"I ought not to have listened to her," he confided to me one day.
"One never ought to listen to the flowers.
One should simply look at them and breathe their fragrance.
Mine perfumed all my planet.
But I did not know how to take pleasure in all her grace.
This tale of claws, which disturbed me so much, should only have filled my heart with tenderness and pity."
And he continued his confidences:
"The fact is that I did not know how to understand anything!
I ought to have judged by deeds and not by words.
She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me.
I ought never to have run away from her...
I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems.
Flowers are so inconsistent!
But I was too young to know how to love her âŠ"
Laugh, if you like, but I wanted to take care of you, to pet you, to give you everything you wanted. I wanted to marry you and protect you and give you a free rein in anything that would make you happy. You'd had such a struggle. No one knew better than I what you'd gone through and I wanted you to stop fighting and let me fight for you. I wanted you to play, like a child--for you were a child, a brave, frightened, bullheaded child. I think you are still a child. No one but a child could be so headstrong and so insensitive.
— The flower that blooms in adversity is the most rare and beautiful of all.
— Sir?
— You don't meet a girl like that every dynasty.
âWhere should one use perfume?â a young woman asked. âWherever one wants to be kissed.â I said.
Elle jouait avec sa chatte,
Et c'Ă©tait merveille Ă voir
La main blanche et la blanche patte
S'Ă©battre dans l'ombre du soir.
Elle cachait — la scĂ©lĂ©rate!
Sous ces mitaines de fil noir
Ses meurtriers ongles d'agate,
Coupants et clairs comme un rasoir.
L'autre aussi faisait la sucrée
Et rentrait sa griffe acérée.
Mais le diable n'y perdait rienâŠ
Et dans le boudoir oĂč, sonore,
Tintait le rire aérien,
Brillaient quatre points de phosphore.
You hypnotize
And mesmerize
With your dirty eyes.
Dirty eyes,
Your dirty eyes...
Une femme est l'amour, la gloire et l'espérance;
Aux enfants qu'elle guide, à l'homme consolé,
Elle Ă©lĂšve le coeur et calme la souffrance,
Comme un esprit des cieux sur la terre exilé.
Sâil nâĂ©tait rien de bleu que le ciel et la mer,
De blond que les Ă©pis, de rose que les roses,
Sâil nâĂ©tait de beautĂ© quâaux insensibles choses,
Le plaisir dâadmirer ne serait point amer.
Mais avec lâocĂ©an, la campagne et lâĂ©ther,
Des formes dâun attrait douloureux sont Ă©closes
Le charme des regards, des sourires, des poses,
Mord trop avant dans lâĂąme, ĂŽ femme! il est trop cher
Nous tâaimons, et de lĂ les douleurs infinies:
Car Dieu, qui fit la grĂące avec des harmonies,
Fit lâamour dâun soupir qui nâest pas mutuel.
Mais je veux, revĂȘtant lâart sacrĂ© pour armure,
Voir des lĂšvres, des yeux, lâor dâune chevelure,
Comme lâĂ©pi, la rose, et la mer, et le ciel.
Belle « a damner les saints », a troubler sous l'aumusse
Un vieux juge! Elle marche imperialement.
Elle parle â et ses dents font un miroitement â
Italien, avec un leger accent russe.
Ses yeux froids ou l'email sertit le bleu de Prusse
Ont l'eclat insolent et dur du diamant.
Pour la splendeur du sein, pour le rayonnement
De la peau, nulle reine ou courtisane...