"The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing."
- Madame de la fayette (1678)
Translator's note
Most competent translators have read enough stories to understand that a successful work of fiction usually begins with a strong metaphor. The metaphor is then carried throughout, tying each component of the narrative together like tiny black ribbons looped through a delicate cream corsage.The translator himself, however, must not be distracted by these figurative trivialities, and the story must be read with careful precision and transcribed without embellishment. This story, like all others, is no exception.
Appropriately, the meaning of the word “translation” itself, in various European languages, is a metaphor. Deriving from the Latin word translatio, which comes from trans — meaning across, and ferre — meaning “to carry” or “to bring” over. One might picture a bridge, or perhaps a boat, moving words from one place to the next. The translator is the passeur — the ferryman. After all, metaphorical language has always been used to describe the process of translation. Across cultures and history, since the invention of the written word and its inevitable translation.
I was born into this tradition of “carrying over”. Being multilingual was a necessity in my house. I grew up in Reims, a city in the northeast of France, which is a couple of hours au sud de la frontière allamande. My dear mother was from London, England. She met my father when she was travelling France as a companion to an author hoping to translate their work into French, and it was my father who was commissioned for the job. Mother was instantly enamoured by him and his art stayed with him in France when it was time for the author to go back to England. As a result of this, I grew up speaking a conversational hybrid of French, English and learning German.
Ma soeur et moi grew up constantly going between languages daily. I was never fully on one side or the other, but located in the middle. My mother now speaks French fluently but in our younger years her French was very poor. So if my father was not around, the job of translating the world around her fell to us. I, myself, am a work of imperfection, a man between the black and the white, located in the grey areas, the annotations in the margins.
Earliest memories of my father include him muttering his personal mantra, “ce n’est pas possible!” Many things are impossible including a perfect translation. My father was a translator and from a very young age he taught us how to navigate the inbetween and how to carry meaning over. My sister was taught enough to understand. Enough to survive, but not enough to give her freedom. Me, on the other hand, I was taught all the les moindres détails, what to carry over, what to leave and how to use this metaphorical job to my advantage.
Quand tu traduies des romans du français vers l’anglais, c’est important de ne vouloir pas la perfection. Car ce n’est pas possible!
When you translate novels from French to English, it’s important to not want perfection. As it’s not possible!
This was my father’s favourite mantra.
Whenever I asked for advice you could be sure these words would be the first ones out of his mouth. And here's why his words will be forever true.
Firstly, you cannot translate from one language word for word, because each language has a different grammatical structure and does not have exact equivalents of words. Literal translations are chaotic - they are a whole new language on their own. They keep the grammar and structure of the original language but have the direct meaning of the words in the new language, rendering it illegible to everyone. Creating a black hole of chaos that consumes everything until neither audience can understand it. And that’s without taking context, slang and idioms into account.
Secondly, some things are culturally important to the language and its country. Any attempt at finding an equivalent in the new language would destroy this culture. So instead, my role is to keep these words as is and provide a definition or explanation to better help the reader understand the culture. There were quite a few of these instances as this novel is predominantly set in the French royal court. A very accurate French court, all the characters, events and settings are true to the times of Henry II’s reign. The only element of fiction is the main character as she is added in order to add emotional depth to the narrative.
So it is my job to take all these things into consideration, pack them up into my boat and carry them over to the new translation. Making sure nothing falls overboard so this new translation does the original justice whilst making it accessible to a wider audience. A ferryman transporting “Éléments historiques du roman” out into the world. Je peux t’aider à comprendre!
Sincerely,
Pierre de Rosiere
Pierre: 4th November 1678
Once, while gazing across the darkened sky as a child of six or seven, my father told me that the novel and its translation was its own private galaxy. A galaxy that the translator must navigate. The original novel is the sun - shining bright for the translator so they never lose their sight of it at the centre of its own universe. Without this, everything else falls apart; the integrity of the text is lost and all meanings and hidden messages are replaced.
All of the possible translations in the new language are the planets orbiting. The closest possible translation to the original meaning is the planet that orbits the closest to the sun, while the further the planets are from the sun the more they lose the true original meaning.
The translator is not unlike an asteroid, darting between the planets looking for, not the perfect translation but the one that is the closest and holds as much true essence of the original novel whilst simultaneously orbiting the sun, always keeping it in their sights so as not to lose its integrity.
