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ValÃ©ry s Graveyard Le CimetiÃ¨re marin Translated
Described and Peopled 2nd Edition Mcgrath Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): McGrath, Hugh P.; Comenetz, Michael; ValÃ©ry, Paul
ISBN(s): 9781453910986, 1453910980
Edition: 0002
File Details: PDF, 1.39 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
Valéry’s Graveyard
Currents in Comparative Romance
Languages and Literatures
Tamara Alvarez-Detrell and Michael G. Paulson

General Editors
Vol. 186
PETER LANG
New York  Washington, D.C./Baltimore  Bern
Frankfurt  Berlin  Brussels  Vienna  Oxford
Hugh P. McGrath
Michael Comenetz
Valéry’s Graveyard
Le Cimetière marin
Translated, Described, and Peopled
PETER LANG
New York  Washington, D.C./Baltimore  Bern
Frankfurt  Berlin  Brussels  Vienna  Oxford
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McGrath, Hugh P.
Valéry’s graveyard Le cimetière marin translated, described,
and peopled / Hugh P. McGrath, Michael Comenetz.
p. cm. — (Currents in comparative Romance languages and literatures; v. 186)
Includes the French text of Le cimetière marin, with English translation.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Valéry, Paul, 1871–1945. Cimetière marin. I. Comenetz, Michael.
II. Valéry, Paul, 1871–1945. Cimetière marin. English & French. III. Title.
PQ2643.A26C6568 841’.9’12—dc22 2010033920
ISBN 978-1-4331-1334-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4331-2292-7 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-4539-1098-6 (e-book)
ISSN 0893-5963
Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek.

Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the “Deutsche
Nationalbibliografie”; detailed bibliographic data is available
on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de/.
© 2011, 2013 Peter Lang Publishing, Inc., New York

29 Broadway, 18th floor, New York, NY 10006
www.peterlang.com
All rights reserved.

Reprint or reproduction, even partially, in all forms such as microfilm,
xerography, microfiche, microcard, and offset strictly prohibited.
Printed in Germany
Contents
Preface ............................................................................................................. vii

Acknowledgments .......................................................................................... ix
List of Abbreviations ...................................................................................... xi
Part I
Translation and Description
Le Cimetière marin/The Graveyard by the Sea .................................................. 3
Description of the Poem ................................................................................ 15
Part II
Graveyard Presences
CHAPTER 1  The Cemetery ......................................................................... 41
§1.1 A Dream of Health ........................................................................ 41
§1.2 Epic and Pastoral ........................................................................... 43
§1.3 The Poet by the Sea ........................................................................ 46
§1.4 The Graveyard Decomposed ....................................................... 49
§1.5 A Third Peak .................................................................................. 53
CHAPTER 2  Balance and Exhaustion ....................................................... 58
§2.1 Assaying the Crown and Moving a Weight .............................. 58
§2.2 The Pure Point in Time and Space .............................................. 61
§2.3 Exhaustion and the Machine ........................................................ 65
§2.4 Dissolution ...................................................................................... 68
§2.5 Integration ...................................................................................... 71
CHAPTER 3  Cuts ......................................................................................... 75
§3.1 Cutting and the Goddess .............................................................. 75
§3.2 The Surgeon in the Temple of Time ............................................ 80
§3.3 Boundaries Valued ........................................................................ 83
§3.4 Reflection and Transformation .................................................... 87
CHAPTER 4  Purity ...................................................................................... 92
§4.1 From Glory to Hollowness ........................................................... 92
§4.2 Pure Poetry as a Limit ................................................................... 97
vi Contents
§4.3 Exhaustion and Pure Consciousness ........................................ 101

§4.4 Form and Transformation: the Invariant I ............................... 104
CHAPTER 5  Cycles .................................................................................... 108
§5.1 The Tell-tale Heart and the Pendulum Clock .......................... 108
§5.2 Oscillation in Nature and Poetry ............................................... 113
§5.3 The Heartbeat in the Temple of Time ....................................... 117
CHAPTER 6  Atoms and the Void ............................................................ 121
§6.1 Absence Acknowledged ............................................................. 121
§6.2 Filling the Void ............................................................................ 124
§6.3 Thought of the Dead ................................................................... 128
§6.4 Vanishing of the Absent ............................................................. 131
§6.5 Porosity Negative ........................................................................ 134
§6.6 Porosity Positive .......................................................................... 137
CHAPTER 7  Worm and Tortoise ............................................................. 141
§7.1 Thought and Verse Renewed ..................................................... 141
§7.2 Remorse and Promise ................................................................. 143
§7.3 Cruel Zeno .................................................................................... 147
§7.4 Under the Shield .......................................................................... 150
CHAPTER 8  Sounds of Awakening ........................................................ 155
§8.1 The Command to Rise and the Music of the Bow ................... 155
§8.2 From Bow and Shell to the Lyre ................................................ 158
§8.3 The Exhortation to Run ............................................................... 162
CHAPTER 9  Dionysus and Proteus ......................................................... 167
§9.1 Dionysus in the Sea ..................................................................... 167
§9.2 Electricity and Atoms .................................................................. 171
§9.3 The Thinking Mind as Hydra .................................................... 174
§9.4 The Temptation to Live ............................................................... 177
§9.5 Typhonic Rebellion and Poetic Contumacy ............................. 179
§9.6 À la recherche du chant perdu .................................................. 184
Selected Bibliography .................................................................................. 191
Index .............................................................................................................. 193
Preface
Since it first appeared in 1920, Paul Valéry’s poem Le Cimetière marin, or

The Graveyard by the Sea, has been much celebrated, both as a thing of
beauty and as the expression of what the poet called “the simplest and
most enduring themes of my emotional and intellectual life.” The present
book provides, first, the poem itself and a translation of it by the late
Hugh P. McGrath, together with his descriptive account designed to
“promote and further enjoyment of this poem”; and secondly, a number
of short exhibitions of thematic elements, characters, and ideas of the
poem in their relation to Valéry’s thought.
The translation and description that make up the first part were
presented by McGrath on April 28th, 1978, in a public lecture at St. John’s
College in Annapolis—a Friday evening lecture followed by a question
period, one in the series which has been a feature of the college’s pro-
gram since 1937. The speaker, born in England, took degrees in French
language and literature at the University of Liverpool and the Sorbonne,
and served in British Army counterintelligence in the Second World War.
In 1947 he came to St. John’s, where he was to study and teach for some
forty years. An inspiring presence in the classroom and a champion of
liberal education, he had an exquisite sense of language and a deep
knowledge of French and English literature, and was broadly learned far
beyond those fields. What his work on the Cimetière marin meant to him
is stated in the introduction to his lecture.
In the second part, for which the second author is responsible, there
will be found, among other things, many quotations from the poet’s
other writings and from a variety of literature, primarily poetry, of all
ages and in several languages; this despite the “implied ban on bookish-
ness” acknowledged by McGrath. For one of the aims of this part is to
illuminate the thought and expression found in the Cimetière marin by
association with kindred works, and so to encourage readers to enlarge
their understanding of Valéry by improving their acquaintance with
Pindar or Lucretius, Dante or Corbière, or another writer to whose work
a quotation may lead them. There is no pursuit of Valéry’s sources, only
of enlightening connections. The topics considered in this part roughly
viii Preface
follow the order of the poem, although without any attempt to be sys-
tematic or exhaustive; rather, the intention is to suggest directions for
exploration. Still, one can expect a subject raised at one point to come up
again at another.
Poetry is always quoted in the original language, with a translation if

that is not English (except that Biblical verse is given in the King James
version, with references to the Latin Vulgate). In most cases the transla-
tion is merely literal prose, but where possible this is arranged line for
line. Prose quotations are usually given in translation only. Translations
not credited to others are our own.
The lecture in Part I has been minimally edited from the transcript of
a recording. It retains some of the informality that belonged to its spoken
delivery. For convenience of reference it has been divided into sections:
references to it are prefixed M, for McGrath, M5 being the fifth section of
the lecture.
All references beginning with the symbol § are to the numbered
sections of Part II.
This book owes not a little to my wife Sandy’s good counsel and
good cheer. I am grateful also to Peter McGrath for permission to publish
his father’s translation and lecture, to Cara Sabolcik for much assistance
with library materials, and to Jennifer Behrens for help with the illustra-
tion. Besides my essential reliance on the work of Hugh McGrath, I
have profited from instructive conversations with Stewart Umphrey, as
well as from discussions with the many other people at St. John’s with
whom I have read poetry over the years. But it was from my mother,
Annette Vassell Comenetz, that I learned to admire the French language
and its literature.
Michael Comenetz
Annapolis
October, 2010
Acknowledgments
Permissions to reproduce material under copyright, as stated below, are

gratefully acknowledged.
Bible: Extracts from the Authorized Version of the Bible (The King James Bible),
the rights in which are vested in the Crown, are reproduced by permission of the
Crown’s Patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Dante: Excerpts from The Divine Comedy are reprinted by permission of Princeton
University Press from Dante Alighieri: The Divine Comedy, ed. & trans. Charles S.
Singleton, Copyright © 1970–1975 by Princeton University Press.
Emily Dickinson: Excerpts from poem no. 465 are reprinted by permission of
the publishers and the Trustees of Amherst College from The Poems Of Emily
Dickinson, Thomas H. Johnson, ed., Cambridge, Mass.: The Belknap Press of
Harvard University Press, Copyright © 1951, 1955, 1979, 1983 by the President
and Fellows of Harvard College.
Homer: Excerpts from the Iliad are reprinted by permission of the publishers
and the Trustees of the Loeb Classical Library from Homer: Iliad I and II, Loeb
Classical Library Volumes 170 and 171, translated by A. T. Murray, revised by
William F. Wyatt, pp. 13, 17, 285, 307, 355, 425, 461 of vol. 170, and pp. 409, 413,
453, 467, 613 of vol. 171, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Copyright
© 1999, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. The Loeb Classical
Library ® is a registered trademark of the President and Fellows of Harvard
College.
Homer: Excerpts from the Odyssey are reprinted by permission of the publishers
and the Trustees of the Loeb Classical Library from Homer: Odyssey I and II,
Loeb Classical Library Volumes 104 and 105, translated by A. T. Murray, revised
by George E. Dimock, pp. 13, 41, 145, 147, 149, 209, 315, 439, 445, 447 of vol. 104,
and p. 341 of vol. 105, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Copyright ©
1995, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. The Loeb Classical
College.
x Acknowledgments
Lucretius: Excerpts are reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees
of the Loeb Classical Library from Lucretius: De Rerum Natura, Loeb Classical
Library Volume 181, translated by W. H. D. Rouse, revised by Martin Ferguson
Smith, pp. 95, 189, 191, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, Copyright
© 1975, by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. The Loeb Classical
College.
Hugh P. McGrath: Translation and Description: Paul Valéry’s Le Cimetière marin

appears as a whole in the first part of the present work by permission of the
Estate of Hugh P. McGrath, by Peter McGrath, Personal Representative.
Pindar: Excerpts are reprinted by permission of the publishers and the Trustees
of the Loeb Classical Library from Pindar I: Olympian Odes, Pythian Odes, and II:
Nemean Odes, Isthmian Odes, Fragments, Loeb Classical Library Volumes 56 and
485, translated by William H. Race, pp. 49, 73, 103, 231, 245, 251, 253, 343, 361 of
vol. 56, and pp. 73, 205, 207, 239, 255 of vol. 485, Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard
University Press, Copyright © 1997, by the President and Fellows of Harvard
College. The Loeb Classical Library ® is a registered trademark of the President
and Fellows of Harvard College.
Aleksandr Pushkin: An excerpt from stanza 6.32 of Eugene Onegin is reprinted

by permission of Princeton University Press from Aleksandr Pushkin, Eugene
Onegin, trans. Vladimir Nabokov, Copyright © 1970–1975 by Princeton Univer-
sity Press.
Raymond Queneau: An excerpt from Chêne et chien, II, in Si tu t’imagines, is

reprinted and translated by permission of Éditions Gallimard from Raymond
Queneau, Œuvres complètes, vol. 1, p. 24, ed. Claude Debon, Bibliothèque de la
Pléiade, Copyright © 1989 by Éditions Gallimard.
Paul Valéry: Excerpts are reprinted and translated by permission of Éditions

