TO MONSIEUR CARRÉ,
PROFESSOR OF LITERATURE
with a copy of the manuscript of Against Satire.

Saverdun, 12 November 1803.

THEY say, Monsieur, and I am very much surprised at it, that you edited the Satire Literary Toulouse. It certainly cannot all be your work, or you would possess the singular talent of disguising the concision, elegance and force of your customary style. Besides, what advantage could accrue to you from being commended in a pamphlet which insults one and all. I am sure this rumour is mere slander: no, you could not be the author of this diatribe. At least, if you were, I would not be named in it, who have extended you so many courtesies.

On that subject, it is a long time since you promised to rest from your professorial duties in my writer's hideaway. Come along, and enjoy an agreeable setting, freedom, and an honest welcome. In my home you will not find the starchy airs of high society; but you will meet this being, all charm and intelligence, whom I love despite the current vogue with all its cynicism.

The single source of all my joy
(Now, is that not the one named Eleonore?)
will greet you, lovely as the dawn,
whose glow eclipses all that is,
and remark: that is a flower
blushed by one of Zephyr's kisses.
You will see her talent, her captivating wit,
with the gracefulness of Flora,
hear her gentle, silvery voice vibrate
in sweet harmony with her clavier,
watch her at work with her skilful pencil,
and think her yet more beautiful
than exalted Venus or Cythera.
That is how my heart beholds her.

I have the honour of sending you my regards,

AUGUSTE DE LABOUISSE.

Note. At the time of sending this to print, I have received no reply from Monsieur Carré; but I certainly know (and am pleased to state publicly) that he has had no hand at all in the work of which he is said to be editor.

Messieurs Gaude, Boilleau, or anyone else attacked by the unknown author, should really have been the ones to retaliate. But that would have cost them their deserved accolades. I, who have nothing to lose in this regard, make it my business to stand up for them.

To my publisher.

MY book is well overdue; but as there is time, add this note:

Since the printing of my manuscript, Monsieur Carré has replied to my letter in very friendly terms. He assures me of never having read the satire of which I spoke. I believe him. A man of honour's simple denial should be given more credence than the deaf and cowardly accusations of slander.

PREFACE

ANONYMOUS writes some poetry. There is not much harm in that, especially if it is well-written. But it is a satire he publishes: so much the worse for him. Pity the unfortunate man who needs to bite and sting. What a bitter pleasure! He attacks what is most enlightened and most gracious in Toulouse. I am amazed, therefore, that this purveyor of insults did not find Monsieur Carré worthy of assault. Seriously, this man of letters is too talented to have been condemned by such an endorsement. What astonishes me more is that the author deigned to turn his attention to me. Not that I do not forgive him for having found fault with my feeble work—I myself see little merit in it—but I am very conscious that such contumely brings with it the duty of retaliation.

You hiss at me, I shall hiss back at you.

But I read in a note: This author... loves his wife, his poems more than his wife, and fame more than his poems. I really fail to understand the last part of this sentence; the second is calumny; as for the first, here is my reply.

Scoff away, you who live to jeer:
your hollow prattle makes me laugh.
Then watch me champion my love
against your contemptuous sneers.
I may yield to you my verses
but not the object they extol.
Fling your missiles at them gratis—
in my mistress' arms enfolded
what, to me, are slights so witless?

At the risk of causing you strife
by confessing my sweet bondage
I shall state: the one I honour
is both my mistress and my wife.
I love her, I make no excuse.
So you find me despicable?
How sad it is that Woman's grace
is lost on you. In happiness
you will never be my rival.
Look, even Apollo's darlings
would make your martyrology!
I pity you—all your carpings
the targets parse as flattery.
How I cherish Boilleau's writings;
Zélis' maker, truly charming²
—so much for his fame! Infidel!
Dieu-la-Foi, Baour, Labeaumelle,³
what have they ever done to you,
poor Unknown? They never met you,
never sought your dull approval.
In your frenzy you tender them
vicious thorns instead of roses.
Wretch! Do for your own contentment
find at least one thing to cherish.

