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28. January 2008

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Ma Mignonne: Clément Marot in Translation


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Rudyard Kipling

Christian Morgenstern

In his fabulous book Le Ton Beau de Marot, Douglas R. Hof­stad­ter dis­cus­ses (among other things) poetry trans­lation, using Clément Marot’s poem Ma Mignonne as a starting point for illuminating relation­ships and inter­depen­dencies bet­ween form and con­tent.

The challenge is to translate the poem’s semantic content as faithfully as possible within the following formal con­straints:

The poem is 28 lines long.

Each line consists of three syllables.

Each line’s main stress falls on its final syllable.

The poem is a string of rhyming couplets: AA, BB, CC, …

The semantic couplets are out of phase with the rhyming couplets: A, AB, BC, …

Midway, the tone changes from formal ("vous") to in­for­mal ("tu").

The poem’s opening line is echoed precisely at the very bottom.

The poet puts his own name directly into his poem.

Marot’s original is at the left; Hof­stad­ter’s non-rhyming, seman­tically-reasonably-faithful trans­lation (for the bene­fit of those (such as me) who have a hard time making sense of medieval French) is in the middle; my attempt at a Norwegian translation is at the right.

I ignored the formal vs. in­for­mal con­straint; honoring it would have deprived me of the (very in­for­mal) greet­ing in the third line. Besides, formal address has fallen into disuse in modern Norwegian, and its use here would sound silly. Not all con­straints are created equal, and this is one of the lesser ones (in my opinion).


A une Damoyselle Malade

To a Sick Damsel

Min konfekt


Clément Marot

Douglas R. Hofstadter

Petter Hesselberg

Ma mignonne,
Je vous donne
Le bon jour ;
Le séjour
C’est prison.
Guérison
Recouvrez,
Puis ouvrez
Votre porte
Et qu’on sorte
Vitement,
Car Clément
Le vous mande.
Va, friande
De ta bouche,
Qui se couche
En danger
Pour manger
Confitures ;
Si tu dures
Trop malade,
Couleur fade
Tu prendras,
Et perdras
L’embonpoint.
Dieu te doint
Santé bonne,
Ma mignonne


My sweet
I bid you
A good day;
The stay
Is prison.
Health
Recover,
Then open
Your door,
And go out
Quickly,
For Clément
Tells you to.
Go, indulger
Of thy mouth,
Lying abed
In danger,
Off to eat
Fruit preserves;
If thou stay’st
Too sick,
Pale shade
Thou wilt acquire,
And wilt lose
Thy plump form.
God grant thee
Good health,
My sweet.

Used with permission.


Min konfekt,
Med respekt:
Hei på deg!
Er du lei
Av ditt bur?
Vær nå lur,
Kom i form!
Kjære, storm
Ut din port,
Og gå bort,
Men vær snar—
Petter har
Gitt beskjed.
Gå av sted,
Min marengs,
For til sengs
Går det smått—
Spis et godt
Stikkelsbær;
Når du er
Redusert,
Garantert
Blir du grå;
Mister så
Ditt humør.
Må Gud gjør’
Deg perfekt,
Min konfekt.


For the benefit of non-speakers of Norwegian, here is a literal gloss (with no literary merit whatsoever, but it does get the meaning across) as well as an attempt at a con­straint-conforming English rendition of my Norwegian translation of Hofstadter’s English gloss of the original medieval French. Got that?

Some of the rhymes are unoriginal. I haven’t consciously copied anyone, but several of them seem familiar: Jail/fail; queen/quarantine; instead/slugabed. There may be others.

Note how per­fectly Norwegian maps to English in lines 1–2 and 26–28: The rhyming version is identical to the gloss. As for the rest of it, the amount of semantic slippage is excessive in spots; I’m sure it is possible to do better.


Min konfekt

My Confect

My Confect


Min konfekt,
Med respekt:
Hei på deg!
Er du lei
Av ditt bur?
Vær nå lur,
Kom i form!
Kjære, storm
Ut din port,
Og gå bort,
Men vær snar—
Petter har
Gitt beskjed.
Gå av sted,
Min marengs,
For til sengs
Går det smått—
Spis et godt
Stikkelsbær;
Når du er
Redusert,
Garantert
Blir du grå;
Mister så
Ditt humør.
Må Gud gjør’
Deg perfekt,
Min konfekt.


My confect,
With respect:
Hi, there!
Are you tired
Of your cage?
(Now) be smart/clever,
Get into shape!
Honey/dear, run (fast)
Out (of) your gate/door,
And go away (leave this place),
But be quick—
Petter has
Told you so.
Go away/get along with you,
My meringue,
Because in bed
Things move slowly—
Eat a good (tasty)
Gooseberry;
When/while you are
Reduced (feeling bad),
(It’s) guaranteed
(That) you’ll turn gray;
Then you’ll lose
Your good humor/mood.
May God make
You perfect,
My confect.


My confect,
With respect,
Little queen:
Quarantine
Is a jail.
So don’t fail
To improve,
And then move
To your door:
Exit your
Fine behind,
Petter kind-
ly bids you.
Go, please do,
That instead,
For abed,
Things go slow—
So hello,
Egg foo yong!
If too long
Your health fails,
Color pales
And you swoon;
Then you’ll soon
Start to shake.
May God make
You perfect,
My confect.


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Le Ton Beau de Marot: In Praise of the Music of Language