Selected Writings (Dario, Ruben) (34 page)

The newcomer, though having wept to find himself once more beside his sisters, was unmoved by Bertrande’s exceedingly great tears and moans, and showed not one groat’s-worth of softness of heart for her. Indeed, on the contrary, he drew himself up and stood austere and aloof. And without deigning to look at her, he said to her: “Put aside that crying and weeping, which I neither ask for nor allow to move me, and do not put the blame upon my sisters, for neither father, nor mother, nor brothers and sisters should know their child or brother so well as a wife should know her husband, and no one is more blameworthy than you.” And for this, the judges did censure Bertrande, but at this first encounter they could never soften Martin’s heart, or his austerity.

The imposter du Thil, once discovered, received the following sentence: “The court . . . has condemned du Thil to make honorable confession to the church at Artigat, and there, kneeling and in his shirt, with head and feet naked, with the noose about his neck and holding in his hands a torch of burning wax, ask forgiveness of God, the king, and justice, and of Martin Guerre and Bertrande. And this having been done, du Thil shall be delivered up to the executor of high justice, who shall lead him through the streets and other places of said locality of Artigat, and, noose about his neck, shall lead him to the house of Martin Guerre, where, on the scaffold, he shall be hanged and garrotted, and after that, his body burned. . . . Pronounced this 12th day of September in the year of our Lord 1560.”

The condemned man, led from the court to Artigat, was heard by the judge at Rieux, to whom he made a long confession of his guilt. He testified, however, that what had first led him to his project had been that seven or eight years earlier, upon his return to the countryside around Picardy, some there, who had been Martin Guerre’s close friends and even family, had taken him for Guerre, and thinking that many others might also be deceived, he conceived the idea of making inquiries and informing himself, as cautiously as possible, about Martin’s profession, his wife, his relatives, what he would say and how say it, what he had done before he’d left home—but the condemned man always denied being a necromancer, or having used spells or enchantments or any other sort of magic. In addition, he confessed to having been
un fort mauvais garnement
—a right rascal, you might say—in every way. As he was about to climb up to the scaffold, he asked forgiveness of Martin and Bertrande, with a great show of repentance and detestation of his deed, and begged God in a loud voice for mercy through his son, Jesus Christ. And he was executed, his body hanged and then burned.

 

“How extremely interesting!” everyone exclaimed.

“And to think,” the acid Mme. Poirier said, with just a hint of sarcasm, “that she might have been happier with the other one.”

“As for my little wife,” Pérez Sedano concluded, “I think that however hard the impostor tried, she would never confuse him with me. . . .”

And the little wife of Pérez Sedano, laughing, agreed with what her husband had just said—but she turned as red-faced as a rose. . . .

Prose Poems

IN THE ENCHANTED LAND

Far away in that tropical land, on the bank of a lagoon a melancholy willow stands, its green hair trailing in the water that mirrors forth the branches and the sky as though in its depths there were a land enchanted.

Two by two, birds and lovers visit the old willow, and there my eyes once gazed upon an evening when the sun was but a violet whisper fading away over the great volcano and the soft ripples, a waning rose like the loving light’s shy caress, and my ears heard a rustle of kisses near the tree.

There they were, a young man and a maid, lover and beloved, on a rustic bench under the canopy of the tree. Before them lay the tranquil pool, with its flock of boats, the trembling trees along its banks, and beyond, amidst the green leaves, a picturesque chalet.

The lady was all loveliness; he, a noble lad caressing with his fingers and his lips the nymph’s graceful hands and jet-black hair.

And over the two ardent souls there chattered, in their rhythmic, wingèd tongue, the birds. And the immense sky drew close, with its riot of clouds, its feathers of gold, its wings of fire, its fleece of imperial purple; the azure sky, fleur-de-lis’d with opal, poured over them the magnificence of its pomp, the sovereignty of its august grandeur.

Under the waters, like a whirlpool of living blood, swift fishes flitted, fins of gold.

In the evening splendor, the landscape seemed draped in soft gauze by the sun, and the two lovers were the scene’s soul: he, dark-haired, dashing, vigorous, with the sort of silken beard that women love to touch; she, fair-skinned—a verse by Goethe!—dressed in a lustrous grey gown, and upon her breast a fresh rose quivering, like her rose-colored lips, for his longed-for kiss.

