Songs of Bilitis

Translations © by Peter Low

Song Cycle by Claude Achille Debussy (1862 - 1918)

View original-language texts alone: Chansons de Bilitis

1. La flûte de Pan
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Pour le jour des Hyacinthies,
il m'a donné une syrinx faite
de roseaux bien taillés,
unis avec la blanche cire
qui est douce à mes lèvres comme le miel.

Il m'apprend à jouer, assise sur ses genoux ;
mais je suis un peu tremblante.
il en joue après moi, 
si doucement que je l'entends à peine.

Nous n'avons rien à nous dire,
tant nous sommes près l'un de l'autre;
mais nos chansons veulent se répondre,
et tour à tour nos bouches
s'unissent sur la flûte.

Il est tard, 
voici le chant des grenouilles vertes
qui commence avec la nuit.
Ma mère ne croira jamais
que je suis restée si longtemps
à chercher ma ceinture perdue.

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by Pierre-Félix Louis (1870 - 1925), as Pierre Louÿs
1. The pan-pipes
Language: English 
 For the festival of Hyacinthus
 he gave me a syrinx, a set of pipes made
 from well-cut reeds joined
 with the white wax
 that is sweet to my lips like honey.
 
 He is teaching me to play, as I sit on his knees;
 but I tremble a little.
 He plays it after me, so softly
 that I can scarcely hear it.
 
 We are so close that we have
 nothing to say to one another;
 but our songs want to converse,
 and our mouths are joined
 as they take turns on the pipes.
 
 It is late:
 here comes the chant of the green frogs,
 which begins at dusk.
 My mother will never believe
 I spent so long 
 searching for my lost waistband.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2000 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 20
Word count: 122

Translation © by Peter Low
2. La chevelure
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Il m'a dit: « Cette nuit, j'ai rêvé.
J'avais ta chevelure autour de mon cou.
J'avais tes cheveux comme un collier noir
autour de ma nuque et sur ma poitrine.

« Je les caressais, et c'étaient les miens ;
et nous étions liés pour toujours ainsi,
par la même chevelure, la bouche sur la bouche,
ainsi que deux lauriers n'ont souvent qu'une racine.

« Et peu à peu, il m'a semblé,
tant nos membres étaient confondus,
que je devenais toi-même,
ou que tu entrais en moi comme mon songe. »

Quand il eut achevé,
il mit doucement ses mains sur mes épaules,
et il me regarda d'un regard si tendre,
que je baissai les yeux avec un frisson.

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by Pierre-Félix Louis (1870 - 1925), as Pierre Louÿs
2. The hair
Language: English 
He told me: "Last night I had a dream.
Your hair was around my neck,
it was like a black necklace
round my nape and on my chest.

"I was stroking your hair, and it was my own;
thus the same tresses joined us forever,
with our mouths touching,
just as two laurels often have only one root.

"And gradually I sensed,
since our limbs were so entwined, 
that I was becoming you
and you were entering me like my dream."

When he'd finished, 
he gently put his hands on my shoulders, 
and gazed at me so tenderly 
that I lowered my eyes, quivering.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2000 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
    Contact: 

Based on:

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This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 16
Word count: 104

Translation © by Peter Low
3. Le tombeau des Naïades
 (Sung text)
Language: French (Français) 
Le long du bois couvert de givre, je marchais;
Mes cheveux devant ma bouche
Se fleurissaient de petits glaçons,
Et mes sandales étaient lourdes
De neige fangeuse et tassée.

Il me dit: "Que cherches-tu?"
Je suis la trace du satyre.
Ses petits pas fourchus alternent
Comme des trous dans un manteau blanc.
Il me dit: "Les satyres sont morts.

"Les satyres et les nymphes aussi.
Depuis trente ans, il n'a pas fait un hiver aussi terrible.
La trace que tu vois est celle d'un bouc.
Mais restons ici, où est leur tombeau."

Et avec le fer de sa houe il cassa la glace
De la source ou jadis riaient les naïades.
Il prenait de grands morceaux froids,
Et les soulevant vers le ciel pâle,
Il regardait au travers.

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by Pierre-Félix Louis (1870 - 1925), as Pierre Louÿs
3. The tomb of the water-nymphs
Language: English 
 I was walking along in the frost-covered woods;
 in front of my mouth
 my hair blossomed in tiny icicles,
 and my sandals were heavy 
 with muddy caked snow.
 
 He asked: "What are you looking for?"
 "I'm following the tracks of the satyr -
 his little cloven hoofprints alternate 
 like holes in a white cloak."
 He said: "The satyrs are dead.
 
 "The satyrs are dead, and the nymphs too.
 In thirty years there has not been such a terrible winter.  
 That's the trail of a he-goat.  
 But let's pause here, where their tomb is."
 
 With his hoe he broke the ice 
 of the spring where the water-nymphs used to laugh.
 There he was, picking up large cold slabs of ice,
 lifting them toward the pale sky,
 and peering through them.

Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2000 by Peter Low, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
    Contact: 

Based on:

Go to the general single-text view


This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 19
Word count: 128

Translation © by Peter Low