Landscape through literature Le paysage à travers la littérature

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P O R T U G A L
Luís de CAMÕES
(1525-1580)
A fermosura desta fresca serra
E a sombra dos verdes castanheiros,
O manso caminhar destes ribeiros,
Donde toda a tristeza se desterra;
O rouco som do mar, a estranha terra,
O esconder do sol pelos outeiros,
O recolher dos gados derradeiros,
Das nuvens pelo ar a branda guerra;
Enfim tudo o que a rara Natureza
Com tanta variedade nos oferece,
Me está se não te vejo magoando.
Sem ti, tudo me enjoa e me aborrece;
Sem ti, perpetuamente estou passando
Nas mores alegrias mor tristeza.
The wonderful cool of the mountains,
The twilight under the green chestnut trees,
The slow wending of the streams
Whence all sadness is banned;
The surge of the sea, the strangeness of the land,
The sunset on the hills,
The flocks returning late to the fold,
The harmless warring of sparse clouds;
In short, the whole of nature,
So singular in its diversity,
Is mere vexation in your absence.
Without you, all is grief and irritation;
Without you, I am perpetually
Overjoyed in deepest despondency.
In “Sonnets”, French selection and translation by Anne-Marie Quint,
in collaboration with Maryvonne Boudoy, Paris, Chandeigne, 1998.
L’admirable fraîcheur de ces montagnes,
Le demi-jour sous les verts châtaigniers,
Le lent cheminement de ces ruisseaux
D’où toutes les tristesses sont bannies;
Le bruit sourd de la mer, l’étrange terre,
Le coucher du soleil sur les collines,
Le retour au bercail des troupeaux attardés,
Des nuages épars l’inoffensive guerre;
Enfin, tout ce que m’offre la Nature,
Si singulière en sa diversité,
M’est importun si je ne te vois pas.
Sans toi, tout me chagrine et m’impatiente;
Sans toi, je suis perpétuellement
Au plus fort de la joie dans la pire tristesse.
Extrait de «Sonnets», choix et traduction de Anne-Marie Quint en
collaboration avec Maryvonne Boudoy, Paris, Chandeigne, 1998.
n a t u r o p a n o 1 0 3 / 2 0 0 5
José Maria EÇA DE QUEIROZ
(1845-1900)
A cidade e as serras
Em breve os nossos males esqueceram ante a incomparável
beleza daquela serra bendita! Com que brilho
e inspiração copiosa a compusera o Divino Artista que
faz as serras, e que tanto as cuidou, e tão rica-mente
as dotou, neste seu Portugal bem-amado! A grandeza
igualava a graça. … Todo um cabeço por vezes era
uma seara, onde um vasto carvalho ancestral, solitário,
dominava como seu senhor e seu guarda. Em
socalcos verdejavam laran-jais rescendentes. Caminhos
de lajes soltas circundavam fartos prados com
carneiros e vacas retouçando –ou mais estreitos, entalados
em muros, penetravam sob ramadas de parra
espessa, numa penumbra de repouso e frescura.Trepávamos
então alguma ruazinha de aldeia, dez ou doze
casebres, sumidos entre figueiras, onde se esgaçava,
fugindo do lar pela telha vã, o fumo branco e cheiroso
das pinhas. Nos cerros remotos, por cima da negrura
pensativa dos pinheirais, branquejavam ermidas. O ar
fino e puro entrava na alma, e na alma espalhava
alegria e força. Um esparso tilintar de chocalhos de
guizos morria pelas quebradas…
Jacinto adiante, na sua égua ruça, murmurava: “Que
beleza!”
E eu atrás, no burro de Sancho, murmurava: “Que
beleza!”
The city and the mountains
The incomparable beauty of that blessed mountain
speedily banished our ills. With what verve and profusion
of inspiration it had been contrived by the divine
artist who makes the mountains and has lavished such
care and plenty on them in His beloved Por-tugal! The
grandeur of the scene was equalled only by its beauty.
… Sometimes an entire hillside would be one newly
harvested field, its lord and guard a solitary immemorial
oak. On terraces gleamed the dark-green foliage
of orange trees that scented the air. Roadways made
of uneven slabs circled lush meadows in which cattle
and sheep playfully grazed, and narrower ones flanked
by walls would here and there enter the cooling, restful
shade of trellised greenery. We were advancing up
the street of a village, ten or a dozen mean houses
almost hidden by fig-trees and with hollow-tiled chimneys
that emitted wispy, fragrant smoke from pinecone
fires. On the distant hills, above the meditative
blackness of the pine groves, were little sparkling-white
chapels. The pure, thin air penetrated the soul and
gave it joy and strength. The scattered tinkling of animal
bells faded in the depths of ravines …
Jacinto, leading on his bay mare, softly exclaimed:
“How lovely!”
And I, following on Sancho’s donkey, softly exclaimed:
“How lovely!”
In «202, Champs-Elysées».
Translation: Council of Europe, 2005.