JOURNEY
TO ROUDEILHE
_____________________
I really hate each low rhymester
whose wit sees fit to designate
peace of mind as mere torpor
and constancy as want of brain.
Happy is he whose days flow by
unresisting and free of care,
never ensnared or led astray,
the one he loves nearby, always,
and coquetry ever afar!
(VOLTAIRE)
TO MONSIEUR AUGUSTE GAUDE
SAVERDUN, 1st June 1802
WITH simple tastes and modest ambition,
you paint for us an ecstasy of love
and we, responsive to your confession,
think your art a gift from the gods above.
Your Zelis you endow with so much charm!
If not over-embellished by your craft,
how striking she is, how worthy of you!
What talent! What a charming portrayal!!!
Forgive me, my friend, I cannot stay mute.
Such bliss and such distinction is my grail.
Such were my reflections, my dear friend, re-reading your opuscules of love poetry.2 What grace! What freedom! What simplicity! What ease! I love the pride of the prettiest one, the fate of the most amiable, and even the poetic melancholy of her happy lover..... But where am I wandering? I mean to tell you of a delightful journey, but speak only of your work. Let's begin:
I intend simply to sketch
the story,
the chronicle of our journey;
and to attempt a description
of the place that gave birth to me.
May the power of the mind's eye
seed with flowers this country excursion!
Madame D'___ and the Mademoiselles de J___ had gone to revisit the ruins of an old tower built by Gaston de Phoebus.3 It is Saverdun's only antiquity and the remains, summoning as they do proud memories, will forever be dear to us. May they be spared by that silent destroyer, time, and by even more destructive man! It was six o'clock in the evening, and our trusty travellers wanted to visit Madame de Cazals, with whom they had become acquainted since my return from Toulouse. I joined the Mademoiselles de J___ to accompany them. They get into the carriage; we are on horseback. Just as we are about to leave, the axle squeals and snaps. It is a half-mile walk to Roudeilhe castle and getting a bit late for a first visit.
The forge, however, is
firing,
blow upon blow of hammers
beat the iron on the anvil,
and hardly a moment passes
before, to the appeasement of our impatience,
the swift coursers are fastened back in their harness.
Soundly, the carriage rolls, makes its advance.
To make up for lost time, we ride with unbelievable speed.
Before long Saverdun has disappeared from view.
Phoebus is sinking, making a curtsey.
Across the hill, the half-light spreads a
sheen,
the loveliest, most inspiriting glow.
Having crossed a redundant bridge over the dried-up riverbed of the Laure, we leave behind on the right my modest domain of Frairas.4
You whose name, dear to
Petrarch's heart,
would alone be worthy of praise;
you who, swollen with winter rain,
overspilling your banks, will slake the country's thirst,
and who, in the dog days, wither
as the sun in Leo sets the sky ablaze;
would that I could, beneath these leaves
which thrive on your purest waters,
stay always loved by Eleonore,
happily for ever after,
studies and worries allowed no quarter,
adoring, subduing, and adoring once more.
In saying these words, I have in mind that peaceful realm I am burning to offer her, hoping to make it more worthy of her with the pleasantest and most varied plantings. There is nothing I will not do to achieve this aim.
“Shall I
forget the myrtle, token of Venus,
the laurel, destined to form the
crown of Phoebus,
the pliant acanthus, legendary plane
trees,
bristly pines and melancholy
cypresses,
and the alder thriving along the
river banks
holding our shores against the
waters' incursions.
And you, acacias, from another
hemisphere
come to grace us with your stems, so
unfamiliar;
how swiftly your size increases,
beautiful trees;
when trained, you can blanket a
wall's stark nakedness;
or, no sooner has nature awakened in
spring,
than you form a green dome as high as
our dwelling.
And these lofty poplars whose
coruscating leaves
dapple the shade and rustle at the
slightest breeze.
And you, majestic pines, whose
magnificent crowns
confront the storms that thunder high
on the mountains,
and who will leave these heights to
descend to the seas
there to outface windstorms most
mutinous and fierce.”
5
In such a peaceful spot, in beneficent shade,
I would say, glad-hearted, O kindly
hideaway,
receive, along with Eleonore, a
troubadour,
fugitive from the day's clamour and
futile glare,
whose muse prefers to sing of the
easy purling
of the stream winding its way
through the greenery,
of the birds' performance and the
playful breezes,
and the bright
jewels that trim our meadows,
and this flower,
here, the purest, the rose
that Anacreon loved
to twine in wreathes
with which to
decorate his silver hair.
