Traduction de Maudits silmarils (brouillon)
J'ai essayé de traduire le premier chapitre de Maudits Silmarils en anglais...
Donc voilà ce que ça donne... Pour comparaison, la version française est ici. C'est presque du mot à mot, et c'est sans aucun doute bourré de tournures ou vocabulaires inappropriés, sans parler des fautes de grammaire... Donc j'ai absolument besoin de relectures sinon ce sera la honte pour Turgon et les siens.
Le meunier est censé parler un mélange de parler populaire et moyen-âgeux, et Penlodh doit parler comme un universitaire ou un majordome distingué (Jeeves !).
Bloody Silmarils
Chapter 1 : The Gondolin miller
The king who sat on the golden throne in the highest tower of the Hidden City was wearing a magnificent gown looking like those you put on to go to bed, as well as a severe and moody/sullen face. His eyes, bright and grey, were as the rain pierced by the rays of sunlight, and his dark hair framed a regular/symmetric face which seemed to be carved in stone. A circle of white gold was put upon it, but it nearly reach the belt which tightened several times his waist, since it was a tradition, for the males of this lineage, to let their hair grow as much as possible, as a sign of vigour and virility - a fact which gave rise to all sorts of dubious jokes from Fëanor sons.
But this day, Turgon, Fingolfin's second son, was in a rather good mood. He had nearly convinced his daughter to put some shoes when she went out, which will prevent a lot of tears and surgery. He had also measured a growth of ten centimeters of the white tree he planted on the hill. He had thought of his dead wife just one time, when he woke up and opened his eyes.
« My king », announced the Intendant/Steward/Mayor of the Palace, interrupting an unhappy second time, « a human being is requesting audience. »
« A mortal ? Bring him in. »
The man who walked into the hall, a few minutes after, was of an indefinable age. His brown hair curled around his jaw, and his chin was bearded. He was dressed very simply.
« Mister... Erik, requests audience to his majesty King Turgon ! », announced the Intendant.
The human bent, and then he stared at the king with a curious glance that only mortals can show. Not so young he was, but his eyes were green as the first grass that follows a damp winter.
« Erik ? », repeated the king, with great interest. « From which House ? »
Oh, humans often were like cute little squirrels. Full of hair/fur, with a short life expectancy.
« From the house behin' the melle, ma' lord. »
Turgon rose a pointed eyebrow.
« He's the Gondolin miller, my king », explained the Intendant.
« Since when anyone can just walk right in this valley like in a mill ? » (1)
Turgon realized suddenly that this could explain that, but Erik was eager to reply :
« Our foeder had lived 'ere, and the foeder of my foeder ma' lord. Our familee/kynrede had gone with thou in thy magic valley/vallee, to cultivate. »
« Huh... Good. And what is the reason of your coming here in the palace, O Miller ? »
« That's the bread, ma' lord, he makes thy people sick ! Us we saugh some dark stains on the corn, but they still wanted it to be ground ! 'Cause they pretended elves can not get ill ! »
« Which is true. But carry on with your account. Who consumed that wheat ? Which were its effects ? I fear some dark invention of Morgoth. »
« The elves fram the thridde feorme before the citee, ma' lord. They b'came like foles. B'gan to disporte and dance and laugh without being able to areste ! To jump onto the trees and sing some songs that sprang out all made from their head ! Invented some rymes 'bout my beard and 'bout the bread forms, like this ! And were so excited that slept with opened eyes ! »
« No, my good Erik », concluded the king. « They're not ill... They're just normal. »
* * *
« Who is buried, Penlodh ? I haven't heard anything about it », complained the king.
« Nobody of importance », replied the Intendant. « It happens to be a human miller. He was very appreciated in the valley, although he had a strange way to express himself. »
« A human miller... You mean, Erik the Miller ? »
« Indeed, Majesty. »
« But how did he perish ? He was so young ! I met him shortly before, he came to talk to me about a wheat disease... »
« So young ? He was more than sixty years old my king, which is a venerable age for a human. »
« Hence », counted Turgon, « it was ten... twenty... thirty years ago ! He died in only thirty years ? »
« One of my acquaintances, Majesty, happened to share with me this interesting witticism... Humans are like goldfishes. One day, you come back to your house and... they are dead, without any visible explanation. All you have to do is to turn your head just one minute and to think about something else. A breeze a little too fresh or too hot, a spoon of food added or subtracted, and BAM ! They're dead. »
The king's face darkened. For the sixth time of the day, he had just thought about the big iceberg that killed his wife.
* * * * * * *
(1) « To walk in somewhere like in a mill »/ « Entrer quelque part comme dans un moulin » is a french expression meaning you can just walk right in a place without any boundaries and control.
