W. H. AUDEN

VOLTAIRE AT FERNEY

Almost happy now, he looked at his estate.

An exile making watches glanced up as he passed,

And went on working: where a hospital was rising fast

A joiner touched his cap; an agent came to tell

Some of the trees he'd planted were progressing well.

The white alps glittered. It was summer. He was very great.

Far off in Paris, where his enemies

Whispered that he was wicked, in an upright chair

A blind woman longed for death and letters. He would write

"Nothing is better than life". But was it? Yes, the fight

Against the false and the unfair

Was always worth it. So was gardening. Civilize.

Cajoling, scolding, scheming, cleverest of them all,

He'd led the other children in a holy war

Against the infamous grown-ups, and, like a child, been sly

And humble when there was occasion for

The two-faced answer or the plain protective lie.

But, patient like a peasant, waited for their fall.

And never doubted, like D'Alembert, he would win.

Only Pascal was a great enemy, the rest

Were rats already poisoned: there was much, though, to be done

And only himself to count upon.

Dear Diderot was dull, but did his best;

Rousseau, he'd always known, would blubber and give in.

So, like a sentinel, he could not sleep. The night was full of wrong,

Earthquakes and executions. Soon he would be dead,

And still all over Europe stood the horrible nurses

Itching to boil their children. Only his verses

Perhaps could stop them. He must go on working. Overhead

The uncomplaining stars composed their lucid song.

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VOLTAIRE EM FERNEY 

Quase feliz agora, olhava a sua propriedade.

Um relojoeiro exilado mirou-o quando passava,

E continuou o trabalho; no sítio onde construíam um hospital

Um carpinteiro saudou-o; um empregado veio dizer-lhe

que estavam a crescer algumas das árvores que plantara.

Os alpes brancos brilhavam. Era verão. Ele era um génio.

Lá longe, em Paris, onde os seus inimigos

Murmuravam, chamando-lhe perverso, numa cadeira de espaldar

Uma velha cega ansiava pela morte e por cartas. Ele escreveria

"Nada é melhor que a vida". Mas seria? Sim, a luta

Contra a falsidade e a injustiça

Compensava sempre. Tal como a jardinagem. Civilizar.

Lisonjeando, rabujando, intrigando, ele, o mis arguto

Conduziu as outras crianças numa guerra santa

Contra os adultos infames e, como uma criança, fora velhaco

E humilde, conforme fossem necessárias

A resposta ambígua ou a mentira redentora,

Mas, como um camponês, esperaria pacientemente a ruína deles.

E nunca duvidou, como D'Alembert, que venceria:

Só Pascal era um inimigo digno, o resto

Eram ratos já envenenados; Havia, porém, muito a fazer

E só podia contar consigo.

O caro Diderot era medíocre, mas fazia o que podia;

Rousseau, sempre o soubera, lamentava-se e desistia.

Assim, qual sentinela, não podia dormir. A noite estava cheia de erros,

Terramotos e execuções. Em breve morreria

E pela Europa fora amas terríveis ainda

Por escaldar as suas crianças. Talvez apenas os seus versos

Pudessem impedi-las: Tinha de continuar a trabalhar. Lá em cima

Estrelas impávidas compunham uma canção lúcida.