I think back to this conversation often. Almost with every new project I am tasked with translating. This project was not different. Sitting on my desk is the new manuscript that Soleil d’Or printing house just delivered. Big bold letters dance across the cover page - elegant but strong, announcing that ‘La Princesse de Cleves’ is the next novel I am to translate. The title sits just below a series of ornamental flourishes in what resembles the vague shape of a chandelier. But something is different about this manuscript. Something is missing.
What intrigues me is that there is no author’s name under the title — not even a nom de plume. Just a blank space and the fine print - ‘published anonymously’.
Of course, as a well read monsieur, I remember this novel being published last year in French. I am now to translate it into English, with the aim for it to be published in London. It takes place in the French Royal Court of Henry II between 1558 and 1559. The vast majority of people that I spoke to sang it’s praise but me personally, I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Par contre, my wife Marie adored it for reasons beyond me. Something about the female protagonist being relatable and expressive or something just as insignificant.
This was not going to be easy. I knew from Marie’s commentary that much of the plot takes place in the French Royal Court so there will be many French words that I will be unable to translate easily for a British reader. Yet for authenticity’s sake, this setting is essential. A compliqué task indeed, but I am ready for the challenge.
20 rue du Moulin Vert
4th Novembre
Cher Pierre,
Our gratitude for accepting the following translation project. You have been commissioned to translate ‘La princesse de Cleves’ from its French into English. I have been in contact with the publisher from Bentley and Magnes in London. His details are at the bottom of this letter so you contact him directly, for a deadline and payment organisation.
Please note: the author wishes you to translate the novel as accurately as you can. We acknowledge that the cultural details could prove to be complicated, but we trust you will capture the true essence of the book as best you can.
Sincerely,
Madame Charlotte Guillard
Director
Soleil d’Or Printing
Marie: 5th of November 1678
I turn the new manuscript over in my hands. No name, no nome de plume screams for attention in the bottom half of the new manuscript’s cover page. I should know, for I read just as many novels as my husband and help him with more complex translations. I have read enough to know that writers are the ultimate publicists, why else would anyone take the time to write down their own feelings about a subject without wholeheartedly believing that the world cares about their opinion? Yes, usually authors are dying to be known as the “great writer” or the one who wrote that book that changed the world. But usually, those authors don’t have a lot to lose.
An anonymous author either has a secret they need to keep, or they were prevented from publishing under their name due to social convention. For this particular script, I would bet on the latter option.
It wouldn’t be the first time I have seen it happen in this line of work. I can tell from the handwriting, the author is female. I have an eye for such things. The way the letters curl around into little bows. Like looping together a corset. Flourishes that the masculine hand does not have the patience to include. Yes, this is definitely a female author, and a wealthy one. Of course, most poor women cannot write, but this handwriting has a regal formality.
I must confess, there is another clue that gives away the gender of our author. The main character, Mademoiselle de Chartres, is a young woman herself. I read the novel in June last year myself, so I can testify that she is written much more realistically than the usual female archetypal character penned by a male hand. In other stories, I can spend half of my precious reading time frustrated at the female character’s actions or coming up with multiple examples and pieces of evidence of why it isn’t an accurate portrayal of our gender. Not this time though, Mademoiselle de Chartres was much more relatable.
There is only one option for the author’s identity given that they have been forced to omit their claims to their authorship.
I’ve told Pierre many times, women can do so much more besides cooking and cleaning and looking after everything you would rather not. Think about it though, we women aren’t allowed to have intellectual pursuits but that doesn't stop many of us so god forbid they be allowed to publish their works. But if a lady did write a novel that was too good not to publish, or she happened to find a sympathetic publisher, her name most certainly would not be allowed to appear on the cover taking credit for all her hard work. And taking into account that the author has managed to do something that egotistical male authors have failed to do for centuries, which is to create a relatable female character that is not reduced to something to capture the hero’s desire and be used by him - devoid of all agency and individuality.
So yes, the author is most certainly a woman.
Now the next big question is, what is her name?
20 rue du Moulin Vert
8th Novembre
Cher Pierre,
My publisher has informed me that you are the one who will be translating my novel ‘La Princesse de Cleves’. I was quite pleased to hear that it would be you in charge of the translation as I have heard quite good things about the accuracy and faithfulness of your translations both of which are very important to me especially the latter.