This is where we wedded lovers could benefit from the wisdom of Epicurus:
Beware the vicious, don't trigger envy.
Keep secret if you want to be happy,
he said; for I do not speak of the Epicurus whose sayings have been distorted by ignorant acolytes.
Wisdom and pleasure together
stood as his guiding principle,
a credo most exceptional,
conducive to peace and welfare.
It was misinterpretation
that fostered those hostile charges.6
He reconciled virtue's urges
with the commandments of nature,
taught how we may temper
the intemperance of passion,
and even amplify pleasure
with teasing anticipation.
Recall, my troubadour friend, how the beautiful Leontion ceased to be a courtesan once admitted to his discipleship7, and how the philosopher for his part was able to withstand all the dangers she presented. I do not know whether in such a situation I could follow his example regarding one who resembles Leontion in beauty, wit and grace—for that is where the similarity ends!!! Fortunate, perhaps, is he who does not know her! You have to either retreat or surrender.
You don't want to risk the bite of her iciness!
Beware, my friend, of her tyrannous hold.
The day I first saw her was the day I was cursed:
hopeless, since that fateful day, I sigh and moan.
Alas! you can attest to it,
gloomy, beautiful woods and dales, my witnesses,
who heard me over and over again repeat
the name of the object to which my soul submits.
If ever, smitten by her
loveliness,
you think to risk her scorn, defy her haughtiness,
see what your fate will be: if you remain faithful,
far from melting Mistress Cruel
you will never again know rest or contentment;
but if, despairing at the chains you've dragged so long,
you want nothing but to be gone,
believe me, you'll die in torment.
Perhaps this is the end that awaits me:
“What does it matter? Let us surrender to fate,
let us sacrifice all ease and comfort.
We martyr ourselves for country;
for beauty I'll self-immolate."8
Because in the end I have to admit:
The silvery trill of the bonny birds,
the pleasant prospect of the green hillsides,
the tapestry of flowers Spring unfurls,
the sylvan flute and its lyrical purls,
and the Zephyrs' soft, caressing kisses,
and the morning splendour of Aurora
—none of it can please, none woos the senses
like the sweet and beautiful Eleonore.
Enamoured am I of the girl's allure,9
in vain berating her stubborn temper.
Resist her charms? I am forced to demur
when she so quickens my soul and senses.
Should, for love, my death come premature
my heart, to her, shall be faithful ever.
Still galloping, meanwhile—
We finally reach the castle
where the Graces have their retreat,
and all is grist to the poet,
whether he admire the high hill,
worthy of Vateau's pencil,
or contemplate the level plain
watered by ebbing Ariege
as she slinks reluctantly on
quietly effacing herself
to swell the surge of the Garonne
which promptly makes its presence felt
in a swank of noise and arrogance.10
There is no park or Chinese garden, but what a magnificent view! From the highest point of the castle the eye blissfully loses itself in the plains which sweep towards Toulouse, then, straying into the distance, it can make out the remains of the magnificent abbey of Boulbonne and the ancient castle of Terraqueuse, situated a short distance from each other between two rivers (the Ariege and the Lers), surrounded by meadows, vineyards, groves, and immense fields of wheat and rye, a harmony of contrasts.
Everything is encircled by
dense woods
casting a vast protective shade,
where the swallow and nightingale
are chiming the air, taking turns to sing and swoon,
a gentle breeze marrying their amorous tune
to the tinkle of rippling foliage.
We strolled through the plantations of La Butte, where zigzag paths seem to have been thrown down haphazardly for the sake of inspiring or heightening pleasant musings.
Come evening, a lover could wander here alone,
sauntering the lawns that spangle the countryside,
spinning his dreams and cradling himself with hope,
his castles in the air intact and undefiled.
But what am I saying? These delicious images to which I surrender—aren't they mere illusions, phantoms, chimeras? Must I forever be yearning, forever burning hopelessly?...
You lovers, who claimed entanglement was so sweet,
you stoked my callow passion to excess.
You told me of Love's generosity,
how it seeds flowers in the wilderness.
Well, ever since I set my heart at its service,
for each good day I get a hundred opposites!
The torment extorted by absence,
horrid suspicion, bitter grief,
the miseries that sicken me—
are they a fair exchange for lost insouciance?
But why this repining? What, truly, do I feel?
Would my heart readily expel
the thankless one that heart adores?
