FUGITIVE PIECES
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PART TWO
“Whoever is unacquainted with his
own
weakness,
and the violence of his passions, cannot be called wise”
(TELEMACHUS, Book VII)2
PREFACE
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True love fears no-one.
(SENECA)
SOME scolds condemn love poetry wholesale, accusing it of touching on the most dangerous of passions. I believe it to be less harmful than those licentious novels and shameless tales which came out in droves during the last century. While true that love poems depict the pleasures of the heart, they do not pervert them. The pleasure of love has nothing in common with the deviancy of debauchery; and if it is a weakness to devote one's leisure to its portrayal, despite the words of this poet—
Work enhances pleasure,
and both bring consolation.
(BERNIS.)
at least it can't be called an ignoble weakness. It is so natural to give voice to feelings! Sensitive souls yield to this impulse instinctively, without design. You write verses with no thought of becoming a poet. Once in a while some lines will raise a gentle smile and love is content, vanity gratified. This first triumph inspires a second—new emotions arise—you try to convey them—a volume grows—it is complete—you publish it—you are an author—while the day before you were only a lover.
Here is a brief history of the collection whose first part I am chancing today. These love poems, dedicated to the one who inspired them, were written without any intention of a sequel; events alone have prompted a continuation as fresh as it is innocent3. However, because—as in the second and third books—I eulogise tender hopes, chaste pleasures and perfect happiness, I have been greeted with predictions of utter failure. The hymns of a lover, and especially of a contented spouse (I am told) will appeal to no one; such confessions are only relished when mingled with sighs, betrayals, regrets and tears. But heaven bless the predilections of these querulous lovers!4 I prefer to delight in my lot rather than pander to their barren sensibilities.
Others, less dainty, are content to say that love poetry is a mere luxury,
An unnecessary superfluity5.
But should they not distinguish between light verse which presents mere ingenious musings, and lyrical poetry which conveys the deepest feelings of the heart? Moreover, as Martial—or his translator, Monsieur de Kérivalant,—says:
You claim that poetry is a pointless business.
Maybe so. But to write it is my best pleasure,
and that which delights our leisure
does not, to me, seem meritless.
No, love of poetry is not such a frivolous fancy as is claimed. Monsieur de Bonnald, whose style is so powerful and whose thoughts so profound, said: Poetry is the noblest expression of the noblest thoughts of an intelligent being. Indeed, poetry exercises all the faculties of the soul, and man was born to be a thinker.
I do agree, however, that there might be circumstances where such compositions feel out of place. Petronne shows us a certain Eumolpe, who, while his whole crew were at work on the task in hand, sat in a corner composing a description of the storm. Was he wrong? Yes, undoubtedly, if the labour of his hands was necessary to save his companions. But was it inappropriate for Vernet to be tied to the mast of his ship the better to observe the storm he wished to paint? Was Olivier de Serres, who lived in the reign of Henri IV, at fault for building his Theatre of Agriculture to distract himself from civil war? Not everybody can be a warrior or a legislator. The great ship of state is boarded with many passengers who are neither sailors nor pilots, and whose sole role is to observe or to extemporise. Suppose the versifier's art to be, if you will, only a pleasant pastime, especially when devoted to the expression of pure feeling—this pastime is as good as any other, pace Lamothe and Duclos.
I am well aware that Plato banished from his Republic all poets, without exception. However, our great wits have no need to depose such an authority; they need only recall the words of the Duke of Buckingham to forgive such audacity: The inner conviction that his genius in prose (great as it was) could not match the sublimity of poetry was the cause of his banishing it from his republic.6 That is almost the same thought as one of our own authors: Those who cannot do it take revenge by slandering it.
Anyway, this is only an experiment, and I am not even publishing all the pieces it comprises; some need revision still. The approval or censure of the critics, the public's oracles, will tell me whether to permit publication of the final two books of Love: to Eleonore or keep them to myself.
I could, perhaps, bolster myself here with the votes of the illustrious Messieurs de Parny, Deguerle, Duault, Vigée, de Saint-Victor, de Bouflers, etc. etc., but whilst I try to take heart in their approval, I mistrust the flattering bias of friendship; and it is for my readers to judge whether Monsieur J.-C. Grancher was not mistaken, when he wrote to me:
I have read the verses your cautious muse
hesitates to brandish in broad daylight.
Go ahead, have no fear: we French salute
poetry that Love has summoned to life.
And if some petty Zoilus besets you
let his impotent swatting patter on.
Jealousy is nothing that should fret you
when your light eclipses the jealous one.
