Jacques Bertin - Baudelaire - Invitation to travel

Sang by J. Bertin
Text: Charles Baudelaire (1857)
Year: 1957 (Ferré's version), 1985 (Bertin's version)

Keith Waldrop's translation (not mine)

Child, Sister, think how sweet to go out there and live together! To love at leisure, love and die in that land that resembles you! For me, damp suns in disturbed skies share mysterious charms with your treacherous eyes as they shine through tears.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

Gleaming furniture, polished by years passing, would ornate our bedroom; rarest flowers, their odors vaguely mixed with amber; rich ceilings; deep mirrors; an Oriental splendor—everything there would address our souls, privately, in their sweet native tongue.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

See on these canals those sleeping boats whose mood is vagabond; it’s to satisfy your every desires that they come from the world’s end. —Setting suns reclothe fields, the canals, the whole town, in hyacinth and gold; the world falling asleep in a warm light.

There, there’s only order, beauty: abundant, calm, voluptuous.

My translation:

My child, my sister, think about the sweetness of going out there and live together!
To love at leisure, to love and die in that land that resembles you!
The wet suns of those scrambled skies for my mind have the charms
So mysterious of your treacherous eyes shining through their tears.

There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

Gleaming furniture, polished by the years, would ornate our bedroom;
the rarest flowers, mixing their odors with the vague scents of the amber
The rich ceilings; the deep mirrors; the Oriental splendor
everything there would speak to the soul, in secret, in their sweet native tongue.

There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

See on these canals sleeping those boats whose mood is vagabond;
it’s to satisfy your every desires that they come from the world’s end.
—Setting suns embellish the fields, the canals, the whole town,
in hyacinth and gold; the world is falling asleep in a warm light.
There, everything is nothing else but order and beauty: luxury, calm and delight

Léo Ferré's version:

Barbara - The hurt of living

Original Title: "Le Mal de Vivre".
Year: 1965

It doesn't warn when it arrives
It comes from far
It walked from shore to shore
The mug wedge-shaped
And then one morning, on waking
It's almost nothing
But it's there, it makes you sleepy
At the small of the back

The hurt of living
The hurt of living
That you have to live
Live what may

We can carry it accross our shoulder
Or like a jewel on the hand
Like a flower at the buttonhole
Or just at the tip of the breast
It's not necessarily misery
It's not Valmy, It's not Verdun
But it's tears at the eyelids
For the day that dies, the day that comes

The hurt of living
The hurt of living
That you have to live
Live what may

Whether you are from Rome or America
Whether you are from London or Peking
Whether you are from Egypt or Africa
Or from the Porte Saint-Martin
We all make the same prayer
We all go the same way
How long it's when you have to do it
with your hurt at the small of the back

As hard as they want to understand us
Those who came to us empty handed
We do not want to hear them anymore
We can't, we can't take it anymore
And all alone in the silence
Of a night that doesn't end anymore
Here we are suddenly thinking about
Those who never came back

From the hurt of living
Their hurt of living
They had to live
Live what may

And without warning, it arrives
It comes from far
It walks from shore to shore
The laugh on the corner
And then one morning, on waking up
It's almost nothing
But it's there, it amazes you
At the small of the back

The joy of living
The joy of living
Oh, come live it
Your joy of living

Jacques Brel - That lot there

Original Title: "Ces gens-là"
Year: 1965

At first, at first
There is the eldest
He who is like a melon
He who has a big nose
He who doesn't remember his name, Mister
So much he drinks
or so much he has drunk
Who does nothing of his ten fingers
but he who is worn out
He who has had it
and thinks himself the king

Who gets drunk every night
With bad wine
but who you find back in the morning
In the church kipping
Stiff like a protrusion
White like an Easter's candle
And then who stammers
And who has the eye that strays

Have to tell you, Mister,
that in that family you don't think, Mister
you don't think
you pray

