Marguerite Yourcenar 1903 - 1987
Marguerite Yourcenar was a Belgian-born French novelist and essayist. Winner of the Prix Femina and the Erasmus Prize, she was the first woman elected to the Academie francaise, in 1980, and the seventeenth person to occupy Seat 3.
Yourcenar was born Marguerite Antoinette Jeanne Marie Ghislaine Cleenewerck de Crayencour in Brussels, Belgium,
to Michel Cleenewerck de Crayencour, of French bourgeois descent, and a
Belgian mother, Fernande de Cartier de Marchienne, of Belgian nobility,
who died ten days after her birth. She grew up in the home of her
paternal grandmother.
Yourcenar's first novel, Alexis, was published in 1929. She translated Virginia Woolf's ”The Waves” over a 10-month period in 1937.
In 1939 Yourcenar's intimate companion at the time, the literary
scholar and Kansas City native Grace Frick, invited the writer to the
United States to escape the outbreak of World War II in Europe. Yourcenar lectured in comparative literature in New York City and Sarah Lawrence College.
Yourcenar was bisexual; she and Frick became lovers in 1937 and remained together until Frick's death in 1979. After ten years spent in Hartford, Connecticut, they bought a house in Northeast Harbor on Mount Desert Island, Maine where they lived for decades.
Yourcenar was bisexual; she and Frick became lovers in 1937 and remained together until Frick's death in 1979. After ten years spent in Hartford, Connecticut, they bought a house in Northeast Harbor on Mount Desert Island, Maine where they lived for decades.
In 1951, she published, in France, the novel Memoires d'Hadrien, which she had been writing with pauses for a decade. The novel was an immediate success and met with great critical acclaim. In this novel, Yourcenar recreated the life and death of one of the great rulers of the ancient world, the Roman Emperor Hadrian, who writes a long letter to Marcus Aurelius, the son and heir of Antoninus Oius, his successor and adoptive son. The Emperor meditates on his past, describing both his triumphs and his failures, his love for Antinous, and his philosophy. The novel has become a modern classic.
In 1980, Yourcenar was the first female member elected to the Academie francaise.
An anecdote tells of how the bathroom labels were then changed in this
male-dominated institution: "Messieurs | Marguerite Yourcenar" (Gents / Marguerite Yourcenar).
One of the most respected writers in the French language, she published
many novels, essays, and poems, as well as three volumes of memoirs.
Yourcenar's house on Mount Desert Island, Petite Plaisance, is now a museum dedicated to her memory. She is buried across the sound in Somesville, Maine.
source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marguerite_Yourcenar
How
Wang-Fô was saved
The old painter,
Wang-Fô and his disciple Ling, wandered the roads of
the Han Empire.
They advanced slowly
since Wang-Fô would stop at night to
contemplate the starry firmament and during the day, the dragon
flies. They carried little since Wang-Fô loved the
image of
things, not things in themselves. No object in the world
seemed
to him worthy of possession if it weren’t for brushes,
pigments,
jars of lacquer and rolls of silk or rice paper. They
were
poor; Wang-Fô traded his paintings for a bit of food while
despising even small silver coin.
His disciple, Ling,
walked heavily under the weight of a bag full of
sketches; he doubled his back respectfully as if he carried the
firmament of the skies; as that sack—to
Ling’s eyes—was
full
of mountains covered in snows, with rivers in spring and the face
of
the moon in summer.
Ling hadn’t
been born to walk along side the old man in whose
power was the aurora, was caught the twilight. His father had
been a dealer in gold; his mother the only child of a jade dealer whose
estate and legacy he had left her with a curse, at her not having
been the son he wanted. Ling had grown in a house where
riches
did away with insecurities. That existence, carefully tended,
had
turned him timid: he was afraid of insects, of storm and tempest and of the features on the faces of the dead.
When he reached fifteen
years his father found him a bride and he
chose the greatest beauty since the idea of happiness she could provide
his son was a consolation to an age when night had turned to no purpose
but sleep.
Ling’s bride
was as fragile as a reed, infantile as milk,
sweet as saliva, salty as tears. After the wedding
Ling’s
parents took their discretion to the point of dying and their son
was
left in the house painted with cinnabar, alone with his bride who never
left off smiling and the plum tree that flowered pink every
spring.
Ling loved that woman of
limpid heart just as one might love a
mirror never blemished by steam or an amulet that never failed to
protect. He went to the tea houses as was the fashion and
favoured, moderately, dancers and acrobats.
One night in one of these
fashionable tea houses he found himself
accompanied at his table by Wang-Fô. The old man
had drunk
in order to put himself in a state that permitted him the ability to
capture in paint—the drunk. His
head inclined to one side as if
to better judge the distance between his hand and his cup.
The
rice wine untied the tongue of that ancient and taciturn artisan;
that night, Wang talked as if the silence were a wall and his words
destined to spread it with colour.
Thanks’ to him
Ling understood the beauty reflected in the
faces of the drinkers, blurred by the smoke of the hot drink, the
toasted splendour of the skin and meat, licked by the tongue of the
fire that lit them. The exquisite rose stains of spilled wine
on
the tablecloths like withered flower petals. A gust of wind
blew
open a window and the storm penetrated the room.
