She could remember her first winter in the mountains and the music (sonority) of the water in springtime. When was it? She was walking between her father and mother in the village street, holding their hands, one arm pulled more to one side because her father was so tall. Water was flowing down from everywhere, making all that music, hissing, whistling and drumming. Every time she thought of (remembered) that, she felt like laughing (it made her want to laugh) because it was a soft and funny noise like a caress. She was laughing then too, there between her father and mother (her parents), and the water in the drain pipes and in the stream answered her (echoed her voice), slipping and tumbling. Now with the burning heat of summer and the sky an intense blue, there was a happiness that filled her whole body which was almost frightening. She especially liked the big, grassy slope which rose towards the sky just outside of the village. She never went to the top of it because it was said that there were vipers. She walked for a while next to the field just to feel the coolness of the earth (soil), the edgy blades against her lips. From time to time, the grass was so high she disappeared completely (it hid her completely). She was thirteen years old, was named Hélène Grève, but her father called her Esther.
Part One: Correction of "La
surenchère" by Jean Giradoux.
Upping the Ante (for the definition, see http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com/upping+the+ante)
Charlie strode up and down the islands and climbed on Goat’s Rock. Suddenly, he stopped to listen. Someone was walking behind him cautiously (there were footsteps behind him, cautious footsteps), and had been for a good while (quite some time). The steps would come closer at every dangerous bend (turn) and would, on the contrary, slow up (linger, hang back) when the rocks became level (flat), finally to come even closer and become more threatening (menacing) when bordering a waterfall. People who are about to (are going to) commit suicide may still be afraid of (avoid) spiders and caterpillars, but they are not afraid of being attacked / assaulted. Excited about this adventure, Charlie decided to lure the killer or thief to a little island (islet) where they would not be disturbed (where no one would bother them). He only had to jump (stride) over a little creek which was noisier than it was dangerous, and before crossing over the last Rubicon (the point of no return), that didn’t pose a problem (that would be no problem). He jumped. Someone jumped behind him, floundering (splashing) even slightly. [Then] He climbed a rock overhanging an abyss over which thousands of rainbows intersected (criss-crossed), melted (faded) and reflected like (split into) cinematographic rosaces (stars of light). The someone climbed up after him, not without slipping several times. He turned around abruptly. (He did an about face).
The tattooed face of an Iroquois (Indian) in war paint (battle dress) would have startled/upset him less (would have been less disturbing) than what he saw. Instead of the standard gangster he was expecting, there stood one of those blond and pretty young girls like you see on posters (billboards) smiling at him.
“Mr. Eggins?” she asked simply. Charlie bowed (nodded).
“Mr. Eggins, I am an active member of the Association of the Lord’s Partisans. You probably know of its churches in
“I am sorry, Miss, but that’s impossible.”
“Are you really determined to die?”
“I am”
“Will you swear not to change your mind?”
“I swear.”
“Well, then Mr. Eggins, let me explain to you the second part of my mission. I am also a representative of the Forbett Company from
Maintenant, avec la brûlure de l’été, le ciel d’un bleu intense, il y avait un bonheur qui emplissait tout le corps, qui faisait peur, presque. Elle aimait surtout la grande pente herbeuse qui montait vers le ciel, au-dessus du village. Elle n’allait pas jusqu’en haut, parce qu’on disait qu’il y avait des vipères. Elle marchait un instant au bord du champ, juste assez pour sentir la fraîcheur de la terre, les lames coupantes contre ses lèvres. Par endroits, les herbes étaient si hautes qu’elle disparaissait complètement. Elle avait treize ans, elle s’appelait Hélène Grève, mais son père disait : Esther.”
And now that he had a moment, the bartender was speaking to the young man, pointing out the strong (big) man with his gaze (with his eyes/a look). He seemed to be talking softly, yet despite the music, the young man seemed to understand. He slid from his barstool, walked calmly up the line of drinkers and came up close, very close, to the strong man and said something that Georges Chave couldn’t hear.
