Translation
Lightning strikes. In pale light a tower looms.
Thunder rolls. A man struggles with his horse,
Dismounts and bangs on the gate and shouts. His coat is billowing
In the wind. He clutches at the reins of his frightened steed.
A small barred window gleams bright as gold
And the gate creaks as a nobleman opens …
– »I am a servant of the King, sent as a courier
To Nîmes. Let me stay the night! You must know the royal coat of arms!«
– »It’s storming. You shall be my guest. Your dress, what do I care?
Come and warm yourself! I will see to it that your horse is fed!«
The messenger enters a dark ancestral hall,
Faintly lit by the fire of a great hearth,
And depending on the flicker of its fickle light,
A Huguenot in a harness threatens here or a woman there
A proud noblewoman in the dim varnish of a portrait …
The messenger collapses into the chair in front of the hearth
And stares into the vivid blaze. He broods, gazes …
In the quiet, his skin begins to crawl. He knows the hearth, the hall …
The flame hisses. Two feet twitch in the fire.
The dinner table is laid by the old steward
With linen, blindlingly white. The lady’s maid assists.
A boy brings a jug of wine. The eyes of the children
Are fixed on the guest in shock and fixed on the hearth in terror …
The flame hisses. Two feet twitch in the fire.
– »Cursed! The same crest! The same hall!
Three years ago … On a hunt for Huguenots …
A delicate, stubborn woman … ›Where is the squire? Speak!‹
She does not. ›Confess!‹ She does not. ›Surrender him!‹ She does not.
I fly into a rage. That pride! I drag the creature …
Her nacked feet I grab and hold
Into the fire, the heat … ›Surrender him!‹ … She does not …
She squirms … Did you not see the crest at the gate?
Who made you stay the night here, damn fool?
If he has but one drop of blood, he will strangle you.« –
Enter the nobleman. »You’re dreaming! Dinner is served, my guest …«
There they sit. The three in their black attire
And he. But none of the children says grace.
They stare at him with wide open eyes –
He fills his cup until it overflows, drinks it with haste,
Leaps to his feet: »Lord, if I may now request to be shown to my room!
I’m as tired as a dog!« A servant lights the way,
But on the doorstep he glances back
And sees the boy whisper in his father’s ear …
He stumbles as he follows the servant into the tower.
Firmly, he bolts the door. He surveys pistol and sword.
The storm is howling. The floor is shaking. The ceiling is creaking.
The stairs crack … Is this a thudding step? Is that a muffled tread? …
His ear deceives him. Midnight passes by.
His eyelids are as heavy as lead, and dozing he sinks
Onto the bed. Outside, rain is pouring down.
He dreams. »Confess!« She does not. »Surrender him!« She does not.
He drags the woman. Two feet twitch in the fire.
A sea of flames sparks and hisses and engulfs him whole …
– »Awake! You should be long since gone! It’s dawning!«
Having entered the chamber through a door concealed by tapestry,
In front of his bed there stands the lord of the castle – turned grey,
Where yesterday his hair was curled auburn.
They ride through the woods. Today, not a breeze stirs.
The path is littered with splintered branches and debris.
The earliest little birds are singing, half dreaming still.
Peaceful clouds float through the clear air,
As if angels were returning from a nightly watch.
The dark clods of earth breathe the strong scent of soil.
The plain opens up. Someone is ploughing the field.
The messenger squints warily from the corner of his eye: »Lord,
You are a sensible man with a judicious mind
And know that I am the subject of the greatest King.
Farewell. May we never meet again!« The other speaks:
»Indeed! Subject of the greatest King! Today his
Service burdened me so … Like a devil you murdered
My wife! And yet you live … Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.«
Notes
This ballad was written by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer (1825–1898), a Swiss novelist and poet who was part of the realist movement. It might be fair to say that Die Füße im Feuer remains his most well-known work in Germany where it has entered the literary canon and is featured in many schoolbooks. A digitisation of Meyer’s poetry volume Gedichte, in which Die Füße im Feuer was first published in 1882, can be found in the DTA (Deutsches Textarchiv): <deutschestextarchiv.de/book/view/meyer_gedichte_1882?p=340>.