Tu dois écouter! I have some points to make for you to take into account when translating.
D’abourd, my main character Mademoiselle de Chartres is a lady of the court. A person of the first rank in life and therefore should come across as such. This being said, I do not want any of the autonomy and agency I have given her to be taken away under any circumstance. There is no need to lengthen the superficial lacey edges of the court for no matter what it seems — that is not what this novel is about.
Deuxièmement, the novel centres on the events of the French Royal Court which I understand has a different system to the English Royal Court. As I’m sure you are aware, the French Court is ruled by absolution and full power whereas the English court has constitutionalism and is restricted by the Parliament. Thus, some of the events that will take place will seem unusual to an English audience. I want you to keep the runnings of the French court the same, but add in footnotes if need be.
From a certain perspective, it could be argued that this little piece contains no morals and in this aspect I must offer up a defence to the product of which I have dedicated many hours of love and labour to. At the very heart of his novel, there is the proof that despite a woman possessing the best set of characteristics and morals, there is a certain inevitability to the feelings of sorrow and distress when giving her hand without her heart. This lesson may be useful and therefore the story cannot be pronounced devoid of morals. Do not change this or add any definitive moral resolution, the beauty of both my book and life itself, lies in the grey areas.
I trust that you will translate this to the highest quality and remain faithful to my novel, and honour Madame de Cleves.
Sincerely,
Madame de la Fayette
(Despite the shock, I trust you will keep my name a secret until I am able to attach it to my novel).
Pierre: 14th of November 1678
Well, I can’t say this is the first time a female author has implored me to keep their anonymity. Bien sûr, I always do!
Anyway, my job lies within the pages of the novel, not the gender of the author. Quite frankly, I couldn’t care if a woman is trying to succeed in the craft of the writing that we men have already mastered. With every novel that I translate is treated the same with the utmost faithfulness to the original source material.
Pierre: 18th November 1678
The first step of novel translation is building the boat, which is actually the easiest part. What is difficult is actually rowing it across the river. To build the boat, I must do some background research on any context specific words and situations - in this case, I had spent many nights revising the intricacies of the French Royal Court.
For today’s task, I will start on the first page. Clearing my desk of any unrelated letters and notes, placing my collection of French-English keyword translations and difficult translations as well as tenses and verbs that I have collected over the years doing this job, as well as my ink pot, quill and stack of blank paper to begin the first draft.
Isolating the first line, I read it through a couple of times switching between languages in my mind.
‘La magnificence et la galanterie n’ont jamais paru en France avec tant d’éclat que dans les dernières années du règne de Henri second.’
The first part isn’t too hard as ‘La magnificence et la galanterie’ is very similar to the English words - magnificence and gallantry - but I drop the definite article of ‘la’ as ‘the’ is unnecessary in English before an adjective. The next part is in the passè compose which uses the ‘they’ conjugation of ‘avoir’ as the helper along with the past participle of paraître, ‘paru’ which combines with ‘ont’ to create ‘appeared’ or ‘looked’. Then looking at the negative ‘n’ … jamais’ around the helper gives you ‘never’. ‘En France’ is obviously ‘in France’. Next is ‘avec tant d’éclat’ which translates roughly to ‘with more lustre’ which is then followed by ‘que dans les dernières années du règne de Henri second’ which when translated is ‘than in the last years of Henry the Second’s reign’ once you take into account the French grammar rule of noun then adjective or person which does not carry over into English.
Finally time to go back to ‘paru,’ given the context of the rest of the sentence ‘appeared’ fits much better then ‘looked’.
Put it all together and the first line is complete…
‘Magnificence and gallantry never appeared with more lustre in France than in the last years of Henry the Second’s reign.’
Marie: 22nd November 1678
Entering Pierre’s bureau is like going to your own wardrobe, but your mother has been there and tidied everything up so you no longer recognise it. Nothing is where you last left it and it feels not quite like yours, it is all a bit wrong. This is, after all, my bureau in every sense… besides its organisation, belongings and whose name is attached to it.