Wang-Fô
quickly ducked down so that Ling could admire the livid beauty in the
seam of lightning and Ling, astonished, never again feared the
tempest.
Ling paid the old
painter’s bill; Wang-Fô had no money
nor bed nor dwelling, Ling humbly offered refuge. They walked
together, Ling carried a lantern whose light projected a surprising
flash and sparkle in the puddles and that night Ling realized with
astonishment that the walls of his house were no longer the red of
cinnabar as he believed but rather the colour of an orange that has
begun to rot.
In the courtyard
Wang-Fô pointed out the shape of a delicate
bush that no-one had noticed before and compared it to the silhouette
of a young woman drying her hair. In the hallway he walked
slowly
with faltering step, as he was distracted from his purpose by the
wavering path of an ant along the length of the cracks in the wall; and
Ling’s horror of those little creatures vanished.
Then, in that moment, Ling understood Wang-Fô had given him a
soul, a new perception. He put the old man to bed with
respect in
the room his own parents had died.
Wang-Fô had
dreamed for many years of painting a princess of
old, playing the lute under a willow. No woman ever seemed
unreal
enough to model but Ling could be, since he was not a woman.
Later Wang-Fô talked of painting a young Prince tensing a bow
under a tall cedar. No youth of his time was unreal enough to
model but Ling sent his wife to pose with bow and arrow under the
plum tree in the garden. Afterwards Wang-Fô painted
her as
sprite among clouds and she cried as this was a harbinger of
death.
Since Ling preferred
Wang-Fô’s portraits of her to
herself, her face withered like a flower fighting the wind or the
summer rain. One morning they woke to find her hung by her
neck
from the plum tree in full rosen bloom: the length of the silken scarf
that strangled her mixed in her wind-blown hair and she seemed more
svelte than ever, as pure as the beauties sung by poets in times gone,
and Ling never again feared the face of death.
Wang-Fô
painted her one last time because he admired the greenish tone that
dead faces acquire. His disciple, Ling, ground his paints and
the job required such application that he forgot to shed tears.
Ling eventually sold his
slaves, his jade and the koi fish of his
fountain to provide his master jars of violet paint brought all the way
from the Occident. When the house was emptied they left and
Ling closed the doors to his past. Wang-Fô was
tired of the
city where the faces could teach him no more secrets of beauty or
ugliness and, together, master and apprentice, they roved the walks
of the Empire of Han.
Their reputation preceded
them in the villages, the verge, the
thresholds of the fortified castles and beneath the lintels of the
temples where refuged the restless peregrines at the fall of
dusk. It was said Wang-Fô had the power to give
life to his
paintings thanks’ to a last touch of colour he added to their
eyes. The bumpkins turned up to supplicate he paint them a
guardian dog and the lords to ask he paint them soldiers. The
monks honoured him as a wise man while the people feared him like a
witch. Wang was pleased by these differences of opinion that
allowed him to study the different expressions of gratitude, fear and
veneration.
Ling begged their daily
food, watched over the sleep of his teacher and took advantage of his
euphoria to massage his feet. As the
morning threatened and his master still slept he would go out to look
for timid landscape behind the thicket or reed. At night when
the
master, disconsolate or disappointed, threw his brushes to the ground
Ling picked them up and put them away carefully till the inspiration
recaptured Wang-Fô’s soul. When he was
sad and
talked of his old age Ling would smile and point to the robust trunk
of an old Oak. When he was happy and spoke with light-hearted
silliness, Ling would pretend to listen with humility.
One day, as evening set
in, they arrived at the outskirts of at the
Imperial city and Ling looked for accommodation to pass the
night. The old man wrapped himself in his rags and Ling lay
down beside him to offer the heat of his body; springtime had just
arrived and the clay floor was still frozen. As dawn broke
heavy footsteps resonated in the hall of the inn, the fearful whispers
of the inn-keeper were answered in a barbarous shout. Ling
stretched and thought of the rice cake he had stolen for his
master’s alimentation the day before and didn’t
doubt
they came to arrest him and he wondered, who would feed
Wang-Fô
on the morrow ? Who would help him ford the next river ?
The soldiers entered
lanterns first; the light filtered by the coloured paper threw red and
blue patterns
over their leather helmets. The string of a bow vibrated on a
shoulder, and, suddenly, the most ferocious growled without any
reason at all. One put his heavy hand on the nape of
Wang-Fô’s neck who couldn’t avoid noting
how the
colour of his sleeve didn’t go well with the colour of his
jacket.
Helped by his disciple
Wang-Fô followed the soldiers,
faltering over the uneven ground. The tight group moved
forward and the soldiers laughed at those who would, most likely, soon
be
decapitated. At Wang’s questions only
wild and
threatening faces offered response, his tied hands hurt and Ling,
desperate, looked to his master with a smile—a mannerism that was to
him, more gentle than crying.
