We are pleased to present to our readers the first publication of
these delicate verses by a charming young poet, M. Marcel Proust, several
of whose articles have been published in Le Gaulois.
These verses were recited, the other day, by Mlle Bartet at Mme
Madeleine Lemaire's over the very pleasing music of M. Rinaldo [sic]
Hahn.1
Bittersweet, the heart’s pride, noble grace of things
That shine in the eyes, the velvets and the woods,
Beautiful high language, holding up between poses
-Hereditary conceit of women and kings!
-You triumph, Van Dyck, prince of calm gestures,
In all the beautiful ones who are soon to die
In every beautiful hand that remembers how to open
Without doubting itself, - what matters? - The palms stretch out!
Riders halt, under the pines, near the streams,
They are quiet - as they are very close to tears
- Royal children already splendid and grave,
Resigned to raiment, hats with feathers brave,
And jewels in which tears, waves through flames
Tears of bitterness which are full of the soul
Too lofty to approach leave from their eyes;
And you, over all, precious walker,
In your pale blue shirt, one hand at the hip,
In the other a leafy fruit picked off the branch,
I dream without understanding your gesture and your eyes,
Standing, but rested, in this obscure refuge,
Duke of Richmond, a young sage! - Or charming fool?
I return to you always: A sapphire, at your neck,
Has fires as soft as your quiet look.
ALBERT CUYP
Cuyp, sunset dissolves in the limpid air,
Ruffled as water by a flight of grey wood pigeons,
A gold dampness haloes the forehead of a cow or a birch,
Blue incense fogs the beautiful days on the hillside,
Or the sky empties light into the stagnant marsh.
Horsemen await, pink feather to the hat,
Palm to the side, their skin pinkened by the brisk air,
That lightly puffs up their fine blonde curls,
And, tempted by the awesome fields, the fresh waves,
Whose herd of cattle amble undisturbed,
Dream of pale gold fog and of rest,
They go off to breathe these deep minutes.
PAULUS POTTER
Dark sorrow of the skies, uniform grey,
The rare bright spots, sadder to be blue,
And who leave the frozen plains
Filtering the lukewarm tears of a misunderstood sun;
Potter, melancholy mood of the dark plains
That spread endlessly, without joy and without colour,
The trees, the hamlet, do not shed any shadows,
The little gardens carry no flower.
A labourer returns pulling buckets, and, puny,
His mare resigned, worried and dreaming,
Trained and anxious, his pensive brain,
Short breath of a man, the long breath of wind.
ANTOINE WATTEAU
Twilight makes up the trees and the faces,
With his blue cloak, under his uncertain mask;
Kiss of dust around the tired mouths...
Far becomes close, and the very near, distant.
The masquerade, other melancholic distance,
Was love’s false gesture, sadder and charming.
Whim of poet - or prudence of lover,
The lover needing to be knowingly adorned
Here, boat, smells, silences and music.
1. Could the opening paragraph have been written by Proust
himself? His only two signed articles in Le Gaulois at this
point were Une fête littéraire à Versailles, 31 May 1894 and Un
dimanche au conservatoire, 14 January 1895.
Created 11.06.22