My black tea sits on the right side of the desk slowly letting off steam until it just reaches a temperature that won’t blister my tongue. I like it black and hot. Unlike Pierre’s, whose tea is cool, milky and sugary sweet - he struggles to deal with tea in its most pure form.
Lamenting the unfairness, the paradox of the roles I am confined to in society and the additional roles I am made to accomplish in private is a significant portion of every day. As I walk up to his desk to replace the nearly burnt down candle with a new one, I spy a letter sitting on top of the new manuscript. Now normally I wouldn’t pry, but if it’s important for the translation process I need to know. The letter is open anyway, if he really didn’t want me to pry he would have folded it back up, put it back in its envelope and put it in a drawer.
Despite the shock, I trust you will keep my name a secret until I am able to attach it to my novel…
A good narrator would spend some time telling her reader how she felt when she read those words. I felt many things, but shock was not one of them. Self satisfaction, yes, and a complementary small smug smile, but definitely not shock. Shock is for narrow minded men, who like their tea white and struggle to deal with the complexities of life. Women live their lives in the grey areas, the margins and I understand it all so very clearly. It is as black as the ink of the author’s quill and the tea that I am now sipping. For a woman who is so well acquainted with the system that oppressed her that she can recognise its oppression on others.
After staring at the letter for a couple more seconds, I leave our bureau with nothing out of place except a scrap piece of paper with an address scratched out in pencil that now rests in my hand.
Pierre: 13th of December 1978
A good translation is like a bath; when you come out you are still the same yet altered, dirt washed away, layers of skin washed off and smelling like your new soap. The same thing happens to a novel in the translation process, some things are removed, some things are necessarily rewritten and some things are reestablished but the core of it is still there.
Marie: 28th of January 1679
Since I first found her letter on my desk, anticipation has been building in the hollow cavity under my clavicle right above my heart, gaining in density and slowly collapsing in on itself until it creates a star that burns brighter than my heart or even Apollo with his fiery chariot. That burning star has kept me afloat all throughout the past few weeks. I sent a response to her not expecting much but then came her reply - not only with a confirmation of a time and place to meet in person, but with an offer of transport to her quarters. So that is what brought one of her carriages to my front door that has carried me down the longest street in Paris and all the way to her residence at 50 rue de Vaugirard and left me standing outside her looming brassy green double doors framed by a sandstone arch and walls that frame the courtyard those doors lead to and then subsequently into her residence - and somewhere inside hosts her famous salon - the sides of which rise from side walk on either side of me.
Two loud and steady knocks ring out from where my hand meets the door. Then the overwhelming pressure of silence and suspense. Time warps and stretches until a maid appears in the doorways a few seconds later. Her strong and sturdy frame - evident of her many hours of labour - is covered by a simple but flattering blue mantua protected by a white apron. The blue of her eyes is perfectly complemented by the mantua, bringing out the sparkle in her eyes and the knowing way she smiles.
“Bonjour, can I help you?”
“Bonjour, Madame de la Fayette is expecting me,” my hands shake but my voice is steady.
“Yes of course, you must be Marie de Rosiere. Come, I’ll show you to her.”
As if pulled by the star's centre of gravity, my chest senses the reason for its creation and is unable to do anything but follow. Not that I don’t want to follow, but there is something inherently intimidating about a moment you have been dreaming about becoming a reality. And that gravity is all I can focus on, it centres around me, and it grounds me so I don’t float away through the ornately symmetrical patterns of the decorated halls and rooms full of plush seating that was surrounded by sculptures and paintings of grandeur.
After finally arriving at our destination, a small sitting room, I hover in the doorway. The anticipation that feels a kin to fear tightens around my chest like an extra corset as I wait to be announced and to see if my arrival pleases her as much as it pleases me.
“Madame de Rosiere is here to see you.”
“Merci Anna. Come in, Marie.”
Again the star increases in brightness and its gravity grows even more, pulling me into the room. I cast my eyes over to meet my host for the first time. A few deliberately placed curls frame the delicate features of her face, the rest of her coiled auburn hair has been twisted into a bun at the back of her head, held in place by a pearl hair clasp that lets the ends of her hair trail over her shoulders. Her deep red mantua rests off her shoulders and the decolletage trimmed with white satin accentuates her grace and beauty as well as the strong set of shoulders that reveals her strength of character. Her eyes seem to hold more knowledge than Athena herself. Yet her small smile is full of warmth and understanding.
