LES REGRETS: RĂVERIES COULEUR DU TEMPS
« La maniĂšre de vivre du poĂšte devrait ĂȘtre si simple que les influences les plus ordinaires le rĂ©jouissent, sa gaietĂ© devrait pouvoir ĂȘtre le fruit dâun rayon de soleil, lâair devrait suffire pour lâinspirer et lâeau devrait suffire pour lâenivrer. »
EMERSON
I
Tuileries
Au jardin des Tuileries, ce matin, le soleil sâest endormi tour Ă tour sur toutes les marches de pierre comme un adolescent blond dont le passage dâune ombre interrompt aussitĂŽt le somme lĂ©ger. Contre le vieux palais verdissent de jeunes pousses. Le souffle du vent charmĂ© mĂȘle au parfum du passĂ© la fraĂźche odeur des lilas. Les statues qui sur nos places publiques effrayent comme des folles, rĂȘvent ici dans les charmilles comme des sages sous la verdure lumineuse qui protĂšge leur blancheur. Les bassins au fond desquels se prĂ©lasse le ciel bleu luisent comme des regards. De la terrasse du bord de
REGRETS: DAYDREAMS IN THE COLOR OF TIME
So the poetâs habit of living should be set on a key so low that the common influences should delight him. His cheerfulness should be the gift of the sunlight; the air should suffice for his inspiration, and he should be tipsy with water.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays: Second Series, I. âThe Poetâ)
I
The Tuileries Gardens
At the Tuileries Gardens, this morning, the sun successively fell asleep on each of the stone steps, like a blond teenager whose light sleep is instantly interrupted by the passing of a shadow. Against the old palace, young sprouts are greening. The breath of the charmed wind blends into the fragrance of the past the fresh scent of lilacs. The statues that, in our public squares, are as frightening as madwomen, here dream in the arbors, like sages under the luminous greenery that protects their whiteness. The basins, in the depths of which the blue sky is luxuriating, shine like gazes. From the terrace on the
lâeau, on aperçoit, sortant du vieux quartier du quai dâOrsay, sur lâautre rive et comme dans un autre siĂšcle, un hussard qui passe. Les liserons dĂ©bordent follement des vases couronnĂ©s de gĂ©raniums. Ardent de soleil, lâhĂ©liotrope brĂ»le ses parfums. Devant le Louvre sâĂ©lancent des roses trĂ©miĂšres, lĂ©gĂšres comme des mĂąts, nobles et gracieuses comme des colonnes, rougissantes comme des jeunes filles. IrisĂ©s de soleil et soupirant dâamour, les jets dâeau montent vers le ciel. Au bout de la Terrasse, un cavalier de pierre lancĂ© sans changer de place dans un galop fou, les lĂšvres collĂ©es Ă une trompette joyeuse, incarne toute lâardeur du Printemps.
Mais le ciel sâest assombri, il va pleuvoir. Les bassins, oĂč nul azur ne brille plus, semblent des yeux vides de regards ou des vases pleins de larmes. Lâabsurde jet dâeau, fouettĂ© par la brise, Ă©lĂšve de plus en plus vite vers le ciel son hymne maintenant dĂ©risoire. Lâinutile douceur des lilas est dâune tristesse infinie. Et lĂ -bas, la bride abattue, ses pieds de marbre excitant dâun mouvement immobile et furieux le galop vertigineux et fixĂ© de son cheval, lâinconscient cavalier trompette sans fin sur le ciel noir.
II
Versailles
« Un canal qui fait rĂȘver les plus grandsparleurs sitĂŽt quâils sâen approchent et oĂč je suis toujours heureux, soit que je sois joyeux, soit que je sois triste. »
Lettre de Balzac Ă M. de Lamothe-Aigron
Lâautomne Ă©puisĂ©, plus mĂȘme rĂ©chauffĂ© par le soleil rare, perd une Ă une ses derniĂšres couleurs. LâextrĂȘme ardeur de ses feuillages, si enflammĂ©s que toute lâaprĂšs-midi et la matinĂ©e elle-mĂȘme donnaient la glorieuse illusion du couchant, sâest Ă©teinte. Seuls, les dahlias, les Ćillets dâInde et les
edge of the water, a hussar can be seen riding by,1 coming out of the old neighborhood of the Quai dâOrsay, on the opposite bank and as if in another century. The morning glories overflow wildly from the vases, which are crowned with geraniums. Blazing with sunlight, the heliotrope burns its fragrances. In front of the Louvre, hollyhocks soar upward, as light as masts, as noble and gracious as columns, and blushing like young girls. Iridescent with sunlight and sighing with love, the water jets climb toward the sky. At the far end of the terrace, a stone horseman, galloping furiously without moving, his lips glued to a joyful trumpet, embodies all the ardor of Spring.
