tout le monde!
Today, France and her friends celebrate the anniversary of the storming of the Bastille in 1789 and the Fête de la Révolution. Of course, France’s freedom movement had its problems, as do all political efforts when voices of reason and fairness are drowned out by radical extremists calling for blood. (Indeed, yesterday’s U.S. current events reminded one, in the inimitable words of Lady Bracknell, of the worst excesses of the French Revolution.) But though its process was far from ideal, the French Revolution was inspired by the admirable ideals of liberté, égalité et fraternité, and democratic-minded people all over the world should join in the French celebration.
My favorite moderate revolutionary, if that is not too oxymoronic a concept, is André Chénier, widely considered the greatest French poet of the 18th century. Chénier was a constitutional monarchist, a middle of the road position, but his satirical verses, attacking and ridiculing extremists on both sides, were scorching, and he made no attempt to protect himself from the dangers of calling out the Reign of Terror. He was sent to the guillotine in 1794, shortly before the death of Robespierre.
Umberto Giordano’s operatic version of Chénier’s life, while not altogether biographically accurate, gives the poet’s eloquence and defiance their full due in the title character’s two great arias, both based on poetry by the real Chénier.
In the final act, our hero, having passed up a chance to escape and wound up in prison, reads his final poem to a friend. The aria’s text (see below) is closely based on the real Chénier’s “Comme un dernier rayon.” The greatest Chénier I ever heard is Plácido Domingo, whose beauty of voice, heroic delivery, dramatic sincerity and instinct for musical characterization were a perfect match for this character of integrity, nobility, courage and compassion.
Come un bel dì di maggio
che con bacio di vento
e carezza di raggio,
si spegne in firmamento,
col bacio io d’una rima
carezza di poesia
salgo l’estrema cima
dell’esistenza mia.
La sfera che cammina
per ogni umana sorte
ecco già mi avvicina,
all’ora della morte,
e forse prima che l’ultima
mia strofe sia finita
m’annuncierà il carnefice
la fine della vita.
Sia Strofe, ultima Dea!
Ancor dona al tuo poeta
la sfolgorante idea,
la fiamma consueta;
io, a te, mentre tu vivida
a me sgorghi dal cuore,
darò per rima,
il gelido spiro d’un uomo
che muore.
Like a beautiful day in May,
that with the kiss of the breeze
and the caress of the sunbeam
fades in the firmament,
so I, with the kiss of a rhyme,
the caress of my poetry,
ascend the highest peak
of my existence.
The fate that pursues its road
through every human story,
see, it approaches me already
at the hour of my death,
and perhaps before this final
verse of mine is written,
the executioner will announce to me
the end of my life.
So be it! Poetry—ultimate goddess!
Give once more to your poet
the dazzling idea,
the accustomed flame;
And I, to you, while you vividly
pour forth from my heart,
will give for a rhyme
the cold breath of a man
about to die.
You can find the original Chénier poem here: https://allpoetry.com/Comme-Un-Dernier-Rayon#orig_8492353,%20.otitle_8492353
Domingo also sang a rousing “Marseillaise,” which I append here, again along with the lyrics, as a fitting conclusion to any French National tribute.
Allons enfants de la Patrie
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L’étendard sanglant est levé
L’étendard sanglant est levé
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras
Égorger nos fils, nos compagnes!
Aux armes, citoyens
Formez vos bataillons
Marchons, marchons!
Qu’un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!
Come, children of the Fatherland
The day of glory has arrived!
against us the tyrant's
bloody flag is raised.
Hear you not in the countryside
the roaring of the fierce soldiers?
They are coming into your midst
To cut the throats of our sons, our comrades.
To arms, citizens!
Form your battalions.
March on, march on!
That their impure blood
May drench our fields.
La bassesse, la honte. Ah! lâches que nous sommes!
Tous, oui, tous. Adieu, terre, adieu.
Vienne, vienne la mort! que la mort me délivre!…
Ainsi donc, mon coeur abattu
Cède au poids de ses maux!–Non, non, puisse-je vivre!
Ma vie importe à la vertu.
Car l’honnête homme enfin, victime de l’outrage,
Dans les cachots, près du cercueil,
Relève plus altiers son front et son langage,
Brillant d’un généreux orgueil.
S’il est écrit aux cieux que jamais une épée
N’étincellera dans mes mains,
Dans l’encre et l’amertume une autre arme trempée Peut encor servir les humains.
Justice, vérité, si ma main, si ma bouche,
Si mes pensers les plus secrets
Ne froncèrent jamais votre sourcil farouche,
Et si les infâmes progrès,
Si la risée atroce, ou plus atroce injure,
L’encens de hideux scélérats,
Ont pénétré vos coeurs d’une large blessure,
Sauvez-moi. Conservez un bras
Qui lance votre foudre, un amant qui vous venge.
Mourir sans vider mon carquois!
Sans percer, sans fouler, sans pétrir dans leur fange
Ces bourreaux barbouilleurs de lois!
Ces vers cadavéreux de la France asservie,
Égorgée! ô mon cher trésor,
O ma plume, fiel, bile, horreur, dieux de ma vie!
Par vous seuls je respire encor:
Comme la poix brûlante agitée en ses veines
Ressuscite un flambeau mourant.
Je souffre; mais je vis. Par vous, loin de mes peines,
D’espérance un vaste torrent
Me transporte. Sans vous, comme un poison livide,
L’invisible dent du chagrin,
Mes amis opprimés, du menteur homicide
Les succès, le sceptre d’airain,
Des bons proscrits par lui la mort ou la ruine,
L’opprobre de subir sa loi,
Tout eût tari ma vie, ou contre ma poitrine
Dirigé mon poignard. Mais quoi!
Nul ne resterait donc pour attendrir l’histoire
Sur tant de justes massacrés!
Pour consoler leurs fils, leurs veuves, leur mémoire!
Pour que des brigands abhorrés
Frémissent aux portraits noirs de leur ressemblance!
Pour descendre jusqu’aux enfers
Nouer le triple fouet, le fouet de la vengeance
Déjà levé sur ces pervers!
Pour cracher sur leurs noms, pour chanter leur supplice!
Allons, étouffe tes clameurs;
Souffre, ô coeur gros de haine, affamé de justice.
Toi, vertu, pleure si je meurs.
Louise T. Guinther 
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