Translating Slavery, Volume 2

Ourika and Its Progeny

Doris Y. Kadish, Françoise Massardier-Kenney

• Publisher: The Kent State University Press
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781612777368
• Topic: Langues et linguistique
• Subtopic: Traduction et interprétation

The second volume of this revised and expanded edition of Translating Slavery

Translating Slavery explores the complex interrelationships that exist between translation, gender, and race by focusing on antislavery writing by or about French women in the French revolutionary period. Now in two volumes, Translating Slavery closely examines what happens when translators translate literary works that address issues of gender and race. The volumes explore the theoretical, linguistic, and literary complexities involved when white writers, especially women, took up their pens to denounce the injustices to which blacks were subjected under slavery.

Volume 1, Gender and Race in French Abolitionist Writing, 1780–1830, highlights key issues in the theory and practice of translation by providing essays on the factors involved in translating gender and race, as well as works in translation.

Volume 2, Ourika and Its Progeny, contains the original translation of Claire de Duras's Ourika as well as a series of original critical essays by twenty-first-century scholars. First published anonymously in 1823, Ourika signifies an important shift from nineteenth-century notions of race, nationality, and kinship toward the identity politics of today. Editors Kadish and Massardier-Kenney and their contributors review the impact of the novel and abolitionist narrative, poetry, and theater in the context of translation studies.

This revised and expanded edition of Translating Slavery will appeal to scholars and students interested in race and gender studies, French literature and history, comparative literature, and translation studies.

Part One

Novel

CHAPTER 1

Claire de Duras, Ourika

Françoise Massardier-Kenney and Claire Salardenne

This is to be alone, this, this, is solitude!

Lord Byron

INTRODUCTION

I had come from the town of Montpellier a few months before, and I was practicing medicine in Paris when, one morning, I was summoned to a convent in the Faubourg Saint-Jacques on the Left Bank, to visit a young nun who was ill. The emperor Napoleon had recently allowed a few of these convents to reopen: the one where I was going was devoted to the education of young girls and belonged to the Ursuline order. The Revolution had destroyed part of the building. The cloister had one side without walls, as the ancient church adjacent to it had been destroyed; the only remnants were a few arches. A nun let me in this cloister, and we walked on large flagstones that provided a path in the galleries. I realized these were tombs because they were all marked by inscriptions, which had been, for the most part, blurred by the abrasion of time. A few of these stones had been broken during the Revolution: the nun pointed them out to me, saying that they had not yet had time to repair them. I had never been inside a convent before: this spectacle was a novelty for me. From the cloister we went into the garden, where the nun told me they had carried the sister who was ill: indeed, I could see her at the end of a long path shaded by a bower. She was seated, and her long black veil covered her entirely.

“Here is the doctor,” said the nun as she left. I came forward with some apprehension; the sight of these tombs had wrung my heart, and I thought I was to behold yet another victim of the cloisters. The prejudices of my youth had been awakened, and my interest in the woman whom I had come to visit was doubled by the misfortune that I attributed to her.

She turned toward me, and I was strangely surprised when I saw a Negress. My surprise became greater because of the politeness with which she greeted me and the kinds of expressions she used. “You are visiting a person who is quite ill,” she said to me. “Now I want to get well; but I did not always wish it so, and this perhaps is what did me so much damage.” I asked her a few questions about her illness. “I feel,” she said, “a constant oppression, I cannot sleep, and I have an unrelenting fever.” Her appearance only confirmed this sad description of her state of health: she was excessively thin; her large and shiny eyes, her brilliant white teeth, were the only light in her face. Her soul was still alive, but her body was destroyed, and she showed all the marks of a long and acute grief. Touched beyond words, I decided to do everything possible to save her. I began by mentioning the need to calm her thoughts, to think of other things, to avoid painful feelings.

“I am happy,” she said. “I have never felt such serenity.” Her tone of voice was sincere; this soft voice could not deceive, but my surprise increased every second.

“You haven’t always thought so,” I told her, “and you bear the trace of a very long-lasting grief.”