Madame de la Fayette gestures for me to take the identical baby blue settee adorned with gold embellishments next to her. That I can’t refuse but I first I curtsy. .
“Pleasure to meet you Madame de la Fayette.”
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you too, and please call me Marie-Madeleine. Although on second thoughts that might be confusing so you can call me Madeleine.”
After such an intimate permission to use a name I highly doubt she allows many others use, our conversation flows easily from ‘La Princesse de Cleves’ to her first novel ‘Zaïde' that I had read and greatly enjoyed in 1669 and left me waiting impatiently for the second volume that was to be published in 1671.’ I must say I wasn’t surprised when she revealed that the Spanish history novel was in fact written by her instead of Monsieur Segrais, who it has been published under.
As the sun starts to set over the Seine, Madeleine presses an original copy of Zaïde as a parting gift and a promise to meet again soon falls from her lips. Inside reveals that she has signed it herself - one of only two copies signed by her, the other one belonging to her soeur de coeur Henrietta Anne.
Pierre: 11th of February 1679
I reluctantly add a healthy amount of milk to my newest cup of tea. Despite being so busy, I have had to get the tea myself as Marie has gone off to visit some cousin or acquaintance that I don’t know. I wasn’t interested in the details.
Hopefully the tea will help clear my head so I can find the best way to translate ‘une sorte d’agitation sans désordre’ as it has alluded me thus far. I know what it means - obviously, but what I haven’t yet figured out is the best way to translate it.
One option I could try is inverting the syntax but I’m still not quite convinced it would hold the same weight.
Flagging it in my journal with sentence, page number and possible translation so I can come back to it later. I move on deciding that will be the most conducive way to use my time.
Marie: 19th Feburary 1679
“You know I adore your work but I must say that I quite dislike the ending of ‘La Princesse de Cleves’. I can appreciate that it’s morally correct but why must the women be held accountable for being trapped between the affections of two men. “
“If a man had to choose between a loveless marriage and the one who holds his affection and returns them, he would not, could not be blamed for going off to live with his lover.”
I understand why or at least I think I partially understand why ‘La Princesse de Cleves’ ends the way it does. I mean how could I not when I know the world we live in so well. But I still want to hear it from her, to understand her side. I am not naive enough to believe my experiences are her experiences.
“I see you have already identified the disparity between the gender’s in the same situation. But it’s already hard enough to publish as a woman who has a lady protagonist and gives her small moments of autonomy. Giving her full autonomy and letting her make a decision that goes against the values of classicism, morality and elegance that is at the heart of our society even if a man doing it would be justified.”
Madeline’s voice is filled with weary resignation that comes from taking what wins you can, when you can. It perfectly juxtaposes my anger filled tone that demands for recognition and justice from the world even if the world isn’t ready to give us that yet.
Pierre: 24th February 1679
Marie has just gone out for the second time this week. Additionally, to visit someone that I have never met. She has been very secretive and vague whenever I try to inquire about her whereabouts during these excursions. At first I had no reason to believe that I should worry as I was sure it was just some distant cousin and I assumed it wouldn’t take up too much of her time.
But now she is out almost every three or four days and when she is here I can sense that she isn’t fully present. Her mind wanders more than usual and she seems more lively and animated. Also, she is even more invested in my current translation project than ever before. Admittedly she was always very invested in this project as she adored the novel but hated the ending. I swear I’m not imagining it when I say her interest has increased. I haven’t yet figured out if that last point is related to her disappearances or not.
Suspicion has started to creep up my spine, making its way into my mind and connecting the dots like a judge in the court. Ruling in favour of the least prefered version - that Marie is betraying me and our life together by creating an intimate relationship with someone other than me.
Marie: 4th March 1679
“‘Luce intellectual, piena d’amore.’ Do you know it?”
“It’s Dante, translated to ‘Light of the mind, full of love.’ The belief that the world is made a better place by a combination of intellect and beauty. .”
“Most certainly it is, and you my dear are the perfect combination of intellect and beauty that makes my life a much better place.”
I will remember every detail about this moment for the rest of my life. The way Madeleine smiles so bright Hades’ could see it in the underworld. The way her hand feels in mine as she so effortlessly praises me. The burn of my cheeks that are surely redder than the velvet ribbon in my hair.