THE HONEYMOON SONG

My lady: That moon’s honey is fashioned by the bees of the azure garden, which flit among the twinkling petals of the stars to suck their nectar. They fly, in iridescent swarms, from the blooms of Aldebaran to the daisies of the Bear, to the trembling, flickering carnation of Sirius. But the lightest, the most delightful, the most beautiful and paradisal of the bees alight upon the beckoning, sacred, mysterious calyx of Venus’ golden rose!

My lady: The painter Spiridon has limned the blessèd land of happiness: a calm lake, a boat, a lass, a lad, and love to row them. Good breeze, good day, my lady!

There is a delicate, a divine lily that possesses all the proud candor of nuptial jewels, the paleness of the votive lamp that illuminates the altar, the transparency of the bridal veil, the perfumes and supreme enchantment of the newlyweds’ sweet dreams. This lily is hope and happiness foreseen. A thousand times fortunate, she who can come to the end of her life with that celestial flower intact and fresh. For the wind is sometimes so bitter, and some nights there is so much frost! And at those times, when they see the holy, ideal lily wither and fade, poor souls lift their eyes to the great God. Oh! may powerful, invincible love guide you! Good breeze, good day, my lady!

Sweet nuptial dreams of adoration that make the pensive, virginal bride swoon!

Chaste lilies molded of the fine powdery snow from the highest peak of the sacred mountain!

Doves that nest in the green leaves of the myrtle!

Serene star of love!

Of all of you I ask: Is it not true that a breath of divinity passes, giving delight to the world’s soul, when on a quiet night, in a solemn wood, the nightingale sings the crystalline melody, the lovely verses, of the song of the honeymoon?

BLOODY

This evening has been all rose. From the broad whorl of its grand palette, the sky has chosen all the rose-pinks possible, but there has also been the blood-red of the bloody king, a furious red bursting from the sun in its death-agony, tinging the sea a sanguine scarlet. And then, after the wheel of crimson fire, of fire condensed and vibrant, unique and occidental, sank into the waves, the fantasy of reds dimmed, too, and the glare of hot, offensive yellows faded.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the scarlets dissolved into carmine, which gradually, in chromatic languor, swooned into pomegranate, then flamingo’s wing, then moon-rose, then sweet anemic tea-rose.

The sea reflected back the glory of the setting sun. On the horizon, the curve that marks the eyes’ limit seemed not consumed by flame. A thick dark cloud had split into two rotundas, upheld by a visionary architecture like none seen before on land. And there was a gigantic balustrade, above a pavement stained as though by a recent, luminous decapitation.

Birds of the hecatomb—an eagle as orange as though it had passed through a rainbow—spread their wings, whose tips seemed still wet from a shower of ruby-colored water. In one corner of the sky, where the hue was faintest and most languorous, the soft color brought to my mind a distant recollection. It was the memory of a rose petal, bloodless and forgotten, between the pages of a book of hours. It was a book printed in Brussels, of ancient manufacture. The page on which that relic rested, perhaps a page from some antique romance, had a red capital of exquisite archaic beauty, like those that illuminate missals and antiphonaries.

Then suddenly, the swift white flash of an electric light woke me from my vague thoughts. Behind the nearby hills, crepuscular mists heralded the night.

The city was turning on its lights. The last vibration of the evening’s death throes was a fainting, desolate rose.

SIREN-CATCHERS

Catch me one, oh satyr fishermen!, with gleaming scales, a metallic, iridescent radiance like the nacreous gold of sumptuous herrings. Catch me one with a tail, two-forked, that will make me dream of sea-peacocks, and gleaming flanks with fins like Oriental fans studded with pearls. Catch me one with green hair, like the hair of Lorelei, and eyes of strange phosphorescence and magical sparks; one whose salty mouth will kiss and bite when it is not singing songs like those that o’ermatched Ulysses’ cunning. Catch me one with marmoreal breasts crowned with pink rosebuds, and with arms, like two divine white pythons, that will clasp me and bear me off to the depths, where we will live in an abyss of ardent pleasures in the hidden country where the palaces are made of pearls, of coral, and of nacre.