Let us be fair to those who are not. There are some noteworthy aspects to the satire I am about to rebut. Despite its generally very careless style we find some sharp, well-turned lines:

I could cite as many as three.
(Despréaux)

But that is a paltry merit to people of taste, and not enough to satisfy a critic. Above all, it does not entitle the writer to be spiteful and unjust.

Saverdun, 31st October 1803.

Note. Various causes have delayed the publication of this manuscript.

AGAINST SATIRE

To the author of Literary Toulouse...

WHO would have imagined the middle of the night,
the time for sleeping, was also the time for spite?
That is your pleasure: to enviously abuse
those writers we honour as the pride of Toulouse.
And, while Morpheus folds your neighbours in his arms,
you strike odes against them just to ward off your yawns.
Your genius, lit by the Angel of Darkness,
rips up their triumphs with out-and-out nastiness.
Misery! What mischief have they ever done you?
They would irk you far less if their readers were few.
You make a play for fame with Envy as your muse.
Leave Boilleau alone, he who delights us the most
when delighting himself by fashioning beauty
in song, with scenes of intense sensuality,
conveying the throes of Guido and Cythera
without wresting away the veil of mystery.
His tales are as delectable as his verses,
and nobody needs to assail him with hisses.
O Gaude, should they then come for your fine creations,
who learned from Laharpe how to earn acclamation,
you whom Imbert cherished, whom Bourdie reverenced,
who, for Apollo, were moulded by love itself?
There is, perhaps, your excess of delicacy
to scold, your modesty and, of course, lethargy.
Yes, let us accuse the lassitude, not the lines:
Erato dictated them, Venus was the price.⁴
And what was my trespass to you, Zoïle of Toulouse?⁵
What harm did the charms of my sweet-natured wife cause?
Why could you not leave me in my obscurity,
tending to my land with happy impunity?
My songs might be silence to Memory's Daughters,
but contentment is my aim, not fame's sham honours.
Now why do you scoff at a love so unblemished?
Your dark, cold heart is your ban from such a blessing.

Yes, they are gone, those days-of-yore that you lament
when Toulouse shone in festivals and tournaments.
In that Flower Season, dear to the God of Love,⁶
in the temple of arts, gentle troubadours roved,
consecrating their complaints in courtly descants
to the glory of the celebrated Clemence.
They are gone. What god, then, moved by their miseries,
is going to quicken their voices, dry their tears?
Poor taste prevails, but who can revive the temple
in Apollo's name, and still support the Empire?

He does watch over us, though, this brave champion,
pitting his might and mettle against Albion.
One word from him and the temple would reopen,⁷
and what a thrilling show we would see awaken!
But who knows for sure the future we are destined?
Returning to the butts of your puny disdain:
on what do you base it? Boasting so much, Toulouse
delivered divine Thalia two followers:
one wrote The Egoist and The Tutor Deceived,
a veritable Plautus⁸ as he lived and breathed;
the other came after, pursuing the same course,
on Defiance and Malice penning nimble verse.⁹
We French delighted in such honest comedy:
your squirm of contempt is like a bad homily.
Lapeyrouse we find among our proper scholars:¹⁰
his writings drop sheer enlightenment upon us.
We question neither his truth nor his excellence
and The Silkworm is proof of natural talent.¹¹
Ingenious Nanteuil oftentimes can be heard
in the city, intoning a joyous ballad.
Lavedan has lately graced the world of letters¹²
with a poem that delights as it digresses.
Cazales is known for his manly eloquence
as much as the calamity France yet laments.¹³
Marin,¹⁴ Orpheus' equal, Berjau de Garat—¹⁵
you see in them only a buffoon and a cad?
And artist Cammas, whose pencil, dawn-fresh and clear,
would trace out on paper the grace of a flower…¹⁶
What obvious talents have confounded your muse!
Could not one of them sweeten your bitter reviews?
No, not one captivated your eye or your ear:
no magic for you in the temple of Isaure.
But wait—not one? I see you distinguish Carré;
Carré, bound to the muses from his boyhood days.
Like you I commend the spirited fluency
of illustrious Delille's student and ally.
I praise both his prose and his verse with great pleasure:
your unction is enough to blight him forever.
But he is the one of all our Tectosages
who honours our land and commands proud eulogies.
Let us not spread whispers, but be open and just:
does he not bring to mind sweet Beaufort's gentleness?
A crown of myrtle honoured his natural grace,
and lovers are still singing his immortal lays.
Lormian is still with us, in the same tier.
Keep quiet, vile jealousy, while Ossian's lyre
sighs out in plaintive tones the night's lamentation.
He leans on his urn, keening. Pay him attention.
Hold your tongue! He has the death of Calmore in hand,
Fingal's glorious story and heroic end.
With another pen, the creator of Nerine¹⁷
introduced to Paris his simple heroine.
How many more names would you see in these pages
if I were to list all the rightfully famous!
Ricard, Plutarch's translator,¹⁸ no longer with us,
Castillon,¹⁹ cut off too by Fate's cold scissors,
so many teachers whose work has true power,
whom you, with your nerve, claim authority over.²⁰