Pierre: 24th March 1679
I’m caught in between two worlds, where black and white collide creating the grey I live in. But grey is the most beautiful area. Because the grey shows that multiple cultures can coexist, that we don’t have to divide the world like we do. And that is exactly my job, building a bridge between two languages and cultures, closing the divide between them.
I live in a world of words and their foreign language equivalents. I hear something in one language and I automatically try to translate it into every other language I know. If I hear someone talking in a language I don’t know then I immediately desire to learn that language so I can understand.
Sometimes all the foreign languages swarming in my head settle on my eyelids, ears and brain weighing them down making them ache in protest of the overstimulation they are receiving. Inevitably, I hit a mental block of fatigue and the inability to form even a simple sentence in one language. At these times I just desperately want a break from all the languages - words and their foreign counterparts - that I guard. When this happens I crave silence and the softness of a dark room to calm the words in my head feeding off the languages around me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love translating but sometimes it can get really exhausting from the mental strain it demands.
My ability to translate slows down. My mind blanks on words that I most definitely know, yet there is just a black hole in my brain where they should be. Actually that’s a good metaphor for translating. All your energy and attention goes into translating fusing together to create a star so bright, lighting the way for you to find just the right word. Eventually it collapses in on itself like all stars that burn too bright, too fast. Thus creating a black hole that sucks all the right words and grammar and knowledge until it is consumed by the never ending blackness.
Marie: 5th April 1679
When he starts translating and gets into a rhythm, he transforms into a star or maybe more like a sun - the centre of a galaxy - and I'm just a planet or even a moon hidden in the shadows but forever stuck in his orbit. All bright smiles and springs in his step.
But inevitably like all stars that shine too bright he collapses in on himself creating a black hole that sucks in every spark and every resource that can help him. He is still the centre of the galaxy but his matter and gravitational pull has changed, it's darker, stronger, more suffocating. Like there is only enough room in the house for one entity and that is my husband. I must pick up his work when this happens, become completely consumed in it that I become his clone, giving him the ability to be in two places at once - to rest whilst the text still gets translated.
Bags have begun to show under Pierre’s eyes. He has become the black hole I knew was inevitable. Words per minute had decreased significantly. He is struggling to switch between the two languages. Fatigue weighs down his frame and he longs for silence.
So this is where I take over, picking up the oars to continue rowing the boat across the river. Picking up the bricks and mortar in order to continue building the bridge. I was more fortunate in my childhood than Pierre’s sister. Maybe that is partially why he married me. Anyway, growing up as the daughter of a wealthy Vicomte, my father made sure I was very well educated - for a lady of my time - by a tutor. This included the study of piano, etiquette, sewing and various foreign languages. So I became well versed in English, German, Spanish, Latin and Italian.
I'm sure it was in my father’s hopes that I would be able to marry a wealthy man in France or abroad or become a tutor to the children of nobility. That hasn’t happened but my tutors' instructions have still served me well.
My time in the royal court has even given me more experience than Pierre for this particular project.
Pierre: 16th May 1679
The final English draft of ‘La Princesse de Cleves’ now ‘The Princess of Cleves’ has reached completion. All that’s left is editing, refining and looking over any notes made throughout the translation process of finding the right English phrasing that reflects the French. As much as I am loath to admit it, I should get Marie’s critical eye to look over the final draft. Of course her English isn’t nearly as good as mine, but she occasionally makes a few good points and is able to pick up on the rare mistakes I make in translation.
Marie: 17th May 1679
Anger and disbelief swirl in my blood as my eyes scan the ‘complete’ translated draft, making it harder for me to breathe in my corset.
What offends me so, is the sentence that states that the Monsieur de Cleves has commissioned the reproduction of the painting of the Siege of Metz.
Her voice comes back to me like it so often does but this time it’s a request veiled in pride.
“Even though you are not getting the credit you deserve for this, selfishly I’m glad you are translating my novel because I know you will do it right, you won’t let them erase Madame de Cleves from her own novel.”
Make sure his conservative views don’t alter the text. Make sure Mademoiselle de Chartres survives with her autonomy intact. Do not let the moral of a woman's distress when giving her hand without her heart be lost for that is the whole point. This undertaking I entrust in you and you only.