Pardon me, Love, pardon, and stay some more:
I suffer and want not to heal.11
Given that my heart so vacillates, I don't know what sweet inklings are giving such a nerve to my passion. Oh my friend, I shall return to Eleonore, I shall find her still beautiful and more receptive than before, I shall triumph over my rivals, you will be invited to our wedding and you will hymn our marriage. — But let us leave these hopes, these ponderings, this future, and the enchantress who is the object of it all, to sketch for you the courteous reception we received from the masters of Roudeilhe. They are fortunate in the diversions they procure: their affability neglects nothing that might make them amiable.
A lot was said, and what was said
I shall not attempt to repeat,
wanting the memory, the wit
to fetch it all straight from my head.
By now the deepening twilight
told us Apollo was back in Thetis' bosom
replenishing his spent flame,
and the gods' cupbearer—or, at least, his rival—
offered each of us a perfect oval,
one of the cups fashioned from the clay of Sève,12
and poured with a gesture so deft
a spout of clear tea into a milk-cloud's opal.
Whereupon
Charming felicities, exquisite raillery
and nimble-witted pleasantries
carried around the gathering
that encircled the great teapot,
which was infusing the entire throng
with cheer and joviality.
Fashion, pamphlets, newspapers, prompted lively observations and inexhaustible drolleries; most especially we discussed the savage Atala, for whom Monsieur de Chateaubriand has evoked such sympathy.
It was even claimed that this superb genius
who had made us admire this maiden of the wilds,
thereafter had been glorified
in secret, chastening a hostile cult's hubris,
limning the perfection of the cosmos.13
He, though, distils its nature into prose,
while you impugn the unbeliever in fine verse,
the divine fire with which it burns
lending the language of the gods a grander tone.14
Then we shared a few words on our ingenious poets—Bertin, Chapelle, Chaulieu, Deguerle, Duault, Bernis, Bouflers, Kerivalant and Bernard. All were approved, even their flaws. I alone did not wholly sanction these eulogies, declaring:
If some day, at last, I
happen to melt
the frosty beauty Love has propelled me after,
Bernard will not be my master:15
Tibullus would be the pattern I should perfect.
Oh how he conveys the blaze of passion!
Who wouldn't want a taste of such pleasure?
Deep in the soul his frank lines awaken
a gorgeous torment of tender desire.
Blessed Parny took him for his model,
and his lyre became immortal
as it softly sighed his artless love's sweet story.
Who could not envy a state so happy
when, clasped in the arms of his young mistress,
his forehead crowned with myrtle and flowers
for the genius of his adoring verses,
he saw his lute aureoled with honours?
They smiled at my fervour. They concurred, wanting to know the identity of my muse. And, in a fit of boldness and vanity,
I meant
to speak
of charms
and tell
her name.
But no,
better
be dumb:
silence
was sound.
It's done.
I cut.
How could
I name
the rose
I dare
to love?
So I kept quiet: I have no right to make her known to all and sundry. We talked for a few minutes more, then began to think of leaving. The moon bathed us in a pale, feeble light. Was she spending her leisure entertaining the declaration of some presumptuous mortal? It hardly matters. But surely, above the sound of our horses trotting over the sand and the grass, I could hear these words issuing from the lips of some neighbourhood bard, evidently favoured by fortune.
Resplendent empress of the
stars
beseeched in the night by the trembling sailor,
you who silver your supplicant's billowing sails,
favour my course by relegating your splendour.
Go away, the slightest brightness irks and hurts me:
return to the arms of waiting Endymion.16
Love will govern my direction.
I shall arrive at my mistress' side fearlessly,
and she'll surrender, readily, to me
her hand, her heart, her perfection.
But as I try to recall for you the details of this brief venture,
Beneficent sleep is tugging my eyelids closed
and my exhausted eyes turn towards darkness' ease.
Unlike that rustic Tibullus we encountered, there is no secret rendezvous for me.
There will be no Iris, no Celimene,
giving the slip to mother and suitors,
to come tonight and unlock the latches,
ceasing, in my arms, to be inhuman.
Besides, if I did encounter either of them, I wouldn't want to be unfaithful to the one I love. I shall therefore settle down in my solitary bed. Farewell. I surrender myself to the charge of Morpheus.
And, fervently, the god of love I shall implore:
Take pity, please, on this unfledged young troubadour
whom your torch scorches and gnaws.
In a dream so consoling it makes my spirit soar,
bring me the apparition of my Eleonore,
with her coldness thawed and a night of bliss in store.
Here, I'm ready. Hurry. I'm dropping off….
End of Journey to Roudeilhe