And then, there is the other one
Carrots in his hair
Who has never seen a comb
Who is as nasty as he comes
What's more he'd give his shirt
to poor happy people
Who married the Denise
A girl from the town
Well, from another town

And it's not over
Who makes his small businesses
With his small hat, 
with his small coat,
with his small car
Who would like to look much
But who doesn't look much at all
You should not play the rich
when you do not have a coin

Have to tell you, Mister,
that in that family you don't live, Mister
you don't live
you cheat

And then, there are the others
The mother who says nothing or nonsense
And from the evening to the morning
Under his nice apostle face
And in his wooden frame
There is the father's mustache
Who died from a "sliding"
And who looks at his herd
Eating the cold soup
And it makes big "slurps"
And it makes big "slurps"

And then, there is the so old one
Who never ends vibrating
And we wait for her to kick the bucket
As she is the one with the dough
And we don't even listen
what her poor hands tells

Have to tell you, Mister,
that in that family you don't talk, Mister
you don't talk
you count

And then, and then, and then
There is Frieda who is beautiful like a sun
And who loves me the same as I love Frieda
Even that we often tell eachothers
that we'll have an house
with plenty of windows
with almost no walls
and that we'll live in it
and it'll be pleasant to be there
And if it's not sure
It's still "maybe"
Because the others do not want
Because the others do not want

The others they say like that:
That she is too beautiful for me
That I'm barely good to cut cats throats
I've never killed cats
Or it's been a while
Or I've forgotten
Or they stank
Anyway they do not want
Anyway they do not want

Sometimes, when we see each others
I swear, it's not on purpose
With her wetting eyes
She says she'll leave
She says she'll follow me
Then for a moment
For a moment only
then, me, I believe her, Mister
For a moment
For a moment only
Because in that family, Mister
You don't go away
You don't go away, Mister
You don't go away

But it is late, Mister
I have to go,
Home

Other version:

Barbara & Moustaki - The brown haired lady

Original Title: "La Dame Brune"
Year: 1967

For a long brown haired lady, I've invented
a song in the moonlight, a few verses
If she ever hears it, she'll know
that it is a love song for her and me

I'm the long brown haired lady that you are waiting for
I'm the long brown haired lady and I hear you
Sing again in the moonlight, I come toward you
your guitar, makeshift organ, guides my steps

Pierrot had lent me his pen that morning
I took the A from my makeshift guitar
I thought myself a poet by writing
the words going through my head like the wind

Pierrot had lent you his pen that night,
On your makeshift guitar you took the A
And I took you for a poet by listening
to the words going through your head like the wind

I dressed the dark haired lady, in my thoughts
with pieces of a veil of mist and of dew
I made her bed against my skin for her to feel at home
Sheltered and warm between my hands

Dressed with a veil of mist and dew
I'm the tall brown haired lady of your thought
Sing again in the moonlight, I come toward you
Through the mounts and dunes, I hear your voice

For a long brown haired lady, I've invented
a song in the moonlight, a few verses
I know she'll hear it one day, who knows maybe tomorrow
so that this love song ends well

Good morning, I'm the brown haired lady, I walked so much
Good morning, I'm the brown haired lady, I found you
Make me a place in the hollow of your bed, I'll be fine
In the warmth and well sheltered against your waist

Serge Reggiani - And then

Original Title: "Et puis"
Year: 1968

And then...and I was going to say: already
Childhood is getting distant
like a country from which we depart from
I only barely see the shore anymore
My love, my love

With you, I get under way then
to somewhere else, to something else
On board of my forties
And I take you away
over there in an image

I love you, you
who will never be a grown up
Don't ever leave me
I love you

And then...like we go to the country
when we would have lead a riotous life
We'll go to the sixties
In that house I love
In Provence
My love, my love

We would have made love and then
other boys well before the old days
And the old nights
If you behave well
You'll receive images

I love you, you
who will never be a grown up
Don't ever leave me
I love you

And then, but it's not tomorrow
The evening will have to come
I'll go on the path
where the bitch is waiting for us
One by one
My love, my love