Gallimard from Paul Valéry, Œuvres, ed. Jean Hytier, 2 vols., Bibliothèque de la
Pléiade, copyright © 1957–1960 by Éditions Gallimard, and from Paul Valéry,
Cahiers, ed. Judith Robinson, 2 vols., Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, Copyright ©
1973–1974 by Éditions Gallimard.
Paul Valéry: The photograph in section M3 is reproduced by permission of

Larousse from Paul Valéry, Charmes, ed. Robert Monestier, Nouveaux Classiques
Larousse, p. 101, Copyright © 1975 by Librairie Larousse.
Abbreviations
Book series
LCL Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard
University Press)
Pléiade Bibliothèque de la Pléiade (Paris: Gallimard)
Collected works of Paul Valéry

C Cahiers, ed. Judith Robinson, 2 vols. (Pléiade,
1973–1974)
C (CNRS) Cahiers, in facsimile, 29 vols. (Paris: Centre Natio-
nal de la Recherche Scientifique, 1957–1961)
Œ Œuvres, ed. Jean Hytier, 2 vols. (Pléiade, 1957–
1960)
Other works
For information on editions, see the bibliography.
Aeneid Virgil, Aeneid

Les Amours jaunes Tristan Corbière, Les Amours jaunes
Apollodorus Apollodorus, The Library
Diodorus Siculus Diodorus Siculus, The Library of History
Les Fleurs du mal Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du mal (2nd edition)
Gantz Timothy Gantz, Early Greek Myth: A Guide to
Literary and Artistic Sources
Georgics Virgil, Georgics
Hamlet Shakespeare, Hamlet
Hegel, Preface G. W. F. Hegel, Preface to Phenomenology of Spirit
(cited by page number of the Philosophische
Bibliothek edition, with the Oxford paragraph
number in parentheses)
Heraclitus Heraclitus, Fragments (Diels-Kranz numbering)
Iliad Homer, Iliad, with the Murray/Wyatt translation
xii Abbreviations
Inferno Dante, Inferno, with the Singleton translation

La Légende des siècles Victor Hugo, La Légende des siècles (The Legend of
the Ages)
Lucretius Lucretius, De rerum natura (On the Nature of
Things), with the Rouse/Smith translation
when so noted
Macbeth Shakespeare, Macbeth
Metamorphoses Ovid, Metamorphoses
Metaphysics Aristotle, Metaphysics
Montaigne Michel de Montaigne, Essais (Essays), with the
Frame translation when so noted (cited by book
and essay number, title in parentheses, and
Pléiade page number, with the Stanford page
number in parentheses)
Nietzsche, Werke Friedrich Nietzsche, Sämtliche Werke (Collected
Works), with the Kaufmann translation when so
noted
Odyssey Homer, Odyssey, with the Murray/Dimock trans-
lation
OED Oxford English Dictionary
Olympians Pindar, Olympians, with the Race translation
when so noted
Paradise Lost Milton, Paradise Lost
Paradiso Dante, Paradiso, with the Singleton translation
Phèdre Jean Racine, Phèdre
Physics Aristotle, Physics
Plutarch, Lives and Plutarch, Lives and Moralia (cited by title and LCL
Moralia volume number)
Purgatorio Dante, Purgatorio, with the Singleton translation
Pythians Pindar, Pythians, with the Race translation when
so noted
Republic Plato, Republic
Symposium Plato, Symposium
Theogony Hesiod, Theogony
ἐδιζησάμην ἐμεωυτόν.
Heraclitus
PART I
Translation and Description

Le Cimetière marin

The Graveyard by the Sea
Le Cimetière marin
par Paul Valéry
Μή, φίλα ψυχά, βίον ἀθάνατον

σπεῦδε, τὰν δ’ ἔμπρακτον ἄντλει μαχανάν.
Pindare, Pythiques, III
[1]
Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencée!
Ô récompense après une pensée
Qu’un long regard sur le calme des dieux!
[2]
Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d’imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l’abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d’une éternelle cause,
Le Temps scintille et le Songe est savoir.
[3]
Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Œil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous un voile de flamme,
Ô mon silence!… Édifice dans l’âme,
Mais comble d’or aux mille tuiles, Toit!
[4]
Temple du Temps, qu’un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m’accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l’altitude un dédain souverain.

© Éditions Gallimard, Paris, 1922
The Graveyard by the Sea
by Paul Valéry
Do not, dear soul, strive after deathless life,

but use to the utmost the resources in your power.
Pindar, Pythians, III
[1]
This peaceful roof, where white doves come and go,
Quivers between the pines, between the tombs;
There Noon the just composes with its fires
The sea, the sea, the ever rebegun!
O recompense after a strain of thought
To gaze and gaze upon the gods’ repose!
[2]
How pure, how fine a flashing work consumes
Diamond on diamond of sightless foam,
And what a peace appears to be conceived!
When a sun comes to rest upon the deep,
Pure handiwork of an eternal cause,
Time scintillates and Dreaming is to know.
[3]
Firm treasury, Minerva’s simple fane,
Deep mass of calm, and visible reserve,
Supercilious water, Eye sheltering within
So much of sleep beneath a veil of flame,
O my silence!… Edifice in the soul,
A brimming of gold, Roof of a thousand tiles!
[4]
Temple of Time a single sigh resumes,
To this pure point I rise, to equipoise,
Surrounded by my circular sea gaze;
As my supreme oblation to the gods,
Serene the scintillation sows upon
The lofty deep a sovereign disdain.
6 Le Cimetière marin
[5]
Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l’âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.
[6]
Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d’orgueil, après tant d’étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m’abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m’apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.
[7]
L’âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te rends pure à ta place première:
Regarde-toi!… Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d’ombre une morne moitié.
[8]
Ô pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d’un cœur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l’événement pur,
J’attends l’écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l’âme un creux toujours futur!
[9]
Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l’attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.
The Graveyard by the Sea 7
[5]
As the fruit melts away into enjoyment,
To delectation changing all its absence
Upon a palate where its form is dying,
I breathe in deeply my approaching smoke,
The sky sings to my consummated soul
The changing of the shores to murmurous clamor.
[6]
Sky true, sky beautiful, behold me change!
After so much of pride, so much of strange
Idleness with plenitude of power,
I abandon myself to this shining space,
Across the houses of the dead there falls
My shadow, taming me to its frail gait.
[7]
With soul expanded to the solstice torches,
I bear, uphold you, admirable justice
Of light and of your weapons pitiless!
I return you pure to your primal place:
Behold yourself!… But to return the light
Supposes a drear moiety of shade.
[8]
O for myself, to myself, in myself alone,
Close to a heart, at the wellspring of the poem,
Between the deep void and the pure event,
I await the echo of my inner greatness,
A sonorous cistern, darkling, harsh, resounding
Hollowness ever future to the soul!
[9]
Know you, counterfeit captive of the leaves,
Gulf, engulfing this lean grillwork here,
Secrets bedazzling my shut-up eyes,
What body drags me to its slothful end,
What forehead lures it to this bony earth?
A spark within thinks on my absent dead.
[10]
Fermé, sacré, plein d’un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d’or, de pierre et d’arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d’ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!
[11]
Chienne splendide, écarte l’idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!
[12]
Ici venu, l’avenir est paresse.
L’insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l’air
À je ne sais quelle sévère essence…
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d’absence,
Et l’amertume est douce, et l’esprit clair.
[13]
Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même…
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.
[14]
Tu n’as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant…
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.
[10]
Closed, sacred, filled with incorporeal fire,
Fragment of earth laid open to the light,
O’ertopped by torches, this place pleases me,
Composed with gold, with stone, with somber trees,
Much marble tremulous over many shades;
The faithful sea sleeps there upon my graves!
[11]
Resplendent dog, ward off the idolater!
When solitary, with a shepherd’s smile,
I pasture long, mysterious sheep, my flock,
The white, mysterious flock of peaceful graves,
Then drive away from them the provident doves,
The heedful angels and the empty dreams!
[12]
The future here is only idleness.
The cleanly insect scrapes the aridity;
All is burnt up, undone, gone to the air,
Received by who knows what essence severe…
Life’s a great vast, drunken with absentment,
And bitterness is sweet, the mind is clear.
[13]
The dead lie easy, well settled in this earth
Which warms them and dries up their mystery.
Noonday above, Noonday the all-unmoved
Thinks itself, in itself, sufficing to itself…
Unblemished head and perfect diadem,
I am the hidden changeable in you.
[14]
You have but me to comprehend your dreads!
My doubts, compunctions, my constraints and checks,
These are the flaw of your great diamond…
But in their night, heavy with marble’s weight,
At the tree’s roots, a dim and wavering folk
Has already slowly taken up your cause.
[15]
Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L’argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L’art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient des pleurs.
[16]
Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!
[17]
Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n’aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu’aux yeux de chair l’onde et l’or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!
[18]
Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!
[19]
Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N’est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!
[15]
They have melted down into thick absentness,
Red clay has drunk the white specific form,
The gift of life has passed into the flowers!
Where are the dead’s familiar ways of talk,
The personal touch, the one and only souls?
The larva spins and threads where tears were formed.
[16]
The short shrill shrieks of teased and tickled girls,
White teeth and shining eyes and moistened eyelids,
The charming breast that dallies with the fire,
The blood that glows in lips that sweetly yield,
The final favors, the fingers that defend them,
All goes back under ground, into the game!
[17]
And you, great soul, what are your hopes? A dream
Divested of the specious coloring
That gold and the wave show here to fleshly eye?
And will you sing when you’re to vapor gone?
Go to! My pervious presence leaks away,
And discontent divine will also die!
[18]
Gaunt immortality, decked out in black and gilt,
Ghastly consoler, laureled horribly,
You make of death a mother’s loving breast,
A pious fraud, a would-be noble lie!
Who does not know and who does not refuse
The vacant skull, the everlasting grin!
[19]
Fathers profound in empty-headed depth,
Beneath the shoveled weight of spade on spade,
You who are earth, confounding our foot’s fall,
The rodent true, canker-worm undenied,
Is not for you, asleep under the table,
It lives on life, it never lets me go!
[20]
Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu’importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d’appartenir!
[21]
Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d’Élée!
M’as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m’enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil… Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l’âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!
[22]
Non, non!… Debout! Dans l’ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme… Ô puissance salée!
Courons à l’onde en rejaillir vivant!
[23]
Oui! Grande mer de délires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l’étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil,
[24]
Le vent se lève!… Il faut tenter de vivre!
L’air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d’eaux réjouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!
[20]
Self-love, perhaps, or hatred of myself?
Its secret tooth neighbors me so near
To all and every name it may conform!
Indifferent, it sees, wills, touches, dreams!
My flesh delights it, and on my very couch,
I live belonging to this living thing!
[21]
Zeno of Elea! Cruel Zeno! Say,
Has your wing’d arrow made its way through me,
Thrumming and flying?… yet it does not fly!
The sound begets me but the arrow kills!
Ah! sun… A tortoise shadow for the soul
Is Achilles motionless… in mighty strides!
[22]
No, no!… On your feet! Into the sequent era!
Break, my body, break this frame of thought!
Drink in, my breast, the arising of the wind!
Freshness and coolness breathing from the sea
Now give me back my soul… O saline power!
Come hasten to the water, and rise up alive!
[23]
Yes! Great sea, deliriously dowered,
Panther skin, chlamys rent and holed
With innumerable idols of the sun,
Absolute hydra, drunk on your own blue flesh,
Biting without remorse your flashing tail
In din and tumult like to quietude,
[24]
The wind is rising!… We must try to live!
The boundless air opens and shuts my book,
The wave dares spring in powder from the rock!
Fly away, pages, fly a dazzling flight!
Break, waves! Break with exultant surges
This peaceful roof where jibsails used to peck!
Description of the Poem
1. I must begin with an introduction to my introduction. The one I