“It is true,” she said, “My heart found peace quite late, but now I am happy.”

“Well, if this is the case,” I went on, “it is the past that we must cure. Let us hope that we shall overcome it. But I cannot cure this past without knowing what it is.”

“Alas,” she answered, “this is foolishness!” When she said these words, her eyes moistened.

“Ah, you say that you are happy!” I cried out.

“Yes, I am,” she added firmly, “and I would not exchange my happiness for the destiny that I used to so desire. I have no secret: the story of my whole life is my misfortune. I suffered so much until I entered this house that, little by little, my health was destroyed. I welcomed the decline of my health because I saw no hope in the future. This was a guilty thought! As you can see, I have been punished for it; and when at last I wish to live, I may no longer be able to do so.”

I reassured her. I gave her hope that she would recover soon, but when I said these consoling words, when I promised her that she would live, a sad sense of foreboding warned me that it was too late and that death had marked its victim.

I saw this young nun again several times. The interest that I showed seemed to touch her. One day, she came back on her own to the subject to which I wanted to lead her. “The sorrows that I have felt,” she said, “must seem so strange that I have always been quite reluctant to share them: one cannot judge other people’s afflictions, and confidants are almost always accusers.”

“Do not fear this from me,” I said, “I can see too well the havoc that sorrow has wreaked in you not to believe it is sincere.”

“You will find it sincere,” she said, “but you will find it unreasonable.”

“Still, granting what you say,” I resumed, “does it preclude sympathy?”

“Almost always,” she replied. “However, if, in order to cure me, you need to know the sorrows that destroyed my health, I shall confide in you when we are better acquainted.”

I visited the convent more and more often; the treatment that I proposed seemed to have an effect. Finally, one day last summer, I found her alone in the same arbor, on the same bench where I had seen her for the first time. We resumed our conversation, and she told me what follows.

OURIKA

I was brought back from Senegal, at the age of two, by M. le chevalier de B., the governor of that colony. He took pity on me one day when he saw slaves being taken aboard a slave ship that was about to leave the harbor. My mother was dead, and they were taking me away despite my cries. M. de B. bought me and, upon his arrival in France, gave me to his aunt Mme la maréchale de B., the most amiable person of her time, and the person who was able to combine the most elevated qualities with the most touching kindness.

My rescue from slavery and my being given Mme de B. as benefactress were like two gifts of life: I was ungrateful to Providence by not being happy, and yet does happiness always result from the gifts of intelligence? I tend to believe the contrary: one must pay for the gift of knowledge by wishing not to know, and legend does not say whether Galatea found happiness after receiving life.

I did not learn the story of the first days of my childhood until much later. My earliest memories take me back only as far as Mme de B.’s salon. I spent all my time there, loved by her, cherished, pampered by all her friends, showered with presents, praised, exalted as the wittiest and the most amiable child.

The tone of that society was enthusiastic, yet good taste did preclude from this enthusiasm anything that resembled exaggeration. Everything that lent itself to praise was praised, everything that lent itself to blame was excused, and frequently, with an even more amiable tactfulness, weaknesses themselves were turned into virtues. Success gives courage; with Mme de B. people were worth as much as they could be worth, and perhaps a little more, since she lent some of her own qualities to her friends without being aware of it: seeing her, or listening to her, led them to think that they resembled her.

Dressed in Oriental attire, I would sit at Mme de B.’s feet and listen to the conversation of the most distinguished men of that time without understanding it yet. I was not boisterous like most children; I was thoughtful before I could reflect. I was happy by Mme de B.’s side: love, to me, meant being there, hearing her, obeying her, and above all watching her. I wanted nothing more. Living in luxury, being surrounded only by the wittiest and the most amiable people, could not surprise me: I knew nothing else; yet, unbeknownst to me, I was beginning to disdain everything that was not part of the world where I was spending my life. Good taste is to the mind what a good ear is to sounds. When I was still a young child, tastelessness would offend me. I intuitively knew what good taste was before I could even define it, and habit had made it almost a necessity for me. Had I had a future, this inclination would have been dangerous, but I had no future, and I did not know it.