The strong man shuttered (was startled, jumped), and trying to back up, banged into the bar (bumped into). The young man moved his lips again and, suddenly, hidden somewhere between the dark crowd and the noise, Georges Chave saw the flash of a razor off whose blade reflected a fleeting, dim yellow glow. Responding to God knows what, there was a ripple through the crowd and Georges Chave banged into the strong man who fell (tripped) backwards and who the young man wanted to hold back by stooping down within reach of Georges Chave, who in turn threw out his leg to crush his foot into the nose of the young man who began to scream something inaudible, bringing his hands to his face. The razor fell somewhere among the dancing shoes (feet). The strong man looked quickly at the big man and then ran away from the bar towards the stairs cutting his way like a wild boar through the women dancing. Georges Chave ran after him and met up with him in the hallway.
This is admittedly a long text. I am however including this whole section because it gives you some indication of context. Also, the ACTION happens in the USA so you should translate the name of the geological formation mentioned in the first line as well as the names of the organisations and companies mentioned later into English
Translate as much as you can and we will see how far we get. If we need to finish it up over two weeks, we can.
Jean Giraudoux, « La surenchère », dans Les contes d’un matin 1952
Charlie parcourut les îles, grimpa sur le rocher des Chèvres. Soudain, il prêta l’oreille. On marchait derrière lui, depuis un bon moment, avec précaution. Les pas se rapprochaient aux tournants dangereux, s’attardaient au contraire quand le roc devenait plan, pour redevenir, dès qu’on côtoyait une cascade, plus proches et plus menaçants. Les gens qui vont se suicider évitent peut-être encore les araignées ou les chenilles, mais ne redoutent pas les agressions. Charlie, heureux de l’aventure, décida d’attirer l’assassin ou le voleur dans un petit îlot où nul ne les dérangerait. Il n’y avait qu’à enjamber un ruisselet plus bruyant que dangereux, et avant de franchir le dernier Rubicon, ce n’était point là une affaire. Il sauta. On sauta derrière lui, on pataugea même un peu. Il gravit un rocher qui surplombait un gouffre au-dessus duquel mille arcs-en-ciel se croisaient, se fondaient et se dédoublaient comme des rosaces de cinématographe. On grimpa derrière lui, non sans glissades répétées. Il se retourna alors brusquement.
La face tatouée d’un Iroquois en costume de guerre l’eût moins troublé que ce qu’il vit. Au lieu du bandit classique auquel il s’attendait, une jeune fille blonde et jolie comme on en voit sur les affiches, lui souriait.
-- Monsieur Eggins ? demanda-t-elle seulement. Charlie s’inclina.
-- Monsieur Eggins, je suis membre actif de l’Association des Partisans du Seigneur. Vous connaissez ses églises de Boston. Vous avez visité, comme tous, sa chambre présidentielle, dont tous les objets, même la baignoire, sont d’or massif. Je viens en son nom vous rappeler que le suicide est un péché mortel et vous conjurer de vivre pour le salut de votre âme.
-- Tous mes regrets, Miss, c’est impossible.
-- Vous êtes bien résolu à mourir ?
-- Je le suis.
--Vous jurez que vous ne changerez point d’avis ?
-- Je le jure.
-- Alors, Monsieur Eggins, permettez-moi d’exposer la seconde partie de ma mission. Je suis également mandataire de la Maison Forbett, d’Indianapolis. Son cirage et ses vernis ne vous sont pas inconnus. La Maison Forbett vous offre vingt mille dollars, payables à celui de vos parents que vous désignerez si, dimanche, vous vous jetez du pont suspendu avec une banderole qu’elle vous fournira et qui porte sa marque de fabrique. Je passerai ce soir, à huit heures, à votre hôtel chercher la réponse.
Jean Echenoz, Cherokee 1983
My Aunt Marthe’s house was an old dilapidated house engulfed in ivy. Due to a boarded up window, it had a slightly blind appearance which was in perfect harmony with the surroundings and its inhabitant. Aunt Marthe, who was the eldest of my mother’s sisters and the only one not to have inherited a nickname, was a surly, ugly and smelly old maid who lived in the midst of her chicken coop and the rabbit hutches in an incredible stench. Inside, it went without saying, there was no water, no electricity, no telephone or television.