But it is too much. Farewell. I see breaking dawn
—no doubt you will flee it.²¹ I am with Eleonore,
happy to have a heart and understand its use.
I would devote my leisure to other pursuits,
and laugh at the blunders of the mad Pegasus
that bucks and bolts off under your hapless fingers.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

SHE has it all, loveliness, grace and wit;
and, from her very first season,
could captivate a charming idiot
or a stiff academician.
Because of her, love is master of my being.
Only once I knew her could I feel its meaning
and my dutiful muse, yielding to my desire,
committed to her my songs, my prayers, my hours.
Erato, take up the pen, my soul is on fire.
Let each line be a melting sigh,
a true enactment of passion.
The poet who shuns love's mansion
from glory also is exiled.
In that great epoch, often lamented,
when blessed pleasure was the rule in Greece,
in days of giddy youthfulness
the mistress of intemperance,
Cypris, divinity of love itself, was crowned
sovereign of smiles and surprises.
Here, in our godforsaken now,
no-one ever speaks of Cypris.
Listen, my own long-venerated love-spirits,
sweet Hebe and pretty Flora:
I would establish an altar to a new cult,
where gentle mortals will exalt
only the name of Eleonore.
How I shall swell with pride at her auspicious reign!
Her gaze glorifies all it falls upon.
For her, Ovid would have dropped Julia,
Propertius would have spurned the lures of Cynthia.
Anacreon would have sung my lady's praises.
The deft verse of engaging Catullus,
the tender verse of plaintive Tibullus,
both would have saluted the one who makes my days.
But can I do the same? Whence these deliria?
Idiot! How absurd to be blurting such words!
You think you can equal those ancients at the lyre,
you, who can barely twang out a few feeble chords?
Of course I have none of their genius—
am still simply putting myself through my paces—
but what matters it to my writing or my soul
that Parnassus does not know me?
No pleading for lauding applause from Apollo!
Happiness is sure to follow
when my Eleonore's hand at the altar is sealed.
Glory is not worth its instant of jubilee,
so swiftly succeeded by bitter affliction!
A love that is pure fears not vilification,
nor can it ever be sorry.

TO ELEONORE AT PRAYER

WITH what heavenly composure
your soul invokes the Lord of Peace!
Would you be giving thanks for your bounty?
Not so, I fear, for you are too demure
to be immured in your beauty.²²

TO MADAME DE BEAUFORT-D'HAUTPOUL.

She had written a letter on my behalf to a friend who was acquainted with the Minister.

1799.

