I’m currently translating Alfred Jarry’s operetta Le Moutardier du pape for Black Scat Books; it should be out later this year. I’m translating Jarry’s rhymed verse as rhymed verse; it always requires some compromise, but I hope the result is more faithful than a literal, unrhymed rendition would be (and more faithful than Jarry’s own rhymed translation of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”!). Jarry called his operettas his théâtre mirlitonnesque, his “kazoo theater,” and his verse is suitably lively, filled with rhymes, alliteration, assonance, wordplay, and varied meters. The subject is the medieval legend of Pope Joan; Jarry turns it into a bawdy farce, and Joan becomes an Englishwoman named Jane.

Here’s an aria from the end of the first act, in which Jane’s husband, Sir John of Eggs, describes his runaway wife to the pope, and gradually recognizes her. I’ll give the first stanza in the original, so you can see what I’m up against.

Elle a de tout petits petons,
Petits, petits… comment peut-on
A sa pantoufl’ de Cendrillon
Trouver la paire?
Petits, petits… hé mais, Saint Père
–Que m’excuse Sa Sainteté
De la très grande liberté,
Successeur du princ’ des apôtres–
Petits, petits… comme les vôtres.

I
She has such pretty little feet,
So elegant and so petite,
No Cinderella could compete
Or could compare.
But Holy Father, if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness.
Successor to Saint Peter’s throne,
Those little feet… are like your own.

II
And when she smooths her satin skirt,
Her finger’s such a little flirt,
So debonair, and so alert
For an affair.
A little finger… if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness,
Successor to Saint Peter’s throne,
A little finger… like your own.

III
Her waist is like a shoot in spring,
A scepter worthy of a king,
Her belt is like a narrow ring
That brings despair.
So narrow, narrow… if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness,
Successor to Saint Peter’s throne,
So narrow, narrow… like your own.

IV
If once again I saw those eyes,
If to their level I could rise,
So somber, wicked, wild, and wise,
A savage lair…
But Holy Father, if I dare,
And pray excuse my forwardness,
I must confess, Your Holiness,
To put it plain…
(Pointing to the POPESS.) But you are Jane!