Poetry of the legends part 2
Malmaison - Amy Lowell
I
How the slates of the roof sparkle in the sun,
over there, over there,
beyond the high wall! How quietly the Seine runs in loops
and windings,
over there, over there, sliding through the green countryside! Like
ships
of the line, stately with canvas, the tall clouds pass along the
sky,
over the glittering roof, over the trees, over the looped and curving
river.
A breeze quivers through the linden-trees. Roses bloom
at Malmaison.
Roses! Roses! But the road is dusty. Already
the Citoyenne Beauharnais
wearies of her walk. Her skin is chalked and powdered
with dust,
she smells dust, and behind the wall are roses! Roses
with
smooth open petals, poised above rippling leaves . . . Roses
. . .
They have told her so. The Citoyenne Beauharnais shrugs
her shoulders
and makes a little face. She must mend her pace if she
would be back
in time for dinner. Roses indeed! The guillotine
more likely.
The tiered clouds float over Malmaison, and the slate roof sparkles
in the sun.
II
Gallop! Gallop! The General
brooks no delay. Make way, good people,
and scatter out of his path, you, and your hens, and your dogs,
and your children. The General is returned from Egypt,
and is come
in a `caleche' and four to visit his new property. Throw
open the gates,
you, Porter of Malmaison. Pull off your cap, my man,
this is your master,
the husband of Madame. Faster! Faster! A
jerk and a jingle
and they are arrived, he and she. Madame has red eyes. Fie! It
is for joy
at her husband's return. Learn your place, Porter. A
gentleman here
for two months? Fie! Fie, then! Since
when have you taken to gossiping.
Madame may have a brother, I suppose. That -- all green,
and red,
and glitter, with flesh as dark as ebony -- that is a slave; a bloodthirsty,
stabbing, slashing heathen, come from the hot countries to cure
your tongue
of idle whispering.
A fine afternoon it is, with tall bright clouds sailing over the
trees.
"Bonaparte, mon ami, the trees are golden like my star, the star
I pinned
to your destiny when I married you. The gypsy, you remember
her prophecy!
My dear friend, not here, the servants are watching; send them away,
and that flashing splendour, Roustan. Superb -- Imperial,
but . . .
My dear, your arm is trembling; I faint to feel it touching me! No,
no,
Bonaparte, not that -- spare me that -- did we not bury that last
night!
You hurt me, my friend, you are so hot and strong. Not
long, Dear,
no, thank God, not long."
The looped river runs saffron, for the sun is setting. It
is getting dark.
Dark. Darker. In the moonlight, the slate
roof shines palely milkily white.
The roses have faded at Malmaison, nipped by the
frost. What need for roses?
Smooth, open petals -- her arms. Fragrant, outcurved
petals -- her breasts.
He rises like a sun above her, stooping to touch the petals, press
them wider.
Eagles. Bees. What are they to open roses! A
little shivering breeze
runs through the linden-trees, and the tiered clouds blow across
the sky
like ships of the line, stately with canvas.
III
The gates stand wide at Malmaison, stand wide all
day. The gravel
of the avenue glints under the continual rolling of wheels.
An officer gallops up with his sabre clicking; a mameluke gallops
down
with his charger kicking. `Valets de pied' run about
in ones, and twos,
and groups, like swirled blown leaves. Tramp! Tramp! The
guard is changing,
and the grenadiers off duty lounge out of sight, ranging along the
roads
toward Paris.
The slate roof sparkles in the sun, but it sparkles
milkily, vaguely,
the great glass-houses put out its shining. Glass, stone,
and onyx
now for the sun's mirror. Much has come to pass at Malmaison.
New rocks and fountains, blocks of carven marble, fluted pillars
uprearing
antique temples, vases and urns in unexpected places, bridges of
stone,
bridges of wood, arbours and statues, and a flood of flowers everywhere,
new flowers, rare flowers, parterre after parterre of flowers. Indeed,
the roses bloom at Malmaison. It is yo