When I reached the age of twelve, it still had not occurred to me that there could be a different way of being happy. Being a Negress did not bother me. People told me I was charming; besides, nothing forewarned me that my color was a disadvantage. I hardly saw any other children; I had only one friend, and my blackness did not keep him from loving me.

My benefactress had two grandsons, the children of a daughter who had died young. Charles, the younger grandson, was about my age. Brought up with me, he was my protector, my guide, and defender of all my little faults. At the age of seven, he went to school. I cried when he left; this was my first sorrow. I often thought about him, but I hardly ever saw him. He was studying, and for my part, I was learning, in order to please Mme de B., everything required for a perfect education. She wanted me to have every talent: I had a good voice—the most skilled masters trained it. I had a disposition for painting, and a famous painter, a friend of Mme de B., undertook to direct my efforts. I learned English and Italian, and Mme de B. herself supervised my reading. She was forming my mind, molding my opinions. By talking with her, by discovering all the treasures of her soul, I felt mine rise, and it was admiration that opened my mind to intelligence. Alas! I could not foresee that those sweet hours of instruction would be followed by such bitter days. I thought only of pleasing Mme de B.; a smile of approbation on her face was my entire future.

In the meantime, readings, of poets especially, were beginning to occupy my youthful imagination. But without a goal, without a plan, my thoughts wandered aimlessly, and with the confidence of my young age, I thought that Mme de B. would know how to make me happy. Her affection for me, the life I was leading, everything aggravated my error and justified my blindness. Let me give you an example of the care and attention that I received.

You will perhaps find it hard to believe, when you see me today, that I was renowned for the elegance and beauty of my figure. Mme de B. often praised what she called my grace, and she had wanted me to become a great dancer. To allow this talent of mine to shine, my benefactress gave a ball, supposedly for her grandsons, but actually to show me at my best in a quadrille of the four parts of the world, in which I was to represent Africa. We consulted travelers, pored over books on costumes, read erudite works on African music, and finally chose a comba, the national dance of my country. My partner put a veil on his face. Alas! I did not need one on mine; yet at that time this did not occur to me. Completely captivated by the pleasure of the ball, I danced the comba and had all the success that could be expected, because of the novelty of the show and the choice of the audience, mostly friends of Mme de B. who were infatuated with me and who wanted to please her by showing their enthusiasm. The dance, as a matter of fact, was striking. It consisted of a mixture of gestures and measured steps; love, pain, triumph, and despair were depicted. I was not yet aware of all these violent movements of the soul; yet some instinct revealed them to me, and I was a success. I received applause, attention, and much praise. My pleasure was unalloyed; nothing then troubled my security. It was only a few days after the ball that a conversation overheard by chance opened my eyes and ended my youth.

There was a large lacquered screen in Mme de B.’s salon. This screen hid a door; it also extended near a window, and between the screen and the window stood a table at which I sometimes sat to draw. One day, I was carefully finishing a miniature. Absorbed by my work, I had been still for a long time, and Mme de B. probably thought that I had left, when one of her friends was announced, the marquise de ——. The marquise was a person of cold reason, peremptory, rational to the point of being harsh. Her friendship was of the same nature: sacrifices made for the good and the benefit of her friends were nothing to her, but the price that she exacted for this great attachment was high. Inquisitive and rough, as demanding as she was devoted, she was the least amiable of Mme de B.’s friends. I feared her even though she was good to me; she treated me well in her way. For her, to scrutinize, even sternly, was a sign of interest. Alas! I was so accustomed to benevolence that justice always seemed threatening to me.

“While we are alone,” Mme de —— told Mme de B., “I want to speak to you about Ourika. She is becoming delightful. Her mind is quite formed; her conversation will be as witty as yours. She is very talented; she is piquant, natural. But what will become of her? And in the end, what will you do with her?”