Donc voilà ce que ça donne... Pour comparaison, la version française est ici. C'est presque du mot à mot, et c'est sans aucun doute bourré de tournures ou vocabulaires inappropriés, sans parler des fautes de grammaire... Donc j'ai absolument besoin de relectures sinon ce sera la honte pour Turgon et les siens.
Le meunier est censé parler un mélange de parler populaire et moyen-âgeux, et Penlodh doit parler comme un universitaire ou un majordome distingué (Jeeves !).
Bloody Silmarils
Chapter 1 : The Gondolin miller
The king who sat on the golden throne in the highest tower of the Hidden City was wearing a magnificent gown looking like those you put on to go to bed, as well as a severe and moody/sullen face. His eyes, bright and grey, were as the rain pierced by the rays of sunlight, and his dark hair framed a regular/symmetric face which seemed to be carved in stone. A circle of white gold was put upon it, but it nearly reach the belt which tightened several times his waist, since it was a tradition, for the males of this lineage, to let their hair grow as much as possible, as a sign of vigour and virility - a fact which gave rise to all sorts of dubious jokes from Fëanor sons.
But this day, Turgon, Fingolfin's second son, was in a rather good mood. He had nearly convinced his daughter to put some shoes when she went out, which will prevent a lot of tears and surgery. He had also measured a growth of ten centimeters of the white tree he planted on the hill. He had thought of his dead wife just one time, when he woke up and opened his eyes.
« My king », announced the Intendant/Steward/Mayor of the Palace, interrupting an unhappy second time, « a human being is requesting audience. »
« A mortal ? Bring him in. »
The man who walked into the hall, a few minutes after, was of an indefinable age. His brown hair curled around his jaw, and his chin was bearded. He was dressed very simply.
« Mister... Erik, requests audience to his majesty King Turgon ! », announced the Intendant.
The human bent, and then he stared at the king with a curious glance that only mortals can show. Not so young he was, but his eyes were green as the first grass that follows a damp winter.
« Erik ? », repeated the king, with great interest. « From which House ? »
Oh, humans often were like cute little squirrels. Full of hair/fur, with a short life expectancy.
« From the house behin' the melle, ma' lord. »
Turgon rose a pointed eyebrow.
« He's the Gondolin miller, my king », explained the Intendant.
« Since when anyone can just walk right in this valley like in a mill ? » (1)
Turgon realized suddenly that this could explain that, but Erik was eager to reply :
« Our foeder had lived 'ere, and the foeder of my foeder ma' lord. Our familee/kynrede had gone with thou in thy magic valley/vallee, to cultivate. »
« Huh... Good. And what is the reason of your coming here in the palace, O Miller ? »
« That's the bread, ma' lord, he makes thy people sick ! Us we saugh some dark stains on the corn, but they still wanted it to be ground ! 'Cause they pretended elves can not get ill ! »
« Which is true. But carry on with your account. Who consumed that wheat ? Which were its effects ? I fear some dark invention of Morgoth. »
« The elves fram the thridde feorme before the citee, ma' lord. They b'came like foles. B'gan to disporte and dance and laugh without being able to areste ! To jump onto the trees and sing some songs that sprang out all made from their head ! Invented some rymes 'bout my beard and 'bout the bread forms, like this ! And were so excited that slept with opened eyes ! »
« No, my good Erik », concluded the king. « They're not ill... They're just normal. »
* * *
« Who is buried, Penlodh ? I haven't heard anything about it », complained the king.
« Nobody of importance », replied the Intendant. « It happens to be a human miller. He was very appreciated in the valley, although he had a strange way to express himself. »
« A human miller... You mean, Erik the Miller ? »
« Indeed, Majesty. »
« But how did he perish ? He was so young ! I met him shortly before, he came to talk to me about a wheat disease... »
« So young ? He was more than sixty years old my king, which is a venerable age for a human. »
« Hence », counted Turgon, « it was ten... twenty... thirty years ago ! He died in only thirty years ? »
« One of my acquaintances, Majesty, happened to share with me this interesting witticism... Humans are like goldfishes. One day, you come back to your house and... they are dead, without any visible explanation. All you have to do is to turn your head just one minute and to think about something else. A breeze a little too fresh or too hot, a spoon of food added or subtracted, and BAM ! They're dead. »
The king's face darkened. For the sixth time of the day, he had just thought about the big iceberg that killed his wife.
* * * * * * *
(1) « To walk in somewhere like in a mill »/ « Entrer quelque part comme dans un moulin » is a french expression meaning you can just walk right in a place without any boundaries and control.