As for crass cynics, who deride those simple, pure pleasures they will never share, let them contemplate, if they know how, this letter I recently wrote
To Monsieur — Sre. Pe. of the Academy of —
SAVERDUN, 5 December, 1807
Sir, I much appreciate your note, despite—or perhaps because of—its criticism. Everyone is telling me: Do something else! ... But, gentlemen, what else would you have me do? Is a plum tree called upon to deliver pears? Must a rose bush not necessarily bedeck itself in roses? Happy if those roses do not wither too soon. You state, in a manner as flattering as it is indulgent, that I am too talented not to commit to more solid work. What, I pray you, are these solid works to which I am called? Anacreon, Catullus, Properce, Chaulieu, Bertin, Deguerle, Duault, Leonard—did they write anything other than elegies and epistles? Could I as a matter of will metamorphose into a Buffon, a Pascal, a Labruyere, a Tacitus? Are our deficiencies granted so ingenious a power? Can you change the tastes and temper of your character? Assume a genius you do not possess? Grow lofty when your height is small? ... Consumed by my love for poetry and the tender feelings inspired by Eleonore, I believe myself born for the serinette7, convinced I would fail if I dared to take up the epic trumpet. Besides, isn't everything in this world vanity of vanities and even idleness, from the madrigal to the ode, and from the ode to the whole of poetry? From which I conclude that it is as much worth writing Travels to amuse a beautiful woman as it is scholarly dissertations that no one will read8. As long as the work is not morally toxic, I cannot see that it is worse to write verses for Eleonore, than pieces of academic prose on architectural medallions.
You further say (and I hardly dare repeat praise so excessive it makes me blush): "You have great facility, elegance, grace, much wit, a sensitive disposition, and an ability to articulate the delicate". That is too much; but you must agree, my dear Aristarchus, that if by any chance all this were true, I would have my subject-matter tailor-made before me and my form prescribed. To what other work should I apply such propensities, which so befit the muse of the heart's tenderest emotions and of the heavenliest pleasures that man (husband and father) can know?
Chapelle, a pupil of the philosopher Gassendi, had little thought of working seriously. Would you condemn him? Is it not better to apply oneself to writing elegies, than living simply to wander around, eat, play, yawn and sleep, as do so many idlers of my acquaintance? What were the academic opuses of Monsieur de Bouflers? Stories and songs. And Monsieur de Parny himself, this perfect, classic author, this veritable Tibullus of France, did he not find himself obliged to soar into poetry?
Better to be a bricklayer if that is your genius.
(BOILEAU)
Thus speaks the master. So, long live Idylls and Elegies! Long live Letters and Travels! Long live Solitude and Love Poetry! That is my lot, I am content with it, and remain for life,
Yours, etc.
TO MONSIEUR DE LABOUISSE
ON his Journey to
Saint-Maur and Walk to Longchamp9
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I love following you on this two-fold journey
where, as in a painting, artfully harmonised,
we see your taste, intelligence and feeling shine;
where, under a light cover of lively wordplay,
good sense and pleasure travel ever side-by-side;
where man of letters, thinker, bard of poetry,
man of the world and child of the light of learning,
paints the excesses, wiles and vices of our day,
cheerfully moralising on all our failings.
MONSIEUR DE KERIVALANT
PROLOGUE
FROM THE FIRST BOOK OF LOVE.
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RENOWNED followers of the Bayards and Nemours,
I was set, bold-faced, to celebrate your stardom,
then the whole enterprise turned to utter boredom
as I lurched towards Love at sight of Eleonore.
Who would not, like me, have
abandoned war?
The flower of the field that I have picked
has, with much less bluster, such brightness and
allure
it emblazons all, and none can emblazon it.
Her hair, a black cascade of rippling curls,
girdles her neck in a glittering veil;
there is something—I cannot say what—in her eyes,
an unequalled, indefinable witchery
that seduces all hearts and takes them prisoners,
with more than one left in a pit of misery.
All frankness is what you see in her face;
one hint of praise and a blush of deep rose
flushes her complexion, such is her diffidence.
Her figure is the work of nineteen springs
and stands adorned with beauty's finest flourishes.
She is Corregio's Venus, or Grace,
with a retinue of lovers in train,
and the regal mien of an empress.
Eleonore is my passion and
my muse,
the gloss on feelings I've uttered,
tenderly expended in verse.
A poet who is no lover
shall never be deemed worthy of applause.
I am celebrating total pleasure.
Divine children, shepherds, shepherdesses,
encircle me with your hurtling dances;
I am writing for you—what's your answer?
Come along, you too timorous maidens!
My songs are pure, as pure as a fine day;
smile, if you please, at my simple refrains,
and this young troubadour inaugurate.