had planned was relatively brief and involved an allusion to Ronsard,
together with a translation of a couple of lines of his sonnet to Helen; but
I somehow got carried away, and will have to inflict the whole sonnet on
you, for which I apologize in advance. Now, my introduction proper.
My talk will be a labor of love and a work of propaganda. One
follows from the other. Lovers have always delighted in describing the
features of what they love, though it must be admitted that especially
if they are poets (for example), they have not always done so in a disin-
terested way. The loving description has been of one thing, and the
propaganda has been for another. Ronsard makes the point with unusual
baldness and great panache in his sonnet to Helen, which goes somewhat
as follows.
When you are very old, beside the fire,

Sitting and spinning there by candlelight,
Speaking my verse, you’ll say, in awed delight,
“Ronsard described me when I inspired desire.”
You’ll have no servant then who will not raise

Her head, though half asleep from weariness,
At the sounding of my name, and she will bless
Your name with your, and my, immortal praise.
I’ll be a boneless phantom under earth,

Taking my rest within the myrtle grove;
You’ll be a beldam hunkering at the hearth,
Regretting your disdain and all that love.
Trust me, then, sweet: gather we, while we may,

Gather we rosebuds from this very day.
Ronsard’s description of Helen turns out to have had an ulterior mo-

tive. The advertisement for Helen has really been an advertisement for
16 Description of the Poem
Ronsard and propaganda for his peculiar cause. I, clearly, have no such
purpose.1
2. I wish to try to promote and further enjoyment of this poem chiefly

by means of description. I am not at all sure that I shall succeed, for this
poem, to start off with, has been translated into French. There are not
many poems, I imagine, that have had the privilege of being translated
into their own tongue. —I now address myself to the task of description,
with one preliminary remark about what I shall describe.
Valéry commented, when saying something about this poem: “Liter-
ature, then, interests me profoundly only to the extent that it urges the
mind to certain transformations,—those in which the stimulating proper-
ties of language play the chief part. […] The force to bend the common
word to unexpected ends without violating the ‘time-honored forms,’ the
capture and subjection of things that are difficult to say; and, above all,
the simultaneous management of syntax, harmony, and ideas […], are in
my eyes the supreme objects of our art.”2 I do not think that among these
objects it will be possible for me to say anything here about harmony,
except perhaps briefly at one or two points. I shall be able to speak only
of what can come under the headings of syntax and ideas, and what in
1
The sonnet is no. 43 in the 1584 edition of Sonnets pour Helene (Sonnets for Helen),
Book 2.
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir à la chandelle,

Assise aupres du feu, devidant et filant,
Direz chantant mes vers, en vous esmerveillant,
Ronsard me celebroit du temps que j’estois belle.
Lors vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,

Desja sous le labeur à demy sommeillant,
Qui au bruit de mon nom ne s’aille resveillant,
Benissant vostre nom de louange immortelle.
Je seray sous la terre et fantôme sans os

Par les ombres myrteux je prendray mon repos:
Vous serez au fouyer une vieille accroupie,
Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain.

Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain:
Cueillez dés aujourdhuy les roses de la vie.
See, e.g., Pierre de Ronsard, Œuvres complètes, vol. 1, Pléiade (1993), 400–401.
2
Literature: Au sujet du Cimetière marin, Œ 1:1500.
Description of the Poem 17
general can be thought of as transformations within time-honored forms.

I shall first make some general statements about the poem as a whole;
then I shall read the English version of the poem—it might be altered in
one or two places—and I shall read it in the hope that my preliminary
remarks will make it somewhat easier to follow as a whole; then I shall
go into more detail about particular parts of the poem.
3. First, the title, The Graveyard by the Sea, may lead one to expect a
reflective poem, something like Gray’s Elegy in a Country Churchyard. The
expectation is not wholly false: death is one of the ideas of the poem. —A
word about the graveyard itself. It is situated in Sète, Valéry’s birthplace
and the place of burial, and situated in the south of France. The sea is the
Mediterranean. I have here a drawing made by Valéry to illustrate his
own poem, showing the cemetery by the sea and the scene which con-
fronts us at the beginning of the poem. Its shape is somewhat like this:
[Valéry’s drawing, reproduced above, is now sketched on the black-

board.] That is an oversimplification. On the whole, on the left and
downwards it is dark, though there is a good deal of white at the same
time; and on the whole, and much more definitely, on the upper side it is
white. But let me describe it in a little more detail.3
It is in rather sharp black and white. The sea is seen from a point high
above the graveyard. It is bathed in light. The sky does not appear; the
sea goes right up to the top of the picture. It fills the upper half of the
drawing, and appears, as it were, above the tombs. This explains at least
the last line of the tenth stanza, which says, “The faithful sea sleeps there
upon my graves!” The sea may be said to be framed by trees and tombs.
The trees resemble cypresses, and have a torch-like form. There is a
funerary monument, also somewhat torch-like, surrounded by black
metal railings. There is a small edifice with a tiled roof, upon which is
something somewhat dove-like. The sea is lightly sprinkled with for-
ward-leaning triangles, which are doves in the first line of the poem, and
sails in the last line. There is a half-hidden marble cross, and a very
heavy-looking marble slab. The sketch appears to be a small collection of
properties made use of by Valéry in the poem.
4. Returning to the poem, we find an epigraph from Pindar:
Do not, dear soul, strive after deathless life,

but use to the utmost the resources in your power.
This informs us that deathless life is another of the ideas of the poem. It
also suggests something about its form. The epigraph has the form of an
exhortation. The speaker exhorts his soul to abandon the concern with
deathless life and to concern itself with what it can use. I think the first
part of this exhortation corresponds to the first twenty-one stanzas, in
which the poet directly addresses his soul twice. These stanzas present
variations on the theme of deathless life, culminating in a scornful rejec-
tion of immortality in the seventeenth and eighteenth stanzas. The theme
of death is hinted at in the fourth stanza, in the word “supreme,” and
then grows to dominate the rest of the poem up to the eighteenth stanza.
The last three stanzas of this first part, the nineteenth to the twenty-first,
3
Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. Sète: the present spelling of the
name, changed from Cette in 1928. The drawing is reproduced by permission from Paul
Valéry, Charmes, ed. Robert Monestier (Paris: Librairie Larousse, 1975), 101.
are concerned with the theme of a sort of death-in-life produced by

thought.4
Corresponding to the second part of the epigraph are the last three
stanzas of the poem, which consist of an explosive exhortation to the
body. The body, then, corresponds to the phrase, “the resources within
your power.” The actual word translated by “resources” can also be
translated by “machine,” the term used by Descartes for the body—and
Valéry was a Frenchman and a great admirer of Descartes. The word
“machine,” in Valéry’s own thinking, also corresponds to the word
“poem,” the product of the poet’s using to the utmost the resources
within his power. He says, “A poem is a kind of machine for producing
the poetic state by means of words.” I may say incidentally that there is a
certain resemblance between Ronsard’s sonnet and the poem of Valéry,
despite the fact that one is merely a sonnet and the other a rather lengthy
poem in a very special stanza. Ronsard’s sonnet can be divided, rhetori-
cally speaking, in the ratio of 6 to 1. That’s to say six lines of description
to one of propaganda. In the same way Valéry’s poem can be divided,
rhetorically speaking, in the ratio of 7 to 1; that is, seven parts discussing
the question of deathless life and one part an exhortation to the body—an
exhortation to life. Both of them end with an exhortation to live, and
before—in the earlier part—the discussion goes on in terms of immortal
life and death.5
I should have added, by the way: when Valéry says, “A poem is a
kind of machine for producing the poetic state by means of words,” I
don’t think by “poetic state” he means anything like dreamy reverie.
5. Valéry himself has something to say about this poem taken as a

whole, and let me quote from him for the last time.
If anyone wonders […] what I “wanted to say” in a certain poem, I

reply that I did not want to say, but wanted to make, and that it was the
intention of making that wanted what I said…
As for the Cimetière marin, this intention was at first no more than a
rhythmic figure, empty, or filled with meaningless syllables, which
obsessed me for some time. I noticed that this figure was decasyllabic,
and I pondered on that model, which is very little used in modern
French poetry; it struck me as poor and monotonous. It was of little
4
Epigraph: Pythians 3.61–62.
5
A poem is…: Poésie et pensée abstraite, Œ 1:1337. Cf. Calepin d’un poète, 1463, “[the
poet’s] objet d’art, the machine for producing the poetic emotion.”
worth compared with the alexandrine, which three or four generations

