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Toréador FP 11

Toréador

Pépita reine de Venise
Quand tu vas sous ton mirador
Tous les gondoliers se disent:
Prends garde... Toréador!
Sur ton cœur personne ne règne
Dans le grand palais où tu dors
Et près de toi la vieille duègne
Guette le Toréador.
Toréador brave des braves
Lorsque sur la place Saint marc
Le taureau en fureur qui bave
Tombe tué par ton poignard.
Ce n’est pas l’orgueil qui caresse
Ton coeur sous la baouta d’or
Car pour une jeune déesse
Tu brûles Toréador.
Belle Espagnole
Dans ta gondole
Tu caracoles
Carmencita
Sous ta mantille
Oeil qui pétille
Bouche qui brille
C’est Pépita.
C’est demain jour de Saint Escure
Qu’aura lieu le combat à mort
Le canal est plein de voitures
Fêtant le Toréador!
De Venise plus d’une belle
Palpite pour savoir ton sort
Mais tu méprises leurs dentelles
Tu souffres Toréador.
Car ne voyant pas apparaître.
Caché derrière un oranger,
Pépita seule à sa fenêtre
Tu médites de te venger,
Sous ton caftan passe ta dague
La jalousie au coeur te mord
Et seul avec le bruit des vagues
Tu pleures toréador.
Que de cavaliers! que de monde!
Remplit l’arène jusqu’au bord
On vient de cent lieues à la ronde
T’acclamer Toréador!
C’est fait il entre dans l’arène
Avec plus de flegme qu’un lord.
Mais il peut avancer a peine
Le pauvre Toréador.
Il ne reste à son rêve morne
Que de mourir sous tous les yeux
En sentant pénétrer des cornes
Dans son triste front soucieux
Car Pépita se montre assise
Offrant son regard et son corps
Au plus vieux doge de Venise
Et rit du toréador.

Toreador

Pépita, queen of Venice,
when you appear at your mirador,
all the gondoliers say:
Look out—Toreador!
Nobody rules over your heart
in the great palace where you sleep,
and near you the old duenna
looks out for the Toreador.
Toreador, bravest of the brave,
when, on Saint Mark’s square
the furious bull, foaming at the mouth,
falls to the ground, killed by your dagger,
It is not pride which swells
your heart beneath your cape of gold—
it is for a young goddess
that you burn, Toreador.
Spanish beauty,
in your gondola
you preen yourself,
Carmencita!
Beneath your mantilla,
your eyes sparkle
your lips shimmer,
it’s Pépita!
Tomorrow, on Saint Escure’s day,
a fight to the death will take place,
the canal is full of vessels
cheering on the Toreador!
More than one fair Venetian lass
trembles to know your fate,
but you scorn their finery,
you suffer, Toreador.
For, since you have not seen,
hidden behind an orange tree,
Pépita alone at her window,
you contemplate revenge.
You feel the dagger beneath your caftan,
jealousy gnaws at your heart
and alone with the sound of the waves
you weep, Toreador.
The horsemen! The throng!
Filling the arena to the brim!
They’ve come from miles around
to cheer you on, Toreador!
It begins! He enters the arena,
calmer than a lord,
but the poor Toreador
can hardly move.
All that’s left of his dreary dream
is to die before the crowd,
as he feels the horns pierce
his sad and worried brow—
For Pépita is sitting there,
offering her looks and her body
to the oldest doge of Venice,
laughing at the Toreador.
Translations by Richard Stokes, author of A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)

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Composer

Francis Jean Marcel Poulenc (F7 January 1899 – 30 January 1963) was a French composer and pianist. His compositions include mélodies, solo piano works, chamber music, choral pieces, operas, ballets, and orchestral concert music.

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Poet

Jean Maurice Eugène Clément Cocteau was a French poet, playwright, novelist, designer, filmmaker, visual artist and critic. 


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