“Mister Day,” she said. “Do you know what is in this letter?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I wrote it down myself while my father was dictating it to me.”
His voice was muted, both husky and tender at the same time.
“My father is blind,” he explained.
Mrs. Dare raised her eyebrows. Neither old, nor young, she was thin and stood erect in her grey dress with white flowers. Her cheeks were flat and rubbed with blush and her black hair was pulled back (in a bun). Her mouth was too broad and her nose too pointy for her to be considered pretty, but the young man concluded that she, at any rate, must find herself so to make herself up in that way.
VIII. Quoi qu’ils racontent, pourtant, les cadavres ne disent en fin de compte que ce qu’on veut bien leur faire dire. « On », c’est-à-dire les vivants, qui monopolisent la parole. Ils en profitent pour être les seuls à parler de la mort, bien que ce soit la chose au monde qu’ils connaissent le moins. La mort, certes, on la voit chez les autres, mais on aura beau s’autopsier, soi-même on ne se verra jamais mort. Il n’y pas d’herméneutique de la mort : jamais on ne saura ce qu’elle veut dire, sinon transposée dans les termes de la vie. Moi qui suis vivant, et puis donc parler de la mort, je sais que nous autres vivants sommes incapables de nous mettre à la place des morts. Même si l’on chante Requiem aeternam dona eis (« Donne-leur le repos éternel » en latin, langue morte mais non pas langue des morts), c’est d’abord pour que les âmes des morts nous laissent tranquilles, nous autres qui sommes en vie. Parce que les âmes qui ne sont pas en repos, elles reviennent ; et ça, on n’en veut pas. Ce qu’on voudrait, c’est que ceux que nous aimons ne meurent pas. Mais une fois cadavres, eux sont partis dans un autre monde, et nous ne savons pas trop ce qu’ils peuvent se mettre dans la tête, là-bas. Sans doute pas la même chose que ce qu’ils y avaient de leur vivant ; car depuis leur mort, ils en ont vu d’autres. Ils ont vu d’autres morts, qui ne peuvent leur avoir donné que des idées de morts.
“My dear colleague, you have come to our beautiful city just in time for the medieval festival[1]. You couldn’t have had better timing[2]. Everybody is taking part in[3] the festivities, even our patients, of course, you will see.”
As he spoke[4], Baptiste Rouque-Jaune, his elbow on the table and a hand lying on his belly, kept flattening his tie. It was a habit of his, usually a sign that he had had too much to drink and that he was feeling satisfied[5] with himself.
Frédéric Soumagne was the newcomer at the Grand Bercail. He was replacing Emile Borsat, who was killed two months earlier in an earthquake in
“He had longed[6] to see
“What bad luck[8],” Frédéric Soumagne commented soberly, glancing over his bifocals.
“The most incredible[9] thing in this story is that the earthquake only claimed one victim, my eminent colleague Emile Borsat. What do you think of that, hunh?”[10]
“What really bad luck,” Soumagne thought appropriate to reaffirm.
[1] Celebrations. NOT « feast » because this is a big meal, one that is usually associated with a religious holiday.
[2] couldn’t have timed it better.
[3] joining in on.
[4] Here there is an editorial decision to make. Should you use the present tense? Should you use the narrative past? The latter is the general tense used by the narrator in story telling and is quite common in English, whereas the present for narration is less common and generally used for dramatic effect only. However, if you choose to use the present tense here, to mirror the present in the French text, you must be coherent throughout the rest of the text.
[5] Pleased with himself, self-satisfied. A feeling of self-satisfaction.
[6] He had been longing to see
[7] had become, turned into
[8] How unlucky, What hard luck.
[9] extraordinary
[10] What do you say to that?
They stood there for a moment without moving[1], a few steps[2] from each other, and Mrs Dare pretended to be reading the letter that he had just given her, though she had already understood its contents several seconds ago and was now, from the corner of her eye, observing the newcomer. Without knowing quite why, she felt somewhat embarrassed looking at him. “At any rate,” she said to reassure herself, “he certainly looks respectable.”