Translating Meyer – and especially this ballad – into English is no mean feat. I was quite comforted when I found the quotation that “Conrad Ferdinand Meyer, distinguished stylist in German, has always been a difficult author to translate into English” (Burkhard 1931). Granted, this was stated many decades ago but one might assume that that changes nothing about the substance of the verdict.
To give a few examples: The centerpiece of the ballad is the recurring line “Zwei Füße zucken in der Glut” / “Two feet twitch in the fire”. That line is an absolute stroke of genius for many reasons but one of them is the use of the word zucken. In this context, it takes on two meanings: It refers to the feet flashing in the fire as zucken is used to refer to a flickering flame – there and gone again, quite literally a flashback that surprises and haunts the messenger as he stares at the fire. The other meaning refers to the act of torture he is remembering, i.e. the movement of the feet that are being held into the fire – zucken here means flinching, wincing or even thrashing around. All of that is contained in that short line and lest I forget to mention it, there is also something very visceral and brutal about the sound of the word zucken here. “Two feet flash in the fire” would have completely failed to capture any of this. Therefore, I chose to go with the word twitch as I believe it comes closest to conveying the sudden appearance of the memory as well as the pained and uncomfortable connotation is carries. But ultimately, the line is, in a way, untranslatable.
I feel similarly about the important recurring line “Sie schweigt” / “She does not”. Literally, Sie schweigt means She says nothing or She stays silent or She keeps still. There is no English word for schweigen (the act of saying nothing), so any translation would have to use some kind of alternate phrase here. The reason that I went with a slightly different translation (which, in turn, would be difficult to translate back into German) is that the German Sie schweigt, by being something the wife is actively doing, has a strong note of defiance to it. This is lost in any of the literal translations which make the woman seem passive in comparison. But the defiance of the woman is important because that is precisely what drives her interrogator mad. (See his multiple references to her pride, her stubbornness, and so on.) There is something heroic to the silence of the woman, in the face of torture and then during the torture, in order to protect her husband, and this needs to be preserved because the ballad hinges on three relationships: between the wife and her husband, between the wife and her murderer, and between the husband and the murderer of his wife.
If I chose to forego literal translations in other places – although I only did in minor details, aside from the above -, it was because I wanted the translation to read “normally”. Other translations of this ballad that I have seen have either been so literal as to be nigh unreadable or they have been very old-timey. Certainly, there is a 19th century period flavour to the language of the poem but that flavour is not the same in the German of the time as it is in the English of the time. I’m not advocating for being too modern (e.g. I might have favoured that the messenger “downs the drink” instead of drinking it “with haste” when it comes to the rhythm of the line but clearly, that colloquialism would have been out of place). However, turning the poem into ’tis, thee, and so forth would have been equally artificial.
On a last note: Look at the first line. In German it reads “Wild zuckt der Blitz” – again the word zucken. It appears right at the start. Thus, Meyer already establishes the erratic nature of what is about to happen. (The weather in the ballad and how it changes to reflect the inner turmoil of the figures would be worthy of lengthy analysis in itself.) That first line is brilliant because of that through line – which I found myself unable to carry over into English without sacrificing too much else – but it’s also brilliant because of how succinct it is; which goes for many of the matter-of-fact descriptions. Also, again with the sound, there is something visceral and harsh to it, which would have been lost if I had gone with “Lightning flashes” (and later mirrored this as “Two feet flash in the fire” which, as noted, is deficient). Instead, I chose to go with “Lightning strikes” – no “Lightning strikes wildly” or “Fiercely, lightning strikes” or any of that. Short and to the point. That’s what the German opening sentence is. And, hopefully, the translation as well.
Image Credits
The header image is taken from H. E. Marshall, A History of France, with illustrations by A. C. Michael, New York: George H. Doran Company, 1912, illustrated page between p. 334 and 335, online: <archive.org/details/historyoffrance00mars/page/334>.
The notes image is taken from the painting A Huguenot by John Everett Millais, 1852.
german poetry 