of great artists have prodigiously elaborated. The demon of generaliza-
tion prompted me to try raising this Ten to the power of the Twelve. It
suggested a certain stanza of six lines and the idea of a composition
founded on the number of these stanzas, and strengthened by a diver-
sity of tones and functions to be assigned to them. Between the stanzas,
contrasts and correspondences would be set up. This last condition soon
required the potential poem to be a monologue of “self,” in which the
simplest and most enduring themes of my emotional and intellectual
life, as they had imposed themselves upon my adolescence, associated
with the sea and the light of a particular spot on the Mediterranean
coast, were called up, woven together, opposed…
All this led to [the theme of] death and suggested [the theme of]
pure thought.6
6. One final general observation. There are many transformations in the

poem. A whole series of them can be fitted to a structural device, which
made it necessary for me to have the blackboard brought in. [A horizon-
tal line is drawn across the blackboard, about halfway up.]
That is the structural device. Its richness may not be immediately
apparent. It is not so obvious as the “divided line.” This line—this hori-
zontal straight line—acts as a boundary. It divides what is above from
what is below, what is light from what is dark, what is high from what is
deep, what is outer from what is inner. The line has two sides, the lower
one shadowy, the upper one bright, and along the bright side of the line,
the following transformations occur:
a quivering roof;
the scintillating surface of the sea;
time itself, scintillating;
the roof of a Greek temple;
the eye;
the surface of the sea regarded as an eye;
the gold tiled roof of an edifice in the soul;
the poet’s soul, likened to a breast exposed to the sun;
the side of the poet’s body exposed to the light;
perhaps the eyelids,
and perhaps a dog;
6
Au sujet du Cimetière marin, Œ 1:1503–1504. The French vouloir dire, “to want to
say,” is usually translated “to mean.”
the marble roofs of the houses of the dead—that is to say, gravestone

slabs;
a sort of wellhead in the soul;
the graveyard itself, a fragment of earth offered to the light;
the flowers springing from the earth;
and last, but by no means least, a tortoise’s shell.
Above the line, the following transformations occur:
the shining Mediterranean sun, and a sky filled with light, both being
themselves, and also symbolizing being itself, eternity, and a sort of
pantheon;
a demiurge;
the unmoved mover;
pure intellect;
pure poetry;
a sort of divine non-being;
perhaps the remote abodes of the gods of Lucretius.
However, the Christian world of light, the abode of the angels, seems to
be conspicuous by its absence.7
Below lie:
the depths of the sea;

the depths of the soul;
a treasury of silence;
the rich abyss over which the soul of the poet broods, and which is some-
times a hollow void;
sleep;
the poet’s shadow;
the dead;
the enriched earth from which the flowers spring;
and last, but by no means least, the shadow of the tortoise.
The time of the poem: it is high noon, at the summer solstice, the still
point of the turning year.8
7
Divided line: Republic 509d–511e. Demiurge: see Plato, Timaeus 24a, 28a, 29a, and
subsequently. Mover: see Physics 8, especially chaps. 5, 6, 10; Metaphysics 12.6–7. Gods:
Lucretius 1.44–49, 3.18–24, 5.146–54.
8
Cf. “the still point of the turning world”: T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton II, IV (also Coriolan I).
I shall now read the poem—the version, I should say. [The English
version of the poem is read.]
7. I shall now talk about some parts of the poem in more detail, and in
doing so, for the first five stanzas I will be doing some reading line by
line from the version. I shall try to bring out some of what I conceive to
be Valéry’s transformations, and I shall begin with those first five stan-
zas, the first four of which form a unit, whose theme might be called
contemplation of the divine as a form of deathless life.
In these stanzas the sun is itself, and a symbol of the divine. The sea
is itself, and a symbol of the thinking or contemplative soul. Let us begin
at the beginning.
This peaceful roof, where white doves come and go,

Quivers between the pines, between the tombs.
As one of my two or three discussions of harmony—or sound, at least—

I’d like also to read these two lines in French.
Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,

Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes.
If you think of those lines as French you will see that they end with
colombes and tombes, which are very satisfyingly sonorous words, utterly
conventional, like “June” and “moon,” and worthy of Victor Hugo. There
is something rather reassuring about it. If, however, you look at the
meaning, you find there is a strange word there, even alarming. The roof
palpite. The roof palpitates. That does not suit Victor Hugo, I feel. The
question then is, for us as readers, what is being said? Thinking at this
moment, I suppose, that we are looking at a roof, or have been set before
a roof, of some edifice within the cemetery itself, we may easily conjec-
ture that what we are seeing is a shimmer of heat rising from the roof of
some building in the heat of summer, and that can be thought of as a sort
of palpitation. But still, why call it palpite? Why not use some word like
“shimmer”—or the word “shimmer” itself, its French equivalent? Well, if
you say the line to yourself you’ll see that the previous word gives an
extra p’. It “entre les pins palpite.” Pin pa pi, pa pa pa, pa pa pa. Pulse pulse
pulse. What is being wanted, I think, by the use of palpite is the idea of
there being something living about this edifice that has its roof. So, palpite.
(However, I prefer to use “quivers”—to have a palpitating roof, even if
it’s only metaphorical, is somehow a bit sensational, it seems to me, in

English—I don’t know.)9
We are, then, thinking of this roof as being in the cemetery. But now
we read the next two lines:
There Noon the just composes with its fires

The sea, the sea, the ever rebegun!
Where’s “there”? As far as I can see, “there” can only be either the roof
itself or the space between the pines and tombs through which we see
this roof. Therefore it seems that what is being implied is an identity
between the roof and the sea, which can of course be thought of as a roof.
Now if the roof has now become the sea, what has happened to the white
doves? Well, we may conjecture that they’re white sails, and of course
that is borne out in the last line of the poem. What has happened to the
palpitation? Well, presumably that has become—the line says, “Noon the
just composes with its fires/The sea, the sea, the ever rebegun!” It’s the
composed sea. What does that mean? That the palpitation is a manifesta-
tion of the interaction between the fires of the sun and the ever-restless
surface of the sea, which I presume for the moment, and I think we will
see, results in something like shimmering on the surface of the water,
corresponding to the shimmering heat-haze on the roof of the supposed
edifice.
Then the last two lines:
O recompense after a strain of thought

To gaze and gaze upon the gods’ repose!
We have introduced the ideas that I’ve called thought, sight, and the
gods’ repose. I should have also said that I took for granted that “Noon-
day the just” was the sun. But the oddity, I suppose, is that the sun,
though it’s obviously the sun, is not called the sun, it’s called “Noonday
the just.” What does that mean? I think it’s intended to be a personifica-
tion and to have us think in some way of Noonday as a being, an impar-
tial being who divides the day evenly into two parts, equal parts, without
making any distinctions; and, as we will see later on, when we find out
9
Colombes (“doves”) and tombes, in that order, form the final rhyme in Hugo’s À
Théophile Gautier (Toute la lyre 36), whose concluding lines Valéry calls “without doubt the
most beautiful verses that he wrote, and perhaps that anyone has ever written”: Victor
Hugo, créateur par la forme, Œ 1:589–590.
it’s at the solstice, will also be dividing the year into two equal parts. So
this is a suggestion of a being.
The phrase “the calm of the gods” makes more definite the implica-
tions of the personification of Noonday as a kind of divine being. What
kind of a divine being? Well, he composes. What does that mean? He
calms things down, and he also composes, as a composer composes. He
has composed the sea, the restless surface of the sea, into an artistic
composition. So the suggestion of the divine being here is that of a divine
artist who composes. How does he compose? He composes by being still;
he composes by his composure, in short. The sun’s stillness is reflected in
the sea, which may now be personified as gazing upon its calm and
composed god, the sun. The poet himself is gazing upon this reflected
calm with his “eyes of flesh”—this is his own phrase, as he uses it in the
seventeenth stanza—and perhaps he is gazing with the eye of the soul
upon something divine and impartial.10
8. The hint that he is doing so is amplified in the next stanza. The first
two lines—
How pure, how fine a flashing work consumes

Diamond on diamond of sightless foam
—the first two lines seem to refer primarily to the sun and to the sea. The
sun now seems to be a kind of creating and destroying demiurge, whose
instruments are the pure rays of Mediterranean sunlight, whose matter is
the imperceptible foam, and whose product is the geometrically shaped,
scintillating diamonds which he takes up, uses, and uses up. The third
line,
And what a peace appears to be conceived!
suggests that the result of this using and using up is an appearance of a

calm that is literally an appearance. —Why, by the way, is the foam
“imperceptible”? If the sea is rippled, we might think that the foam is
merely potential foam in the ripple. If there are wavelets, breaking
slightly, we might think that we are too far above them to perceive the
foam.11
10
“The calm of the gods”: in the translation, “the gods’ repose.” “Eyes of flesh”: in the
translation, “fleshly eye.” Eye of the soul: cf. Republic 519b, 533d; Metamorphoses 15.62–64
(quoted, §6.2).
11
“Imperceptible”: in the translation, “sightless.”
The third line also reintroduces the theme of thought with the words
se concevoir, “to conceive oneself,” or “to be conceived.” This, together
with the word “pure” in the first line, which is echoed in the next-to-last
line, may suggest the theme of pure thought to which Valéry referred in
the words which I quoted earlier. This in turn suggests that the second
half of the stanza is a parallel to the first half. The visible sun is now
replaced by a sun, which is an eternal cause and so invisible and divine.
This symbolic sun is poised at rest above the abyss of the soul, whose
thinking surface moves in time, the form of inner sense. The eternal
cause works upon the surface of the soul with its pure influence, calming
the flux of thought and producing as its pure works a scintillating time
and a dreaming state which is knowledge. Dream appears to have re-
placed the word “thought” of the first stanza. It does not imply random
reverie, but rather, settled and ordered contemplation. The scintillation
of time corresponds to the flashing diamonds on the surface of the sea. It
represents an almost perfect calm, and at the same time a constant tremu-
lousness like the palpitation of the roof in the first stanza. It suggests a
state of soul which has almost escaped from the temporal movement from
one thought to another in inner discourse, which has almost become a pure
and perfect reflection of the divine. It is this dreaming contemplation that
is knowledge.12
The third line also may suggest, because of the word “appears,” or
“seems,” that this calm too, like the other one, is but an appearance,
something merely thought of and not genuinely begotten. The word
Songe, which is translated “Dream,” may have the connotation of illusion;
and that means that the dream may be a midsummer day’s dream.
However that may be, this state is enchanting, uplifting, rich, thoroughly
edifying. To edify, of course, means to make an edifice.
9. This is all expressed in the third stanza, in which four of the elements
of the first stanza—the roofed edifice, the sea, the eye, the soul—are put
together in a shimmering kaleidoscope of correspondences. The eye of
the soul suggested in the first and second stanzas makes an almost ex-
plicit entrance.
Grammatically the stanza is very simple. It contains no principal
verb; it consists of a series of appository phrases—or perhaps I’d better
read it.
12
Form of inner sense: see Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, B49 and elsewhere.
Firm treasury, Minerva’s simple fane,