This offends me so because the original novel - which Pierre is supposed to be translating, not altering like a dress - clearly states that Madame de Cleves herself commissioned the reproduction.
Her pride and trust fills my heart and overflows, filling every previously vacant vacuum of nothingness. Like the river Phlegethon that keeps the wicked alive in order for them to continue to endure their tourments, now keeps me strong so I can inflict torment on Pierre. Pushing me to seek him out where he resides unawaress in his bureau.
“I will not let you translate her autonomy away like so many of your successors will inevitably do! The novel is no longer the sun, you have replaced it with yourself and in doing so you have allowed for its integrity to be lost. Ce n’est pas la mer à boire!”
Quelle mouche t’a piqué? He dares to ask.
It’s time for Pierre to face the consequences of his actions even if it’s here in our shared bureau with only each other as witnesses.
“You preach that you don’t care about the gender of the author and character’s but your actions betray you. You care so much that you don’t notice because it is automatic for you just like every other man.”
Pierre: 18th June 1679
The adjustments that Marie insists on doing have only pushed me closer to my deadline even though Marie is now the one that is incharge of the revisions in the translation. I don’t see the point because my translation is a better and more relatable version for the audience. But she refuses to see reason and after many long and pointless arguments I have allowed her to indulge in these irrationalities. But only because she insisted on bringing Madame de la Fayette into this. I mean yes she is the author, but I am the one who has been entrusted with the responsibility of translation.
And of course Madame de la Fayette sided with Marie. I was forced into a corner where my only option was to agree to Marie’s alterations if I wanted my name and hard work to still be attached to the translation. So now I have to sit back and watch as a good portion of my hard work is undone.
Pierre: 10th August 1679
The last I saw of Marie was when I met with the publisher from name to give over the final translated manuscript to be published. She was the one to hand over her precious altered manuscript as she hadn’t let me even look at it since her intervention as if she feared I might revert it back to my superior translation.
After seeing the publisher off I came back inside to see the house bare of anything that resembled Marie with the sound of a carriage over the cobblestones coming from the back of the house and growing steadily fainter.
All that was left was a letter sitting on my desk that seemed to hold more weight than any piece of paper should.
Cher Pierre,
I’m sure you remember the ending of ‘La Princesse de Cleves’ and my strong dislike for the ending. I know you see nothing wrong with the ending but then again that’s just the point isn’t it. You can’t fathom any other ending because the world has shown you that there is no other way. And besides you benefit from it either way so why would you ever imagine changing it.
I wonder if you can see that I am trapped in the same predicament Madame de Cleves found herself in; stuck between a loveless marriage and her lover that is deemed inappropriate. But unlike her, while I am still bound by the values of society I was not made to please them in the end. I am not guided by guilt for my own feelings. No, I embrace the love I feel that has grown in all the empty parts of me that you left alone. I will not give my hand away any longer without my life for I now know better then that. J’en ai marré!
You are free of me now. You no longer have to put up with my over emotional tendencies and nit picking. But good luck keeping the name of Paris' best translator without me.
Sincerely,
Marie
I would say that I’m shocked by this revelation but that would be any omission on my part. Marie has always had untamable spirit and fiery temper thus providing her with a strong sense of what she thinks is justice. She has always gone behind my back and reverted any of the improvements that I had made when translating but this has been the first time she has directly confronted and challenged me. And it’s all because of Madame de la Fayette.
So no I’m not shocked, just outraged and disappointed that she thinks she can just up and leave without me. That she thinks she can survive without me. That she isn’t grateful for everything I have given her.
I will always hold the title of Paris’ best translator. I don’t need a woman, never have and never will.
Quand tu traduies des romans du français vers l’anglais, c’est important de vouloir la perfection. C’est possible! Je peux t’aider à comprendre.
Translator's Note
Madeleine once whispered to me in the dark, “My dear, you do realise that the story of Pallas and Athena is a tragedy?”
I took my time and replied carefully.
“Of course - all Greek myths are tragedies. But we are not Gods. We are not bound by the same mistakes that result in the same ending over and over and over again. We are gloriously human - emboldened in our wisdom of knowing nothing at all - and are therefore not confined to the same cycle. That is why I know our ending will be different.”
Sincerely,
Marie le Maistre