When I'll be up in the clouds
It's somewhere else, it's yet something else
But without you you know
I'll be alone, there
In the other image

I love you, myself
who will never be a grown up
Don't ever leave me
I love you

Another version:

Barbara - Say, when will you be back

Original Title: "Dis, quand reviendras-tu?"
Year: 1964

For how many days, for how many nights
For how long have you been gone again
You told me : "This time, it's the last trip
for our torn hearts, it's the last wrecking
In the spring you'll see I'll be back
The spring, it's pretty to talk about love,
We'll go together see the florished gardens
and will stroll in the streets of Paris"

Say, when will you be back
Say, do you at least know it
That all the time that passes,
Can't be caught up,
That all the time lost
Can't be caught up anymore.

Spring has fled for a long time already,
creak the dead leaves, burn the wood fires,
To see Paris so beautiful at this end of fall,
Suddenly I grow languid, I dream, I shiver,
I reel, I capsize, and like the old refrain,
I go, I come, I veer, I'm turning around, I'm dragging myself,
Your image is haunting me, I'm whispering to you
And I'm lovesick and I'm yearning for you.

Say, when will you be back
Say, do you at least know it
That all the time that passes,
Can't be caught up,
That all the time lost
Can't be caught up anymore.

Even though I still love you, even though I always love you,
Even though you are the only one I love, even though I love you of love,
If you do not understand that you must come back
I will make of us both my most beautiful memories
I'll take the road again, the world marvels me
I'll warm myself up at another sun,
I'm not of those girls who die of sorrow
I do not have the virtue of sailors' wives

Say, but when will you be back
Say, do you at least know it
How all the time that passes,
Can't be caught up,
How all the time lost
Can't be caught up anymore.

Jacques Brel - Orly

Original Title: "Orly"
Year: 1977

There are more than two thousand people
and I only see those two
Rain soldered them to one another, it seems.
There are more than two thousand people
and I only see those two
And I know that they are talking
He must tell her "I love you!"
She must tell him "I love you!"
I think they are busy not promising anything to one another.
Those two are too slean to be dishonest
There are more than two thousand people
and I only see those two
And suddenly, he cries
He cries hard
All surrounded as they are
by sweaty adipose
and hope guzzlers
pointing the nose at them.
But those two torn people
gorgeous from sorrow
abandon to dogs
the achievement of judging them

Life doesn't make gifts
And for God's sake, it's sad
Orly, on a Sunday,
With or Without Bécaud

And now they cry
I mean both of them
Earlier it was him
When I was saying "he"
As embedded as they are
they do not hear anything no more
but the sobs of the other one
And then
And then infinitely
Like two bodies that pray
infinitely slowly
Those two bodies part
And as they break up
Those two bodies tear each other
And I swear to you that they are screaming
And then, they pull themselves together
become one again
become the fire again
And then, tear each other again
Hold each other by the eyes
And then, while stepping back
like the sea recedes,
they consummate the farewell
He slobbers a few words
waves a vague hand
And suddenly, he runs
Runs without turning back
And then, he disapears
Eaten up by the stairs.

Life doesn't make gifts
And for God's sake, it's sad
Orly, on a Sunday,
With or Without Bécaud

And then, he disapears,
eaten up by the stairway
And she, she stays there,
Heart stretched to the sides, mouth opened
Without a shout, without a word
She knows of her death
She just crossed it
Here, she turns around
and turns around again
Her arms goes down to the ground
That's it! She is a thousand years old
The door is closed again
Here she is without light
She turns on herself
And already she knows
She'll always turn
She has lost men before
but there, she is losing love
Love told her
here comes the uselessness again
She'll live on projects
that will only wait
She is fragile again
Before being for sale
I'm here, I follow her
I don't dare anything for her
whom the crowd nibbles
like a mundane fruit.

Brel mentions Bécaud for his song about Orly's airport: Dimanche à Orly