Ophélie

Ophelia by John William Waterhouse

I once had a disagreement with my professor over the character of Ophelia. He, rather callously, maintained that she was a weak, even immoral, character, because she betrayed Hamlet's confidence for her father. This, to me, seemed a foolishly modern view of her. What's a young lady to do, caught between an eccentric and insane lover, her bonds of filial piety, and her duty to the court? Perhaps, she didn't deal with her situation as successfully as she could have, but that is a part of her character, and, were she any different, she would not be the lovely Ophelia. 

One of the most enchanting descriptions of Ophelia is Arthur Rimbaud's delightful poem "Ophélie". The poet has such tenderness for the young woman, her situation, and her child's heart. It illumines the result of throwing a barely adolescent into a world of politics, of duty, in short, of men. What could she do when her pale knight laid his head on her knee and spurned her even while courting her? 

Below I provide the original French and a fairly literal translation of my own. 

I

Sur l'onde calme et noire où dorment les étoiles
La blanche Ophélia flotte comme un grand lys,
Flotte très lentement, couchée en ses longs voiles...
- On entend dans les bois lointains des hallalis.

Voici plus de mille ans que la triste Ophélie
Passe, fantôme blanc, sur le long fleuve noir
Voici plus de mille ans que sa douce folie
Murmure sa romance à la brise du soir

Le vent baise ses seins et déploie en corolle
Ses grands voiles bercés mollement par les eaux ;
Les saules frissonnants pleurent sur son épaule,
Sur son grand front rêveur s'inclinent les roseaux.

Les nénuphars froissés soupirent autour d'elle ;
Elle éveille parfois, dans un aune qui dort,
Quelque nid, d'où s'échappe un petit frisson d'aile :
- Un chant mystérieux tombe des astres d'or

II

O pâle Ophélia ! belle comme la neige !
Oui tu mourus, enfant, par un fleuve emporté !
C'est que les vents tombant des grand monts de Norwège
T'avaient parlé tout bas de l'âpre liberté ;

C'est qu'un souffle, tordant ta grande chevelure,
À ton esprit rêveur portait d'étranges bruits,
Que ton coeur écoutait le chant de la Nature
Dans les plaintes de l'arbre et les soupirs des nuits ;

C'est que la voix des mers folles, immense râle,
Brisait ton sein d'enfant, trop humain et trop doux ;
C'est qu'un matin d'avril, un beau cavalier pâle,
Un pauvre fou, s'assit muet à tes genoux !

Ciel ! Amour ! Liberté ! Quel rêve, ô pauvre Folle !
Tu te fondais à lui comme une neige au feu :
Tes grandes visions étranglaient ta parole
- Et l'Infini terrible éffara ton oeil bleu !

III

- Et le Poète dit qu'aux rayons des étoiles
Tu viens chercher, la nuit, les fleurs que tu cueillis ;
Et qu'il a vu sur l'eau, couchée en ses longs voiles,
La blanche Ophélia flotter, comme un grand lys.

I

On the wave calm and black, where sleep the stars

The White Ophelia floats like a great lily

floats so slow, couched in her long veils

- You hear in the distant woods halloes.

Here more than a thousand years sad Ophelia

passes, white fantom, on the long black flood.

Here more than a thousand years her sweet folly

murmurs her romance to the evening breeze.

The wind kisses her breasts and arranges her

veils great as a crown, rocked gently by the waters;

the trembling willows weep on her shoulder,

the roses bow to her dreamer’s forehead.

The crumpled waterlillies sigh around her;

She awakens awhile, caught in a sleeping alder,

some nymph, from whom escapes the tiny shiver of a wing:

- A mysterious song falls from the golden stars.

II

O pale Ophelia! Lovely as the snow!

Yes, you died, child, carried off by the flood!

It was just the winds falling from the mountains of Norway

that spoke so softly of bitter freedom;

It was just a breeze, twisting your hair,

that brought strange sounds to your dreamer’s soul,

just that your heart listened to Nature’s song

in the groans of a tree and the sighs of night;

It was just that the voice of crazed seas, an immense rale,

Broke your child’s breast, too human, too sweet;

It was just that on an April morning, a pale, handsome knight,

a poor fool, sat silent at your knees!

Oh Heaven! Love! Liberty! What a dream, poor fool!

You melted to him as snow to fire:

your great visions strangled your speech

- And the terrible Infinite stunned your blue eyes!

III

- And the Poet says that in the regions of the stars

You come searching, at night, the flowers that you gathered;

And that he saw on the water, couched in her long veils,

White Ophelia floating, like a great lily.