But the sky has darkened; itâs going to rain. The basins, where no azure shines any more, seem to be eyes empty of gazes or vases filled with tears. The absurd water jet, whipped around by the wind, raises faster and faster toward the sky its now insignificant hymn. The useless sweetness of the lilacs is infinitely sad. And over there, riding at breakneck speed, his marble feet urging on, with an immobile and furious motion, the dizzying and stationary gallop of his horse, the unaware horseman endlessly blasts his trumpet against the black sky.
II
Versailles
A canal that makes the greatest conversationalists dream as soon as they come near, andwhere I am always contented, whether I amjoyful or sad.
(Guez de Balzac,2 Letter to Monsieur de Lamothe-Aigron)
The exhausted autumn, no longer even warmed by the rare sunlight, is losing its last colors one by one. The extreme ardor of its foliage, so fiery that the whole afternoon and the morning itself provided the glorious illusion of sunset, has been extinguished. Only the dahlias, the French marigolds, and the
chrysanthĂšmes jaunes, violets, blancs et roses, brillent encore sur la face sombre et dĂ©solĂ©e de lâautomne. Ă six heures du soir, quand on passe par les Tuileries uniformĂ©ment grises et nues sous le ciel aussi sombre, oĂč les arbres noirs dĂ©crivent branche par branche leur dĂ©sespoir puissant et subtil, un massif soudain aperçu de ces fleurs dâautomne luit richement dans lâobscuritĂ© et fait Ă nos yeux habituĂ©s Ă ces horizons en cendres une violence voluptueuse. Les heures du matin sont plus douces. Le soleil brille encore parfois, et je peux voir encore en quittant la terrasse du bord de lâeau, au long des grands escaliers de pierre, mon ombre descendre une Ă une les marches devant moi. Je ne voudrais pas vous prononcer ici aprĂšs tant dâautres,* Versailles, grand nom rouillĂ© et doux, royal cimetiĂšre de feuillages, de vastes eaux et de marbres, lieu vĂ©ritablement aristocratique et dĂ©moralisant, oĂč ne nous trouble mĂȘme pas le remords que la vie de tant dâouvriers nây ait servi quâĂ affiner et quâĂ Ă©largir moins les joies dâun autre temps que la mĂ©lancolie du nĂŽtre. Je ne voudrais pas vous prononcer aprĂšs tant dâautres, et pourtant que de fois, Ă la coupe rougie de vos bassins de marbre rose, jâai Ă©tĂ© boire jusquâĂ la lie et jusquâĂ dĂ©lirer lâenivrante et amĂšre douceur de ces suprĂȘmes jours dâautomne. La terre mĂȘlĂ©e de feuilles fanĂ©es et de feuilles pourries semblait au loin une jaune et violette mosaĂŻque ternie. En passant prĂšs du hameau, en relevant le col de mon paletot contre le vent, jâentendis roucouler des colombes. Partout lâodeur du buis, comme au dimanche des Rameaux, enivrait. Comment ai-je pu cueillir encore un mince bouquet de printemps, dans ces jardins saccagĂ©s par lâautomne. Sur lâeau, le vent froissait les pĂ©tales dâune rose grelottante. Dans ce grand effeuillement de Trianon, seule la voĂ»te lĂ©gĂšre dâun petit pont de gĂ©ranium blanc soulevait au-dessus de lâeau glacĂ©e ses fleurs Ă peine inclinĂ©es par le vent. Certes, depuis que jâai respirĂ© le vent du large et le sel dans les chemins creux de Normandie, depuis que jâai vu briller la mer Ă travers les branches de rhododendrons en fleurs, je sais tout ce que le voisinage des eaux peut ajouter aux grĂąces vĂ©gĂ©tales. Mais quelle puretĂ© plus virginale en ce
* Et particuliĂšrement aprĂšs MM. Maurice BarrĂšs, Henri de RĂ©gnier, Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac.