Deep mass of calm, and visible reserve,
Supercilious water, Eye sheltering within
So much of sleep beneath a veil of flame,
O my silence!… Edifice in the soul,
A brimming of gold, Roof of a thousand tiles!
It contains no principal verb; it consists of a series of appository phrases,

addressed in turn to the roofed building, the sea, the soul. The sequence
is rounded off by a return to the roofed building, which has now been
settled in the soul. Despite the intricacy of the correspondences, the
stanza seems very symmetrically ordered. It is, ultimately, an apostrophe
addressed by the poet to his rapturous inner silence, which is free from
discourse.
“Stable trésor”: the building of the first stanza becomes a treasure-
house of gold. “[T]emple simple à Minerve”: a divinely simple temple,
dedicated to the rich simplicity of the divine wisdom. Here the Olym-
pians put in an appearance in the person of Minerva, partly perhaps to
have the word “temple” make appropriate suggestions, partly perhaps
to prepare the way for the theme of sacrifice appearing in the next two
stanzas. Stable and massy, the temple is visible—but is a “visible
reserve.” It holds in reserve a reserve of riches. In the third line, the
building becomes the sea: “supercilious water,” transformed at the same
time into a visibly supercilious, and also reserved, gazer. The image
presented to the eyes of the flesh for supercilious water is, I believe, that
of the sea, seen as rising like a steep forehead with its ripples or wavelets
suggesting the slightly furrowed brow that accompanies a supercilious
gaze. The glittering eye of the gazing sun next becomes a visible “veil of
flame” which shuts in and holds in reserve its sleepiness. The last apposi-
tion, “O my silence!,” turns the eye of the sea into the eye of the soul and
its sleep into the soul’s inner silence. The final line and a half, “Edifice in
the soul,/A brimming of gold, Roof of a thousand tiles!”—they round off
the stanza, placing the edifice in the soul and roofing it, apparently, with
undulating golden tiles of thought. The correspondences of roofed edi-
fice, sea, and soul, seem to be now quite explicit. This encourages me to
regard the last word of the stanza as a deliberate pun. The word Toit, as
sound, means both “Roof” and “Thou.” In addressing the roof, the poet
is also addressing himself. This simply cannot be rendered into English.
(I would like to make one impromptu comment on my substituting
for “Pinnacled with gold,” “A brimming of gold.” The French word is
comble, which is a very troublesome word, as it can be an adjective, mean-
ing “full”—very full—totally full—jam-packed. As a noun, it can have

two different meanings: one, that which protrudes from the top of a
vessel holding liquid just before it spills over, just before it becomes the
overflow—the superabundance of what is contained; and then, by some
kind of mistake, it also came to mean “roof.” —Though it’s not inappro-
priate that it should mean “roof”; but some etymological difficulty
occurred in Low Latin, sometime. The problem is: do we want comble to
be an adjective? And I think we don’t. And I’m happy to say that as far as
I can see there is no grammatical warrant for regarding it as an adjective
in this particular context.13
(We can have, therefore, the noun. Now it seems that as the second
part of the apposition uses the word “roof,” it would be rather foolish to
say “roof” at the beginning too. So what we want, I think, there, is the
idea of comble which means something coming out of the top, fullness—
with all its fullness. So therefore I thought “brimming” would be better
than “pinnacled,” which is trying to do the same thing but, I thought,
less successfully.)
10. “Time” from the second stanza, and “temple” from the third,—let me
say the fourth stanza:
Temple of Time a single sigh resumes,

To this pure point I rise, to equipoise,
Surrounded by my circular sea gaze;
“Time” from the second stanza, and “temple” from the third, come
together at the opening of the fourth stanza in the phrase “Temple of
Time.” The edifice in the soul is an edifice in time, the medium in which
the soul is bathed. As a temple, it is dedicated to timelessness. But it is
resumed in, or by, “a single sigh.” This may mean that the gaze upon the
eternal that the temple represents is itself a summing-up of all time into a
single point—eternity in an abridged form, so to speak. It is a glimpse
occupying the time of a single sigh, something fugitive, whose passing is
to be regretted and sighed after, but also to be sighed for and aspired to.
“To this pure point I rise, to equipoise.” Now the poet rises to his
“pure point,” perhaps like a priest ascending to the roof of his own
13
“Pinnacled with gold”: the author’s earlier translation of “comble d’or.”
temple, perhaps like Dante ascending to the empyrean. The pure point
should be the highest point of contemplation of the divine. The poet
appears to mount, and accustom himself to his position.14
[Here there is a gap of perhaps a sentence or two.]
… phrase “my […] sea gaze” to have the multiple references estab-
lished in the preceding stanzas. That is, references to the sea, likened to
an eye gazing at the sun; to the eyes of the flesh, gazing upon the sea,
which is gazing at the sun; and to the eye of the soul, seeing in the sea an
image of itself gazing upon the divine. All this makes it a very “circular
sea gaze.” Speaking more literally, the word “surrounded” suggests to
me that the poet may have risen in imagination high above the sea.

The words “offering to the gods” appearing in the fourth line suggest
priestly sacrifice in the service of the temple of Time. Here the poet
makes his highest sacrifice to the gods. He scatters upon the deep from
his glittering gaze a complete and royal disdain. This is a development of
the theme of pride, introduced with the phrase “supercilious water” in
the third stanza. The deep should represent the realm outside the temple
of Time; that is, the temporal realm of wind, and wave, and water, in
which we live, and move, and have our being. If that is so, then this
aspiration to otherworldly being seems to be convicted here of hubris.
But the word “supreme” also suggests death. The phrase “supreme
hour” means the hour of death. So besides indicating a culmination of
what has gone before, the word “supreme” heralds the approaching
theme of changing being and death.15
This is the end of the discussion of contemplation of the divine.
11. The fifth stanza—a very remarkable one—introduces the theme of

death and the dissolution of the soul. It also transforms the theme of con-
suming into the theme of eating, a theme which will become more promi-
nent as the poem proceeds. Let me read it.
As the fruit melts away into enjoyment,

To delectation changing all its absence
Upon a palate where its form is dying,
14
Dante: Paradiso 30.
15
Live, and move: cf. Acts 17.28.
I breathe in deeply my approaching smoke,

The sky sings to my consummated soul
The changing of the shores to murmurous clamor.
The eating of the fruit is described with more-than-Keatsian lushness.

The fruit loses its form upon the “palate fine,” changing its presence into
absence, into delight and delectation; the fruit dies for the pleasure of the
consumer. Similarly, the soul of the poet delights in inhaling in anticipa-
tion, as if smelling and savoring an excellent cigar, the smoke of the
future sacrifice that will consume his soul. This conception of blissful
nothingness, of delight in non-being, is, in its expression here, one of the
most striking of the many examples of the figure of speech called oxymo-
ron that are stated or implied throughout the poem. The most familiar
example of this figure is, I suppose, the phrase “bitterness is sweet” in
the twelfth stanza. This conception of luscious non-being far outdoes
Keats’s desire to “Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget/What thou
among the leaves hast never known,” etc. This savoring of one’s own
annihilation may also initiate a later theme that one may call the theme of
cannibalism.16
12. I shall now begin to move more rapidly. For a while I shall hardly do
more than give a résumé of the ideas.
The last line of the fifth stanza,
The changing of the shores to murmurous clamor
—another oxymoron (though it’s an ambiguity in the French, by the

way)—introduces the theme of changing being. We withdraw from gazing
upon the sky and the sea, from the perhaps overweening contemplation
of the divine light, which is now restored, as is only just, to its original
solitary purity. The brilliance of the sea is replaced by the brilliance of the
graveyard earth and marble under the blazing sun. The poet has begun
to walk, and the sun has passed the zenith. The poet becomes aware of
his shadow passing over the graves, and this reminder of insubstantial
being tames his former access of pride. He is struck, in the seventh stan-
za, by the thought that a being that can restore the light to its place, as he
has just done, must possess a “drear moiety of shade,” a dark side, per-
haps like the back of a mirror, or like the shadow of his body, that he has
16
Palate: Keats, Ode on Melancholy, line 28. Fade: Ode to a Nightingale, lines 21–22. On
the word “consummated” see §2.4.
just perceived. He turns to the dark side of the line, and the theme of
darkness begins to be explored.17
The eighth stanza—let me read it:
O for myself, to myself, in myself alone,

Close to a heart, at the wellspring of the poem,
Between the deep void and the pure event,
I await the echo of my inner greatness,
A sonorous cistern, darkling, harsh, resounding
Hollowness ever future to the soul!
Here he seems to be—in himself, to himself, for himself alone—like a

solipsistic creator-god, considering his own dark inner resources. He is as
if leaning over a dark well where nothing can be seen. Is it a void? Or is it
filled with obscure greatness, from which may issue an echoing song, a
pure poem? All he hears promises nothing for the present. This appears
to be an expression of the poet’s anguish over the periods of aridity
which I believe are great sources of torment to poets, especially to pure
poets.
I’d like now to read it in French.
Ô pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,

Auprès d’un cœur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l’événement pur,
J’attends l’écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l’âme un creux toujours futur!
“Sonnant dans l’âme un creux toujours futur!” Creux… creux… creux.…

What an astonishingly nasty little sound! In the context it sounds like an
anemic frog down there. This seems to me a most eloquent way of ex-
pressing poetic despair.18
13. The poet now turns to the sea, which appears to him as a dazzling
animal, not restrained by the bars of the upright trees but free to devour
the grillwork of the graveyard. The light forces him to close his eyes. He
begins to feel the downward pull of the graveyard. The spark of thought
within his brow turns to his absent ones underground.
17
Purity: cf. the last words of Phèdre in Phèdre, lines 1643–1644. Shadow: it is not
implied that the shadow appears only after noon, as Sète is outside the tropics.
18
Cf. Theocritus, Idylls 7.41, βάτραχος δὲ ποτ’ ἀκρίδας ὥς τις ἐρίσδω (“I compete [with
other singers] like a frog against cicadas”).
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Title: Mohács, vagy, Két árva gyermek vergődése
Author: Gyula Krúdy
Release date: December 26, 2023 [eBook #72509]
Language: Hungarian
Original publication: Budapest: Pantheon Irodalmi Intézet, 1926
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by the Hungarian Electronic Library
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOHÁCS,

