by Brett Rutherford
Translated
and adapted from Victor Hugo, l’Année Terrible, July 1871
What hatred
invents, the mob
embraces as self-evident truth.
Calumny’s worm,
some vile, invented lie,
creeps over every man who is great.
It seems each
radiant brow the sun
beams down upon, attracts
its very own crown of thorns;
instead of his accustomed cup,
he is offered atrocious gall.
To be star, one
wears
a cloak of infamous darkness.
Listen. They say of Phidias,
that he sold not only statues,
but the
bodies of women as well;
that vices got their name
from what Socrates did with his pupils;
that Horace had a way with goats
that made temple virgins shudder;
that Cato threw an African slave
into a bay of sharks;
that Michelangelo loved gold, and paid
gold out for blackmail, and gave
himself in service to the staff of Popes
(he, a Roman!) stretched out his back
to them, while with the other hand
he asked his price;
that Dante’s roving eye
shone with the glint of greed;
that Moliere mistook himself
for his daughter’s husband;
that the encyclopedic Diderot
took bribes with the hand
that was not busy editing.
And so before the human race,
the gossiping tribunal storms.
For the crime of his genius,
not one has ever been spared.
Ever and always, the punishment comes!
Name one, and there upon his cross
he hangs with his defining slander.
Not one, in ancient times as well as now,
who on the bleeding Golgotha of glory,
with the halo of his good works
upon his forehead,
not one escapes the vile cross.
Some have a sly Caiaphas[1]
accusing him of blasphemy,
others have some grammarian
like the “Homer-whipper” Zoilus.[2]
Ever and always, the crucifixion goes on.
No comments:
Post a Comment