yellow, violet, white, and pink chrysanthemums still shine on the somber and desolate face of autumn. At six in the evening, when one walks through the Tuileries Gardens, uniformly gray and naked under an equally gloomy sky, where the black trees describe, one branch at a time, their powerful and subtle despair, a suddenly visible bed of these autumn flowers magnificently gleams in the dark and inflicts a voluptuous violence to our eyes, accustomed to ashen horizons. The morning hours are gentler. Sometimes the sun still shines, and I can still see, when leaving the terrace at the edge of the water, all along the vast stone stairways, my shadow going down the steps, one by one, in front of me. I am reluctant to pronounce your name here, after so many others,3 Versailles, your renowned name, rusty and sweet, a royal cemetery of foliage, of vast water and marble, a truly aristocratic and depressing place, where we are not even troubled by the remorse that the lives of so many workers served only to refine and broaden, not so much the joys of another era as the melancholy of our own. I am reluctant to pronounce your name, after so many others, and yet how many times, from the reddened cup of your pink marble basins, have I drunk to the dregs and to a point of delirium the intoxicating bittersweetness of these supreme days of autumn. The earth, mixed with faded leaves and rotting leaves, seemed in the distance to be a tarnished yellow and violet mosaic. While walking near the hameau,4 as I pulled up the collar of my overcoat because of the wind, I heard doves cooing. Everywhere the scent of blessed palms, as on Palm Sunday, was intoxicating. How was I still able to pick a slender spring bouquet, in these gardens devastated by autumn? On the water, the wind was creasing the petals of a shivering rose. In this great shedding of leaves at Trianon, only the light arch of a small bridge of white geraniums lifted above the freezing water its flowers, which were barely tilted by the wind. Of course, since I breathed in the sea breeze and the salt air of the sunken roads of Normandy, since I saw the sea glistening through the branches of blooming rhododendrons, I know how much the closeness of water can add to the beauty of vegetation. But there is such virginal purity in this
doux gĂ©ranium blanc, penchĂ© avec une retenue gracieuse sur les eaux frileuses entre leurs quais de feuilles mortes. Ă vieillesse argentĂ©e des bois encore verts, ĂŽ branches Ă©plorĂ©es, Ă©tangs et piĂšces dâeau quâun geste pieux a posĂ©s çà et lĂ , comme des urnes offertes Ă la mĂ©lancolie des arbres !
III
Promenade
MalgrĂ© le ciel si pur et le soleil dĂ©jĂ chaud, le vent soufflait encore aussi froid, les arbres restaient aussi nus quâen hiver. Il me fallut, pour faire du feu, couper une de ces branches que je croyais mortes et la sĂšve en jaillit, mouillant mon bras jusquâau coude et dĂ©nonçant, sous lâĂ©corce glacĂ©e de lâarbre, un cĆur tumultueux. Entre les troncs, le sol nu de lâhiver sâemplissait dâanĂ©mones, de coucous et de violettes, et les riviĂšres, hier encore sombres et vides, de ciel tendre, bleu et vivant qui sây prĂ©lassait jusquâau fond. Non ce ciel pĂąle et lassĂ© des beaux soirs dâoctobre qui, Ă©tendu au fond des eaux, semble y mourir dâamour et de mĂ©lancolie, mais un ciel intense et ardent sur lâazur tendre et riant duquel passaient Ă tous moments, grises, bleues et roses, â non les ombres des nuĂ©es pensives, â mais les nageoires brillantes, et glissantes dâune perche, dâune anguille ou dâun Ă©perlan. Ivres de joie, ils couraient entre le ciel et les herbes, dans leurs prairies et sous leurs futaies quâavait brillamment enchantĂ©es comme les nĂŽtres le resplendissant gĂ©nie du printemps. Et glissant fraĂźchement sur leur tĂȘte, entre leurs ouĂŻes, sous leur ventre, les eaux se pressaient aussi en chantant et en faisant courir gaiement devant elles du soleil.
La basse-cour oĂč il fallut aller chercher des Ćufs nâĂ©tait pas moins agrĂ©able Ă voir. Le soleil comme un poĂšte inspirĂ© et fĂ©cond qui ne dĂ©daigne pas de rĂ©pandre de la beautĂ© sur les lieux les plus humbles et qui jusque-lĂ ne semblaient pas devoir faire partie du domaine de lâart, Ă©chauffait encore la bienfaisante Ă©nergie du fumier, de la cour inĂ©galement pavĂ©e, et du poirier cassĂ© comme une vieille servante.
sweet white geranium, leaning with graceful restraint over the chilly water, between its banks of dead leaves. Oh, silvery old age of woods still green, with weeping branches, ponds and pools that a pious gesture has scattered here and there, like urns offered to the melancholy of the trees!