VAGY, KÉT ÁRVA GYERMEK VERGŐDÉSE ***
KRÚDY GYULA:
MOHÁCS
VAGY
KÉT ÁRVA GYERMEK VERGŐDÉSE
MOHÁCS
VAGY
KÉT ÁRVA GYERMEK VERGŐDÉSE
IRTA:
KRÚDY GYULA
BUDAPEST, 1926
A PANTHEON IRODALMI INTÉZET R.-T. KIADÁSA
Budapesti Hirlap nyomdája
ELSŐ RÉSZ
Mária
I.
Két menyasszony.
Ezelőtt négyszáz egynéhány esztendővel az innsbrucki

apácakolostorban két fiatal leány nevelkedett, akinek személye
különösen érdekelhet bennünket, magyarokat, – aminthogy abban
az időben is, négyszáz egynéhány esztendő előtt, igen sok magyar
gondolat szálldosott az innsbrucki vár felé, amelyet közönségesen
kolostornak hivnak.
Nézzük meg közelebbről, ki ez a két 13–16 éves leányka,
akiknek sorsához birodalmak sorsa volt kapcsolódva. Királyné-jelölt,
királyok menyasszonya volt mindkettő.
Az egyik leánykát, a nagyobbacskát, hivják vala Jagelló Annának
és a legnagyobb hatalmu német császár, a leggazdagabb európai
uralkodó valamelyik unokájával, – hogy melyikkel a két fiu közül, az
majd csak későbben volt kiderülendő – van frigyességben.
Csináltak akkoriban ilyen eljegyzéseket a királyok, mert nagy
gondjuk volt arra, hogy gyermekeik, unokáik sorsát jóelőre
biztosítsák. Akármilyen nevezetes tudományok és titkok birtokában
volt is az udvari orvos, a halál éppen úgy leselkedett a császárok
tróntermeiben, mint a szegény emberre az erdőn.
Akkoriban az iskolás feladványok másképpen voltak összeállítva,
mint manapság. Minden félesztendőben felnyilottak az innsbrucki
apácakolostor kapui férfivendégek előtt, akik reggeltől estvélig
megvizsgáztatták a királyi menyasszonyokat tanulmányi
előhaladásukról. A vizsgálóbizottság egész kis hadsereggel érkezett,
fullajtárokkal, alabárdosokkal, ijjászokkal, puskásokkal, lovagokkal,
mert akkoriban így volt szokásuk utazni a nagyuraknak az erdőben
tanyázó zsiványság miatt. A vizsgálók pedig igen nagy urak voltak. A
vezetőjük Lang Máté úr, a gurki bibornok-püspök és a salzburgi
koadjutor. A leghatalmasabb pap a birodalomban, akiből talán még
római pápa is lehet valamikor. Kiséretében ugyancsak hires és
nagytudományu papok: Stein Marquard, a bambergi prépost,
Marxius tanár, doctor Cuspinianus, Hamerle Farkas, a császár
titkára, aki egyenesen a császárnak tesz majd jelentést a két
menyasszony tanulmányi előhaladottságáról. Össze kell magukat
szedni a kisasszonyoknak, ha értelmesen akarnak felelni a hatalmas
papok kérdéseire.
A vizsga, természetesen, latin nyelven folyt, mert feltételezhető
volt a két királyi unokáról, hogy éppen olyan folyékonyan beszéli a
klasszikus nyelvet, mintha azt az anyatejjel szívta volna magába.
A bibornok-püspök a nagyobbacska leánykát, Jagelló Annát vette
először vizsgálat alá:
– Hát, leányom, Jagelló Anna, mondd el nekem, hogy kicsoda is
vagy te voltaképpen?
– Én második Ulászló, Magyarország és Csehország királyának
az elsőszülött gyermeke vagyok. Az én apám országai azok,
amelyeket Aeneas Sylvius, a történetíró archirequáknak, azaz
főországoknak nevez. Anyámat, a magyar királynét Anna de
Candalla-nak hivták, leszármazottja volt régi aquitániai királyoknak, a
navarrai hercegnő dédunokája, IX. Lajos francia király nővérének
unokája, XII. Lajos francia király közeli rokona. Rokonaim a lengyel
Jagellókon kivül, az angol Kendali grófok, a francia Orleansok, a
Luxenburgok és az Anjouk. Menyasszonya vagyok a
leghatalmasabb német császár, I. Miksa egyik unokájának,
Károlynak vagy Ferdinándnak. Testvére vagyok II. Lajos magyar
királynak.
A bibornok végtelen helyesléssel integetett a leánykának. Igy
tartotta ő jónak a gyermeknevelést, a fiatalság elsősorban a szüleit,
rokonait, hozzátartozóit ismerje meg.
Most a kisebbik leányka megvizsgáztatására került a sor.
– Lépjél elő brüggei Mária és mondd el, hogy ki vagy? – emelte
fel a bibornok gyűrűsujját az emelvényen, mire a leányka a
következőképpen válaszolt:
– Az én atyám habsburgi Szép Fülöp, aki fia volt I. Miksának, a
leghatalmasabb császárnak, leszármazója Gazdag Albertnek, a
habsburgi tartományi grófnak, aki a Habsburg-családnak
megalapítója volt. Ezért az én nevem Osztrák Mária, nem pedig
Brüggei.
– Jól feleltél, – bólintott a bibornok. – Ámde azért nem szabad
soha elfelejtened, hogy Brüsszelben, a herceglakban születtél,
abban a városban, ahol atyádat Botosnak hivták. És most mondd
meg, ki volt anyád?
– Az én anyám Kasztilliai Johanna volt, gyermeke aragóniai II.
Ferdinándnak, akit mély vallásossága miatt katolikus Ferdinándnak
mondanak. Nagyanyám pedig Kasztiliai Izabella volt, akinél szebb és
okosabb nő nem született Spanyolországban. Testvéreim Károly és
Ferdinánd, akik idővel spanyol királyok, német császárok, római
királyok és római császárok lesznek. Testvérem Eleonora, a francia
királyné, testvérem Katalin, a portugál királyné, testvérem Erzsébet,
a dán királyné. Menyasszonya vagyok II. Lajos magyar királynak,
akivel a bécsi Szent István-templomban jegyeztek el.
A bibornok még elégedettebben bólintott, nagyon szerette
növendékeit, akik ily szép atyafisággal rendelkeztek. Nagy tisztelője
volt a királyoknak, királynéknak.
A vizsgálatnak tulajdonképpen ezzel vége is volt, mert hiszen a
félévi vizsgának az volt az igazi célja, hogy a gurki bibornok-püspök
szép hosszu levelekben számoljon be Ulászlónak, a magyar
királynak, valamint Miksa császárnak, hogy gyermekeik hogyan
viselkednek a kolostori életben, testileg és lelkileg mennyire
fejlődnek.
A bibornok és kisérete a nagy tanulószobából éppen a földszinti
ebédlőbe akart vonulni, hogy az ilyenkor szokásos vizsgaebédet
elfogyasszák, amikor Mária hercegnő a bibornok elé lépett és
nagybátran ezt kérdezi vala:
– Mondd, bibornok uram, meddig tart még az én mátkaságom,
amelynek most már harmadik évét töltöm a kolostorban? Rab
vagyok vagy királyné?
– Magyar királyné vagy, gyermekem, amikor megkoronáznak
Székesfehérvárott, ahol ősi idők óta a magyar királynékat koronázni
szokás, – felelt a bibornok igen kegyes hangon. – Rabságodnak
akkor vége leend.
– És kitől függ az, hogy mikor koronáznak meg? – kérdezte Mária
még közelebb lépve a biboroshoz.
– Ez függ Magyarország rendeitől, akik olyan hatalmas urak,
hogy még a királynak is parancsolnak. Ezek az urak majdnem olyan
hatalmasok, mint maga a király, vagyonuk pedig éppenséggel több.
Meg kell várni, amig a rendek elhatározzák, hogy a király feleségül
veheti jegyesét, – felelt a bibornok, mintha most ő tenne vizsgát
növendékének.
Mária hercegnő összeráncolta homlokát:
– Mondd, bibornok uram, hogyan lehetséges az, hogy az én
hatalmas rokonaim, császári nagyapám, királyi testvéreim, hercegi
bátyáim nem tudnak parancsolni a magyaroknak, hogy engem
megkoronázzanak?
– A magyaroknak senki se tud parancsolni Európában, még a
királyuk sem. Mondják, hogy volt egy királyuk nemrégiben, bizonyos
Corvin, aki sok pénzt költött el könyvekre és könyvkötőkre, aki
rendet tartott közöttük, de annak nagy hadserege volt.
– És a mostani magyar királynak, az én vőlegényemnek nincs
hadserege? – folytatta a bibornok vizsgáztatását Mária, az
innsbrucki apácakolostor növendéke.
– A magyar uraknak több katonájuk van, mert több pénzük van! –
felelé a biboros.
– Hát hová lett az a kétszázezer aranyforint, amit császári
nagyapám móringba adott velem Ulászló királynak a fia javára? –
kérdezte most Mária hercegnő felvillanó szemmel, hogy a papok
csak összenéztek, a szemükkel kezdtek integetni egymásnak, a
szájukra tették a tenyerüket, hogy a mosolygásukat elrejtsék, talán
még arról is megfeledkeztek, hogy milyen ebéd várja őket a kolostor
ebédlőjében? (Vadpecsenyék voltak, mert az apácák a vadászaikkal
nagy hajtóvadászatot tartattak a bibornok érkezése előtt, messze
elterülő erdőségeikben.)
Hát hogyan vágta ki magát Lang Máté, akit Rómában már
néhányszor pápajelöltnek is emlegettek?
– Gyermekem, az a kétszázezer aranyforint arra kellett, hogy az
öreg király adósságait kifizessék. Az apósod, Ulászló király, ugyanis
nem tudott bánni a pénzzel, lépten-nyomon megcsalták a gonosz
emberek, meghamisították az ország számadásait…
– Persze, mert nem volt királyné a háznál! – rebbent fel a
gyermekből alig felcseperedett hercegnő. – Nálunk, otthon
Brüggében az anyám nézegette meg a konyhamester számadásait.
A bibornok és a papok elvonultak, hogy testi kivánságuknak is
eleget tegyenek, javában csóválták a fejüket a lépcsőkön, amikor
visszagondolnak vala a jövendőbeli magyar királyné kérdéseire.
– Hm, ez a leány majd rendet csinál Budán, – dörmögte doctor
Cuspiniánus, aki amolyan iródeák is volt, aki a császárokkal,
királyokkal levelezett ura, Miksa császár megbizásából és többet
tudott a fejedelmi dolgok házititkaiból, mint más halandó. (Ő tudta,
hogy mire kellett az a kétszázezer aranyforint Budán. Fugger bankár,
meg Fortunátus, az öreg király pénzkölcsönzői nagyon várták vala
már e forintokat.)
A két leány ottmaradt annál a nagy himzőtáblánál, amelyen
azokat a ruhákat himezték, amelyekben majd esküvőjükre akarnak
menni. Magyarul és németül beszélgettek egymás között, mert így
tudták egymást leginkább megérteni.
– Én szeretnék egyszer egy magyart megismerni! – mondá
egyszerre Mária hercegnő, amikor hosszuszálat fűzött be a tűjébe és
így volt alkalma az elgondolkozásra. – Milyenforma emberek
lehetnek azok a magyarok, akiknek valaha mégis csak a királynéjuk
leszek? Löwenben, az ódon herceglakban, ahol valamennyien
együtt tanultak a gyerekek: a bátyámnak volt egy solymásza, aki
solymászni tanitott, aki, mint afféle csavargó, megfordult
Magyarországon is. Ez a solymász éppen annyit hazudott, mint
bármely solymász, vadász vagy madarász szokott, de azért lehetett
valami igaz a szavaiban. Ez azt beszélte a magyarokról, hogy nem
sokban különböznek a tatároktól, éppen olyan hosszu nyilaik
vannak, éppen ugy ülnek a lovon, éppen olyan vad harci kiáltásokat
hallatnak és az életüket semmibe veszik, mert borital mellett töltik a
napjaikat. Mondd, Anna testvérem, ilyenek az igazi magyarok?
Ulászló leánya, a másik menyasszony korántsem volt olyan
szaporabeszédü, mint Mária. Meglátszott a viselkedésén, hogy
szegényebb házból került ki.
– Majd én megmondom neked, hogy milyenek a magyarok, mert
láttam belőlük sokat Budán, amikor vásár volt és messzeföldről
hajtották fel a nyájaikat, gulyáikat, méneseiket, hogy aztán megint
elhajtsák őket, mert azt mondták, hogy rossz pénzért nem adják el a
barmaikat. Hajukat csimbókba kötve viselik és füstszinü az arcuk,
mintha egész életükben nádak tüzrakása mellett melegednének. A
legdurvább pokrócposztót hordják öltözetnek és nagy ritkaság, ha
valamelyiknek saru van a lábán. Csendesen állanak hosszu
husángjaikra támaszkodva, de gyorsan tudnak verekedésbe is
kezdeni, aminek alig birnak véget vetni az ijjászok. Nem nagyon
magasak, mert az utolsó markot a ló mértékéről már találomra
mondják, de mégis egyetlen ugrással a ló hátán tudnak teremni.
Általában nem félnek semmitől, csak a hamispénztől.
Mária hercegnő elmerengve nézett egy emberi alakocskát,
amelyet éppen aranyból himezett fehér csipkére, amelyből majd
gallért fog csinálni.
– Személyesen kit ismertél a magyarok közül, Anna?
– Hát a kérőmet, Zápolya János vajdát.
– De hiszen arról azt beszélik a bécsi udvarnál, hogy
Magyarországon „tót király“-nak csufolják. Nem olyan az igazi
magyar ember, mint amilyen kérőd volt.
A Jagelló kisasszony elgondolkozott:
– Az én kérőm Pozsega megyében született, de ugy tudom, hogy
az is Magyarország, mint minden a Kárpátoktól a tengerig. Olyan
szép szakállu és bajuszos fiatalember, amilyen Szent István a budai
várban. Mindig derüs, kedélyes, vidám: talán ebben különbözik a
magyaroktól, akik gondterhelt, komor, szótlan emberek.
Mária felbiggyesztette az ajkát, ami nagyon könnyen ment nála.
– Hát aztán miféle ember is volt az a te kérőd?
– Olyanféle ember volt, hogy ha Lajos öcsém nem jön a világra
véletlenül, hát akkor már régesrégen ő a magyarok királya. A
magyarok ugyanis egy országgyülésükön törvényt hoztak, hogy
atyám halála után megint nemzeti királyt fognak választani. Szabad
lesz ujra a királyválasztás és Budán azért örvendeztünk, amikor
Lajos született, mert Zápolya uram most már nem lehetett többé
király.
– Vajjon miért lett volna király őkegyelme?
Anna hivalkodott:
– Csak azért, mert ő a leggazdagabb magyar ember. Hetvenkét
vára van és temérdek kincse és aranya. Hadai vannak annyian, mint
a királynak és ő egyébként is a leggazdagabb magyar ember. Ő az
erdélyi vajda és Magyarországon is az történik, amit ő akar.
– Hát akkor miért leszel az én bátyám felesége, nem pedig a „tót
királyé“? – csattant fel Mária.
Anna lesütötte a szemét:
– Én azt most nem tudom neked megmondani, mert engem nem
kérdeztek soha, hogy kinek a felesége akarok lenni. Annyi bizonyos,
hogy ha nincsen Ferdinánd, akkor már régen Zápolyáné volnék és
nem pedig innsbrucki fogoly.