Madam, it is not enough to be filled with the most lively gratitude; I must also indulge in the honour of conveying it to you. But are my words equal to my feelngs? I sense their inadequacy. I was going to call upon the muses, but you deserve more than that. It is you I am addressing. Whatever, to you, is the prettiest or the loveliest, speak to yourself of that, and it will be what I would have liked to write to you. After enjoying the charm of your conversation, after thanking you for your benefaction, filled with memories of you, I read the delightful works you gave me:

They are perfect, these fascinating lines,
infused with your skill to engage both mind and heart.
You pierce my senses with talk of Sappho's trials.
Were they even rendered so well in her own art?
But how do I tell you the feelings they excite?
To my ardent desires my lyre is disloyal.
Your surest tribute is the divine verse you write:
your poetry, like Sappho's, will be our model.

I have the honour to be, etc., etc.

REPLY

To a Letter from Monsieur Henri BOILLEAU, Commissioner of War, in which he assured me that my Dissertation on Women would enjoy success.

12 August 1800

ACCORDING to your verse, gentle philanderer,
I would get the vote of our fairer sex.
Could you be such a flatterer?
I understand: you prophesy success
to humour youthful callowness
and indulge your friend, the author.

N.B. My dissertation on women was intended to repulse manifold insults, depict their virtues, and praise their talents. Since I began it, Monsieur Legouvé has published a highly regarded poem on the same subject and Messrs. de Piniere, Auguste Creusé, and de Segur have made their voices heard. My book would have arrived hereafter, somewhat late, and I have neither the patience nor the skill to do any better. To console myself for the renunciation of my essay, I shall re-read their works and applaud them.

MADRIGAL.
TO FOUR WOMEN.

THE story lies; it is quite clear to me
old saws are subject to reform.
They claim the Graces number only three,
when my own eyes tell there are four.

TO MONSIEUR HENRI BOILLEAU
Commissioner of War, Toulouse.

6 November 1802.

MY DEAR BOILLEAU, for two long months
I have received from you not once
a pretty verse or piece of prose.
Alas! You have forgotten me!
While I, your true and faithful liege,
some lines for you hereby depose.

But perhaps you are ill? I fear so. If good health, that amiable turncoat, had not deserted you,

you would, I'm sure, upon your lyre
so resonant, have sung the praise
of beauty, spirit, culture, grace,
in carolling my Eleonore.

Every day I count myself lucky to be her husband. The only thing lacking is to see you witness of my paradise and hear you celebrated. Farewell.

TO MONSIEUR MAURICE ANGLEVIEL.

28 December 1802.

YES, you are right, my dear Maurice, Eleonore is gifted with a sensibility preferable to any prettiness of feature, any allure of accomplishment. It is a blessing! a sweetness! a boon! and yet she is pretty. But her heart is even lovelier than her countenance. So you may well believe that I do not forgive you for leaving so soon. If you had yielded to our entreaties, you would have enjoyed some delicious hours with her, and seen that her mind is as delightful as her manners.

The next day we had the pleasure of receiving for breakfast your two charming cousins. My glance was so pleasantly gratified that I thought myself a modern Peleus, destined to see the fatal Apple of Discord rolling along my table. Happily, that did not come to pass. Beauty was seemingly unenvious of beauty, and our breakfast was spent in a spirit of concord and the making of new acquaintances.

You ask me if I still pay court to the Muses. Yes, my dear friend, but less steadfastly and more freely than before. When the opportunity presents itself, I like to hymn Eleonore and my happiness. You might find what I have written for her lacking in polish, but I prefer it to be the product of feeling, rather than of study or labour. Farewell.

COUPLET

WRITTEN BELOW ELEONORE'S PORTRAIT.

MUSE and Grace, two words to epitomise her.
Muse, our inspiration; Grace, our pleasure.

TO ELEONORE.

Inscribed in The Devil Upon Two Sticks, a novel by Lesage.

CRIPPLED, cruel, devious as a devil,
that is the God of Love's true form, they say;
but one who met you, even for a day,
would portray him fashioned like an angel.

TO ELEONORE.

MESSAGE WITH A ROSE.

TAKE the transmigration of souls—
why should I not adopt this intriguing system
and offer myself to you in a flower's form?
Which would make your lover the rose
you hold so close, as though from harm.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF LOVE.

DIALOGUE.

