Part 29 (1/2)
Infinitus et Immensus;
or--
Oh, juvamen oppressorum;
or--
Consolatrix miserorum Suscitatrix mortuorum.
The organ rolls through them as solemnly as ever it did in the Abbey Church; but in mediaeval art so much more depends on the ma.s.s than on the measure--on the dignity than on the detail--that equivalents are impossible. Even Walter Scott was content to translate only three verses of the ”Dies Irae.” At best, Viollet-le-Duc could reproduce only a sort of modern Gothic; a more or less effaced or affected echo of a lost emotion which the world never felt but once and never could feel again. Adam composed a number of hymns to the Virgin, and, in them all, the feeling counts for more, by far, than the sense. Supposing we choose the simplest and try to give it a modern version, aiming to show, by comparison, the difference of sound; one can perhaps manage to recover a little of the simplicity, but give it the grand style one cannot; or, at least, if any one has ever done both, it is Walter Scott, and merely by placing side by side the ”Dies Irae” and his translation of it, one can see at a glance where he was obliged to sacrifice simplicity only to obtain sound:--
Dies irae, dies illa, Solvet seclum in favilla, Teste David c.u.m Sibylla.
Quantus tremor est futurus, Quando judex est venturus, Cuncta stride discussurus!
Tuba mirum spargens sonum Per sepulchra regionum, Coget omnes ante thronum.
That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pa.s.s away, What power shall be the sinner's stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?
When shrivelling like a parched scroll The flaming heavens together roll; When louder yet and yet more dread Swells the high trump that wakes the dead.
As translation the last line is artificial.
The ”Dies Irae” does not belong, in spirit, to the twelfth century; it is sombre and gloomy like the Last Judgments on the thirteenth- century portals; it does not love. Adam loved. His verses express the Virgin; they are graceful, tender, fervent, and they hold the same dignity which cannot be translated:--
In hac valle lacrimarum Nihil dulce, nihil carum, Suspecta sunt omnia; Quid hic n.o.bis erit tutum, c.u.m nec ipsa vel virtutum Tuta sit victoria!
Caro n.o.bis adversatur, Mundus cami suffragatur In nostram perniciem; Hostis instat, nos infestans, Nunc se palam manifestans, Nunc occultans rabiem.
Et peccamus et punimur, Et diversis irretimur Laqueis venantium.
O Maria, mater Dei, Tu, post Deum, summa spei, Tu dulce refugium;
Tot et tantis irret.i.ti, Non valemus his reniti Ne vi nec industria; Consolatrix miserorum, Suscitatrix mortuorum, Mortis rompe retia!
In this valley full of tears, Nothing softens, nothing cheers, All is suspected lure; What safety can we hope for, here, When even virtue faints for fear Her victory be not sure!
Within, the flesh a traitor is, Without, the world encompa.s.ses, A deadly wound to bring.
The foe is greedy for our spoils, Now clasping us within his coils, Or hiding now his sting.
We sin, and penalty must pay, And we are caught, like beasts of prey, Within the hunter's snares.
Nearest to G.o.d! oh Mary Mother!
Hope can reach us from none other, Sweet refuge from our cares;