“Alas!” Mme de B. said. “This thought is often on my mind and, I must admit, always painfully so: I love her as if she were my own daughter. I would do anything to make her happy, and yet when I think of her situation, I cannot find a remedy. Poor Ourika! I see her alone, forever alone in life!”

I could not possibly tell you the effect that these few words produced in me. It was as swift as thunder. I saw it all: I saw myself a Negress, dependent, despised, without fortune, without support, without a human being of my own kind to whose destiny I could join my own. Up to then I had been but a toy, an amusement for my benefactress, and I was soon to be cast out of a world to which I could not be admitted. A dreadful palpitation overtook me; my eyes grew dim; the pounding of my heart was so loud that I could not hear. Eventually, I recovered enough to hear the rest of the conversation.

“I fear,” Mme de —— was saying, “that you will make her unhappy. What could satisfy her, now that she has spent her life in your inner circle?”

“But she will stay with me,” Mme de B. said.

“She will,” continued Mme de ——, “as long as she is a child. But she is fifteen years old. To whom will you marry her, with her intelligence and the education you have given her? Who will ever want to marry a Negress? Even if you can find a man who, for a large dowry, will consent to be the father of Negro children, this man will be of a lower condition, and she will be unhappy. She can only want those men who cannot want her.”

“All this is true,” Mme de B. said. “But fortunately, she is not aware of it yet, and she is attached to me, which, I do hope, will keep her from becoming aware of her situation for a long time. To make her happy, I would have had to have made her a common person: I sincerely believe this was impossible. Well! Perhaps she will be distinguished enough to rise above her position, since she could not stay below it.”

“This is mere fantasy on your part,” Mme de —— said. “Philosophy puts us above the evils of destiny, but it is powerless against the evils that stem from breaching the natural order of things. Ourika did not fulfill her destiny. She has entered society without its permission; society will have its revenge.”

“Assuredly,” Mme de B. said, “she is innocent of this crime, but you are judging the poor child so severely.”

“I want to do her more good than you do,” Mme de —— continued. “I want her to be happy, and you are ruining her.”

Mme de B. answered with impatience, and I was about to become the cause of a quarrel between the two friends when another visitor was announced. I slipped behind the screen. I escaped. I ran to my room, where a flood of tears temporarily soothed my wretched heart.

This loss of the prestige that had surrounded me until then was such a great change in my life! Some illusions are like daylight; when you lose them, everything else disappears with them. In the confusion of the new ideas that assailed me, I could not find anything that had occupied me until then: this was an abyss with all its terrors—the contempt that pursued me; the society in which I was out of place; the man who, for a large dowry, would perhaps consent to his children being Negroes! All these thoughts arose successively like ghosts and attached themselves to me like furies: isolation, especially— the conviction that I was alone, forever alone in life, as Mme de B. had said. And at every moment I repeated to myself, “Alone! Forever alone!” The day before, what did being alone matter to me? I was not aware of being alone; I could not feel it. I needed those I loved; it did not occur to me that those I loved did not need me. But now my eyes were open, and misfortune had already let mistrust enter my soul.

When I came back to Mme de B.’s, everybody was struck by the change in me. I was questioned. I said that I was ill; I was believed. Mme de B. sent for Barthez, who examined me carefully, felt my pulse, and said abruptly that there was nothing wrong with me. Mme de B. felt reassured and tried to divert and entertain me. I dare not say how ungrateful I was for the care given by my benefactress. It was as if my soul had closed in on itself. Only the favors that the heart can repay are sweet to accept. My heart was filled with too much bitterness to open up. Infinite combinations of the same thoughts occupied my mind all the time. They kept coming back in a thousand different forms: my imagination gave them the gloomiest colors. I often spent entire nights in tears. I could pity only myself. My face filled me with horror. I no longer dared look at myself in a mirror; when I caught sight of my black hands, I thought I saw those of a monkey. I exaggerated my ugliness to myself, and this color seemed to me the sign of my reprobation. Only my color separated me from those of my kind; only my color condemned me to be alone, forever alone! Never loved! Some man, for a large dowry, would perhaps consent to his children being Negroes! This thought made my entire b...