But those two satyrs sporting on the coast of some unknown Lesbos, Tempe, or Amathusia are not good fishermen. One, old and muscular, leans on a thick knotty stick and looks with comic puzzlement at the frightened, bedraggled siren his companion has fished up. The other pulls in the net, and seems unhappy with his catch. Water streams from the siren’s hair, making concentric circles on the sea. Upon the two-horned, hairy heads, kissed by the day, a fresh leaf-growth spreads, while in a gala of gold, above clouds, land, and waves, the torch of the sun is upraised.

OCEAN IDYLL

Beyond the solitary isles where voyaging birds rest, in the land ruled by Leviathan, upon a rock the Conqueress sits enthroned, in the irresistible omnipotence of her nakedness.

On her white skin is salt, the marine perfume of Anadyomene, and the serpent of the waves reveals once more, loving yet humiliated, the sovereign triumph of feminine enchantment: Europa on the bull’s back, the Beauty and the Beast, the modern painter’s Mundana, who, naked, cuts the lion’s claws.

A hairy, scaly triton makes his hoarse seashell sing, while the monster is caressed by the temptress, the Woman, who, under the immense sky, offers her fatal loveliness in the abandon of her supreme immodesty.

THE SONG OF WINTER

It is raining—black clouds across the azure sky, hiding the sun, that light which, illuminating and warming bodies, warms and illuminates souls.

It is cold; the day is dark. There is cold in the heart, too, and snow in the soul.

Raw winter, with its snows and the north wind that lashes, withers flowers.

In winter, the days are dark as nights.

In the tomb, there is eternal night.

When there is sweet sadness, we sleep, and then we dream and the dreams are rosy.

In the tomb, where we shall also sleep, what, oh God!, will the dreams be like?

And when we awaken, we smile at the memory of the delights we saw in our sleep. Then, we frown and our eyes darken, for we meet reality—the dreams were only dreams.

In the tomb, shall we not awake? Do wounding realities not come, after forged illusions? Is there no flowery perfume, stars’ gleam, dawn’s light, angelic laughter, celestial warmth in the spirit? Oh! surely souls do not have winter fogs, withered flowers, clouds that hide the stars, mists that shatter little boats, thorns or roses for the heart, brambles that tear the feathers off innocent doves.

In this world, after the warmth of the sun in the day and the silvery gleams of the moon, the luminous light of the stars, and sweet whispers on spring and summer nights, comes winter—winter that brings cold and withers flowers and illusions, and with them, life!

Winter is sad, it is gloomy for those who have no warmth to comfort the body, no gay illusions to animate the soul.

But blessèd art thou, old winter, when we hear the rain fall slowly, and the dense fog surrounds us and the cold comes with that idle ache that steals over us even as, wrapped in soft furs, in the soul we feel the light that Nature lacks, and in the heart, the spring so far away.

We hear the birds sing, the bees buzz, see the lilies totter on their graceful stalks, breathe the perfume of heliotropes and jasmines, hear the murmur of the breeze in the tall trees, and see the pearly dew that wets the green grass. All that, within our hearts.

Is there snow?

Welcome! How white that rain of swan’s feathers is!

Is it cold?

We do not feel it. Within our breast there is a fire that gives life, heat, light.

Are all things musty, the roses dry and withered, the trees bare of leaves?

The soul is smiling. In the soul there are flowers whose perfume intoxicates; in the soul, divine plants sprout, grow, and are beautiful; in the soul there is music, harmony, poems that give life, while with eyes half closed we dream and are able to see, behind the gray mantle of the sky, the rose and azure of the dawn, with its soft twilight smile.

It is cold and it is snowing and it is raining. To the theater, to the ball, where a thousand lights are shining! In fireplaces, fires burn; music echoes triumphantly; and in the midst of playful laughter, couples dance dizzying waltzes, while dreams whirl and flutter like mad butterflies. Eyes gleam black and deep, or azure and tender, and pink lips murmur sweet nothings. And we listen to the rain fall, and in the light of street lamps we see the snow fall like a silver coverlet, and we say to ourselves: “How beautiful! Yes, the winter is very beautiful!”

How dreadful, though, when we feel it in our heart, and it reigns within our soul, and it brings the cold that kills. And the winter passes, and spring returns, yet winter remains.