In those African islands, where Flora's empire
thrives in the keep of everlasting spring,
in a climate always shining,
where you see impatient buds burst
from aromatic benzoin, plain banana,
delectable mango and sweet latania,
was born my darling Eleonore.
Glorious trees, bearers of luscious fruit,
painting distant skies with your wild palette,
lend me your colours, and I will brighten my lyre.
Messieurs Parny, Bertin, Deguerle, Duault, Bouflers,
who speak in line after line of elegant verse
to love's licentiousness, love as the libertine,
envy now my pleasures, my raptures, my fetters,
as I laud a love that is true and sane,
Eleonore the only object I serve.
She is so loving and so
beautiful
Ovid would, for her, have dropped Julia
and Anacreon would have followed suit.
The deft verse of engaging Catullus,
the tender verse of plaintive Tibullus,
would have vied with each other to pay her tribute.
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—
I know it well. But what matters it to my soul
that Parnassus does not know me?
Happiness is my only goal
and, with Eleonore, everything that's good shall be.
Glory is not worth its instant of jubilee,
so soon is it ousted by pain and affliction.
A love that is pure can stand vilification,
and never fears being sorry.
DEDICATION
TO ELEONORE
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ACCEPT this book, where my impetuous pen
has spilt my secrets, broadcast my ravished heart.
Poet I am because of love alone,10
happy it taught me to hymn my happiness.
My muse is feeble and the poems thin.
So what if now and then they vent pure sentiment!
More lover than poet, I am intent
on owing to Eleonore's name alone each win.
If I delight the object that inspired these words
I shall be content with my lot
for her blessing carries more weight
to me than the entire world.
LOVE
TO ELEONORE
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BOOK ONE
. . . . . . . . . . . Dear Eleonore,
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Whoever knows you will know tenderness;
who looks into your eyes will meet their ruin;
to wisdom you present the sense of flesh
and desire's fire to the cold of reason.
(BERNIS)
VISION
BESIDE a wild rose I was lost in thought,
a clear stream near my feet, meandering,
when softly a breeze came wafting along,
jostling the surf that lapped upon the shore.
What was it just now crossing the water?
with a look so shy, modest, virginal.
A queen? A celestial immortal?
A thing so lovely my eyes never saw.
It has fled. Permit me to pay homage,
entrancing one, who have carved on my heart
your beauty with its all-conquering charm
and, in leaving, bequeathed me your image.
What is your name? Which lands follow your law?
I think you are the naiad of this stream
or a young hamadryad, rarely seen,
precious to Sylvanus, the forest faun.
She pauses, and her imperial head
is aureoled with fronds of eglantine.
God of love, god of the seventh heaven,
allow that my heart's prayer be granted,
that one day this nymph will succumb to me,
as tender as now she is beautiful.
The humblest folk are forever faithful—
may she be mine and may I strive to please.
MORNING SONG
IMITATION OF GESSNER
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HAIL to you, constant,
never-failing dawn,
and hail to the quickening day!
Inch by inch you light a chandelier of tree-crowns
with the shimmering tapers of the sun's first rays.
And now your shine is glistening
in the crystal of this limpid water,
along the meadow's green enamelling,
and beneath the shifting lattice of this cool arbour.
Sprawled on a bed of rose
petals,
as long as daylight slept, so lay Zephyr sleeping.
Now to the newly-opened flower he flutters
to demonstrate his love with kisses, sweet and fleeting.
And on the wings of
illusion,
that begetter of fake pleasure and valid pain,
the gaudy troupe of dreamland
takes its leave of the mortal mind.
Hurry, capricious gods, masters of these grasslands,
Zephyrs, abandon these woodland groves, these fountains,
to gather from myrtle and carnation perfume
and, laden with the tang of flowers,
go anoint the hidden sanctum
where, with never a pang, rests Eleonore.
Stop flustering this
atmosphere, these leaves;
fly far off to hover close about her;
rally the thankless mistress whom I serve…
How beautiful must she seem in slumber.
Awaken her, only gently:
be careful not to upset her.
Oh, how that moment will torment me with envy.
My jealous love will wince in a cringe of terror.
Take pity on this lover's sensibility
and whisper softly to the object I adore
how here, delirious with just a memory,
I am sighing the name of Eleonore.
LAMENT
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Solo e pensoso i più
deserti campi.11
(PETRARCH)
ALONE, a prey to mournful thoughts, I walk the shore
seeking relief which, once, my own heart would supply.
Eleonore's image, imprinted on everything here,
returns her coldness to my mind.
Her likeness from this lovely flower seems to rise
and many times she braced her face with this water.