– Hát ha olyan nagyur az a Zápolya János, miért nem jön érted a
hadaival? Mért nem veszi el Lajostól a koronát? – fitymálódott Mária.
– Azért, mert a magyarok ugyan kemény emberek, de tisztelik a
törvényeket. Mindenkor ősi törvényeikre szoktak hivatkozni, bármit
cselekednek. Zápolya sem tehet egyebet, mint amit a magyarok
törvényei előirnak. A törvény azt rendeli, hogy amig a törvényes
királynak fia van, nem lehet más a király. Zápolya uramnak tehát
minden nagy gazdagsága mellett félre kellett állania. Amig Lajos él,
nem lehet más a magyar király, mint ő. Igy végeztek a magyarok.
Mária tovább folytatta a himzést:
– Nekem meg kell ismerni a magyarokat, mert hiszen ott
birtokaim vannak, amelyeket jegyajándékul kaptam a te atyádtól, az
én apósomtól. Ott van sóbányám, Máramarosban, ahol annyi só
terem, hogy az egész országot el lehet látni sóval. Ott van Huszt
váram, amelyhez még öt város is tartozik. Az enyém Zólyom vára,
ahol nem tudom, hogy terem-e valami. De az enyém Körmöc is, ahol
arany- és ezüstbányák vannak, hogy a király adósságát mind
kifizethetem belőlük. És az enyém Óbuda. Mondd, Anna testvérem,
milyen az az Óbuda, amelyet a palota ablakából bizonyára gyakran
láthattál?
– Szép nagy falu. Mert Magyarországon minden csak falu
Budához mérten.
Mária hercegnő most letette a himzőtüt és a délutáni napba
nézett, amely a kolostor sarokablakán át, – igen sok sarokablak volt
a kolostorban, hogy a zárdahölgyek három oldalról is kaphassák a
világosságot a kézimunkájukhoz – az alant emelkedő innsbrucki
tornyokra nézett hosszadalmasan. Aranybarnahaja pirult a napban,
fekete, hosszukás szemeiben a kiváncsiság szikrái szálldostak, mint
mikor a hegyek felett dudolgató szél olykor beszól a kolostor
kürtőjén, miután még akkoriban nem értették a raffinált
kályhacsinálást és a kályhában eddig láthatatlan szikrácskák
kezdték üzni egymást, amint táncra kerekedtek. (Sokszor nézte a két
menyasszony az ilyen szikra-táncot a kályha rostélyán át a hosszu
téli napokon és másféle táncok jutottak eszükbe, amelyeket valaha a
bécsi udvarnál, eljegyzésükön lejtettek.)
– És mondd, Anna testvérem, Lajos, a király, milyen szokott lenni
odahaza?
– Gyermek még, – felelt a tizenhatesztendős nővérke. –
Bornemissza uram, az egyik nevelője csak megrázza a szakállát,
mintha a havat akarná abból kirázogatni és Lajosnak
engedelmeskedni kell.
– Most már bevallom, hogy én megkértem Lajosomat a bécsi
eljegyzésünkkor, hogy veressen nekem pénzeket a maga
arcképével. Tudod, amilyen tallérokat a császári nagyapámtól
nyertünk, amikor utolsó este leült velünk ostáblát játszani. Szép
aranycsikókat, amelyek ugy pengtek a márványkockákon, mint a
vőlegények sarkantyui. Amelyeket császári nagyapám annak a
napnak az emlékére veretett. De Lajos még nem küldött arcképével
diszitett tallért nekem, pedig nagyon szeretném azt nyakamban
viselni, – rebegte Mária és a távolba nézett, amelyről azt hallotta,
hogy arrafelé van Magyarország.
A himzés most már mind lassabban ment, amint alkonyat felé
haladt az idő, a királyi arák ujjai, valamint a himzőtük is fáradoztak a
munkában. A bibornok és kisérete elvonultak, látni lehetett őket a
tágas, gyepes udvaron, amint lovaikra, vagy hintóikra szálltak.
Csupán a bibornok-püspöknek volt gyaloghintója, amelyet hat igen
erős ember vitt a vállán, mögötte sorakozott más tizenkét ember,
akik majd felváltva viendik a gyaloghintót, bizonyos időközökben. A
zárda falain kivül táboroztak a fegyveresek, akik mindenféle
játékokat mutattak be a bástyaablakokon kitekintgető apácák
tiszteletére. A lovasok hosszu lándzsanyelekkel mentek egymásnak
és igyekeztek egymást nyergeikből kivetni. Az ijászok
célbalövöldöztek és különösen azokat az almákat szerették volna
eltalálni, amelyeket a kolostor ablakából az apácák feléjük dobáltak.
A gyalogosok vivtak rövid kardjaikkal és olyan csapásokat
méregettek egymásra, hogy csakúgy pengett a vértjük. De, persze,
nyomban végük lett e mulatságoknak, amikor a zárda falain kivül a
bástyakapu nagy nyikorgással leereszkedett és a bibornok
kiséretével kivonul a domboru dobogón. A bibornok megemelgette
bojttal diszitett fövegét ama torony felé, ahol Mária és Anna
hercegnőket sejtette. Aztán elment a daliás csapat, amely egy rövid
napra felverte az innsbrucki kolostor környékét.
Mikor már a bibornok pirosruhája és széleskarimáju kalapja is
eltünt a messziségben, Mária hercegnő antul szomorubb lett:
– Szerettem volna megmondani a bibornok urnak, hogy
figyelmeztesse Lajost arra, már teljesen elfelejtettem, mert nem
küldött arcképet, amelyet mindennap megnézhetnék,
megcsókolhatnék. Már csak ugy emlékszem rá, amint hosszu,
misemondó-ruhában, valami kerek koronával a fején az egyik
kezével az én kezemet fogja, a másikkal császári nagyapámét. De
már arra sehogy sem tudok emlékezni, hogy milyen volt a haja, a
szeme, a termete… Azt se tudom már, hogy volt-e olyan nagy Lajos,
mint amilyen én vagyok?
Ezt már annál az ajtófélfánál mondta Mária, amely ajtófélfánál a
két menyasszony hónapról-hónapra rovással feljegyezte, hogy
mennyit növekedett. Anna nagyobbat haladt, de Mária hirtelen nőni
kezdett.
Tizennégyéves korában már gyönyörüen kifejlett, mint egy
idegenországbeli virág, amelynek fejlődési szakait még nem ismerik
a kertészek. Junói alakja volt, amelyet még növelt azzal is, hogy
mindig olyan egyenesen tartotta magát, mintha nyársat nyelt volna.
Tizenötéves korában az orrcimpái megérzékenyedtek, gyakran
véreztek, amikor bizonyos erős szagokat, illatokat érzett, és
ugyanekkor meg is növekedtek az orrcimpái, most már teljesen
hasonlatosak lettek világszép nagyanyjáéhoz, Kasztiliai
Izabelláéhoz.
Miután tizenötödik évét betöltötte, az alsó ajkán lehetett változást
észrevenni.
Dudorodni kezdett ez az ajak, fitymálni, parancsolni, uralkodni,
imponálni, mint azóta is az ausztriai házból származott hölgyeké. Az
arca is hosszukásabb lett, mint az erdei őzeké és a szemöldökei ugy
szöktek felfelé, mint a kifeszitett ijjak. Nő volt, királyné volt… Csak
még a király volt messzire, aki a koronát a fejére helyezve, amely
fejen már ugy fésülte aranybarna hajzatát, – féloldalosan, hogy arra
a korona akadálytalanul feltehető legyen.
Estefelé, amikor a madarak szállingózni kezdtek messzi fészkeik,
erdőik, hegyeik felé, Mária utánuk nézvén a szálldosó madaraknak,
megint csak arra az ismeretlen Magyarországra gondolt. Megint
csak Annát fakgatta, aki gyermekkorában kerülvén el Budáról: nem
sokat tudott a magyar életről.
– Hát a magyar urak, akik az apád udvarát látogatják: milyenek?
Van olyan szép ruhájuk, mint a bécsi uraknak?
– A magyar urak mindig sötét arccal, medveszemmel,
elkomolyodva nézegettek az anyámra, mert nem szerették. Anyám
se szerette őket dölyfösségükben, gőgjükben, furcsa öltözetükben.
Anyám csak akkor mosolygott, amikor a velencei követ, ez a kedves,
finom, piskótaarcu pap látogatta meg, máskor mindig szomoru volt.
Anyám azt szerette volna, hogy a gazdag velencei köztársaság
legyen Lajosnak a keresztapja és Velencéből szeretett volna
szülésznőt is hozatni, mert a magyaroktól félt. De még velencei
osztrigát sem adtak neki, pedig mindig ez után epekedett… Igaza is
volt szegénynek, mert alighogy megkeresztelték Lajost: csendesen,
örökre elaludt, – mondá folytatva Anna, mint valami kis társalkodóné
a valódi királyné mellett.
– Nagyon sirtál, mikor anyád meghalt?
Az érzékeny Anna könnyeket törölt ki a szeméből:
– Nem volt szabad senkinek sem sirni Budán. A primás
megtiltotta.
Mária hátrafont karral sétálgatott a szobában:
– Hiszen igaz, hogy nem érdemes sirni az után, aki elment, de
egy édesanya mégis csak más. Azt nem pótolhatja senki. Nekem se
kellene ebben a kolostorban ülnöm, ha volna anyám. Mehetnék,
járhatnék, kelhetnék az öreg Brüggében, vagy Lőwenben, ahol olyan
kerekszemü, elállófülü, gyapjuharisnyás polgárok vannak, akiket
csibe-evőknek neveznek. Ebben a kolostorban sohasem adnak
csibehust, pedig én meg tudnék enni tán három csibét is.
Lemehetnék lovagolni a lőweni erdőkbe, aminél nincs nagyobb
boldogság. A lombok legyezik a lovas arcát, olyan édes levegőt sziv,
amilyent gyalogjáró sohasem szippanthat. És mikor leszállott az
este, a herceglakban felgyujtják a fáklyákat, gyertyákat, az előkelő
társaság mind a mi házunk felé törekszik. Egyik gyaloghintó követi a
másikat, lovagok ugranak le az udvaron, a nagy szökőkut mellett,
nagy batárokon, néha ökröktől vont kocsin, – mert nálunk a lovakat
vagy teherhordásra, vagy lovaglásra használják: megérkeznek az
előkelő hölgyek, akik mindig csak nevetgélnek, mintha sohasem
lenne se betegségük, se szomoruságuk. Csicseregnek, mint a
madarak. Van lantpengetés, van zene, van tánc, finom társalgás,
amig az éj tart. Ah, ha még egyszer láthatnám Logus Tamást!…
– Ki volt az a Logus Tamás? – vetette fel a szemét Anna
hercegnő, mert még sohasem hallotta ezt a nevet.
– Logus Tamás?…
Mária hercegnő, bár elég szaporabeszédü volt és müveltségénél
fogva a különböző kifejezéseknek is birtokosa volt, darabidőre
elhallgatott, mielőtt erről az emberről beszélni kezdett volna.
Bizonyos huzódozással fogadta Anna hercegnő ujabb
kiváncsiskodását:
– Ki az a Logus Tamás?
– Azt se tudom, hogy él-e még valahol. Hozzánk Lőwenbe a
pápa levelével jött. Kelemen pápa ajánlotta őt hozzánk a
herceglakba, mint humanistát, aki immár kitanult Rómában minden
humanista-tudományt és most az európai udvarokat járja, hogy nagy
tudományosságában másokat is részesitsen. Azt se tudom, hogy
öregember volt-e, vagy fiatal? Egyik nap öreg volt, mint valami vén
püspök, amikor leült az udvar hölgyei közé és utazásairól
beszélgetett. Ő tőle hallottam először Buda nevét és valami Mátyás
nevü királyét, aki a humanistáknak nagy barátja volt. Akkor igazán
nem gondoltam arra, hogy valamikor királyné leszek Budán, amikor
az öregpüspök szavait hallgattam. De járt ő minden országban.
Pápák, bibornokok, tudósok, királyok, büvészek voltak a barátai. Azt
hiszem, hogy egy kicsit maga is értett a büvészethez, mert abban az
időben, mikor ő nálunk tartózkodott, az előkelő emberek nem estek
semmiféle betegségbe Németalföldön…
– És mikor nem volt öregpüspök, akkor mi volt? – kérdezte Anna
hercegnő, aki nem nagyon érdeklődött a tudós öregpüspökök iránt.
– Ha nem volt püspök, akkor fiatal lovag volt. Senki olyan
könnyedén nem viselte a vértet, senki ugy nem értett a
lándzsaforgatáshoz, a vadászathoz, tánchoz, mulatsághoz, mint
Logus Tamás. Mindenkit kivetett a nyeregből, aki szemközt mert vele
szállani, minden galambot eltalált, amelyre ijját felemelte és a
halászatból soha sem tért vissza zsákmány nélkül. Mikor fiatal
lovagként jelent meg a herceglakban: konyhamesterünk már az
erdőbe szökött, mert minden ételnek az elkészitését jobban tudta,
mint a konyhamester. A lantverők letették a hangszerüket, mert a
lantveréshez is jobban értett. Az öreg kereskedők, akik még a
herceglaki estéken is valamely sarokban huzódtak, ahol
egymásközött flandriai tapétáról, brabanti csipkéről, németalföldi
posztóról, vászonról, árbócfáról és heringről vitatkoztak, elhallgattak,
amikor Logus Tamás közébük lépett, mert a kereskedők dolgaihoz is
jobban értett.
– Hát még? – kérdezte Anna hercegnő egy mesét hallgató
gyermek kiváncsiságával. – Neked mit mondott? Veled hogy bánt?
Letérdepelt előtted, mint a lovagok szoktak, vagy megáldott, mint a
püspökök?
Mária büszkén felelt:
– Nekem megjósolta, hogy királyné leszek, mert arra születtem.
Mert ő látta, hogy a csillagokban ez van megírva felőlem, – a
csillagokhoz éppen úgy értett, mint a lángoló szemü lovakhoz,
amelyeket az én hazámból Nápolyba és Moszkvába visznek a
kereskedők.
– És még mit tudott ez a Tamás? – nyügösködött a mesehallgató.
– Tudott mindenféle nyelven, amit ezen a világon beszélnek.
Nem volt olyan régi könyv, amelyet nyomban meg ne értett volna.
Tudott a madarak, az állatok, a növények nyelvén, mert még a vad
sólymok is leszálltak a magasságból a karjára, amikor füttyentett
nekik, az állatok megszelídültek, a földhözragadt növények szerettek
volna hozzá futamodni. De úgy látszik, az apám nyelvén is tudott,
mert Szép Fülöp úr, aki odáig csak nagy bottal sétálgatott a város
utcáin, attól az időtől kezdve, hogy Logus Tamás a Herceglakba
került: megtanulta a fáklyatáncot, amelyben minden este résztvett,
megszerette a bort a nagyasztalnál, kitárta a kezét a zenészek felé,
mintha kicserélték volna. Kár, hogy tőlünk Spanyolországba kellett
menni Logusnak! Vajjon találok-e ilyen rendkívüli embert Budán?
– Talán Lajos testvérem? – mormolta minden meggyőződés
nélkül Anna hercegnő, de Mária nem is felelt, csak sóhajtott
messzire, amerről az éj közeledett feketezászlós felhőlovagjaival.
– Hallottad te valaha, hogy mik a humanisták? – kérdezte Mária
Annát, mielőtt nyugovóra tértek volna.

