THE KING. Lord-Chancellor, whose hair is white while
mine is but beginning to grizzle,
Is it not said that youth is
the season of illusion,
Whereas old age, little by
little,
Enters into the reality of
things as they are?
A very sad reality, a little
faded world that goes on shrinking [(Une réalité fort triste, un petit monde
décoloré qui va se rétrécissant)].
THE CHANCELLOR. That is what the ancients have always taught
me to repeat.
THE KING. They say the world is sad for him who sees
clear?
THE CHANCELLOR. I cannot deny it against everyone.
THE KING. It is old age that has the clear [(clair)] eye?
THE CHANCELLOR. It has the practiced [(exercé)] eye. . . .
THE KING. . . .
Sad, is it? How can it be said without impiety that the
truth of those things which are the work of a transcendent God
Is sad [(Comment dire sans impiété que la vérité de ces choses qui sont l'œuvre d'un Dieu excellent Est triste)]? And how without absurdity say that the world,
which is His likeness [(resemblance)] and His rival [(emulation)],
Is littler than ourselves
and leaves the greater part of our imagination in the void [(sans support)]?
Now I maintain that youth is the season of
illusion, but that is because it pictures things as infinitely less beautiful
and manifold and desirable than they are, and of this delusion we are healed by
age.
Paul Claudel, The satin
slipper, or The worst is not the surest, trans., with the collaboration of
the author, by John O’Connor (New York:
Sheed and Ward, 1945), First day, Scene 6, pp. 24-25. I have not yet read The satin slipper,
but was put onto this passage by Rémi Brague.
French from Paul Claudel, Théâtre II, ed. Didier Alexandre and
Michel Autrand, Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (Paris: Gallimard, 2011), 279-280.