The Garden of Chimeras (Translated)

By Marguerite Yourcenar and Nikhil Saxena

- Marguerite Yourcenar's The Garden of Chimeras, adapted to easy-to-understand English by Nikhil Saxena
- This tale is a poem originally written in French, this translation attempts to stay as close as possible to the beautiful language initially used  by the author, while at the same time applying conventional English syntax and grammar for an easier connection to the reader.

This story tells the tale of Icarus and Daedalus in a new way. While retaining elements of the original Greek myth, the language and imagery are intensified as Yourcenar explores the inner demons and desires of these charcters even farther, as Icarus embarks upon his quest to obtain wings to fly to the sun and escape his prison.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikhil Saxena
• Release date: Mar 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9788832527933

Book preview

Desportes.

Prologue

The Mage Daedalus and Icarus, his son, were shut up in the labyrinth of Crete by Minos, King of the Island, who dreads the power of the Enchanter. A fabulous monster, the Chimera, guards the door that would have to be found and crossed to return to the world. After long searching in vain, Icarus, loving the Sun and wanting to escape the sadness of the Wonderful Garden, succeeds in taming the Chimera and takes its wings to rise to the Star, while Daedalus, tired and disappointed, dies in the Labyrinth without being able to build the human wings he dreamed of.

Without listening to the songs of the Sirens, the calls of the people, or the voice of the Winds, which promise the treasures of the empires on the Earth, Icarus continues to climb to Helios. His wings ignite. He falls, and the Sirens wail for the death of the son of Daedalus, and on the futility of hope and sacrifice, until Helios, appearing amidst them, glorifies the human effort, even if useless, to the light and to Beauty …

Part One

The Labyrinth of Crete

Scene I

The Song of Pan

A deep undergrowth, dark. On the grass, through the thick foliage, dart the arrows of the golden sun, more acute in the cool twilight. Towards the bottom, half hidden by the entanglement of branches, we see a deserted clearing where a small statue of Aphrodite rests on a stele garlanded with roses. It’s morning. The air is limpid and springy. In the silence, we hear confused vibrations from the forest, and in a moment, it’s very soft and almost imperceptible to the flute of Pan.

The Distant Song of Pan.

It’s a harmonious time as the warmth spreads,

Under branches gnarled by that silvery light,

Where the Hamadryade listens,

at the edge of the clearing,

To the far away flute of Pan.

All is silent … The forest is languid and breathing.

The song of birds trembles in the air;

Syrinx abandoning its shadowy Empire

Sleeps in the middle of the reeds.

It is the hour when the lizard lying in the grass

heats its shimmering and chilly body in the sun;

Where the hare in passing is waving the sheaves;

Where the gloomy glaciers are blue.

It’s the morning … Joyous, the butterflies are awake;

Their weight causes the open calyx to fail.

The shadow fills with a fresh buzz of bees.

Pan laughs at the bottom of the green thicket.

My breath is the soul of the Earth.

The forest flames at my voice.

I am the freshness, the mystery,

The peaceful breath of the woods.

My song is the soul of silence,

The shuddering of the reeds,

It is what the birds copy

On the branch which is balance …

My song is that of the hornet,

And the cicada hidden.

His echo makes, in the valley,

The spring tremble in fear.

My song is that of summer,

My song is that of sap.

I am Pan, desire, dream,

Forgetfulness, love and gaiety.

The melody of the divine song moves away. We still hear:

And on the blooming grass where the shadow and the light

Dance at the edge of the water that murmurs and spreads,

Listen! Listen! At the bottom of the clearing,

Pan's carefree laughter!

For some moments now, in the clearing full of shadow, three Nymphs have appeared. Their ensnared group silently approaches the statue of Aphrodite. They stop. Their light veils have the blush transparency of the morning mists, and seeming like these, trembling in the light that it enters and plays. With quiet gestures, an almost musical harmony, the Nymphs crown the smiling forehead of Kypris with new garlands, goddess of youth, of love, and the spring. Kneeling, they bloom new flowers upon the mossy pedestal. From a narrow trivet rises the