This poetic description of a Witches' Sabbath in a ruined monastery was published in 1825. Five years later, Hector Berlioz composed his Symphonie Fantastique, whose last movement is a depiction of a Witches' Sabbath, with church bells ringing out at midnight against a Witches' round dance. Did Berlioz read the Hugo poem? It is likely. Another Witches' Sabbath known at the time was that of Goethe in Part 1 of Faust.
The only other version of this poem I have found in English is inadequate, from almost 100 years ago -- one peek and I never looked at it again. I have done this in my own un-rhymed manner and I have embellished a bit, since this is after all my Gothic territory. The poem has a refrain which I repeated a few times. It can be omitted after the first two occasions if it becomes tiresome, or it could be replaced with a musical bridge passage (Berlioz?). So, this is a brand-new translation, made without reference to any other English version. There are no doubt a few excesses here that might horrify Hugo, or maybe he would smile.
by Brett Rutherford
Translated and adapted
from Victor Hugo’s La Ronde
du Sabbat, 1825
Just as in a mystery, behold now
how the moon veils itself in cloud
before the black monastery’s walls!
Spreading its fright, the midnight spirit
passes, swaying twelve times where once
a bell tolled (no more!) in the unpeopled
belfry. Long resounding comes the noise,
the air shakes, the roll and rumble stifled
as if locked up beneath the bell itself.
A shadow, and silence falling — listen !
Who thrusts these clamors upon the quiet
night? Who casts these phantom lights?
Dear God! The ruined vaults, the jagged doors
seem to be enveloped by filaments of fire.
Do we not hear, where the boxwood branches dip
into the Holy Water, an agitated tide of waves,
a tiny troubled lake a-boil in its granite urn?
Commend our souls to those who look down
upon us! Down here, among the blue rays,
among the scarlet flames, with cries and songs,
with human sighs and inhuman barking,
now everywhere, waters, mountains, woods,
larvae, dragons, vampires and gnomes,
monsters whose hell dreams only phantoms,
the witch, set free from the deserted tombs,
her silver birch broom whistling through air,
Necromancers tiara’d with mystical caps
above whom cabalistic symbols glow,
the no-nonsense demons, the crafty goblins,
all welcomed by the jagged line of roof,
by the broken hinge of the abandoned gate,
children of de-sanctified waste places come;
they come right through, a thousand lightnings,
the airy gaps in the stained-glass windows.
They enter the old cloister as a swirling wave.
He stands amid them, Lucifer, he, their Prince,
his bull’s forehead concealed beneath
the high-capped miter of heavy iron.
The chasuble has veiled his diaphanous wings,
as on the crumbling altar he places his cloven foot.
O terror! Now they are singing, here in this place
where day and night the Eternal’s eye should watch!
Now hand or claw reaches out for its kindred —
or, horror to behold, for nothing like itself —
they join, the form the immense circle,
the Antipode to the Cross, the bottomless!
Like a dark hurricane, the whirling begins.
To the eye that could not encompass the whole,
each hideous guest appears in his turn;
Hell spins, it seems, within the darkness,
its dreadful Zodiac all emblems of death.
The wind-force makes all fly, no need for wings!
They are carried ‘round, and Satan conducts
the choral bursts of their beastly voices.
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
“Change partners randomly”
As the demon mass around him rolls,
Satan and his joyful minions
press in on the altar and the Cross.
It is the cardinal night of autumn
The hour is solemn.
From Satan’s fingers rise
the ancient flame that does not die,
that pale winged fluttering
fringed with the purple of kings —
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how
they would tremble!
«Yea, Children of Darkness,
rejoice in our triumph!
Brothers and Sisters, come
from a hundred dimensions,
from funereal places,
dens dank and deep,
Hell will escort you!
Come as a cohort
on griffin-powered
chariots! Come now!
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
« We welcome deformity and crime!
Come without remorse,
goat-footed dwarfs and suicides!
Come, Ghouls, whose lips
have never weaned from carrion,
and the black blood of the dead.
Infernal women,
outdo your rivals
in lust and vengeance,
outlast your lovers
to the point of death
and join us, exultant!
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
Thrice-hounded Jews,
you are welcome among us!
Gypsies, Bohemians,
charged with anathema —
all may join us! Welcome!
Will o’ the Wisps, we know you!
Pale specters who escaped by night
after an avenging patricide,
glide on the breeze, catch hold
of the frieze above the broken wall,
fly, or crawl!
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
Come, wicked goats,
eaters of everything.
Come, slender-bodied lice<
eaters of Everyman.
Come down. seducing Sylphs,
fall a stream of hail,
and melting, bedew the field.
Take hands again, with one
of your own kind or kindred!
Follow the beat. Expand
the dance. Repeat the chants!”
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
«Now at this beautiful moment
experts in magic shine
in the orgy, their blood-red beards
puffed out with smoke and lightning.
What did you bring? What offering?
What innocent soul is your prey?
or better yet, what unsaved sinner
did you kidnap from a confessional?
The victim with a victim in his mouth!
The fire of evil craves them all!
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
Laughing in the holy place
(for who would know?
who’s watching there?
be still, if you would live to tell!))
Satan now parodies a chant
after Saint Matthew,
and in the chapel where his king
calls upon him, a demon sings
from the book of God!
The dead
in their vaults below, if they could feel
beneath the paving stones, and hear this rout,
how they would tremble!
Bring them out of their resting place.
Open, ye tombs. Up, flagstones, up
lidded vaults! Bring out the monks
who once worshipped here. Arise!
And in each stall let a false monk spread
the fatal robe that burns his bones
and that a black chamberlain
attend to the burning of the cursed flame.
“Satan will see you now!
With your coarse hands
among the monk-dusk,
make ink and write,
Sorcerers, write your
Abracadabra!
Fly away first, ye wild furred birds
of magic and curses,
dictate a whole new alchemy
of forbidden metals. Tear
the very fabric of matter to shreds!
This is what Satan is all about!
Fly away first, ye wild furred birds,
whose bald wings hang
from the alcoves of Smarra*
where the vampire dwells.
Here is the signal!
Hell reclaims us.
The sun draws near! The time
may come when all souls know
no other flame than my black
lantern. May our dancing round
in the profound shadow
open the whole world
to an infernal circle!
*** ***
As I emerged from my hiding place
the pale dawn whitened the colossal
arches. Night and the Devil fled,
a confused swarm of dispersed demons.
And the dead, who had been burning bright
but moments before, reposed again.
The stones were back that held them;
their frozen glances gazing upward,
pillowed in ash and the dust of ages.
October 1825
