Quatre Chansons de Don Quichotte

Four Songs of Don Quixote

Music by Jacques Ibert, Poetry by Alexandre Arnoux,
Translation by Barry Carl

 

Chanson de Depart – Song of Leavetaking

 

This new chateau, this new edifice

All resplendent with marble and porphyry,

Where all the heavens enhance its beauty –

It is a rampart, a fort against evil

Where the virtuous maiden dwells –

Whom the eye regards and the spirit admires,

(She) forces hearts to do her service.

 

It is a chateau whose nature is such that none can approach

Unless he has saved his people from great kings.

Victorious, valiant, and amorous –

Any unadventurous cavalier, not being these

Can never gain entrance.

 

Chanson de Duc – Song of the Duke

 

I want to sing here of the lady of my dreams,

Whom I shall exalt far above this (mundane) era of mud.

Her heart is a diamond, pure of deceit.

The rose pales next to her beauty.

For her I have attempted high adventure.

My arm has delivered the princess from slavery.

I have conquered the sorcerer, confounded the liars,

And crossed the Universe to render her homage.

Lady for whom I travel - alone above the earth,

Who is not a prisoner of illusions –

I uphold against all your unequalled brilliance and your excellence.

 

Chanson a Dulcinee – Song to Dulcinea

 

Ah, each day feels like a year when I do not see my Dulcinee.

But…Love paints her visage, sweetening my yearning

In the fountain and the cloud,

In every rainbow and every flower.

 

Ah, each day feels like a year when I do not see my Dulcinee

Always close and always far away,

Star of my long wanderings –

Her breath floats to me upon the wind

When it passes through the jasmine.

 

Ah, each day feels like a year when I do not see my Dulcinee…

 

Chanson de la Mort de Don Quixote – Song of the death of Don Quixote

 

Don’t cry, Sancho.  Don’t cry, my good friend. 

Your master is not dead - he is not far from you.

He lives on a happy isle where all is pure and without deceit –

On a marvelous isle where all will go one day, my friend Sancho.

All the books are burned, and are but a cup of cinders.

Of all the books I’ve read, one would have sufficed for me to live by.

A phantom in life, and real in death –

Such is the strange fate of poor Don Quixote.