PAINTER, listen: tell me whose is this fine portrait!
Do you not recognise the fickle God of Love?
The God of Love, you say? Yes, the same, trait for trait.
Take up your brush again—that is not like enough.
You will need to remove the quiver, torch and bow,
those cruel arrows empty out,
pluck off those wings right where they sprout,
and drop from his eyes the reckless blindfold.
That is not Love at all, not his real figure;
to subdue our hearts does he truly need armour?
Disentwine from his fingers that fiery brand
and know, just like Mars, Love has no need to be armed.
Advise me, then: how should I paint Cythera's son?
Come, follow me, and take up your palette once more.
Look at Eleonore, and renewed inspiration
will summon a fresh vision of Love's proper form.
What a ravishing object! Worthy of honour!
But how to render such appeal?
It was the Love I never knew I dared reveal.
Now I see his mother, how dare I portray her?

LOVE'S REVENGE

TO ELEONORE

Music by J.J. Monsigny²³

VENUS crushes Peristera
for a mere basket of flowers.
Down in the caves of mystery
thwarted Cupid is all in tears.
Then—This is just childish, he says.
I shall fashion a new beauty
who's more winning than innocence,
more sweet than sensuality.

AND, towards the god of the lyre,
he hurtles off in nimble flight
saying, Venus has gone too far,
we have to satisfy the slight.
Let there be born to the Graces
one other, all warmth and feeling;
whose laws, on Earth and Parnassus,
govern each and every being.

Oh, but I would like to do more!
announces Apollo forthwith.
May every virtue speak through her:
myself, I equip her with wit.
Cupid: I want to do yet more.
Love's sovereignty I bid her wield!
That, you see, is how Eleonore,
just for me, came into the world.

THE ORNAMENT.

TO ELEONORE.

DO not, Eleonore, succumb to vain ornaments,
their stolen sparkle can make no mark on my heart.
My eyes dazzle at your own radiance;
artificial lustre just leaves them in the dark.
It was in the springtime of the world, that epic
hour entitled the Golden Age,
a glorious moment of romance and magic,
where tenderness was worth more than wealth or wages,
—during that time, which I, alas, lament,
this gross ostentation dictated by fashion
was never allowed to outshine
beauty; the most loving was deemed the most perfect.
One simple garment formed the sum of decorum,
delineating charms more than concealing them.
That blush that nowadays one purchases
was more ably concocted by nature;
never used it to furnish a part of one's dress,
permitting a keener taste of purer pleasure.
May Apollo inspire your words,
may the Graces ever shine their light through your eyes,
and may that delectable smile
guilelessly disclose that, yes, my love is returned.
What more could my infatuated gaze wish for?
Cypris, unencumbered by gewgaws, we fell for
when Paris, only too eager,
charged by the gods with choosing the most beautiful,
gave to her the golden apple.

Your unembellished self is best;
art is an extravagant fraud,
and who can truly be impressed
with nature so wantonly marred?
No. Do not waste time on the contriving of gauds.
Sheer pleasure is your proper quest.

TO MONSIEUR AUGUSTE GAUDE.

AS, in our pastures, a young shepherdess,
all comeliness and frank simplicity,
wastes not a thought on pleasing us,
so your muse, instinctive and effortless,
melds sheer brilliance with naivety,
and when fame comes as recompense
you spurn its prated vanities.
Your playfulness enlivens your writings
with glints of elegance, finesse and wit.
Your poetry, splendid, ever candid,
snatches the accolades from your rivals.
May the god who sustains and inspires us
crown you with flowers for all of your days!
And may you, despite the grudgers, always
be master of letters and graciousness.

P.S. These lines to Monsieur Gaude were written a long time ago. The rivals I am talking about are his imitators in the literary world. As for grudgers, that feels like a kind of prediction of the satirist whose many baseless criticisms I have noted. May that one mend his ways; may he work on improving his own writing; may he dedicate his poetry solely to love, to glory, to the fall of Albion, to the triumph of France!

That is how, in parting, I bid him farewell. (Gresset.)

THE END.

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