She saw him from the side, his face struck by the rays of the sun which poured[3] into the room between the leaves of the trees, and despite herself, she found him quite handsome, even if he were red-headed[4]. That’s what troubled her[5], this flaming head of hair, the milky whiteness of his skin. She had to gain control over herself so that he wouldn’t see the slight repulsion that she felt for him[6]. She didn’t notice right away[7] that he had dark eyes. Tall and a bit slender in his dark clothes that didn’t seem to suit him[8], he had his arms crossed[9] over his chest and was looking at the street defiantly. At his feet, a yellow bag, its leather cracked open in spots, was stuffed to the point of being a sphere. After an instant, he changed his demeanour and reached his big hand towards the opening of the bag which he silently opened up a few centimetres. Then, standing upright, he stuffed[10] his fingers into the pockets of his vest, his eyes on the horizon[11].
Maybe he knew he was being watched. He let a minute or two go by, then, risked a quick, sideways glace towards Mrs. Dare who was still reading. Finally, as if authorized by this long wait, he looked more intensely around himself.
The room had a low ceiling and the walls were covered with a faded, yellowing paint. Near the window, there were two rocking chairs facing each other, separated by a small braided rug with fading blue and purple wool. A round painted wood table held a large plant with vigorous and shiny leaves which was the central decorative piece in the little study[12]. There was an upright piano in the corner and on its music stand rested a songbook of popular music whose bold printed titles rang out like a vulgar laugh. The young man turned his head. “It’s the university,” he thought. “At the university, things are like that.” But at his home, in his parents’ home, the piano was only ever used on Sundays, when church songs were sung. The rest of the week it was covered with a long olive covered sheet that protected the keys.
Ever more time passed, but nothing led him believe that Mrs. Dare had finished reading because, immobile, she still held the paper in her thin fingers and didn’t move. “I can’t send him away just because he is red headed,” she said to herself. She looked at his dusty shoes and supposed that he must have come on foot from the station, out of frugality. Again she asked herself, “I wonder if he smells. Red heads sometimes smell strong[13]. I couldn’t bear that. I have to admit, though, that from here I don’t smell anything.”
Suddenly, she folded the letter and put it back in its envelope.
[1] For a moment, they were still, standing…
[2] paces
[3] Slid, seeped, (light can often use the same verbs as a liquid).
[4] even if he had ginger hair
[5] It was that which troubled her
[6] that he provoked in her.
[7] immediately / right off
[8] Didn’t seem to be his…
[9] folded his arms over his chest
[10] jammed
[11] looking into the distance
[12] parlour
[13] Have a strong smell (odor).
Franz Bartelt, Le grand bercail (2002) (202 mots) This was a former exam...
« Cher collègue, vous arrivez dans notre belle ville juste au moment où commencent les fêtes médiévales. Vous ne pouviez pas mieux tomber. Tous les habitants participent à la fête. Nos malades aussi, évidemment. Vous verrez. »
Tout en parlant, Baptiste Rouque-Jaune, un coude sur la table, une main sur le ventre, lisse sa cravate. C’est un tic, habituellement le signe qu’il a trop bu et qu’il se sent content de lui. Frédéric Soumagne est nouveau venu au Grand Bercail. Il remplace Emile Borsat, tué deux mois plus tôt dans un tremblement de terre, au Japon.
« Il avait envie de connaître le Japon depuis trente ans. A la fin, c’était devenu une obsession. D’après ce qu’on sait, il est mort une heure après avoir posé le pied en terre nippone. Il n’était pas encore sorti de l’aéroport. Il attendait ses bagages.
-- Pas de chance, commente sobrement Frédéric Soumagne, en jetant un coup d’œil par-dessus ses lunettes à double foyer.
-- Le plus extraordinaire dans cette histoire, c’est que ce tremblement de terre n’a fait qu’une seule victime : Emile Borsat, mon éminent confrère. Qu’est-ce que vous en dites, hein ?
-- Vraiment pas de chance, croit juste de confirmer Soumagne.