Often she trod a path through this woodland cover
and the same breeze that used to sport so playfully,
lifting garments in silky billows and flurries,
frolicks through these shrubs and briars.
Safe in the shade, a little lilting chorister
is mirroring her voice's melody
with its silvery aria.
Wherever I walk she rises to meet my sight.
I'll leave: danger besets me here on every side.
Coolness and shade are of little use to me now.
In this place everything burns.
Even in the furthest depths, the blackest shadow,
comes the stubborn hunger for her.
TO LOVE
IMITATION OF GESSNER
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IT was on the first day of
May
that in this solitary grove,
goddess of Cythera, I wove
an altar of grass, fragranced it with an array
of flowers. For you I stole those treasures, jewelled
by dawn's teardrops, from the fields that spread around us.
For you I dared risk the brunt of Flora's fury,
and you scoffed at my prayers, at my wretchedness.
But now the north wind has withered the green blades
and my tribute is faded, colourless.
Nature is in mourning - so everything proclaims.
The breath of Boreas has paralysed these streams
and melancholy Philomel fled from the trees.
The orchards' gleaming harvest I saw stripped away
and couldn't offer my idol any.
Eleonore! The worse for me! Eleonore!
Disdain once more this fire that devours
me, just as on the first of May.
THE HESITANT LOVER
SONG FROM THE ITALIAN
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OUGHT I love? Ought I to hate?
I don't know which I should pick.
But no human can escape
from pleasure's imperative.
Surrender, my heart, today
and let Love reveal the way.
How talented, how pretty,
how charming is Eleonore!
But remember too that she
is cold, ungrateful, severe.
Hate her, my heart, today.
That is what Love has to say.
To the wooer in pursuit
she is ever defiant;
but also is the lady not
most wise and beguiling?
Be loving, my heart, today.
That is what Love has to say.
In vain I try to break clear;
she subdues my defences.
And with so soft a nature
I can't muster resistance.
Let us be lovers today.
That is what Love has to say.
No other is her equal,
no other can better please.
She comes with Cupid's features
and his mother's grace and ease.
My heart, let us love today.
That is Love's final decree.
TO ELEONORE
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YES, I love and I hate you,
stony-hearted Eleonore.
I turn to leave you for good.
I run to see you once more.
Is it possible to hold
so much love with so much hate?
To lament the thing you chose
and bend to cement the chain?
That quickness, though, that lightness,
that high queenly demeanour,
those lips oh so endearing
where a deceitful smile sits,
are guarantees my spirit
in its utter feebleness
if it lost its narcotic
would lose also its bliss.
Gods, to extinguish the fire
with which my soul is seething,
mighty gods, change her nature,
or her beauty destroy.
PRAYER TO LOVE
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AH, what is the point of sighing, bane of our lives?
Get lost, cruel Cupid, go, and never come back.
But to live without Love? Can one stand such a lack?
The trouble of a heart that's loved I would not mind.
So. Peace be gone. I am returning to your ranks,
mighty, cherished deity, whom the world adores.
Pierce me with your arrows, sear me with your brand.
I am in love with a bewitching object, drawn,
despite all her demurrals, to my Eleonore,
wishing, even, to be more in love than I am.
Whether laughter or tears, whether fancies or fears,
let me relish each experiment in its turn.
May my moans and complaints fly, unheard, by your ears.
In love everything is pleasure, even the pain.
FLOWERS
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LOVELY flowers that never bloomed before,
lovely flowers that my own Eleonore
has picked for me, has deigned to offer me,
how I do envy your predicament.
You owe her your freshness, your existence.
Her care is the author of your beauty.
Objects of her love, oeuvres of her hand,
to find a place upon her breast you've burned,
and like you I would wish to perish there,
drunken at once on both love and pleasure.
Sweet scents are rising from your calices.
Flowers received by the truest lover,
forever you will keep your promises.
But was it Love who prompted the giver?
On the book that contains my elegies
I would like to set your stems in a pose,
that contrives an ingenious cipher
for all the secret oaths I have whispered.
Just as in Asia, where people cower
under the rule of jealousy, of fear,
a palace boy, sensitive and discreet,
confides to the flowers his banned secret.
Then, before my eyes, all of a sudden,
Aurora's daughters have lost their colours,
and I wonder if it is an omen…
If Eleonore… No. Love, may these flowers
be for me no portents of misfortune.
May Eleonore accept my submission,
and may I see the most blessed of futures,
even until my very last moment,
loving always, and always beloved.
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END RHYMES
THE other day I was hunting, armed with my gun,
hot on the trail of quail, partridge and thrush,
when Eleonore appeared, all in a rush.
I was hunting birds, while Love hunted me, and won.
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