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Preface ............................................................................................................. vii

§4.3 Exhaustion and Pure Consciousness ........................................ 101

Since it first appeared in 1920, Paul Valéry’s poem Le Cimetière marin, or

Poetry is always quoted in the original language, with a translation if

Permissions to reproduce material under copyright, as stated below, are

Hugh P. McGrath: Translation and Description: Paul Valéry’s Le Cimetière marin

Aleksandr Pushkin: An excerpt from stanza 6.32 of Eugene Onegin is reprinted

Raymond Queneau: An excerpt from Chêne et chien, II, in Si tu t’imagines, is

Paul Valéry: Excerpts are reprinted and translated by permission of Éditions

Paul Valéry: The photograph in section M3 is reproduced by permission of

Collected works of Paul Valéry

Aeneid Virgil, Aeneid

Inferno Dante, Inferno, with the Singleton translation

Translation and Description

Μή, φίλα ψυχά, βίον ἀθάνατον

Do not, dear soul, strive after deathless life,

1. I must begin with an introduction to my introduction. The one I

When you are very old, beside the fire,

You’ll have no servant then who will not raise

I’ll be a boneless phantom under earth,

Trust me, then, sweet: gather we, while we may,

Ronsard’s description of Helen turns out to have had an ulterior mo-

2. I wish to try to promote and further enjoyment of this poem chiefly

Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir à la chandelle,

Lors vous n’aurez servante oyant telle nouvelle,

Je seray sous la terre et fantôme sans os

Regrettant mon amour et vostre fier desdain.

general can be thought of as transformations within time-honored forms.

[Valéry’s drawing, reproduced above, is now sketched on the black-

4. Returning to the poem, we find an epigraph from Pindar:

Do not, dear soul, strive after deathless life,

are concerned with the theme of a sort of death-in-life produced by

5. Valéry himself has something to say about this poem taken as a

If anyone wonders […] what I “wanted to say” in a certain poem, I

worth compared with the alexandrine, which three or four generations

6. One final general observation. There are many transformations in the

the marble roofs of the houses of the dead—that is to say, gravestone

Above the line, the following transformations occur:

the depths of the sea;

This peaceful roof, where white doves come and go,

As one of my two or three discussions of harmony—or sound, at least—

Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,

it’s only metaphorical, is somehow a bit sensational, it seems to me, in

There Noon the just composes with its fires

O recompense after a strain of thought