III
Strolling
Despite the very pure sky and the already hot sunshine, the wind was still blowing just as cold, and the trees remained just as bare, as in winter. To light a fire, I had to cut one of the branches that I thought were dead, but its sap spurted out, making my arm wet up to my elbow and exposing, under the frozen bark of the tree, a tumultuous heart. Between the trunks, the bare winter ground was covered with anemones, wild daffodils, and violets; and the rivers, yesterday still dark and empty, were now filled with a soft, blue, and vivid sky, which was basking even in their depths. Not the pale and weary sky of beautiful October evenings, which, sprawled out at the bottom of the water, seems to be dying of love and melancholy, but an intense and ardent sky, over whose tender and amused azure constantly passed, gray, blue, and pinkânot the shadows of pensive cloudsâbut the glistening and slippery fins of a perch, an eel, or a smelt. Drunk with joy, they scurried about between the sky and the grass, in their prairies and under their treetops,5 which were brilliantly enchanted, like ours, by the resplendent genius of spring. And the waters, coolly sliding over their heads, between their gills, under their bellies, also hurried, while singing and merrily chasing the sunlight in front of them.
The barnyard where one had to go get eggs was no less pleasant to look at. Like an inspired and productive poet who does not disdain to spread beauty over the most humble places, which previously did not seem to belong to the domain of art, the sun still warmed the beneficial energy of the dung heap, of the unevenly paved yard, and of the pear tree, as bent as an old servant.
Mais quelle est cette personne royalement vĂȘtue qui sâavance, parmi les choses rustiques et fermiĂšres, sur la pointe des pattes comme pour ne point se salir ? Câest lâoiseau de Junon brillant non de mortes pierreries, mais des yeux mĂȘmes dâArgus, le paon dont le luxe fabuleux Ă©tonne ici. Telle au jour dâune fĂȘte, quelques instants avant lâarrivĂ©e des premiers invitĂ©s, dans sa robe Ă queue changeante, un gorgerin dâazur dĂ©jĂ attachĂ© Ă son cou royal, ses aigrettes sur la tĂȘte, la maĂźtresse de maison, Ă©tincelante, traverse sa cour aux yeux Ă©merveillĂ©s des badauds rassemblĂ©s devant la grille, pour aller donner un dernier ordre ou attendre le prince du sang quâelle doit recevoir au seuil mĂȘme.
Mais non, câest ici que le paon passe sa vie, vĂ©ritable oiseau de paradis dans une basse-cour, entre les dindes et les poules, comme Andromaque captive filant la laine au milieu des esclaves, mais nâayant point comme elle quittĂ© la magnificence des insignes royaux et des joyaux hĂ©rĂ©ditaires, Apollon quâon reconnaĂźt toujours, mĂȘme quand il garde, rayonnant, les troupeaux dâAdmĂšte.
IV
Famille Ă©coutant la musique
« Car la musique est douce,
Fait lâĂąme harmonieuse et comme un divinchĆur
Ăveille mille voix qui chantent dans le cĆur. »
Pour une famille vraiment vivante oĂč chacun pense, aime et agit, avoir un jardin est une douce chose. Les soirs de printemps, dâĂ©tĂ© et dâautomne, tous, la tĂąche du jour finie, y sont rĂ©unis ; et si petit que soit le jardin, si rapprochĂ©es que soient les haies, elles ne sont pas si hautes quâelles ne laissent voir un grand morceau de ciel oĂč chacun lĂšve les yeux, sans parler, en
But who is this regally attired person who is stepping forward, within this rustic and agricultural environment, tiptoeing as if to avoid getting dirty? It is Junoâs bird, brilliant not with dead precious stones, but with the very eyes of Argus;6 it is the peacock, whose fabulous luxury is surprising in this setting. So on a day of celebration, a few moments before the first guests arrive, the glittering hostess, wearing a dress with a shimmering train, an azure gorgerin already attached to her royal throat, her aigrettes on her head,7 crosses her courtyard, as the enthralled bystanders who are gathered at the gate look on, to go issue a final order or to wait for a prince of the blood, whom she must greet at the threshold itself.
Nevertheless, this is where the peacock spends its life, a veritable bird of paradise in a barnyard, between the turkeys and the chickens, like a captive Andromache spinning wool am...