"Your career
has been most interesting--for the first few years chiefly to
yourself. You married Marguerite. You remember Marguerite?"
The Poet remembered her.
"A mad thing to do, so most people would have said," continued the
Stranger. "You had not a sou between you. But, myself, I think you
were justified. Youth comes to us but once. And at twenty-five our
business is to live. Undoubtedly the marriage helped you. You lived
an idyllic existence, for a time, in a tumble-down cottage at
Suresnes, with a garden that went down to the river. Poor, of course
you were; poor as church mice. But who fears poverty when hope and
love are singing on the bough! I really think quite your best work
was done during those years at Suresnes. Ah, the sweetness, the
tenderness of it! There has been nothing like it in French poetry.
It made no mark at the time; but ten years later the public went mad
about it. She was dead then. Poor child, it had been a hard
struggle. And, as you may remember, she was always fragile. Yet
even in her death I think she helped you. There entered a new note
into your poetry, a depth that had hitherto been wanting. It was the
best thing that ever came to you, your love for Marguerite."
The Stranger refilled his glass, and passed the decanter. But the
Poet left the wine unheeded.
"And then, ah, yes, then followed that excursion into politics.
Those scathing articles you wrote for La Liberte! It is hardly an
exaggeration to say that they altered the whole aspect of French
political thought.
Pages:
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268