They arrived at the doors
of the Imperial palace whose violet walls
stood in the plain light-of-day like a piece of twilight. The
soldiers obliged Wang-Fô to cross innumerable square or
circular
rooms each a symbol of the seasons, the cardinal points, the masculine
and the feminine, their length the prerogative of power. The
doors turned on their hinges emitting a musical note, their disposition
such that one could traverse them all from the rise of the sun in the
east to its fall in the west; everything concerted to imply a
super-human power and subtlety; one could perceive the appalling
orders given, and one knew their terrible content was as definitive
as was the wisdom of the past.
Finally the air became
more rare, more scarce, the silence became so
profound that not even the tortured would have dared shout under its
weight. A eunuch lifted a curtain, the soldiers trembled like
girls, and the small group entered where the Son of the Sky sat on
his throne.
It was a hall without
walls upheld by columns of blue stone. A
garden flowered at the other side of the pillars and each little
copse was made of rare species brought from over the seas but none was
perfumed for fear their aroma might disturb the meditation of the
Dragon of the Skies. Out of respect for the silence that
bathed
his thoughts no bird was admitted to the interior of the quarter,
indeed, even the bees had been expulsed. A tall
wall closed
off the garden from the world with the purpose of keeping the wind that
passes over the burst corpses of dogs and the cadavers on the field
of battle, from brushing even the sleeve of the emperor.
The Master of the Sky was
seated on a throne of jade and his hands
were wrinkled like those of an old man though he couldn’t
have
been more than twenty. His clothes were blue to simulate
winter and green to remember spring. His mien was comely but
inscrutable like a mirror set so high it only reflected space—implacable and inexorable
sky.
To his right was his
Minister of perfect pleasures and to his left
his adviser of just torment. As his courtiers, lined up by
the
columns, stretched their hearing to catch the least of the
Emperor’s utterances he had acquired the habit of speaking
always
in the lowest of voices.
Oh Dragon of the Sky,
addressed Wang-Fô, prostrating himself:
I am old, I am poor, I am weak. You are the summer I the
winter. You have ten thousand lives while I have only one and
soon it will be over. What have I done to you? They have tied
hands that have never done you harm.
You ask what you have
done to me old Wang-Fô? Said the Emperor.
His voice was so
melodious that upon hearing it one wanted to
cry. He raised his right hand and the reflection of the floor
of jade turned it to a moss of the sea. Wang-Fô
marvelled
at those long thin fingers and tried to remember if at some time he
had done a portrait so mediocre he merited execution. But not
only couldn’t remember such a crime but thought it highly
improbable as he had hardly stepped into the environs of the court,
always preferring the huts of farmers or, in the cities, the hovels of
prostitutes or the taverns of the piers where the longshoremen fight.
You ask what you have
done to me old Wang-Fô ? Pursued the
Emperor, inclining his thin neck toward the old man who listened to
him: I will tell you. But like poison that cannot enter us
but by
our nine orifices, to put you in the presence of your guilt I will have
to trod the halls of my memory and tell you of my whole life.
My father reunited a collection of your paintings in the most secret
rooms of the palace because he felt the paintings must be protected
from profane stares from which they are not able to lower their
eyes. In those rooms they educated me old Wang-Fô,
disposing of a great solitude in which I was permitted to grow, with
the object of avoiding splashing my candour with the agitated waves of
my future subjects.
No-one was allowed to
pass before my doors for fear their shadows
might extend until they grazed my person. The few servants that were
allowed me, showed themselves as little as possible; the hours turned
in an interminable circle. The colours in your paintings
resuscitated with the dawn and paled in the dusk. At night I
contemplated them when I couldn’t sleep. During ten
long
years of consecutive nights I looked at them… and looked at
them…
During the day, sat on a
rug whose design I knew by heart, resting
my empty hands on the yellow silk of my knees I dreamt of the pleasures
my future promised. I imagined the world with the Empire of
Han
at its centre similar to the plain of my palm cut by the fatal lines of
the five rivers. Around it the five seas where the monsters
are
born and further still the mountains that sustain the sky.
To help me imagine all
this I had your paintings. You made me
believe the sea looked like the vast layer of water in your paintings—so blue that a stone that
fell into its depths
couldn’t but turn to sapphire. That women
didn’t but
open and close like flowers similar to the creatures that advance,
pushed by the breeze along the walks of your gardens and that the
young warriors of slim waist that watch over the borders in our
fortified castles were like arrows that could pierce our
heart.
At sixteen I saw opened
the doors that separated me from the world,
I went up to the terraces to see the clouds but they were less
beautiful than your twilights. I called for my litter and
along
the roads was shaken by the rocks and dust I hadn’t
foreseen. I travelled my provinces without finding your
gardens
filled with women like lightning bugs—those women you painted
whose
bodies were themselves gardens. At the ocean’s rim
I was
disgusted by the sharp rocks and forgotten shells. The blood
of
the executed was less red than the painted pomegranate of your
sketches. The parasites in the villages impeded my ability to
enjoy the beauty of the rice paddies and the live meat of women
revolted me as much as the dead meat hung on hooks at the
butcher’s while the uncouth laughter of my soldiers made me
feel
nausea.
You lied to me old
impostor: the world is no more than a mass of
confused stains thrown to the void by a foolish artist, erased without
cease by our tears.
The Han Empire is not the
most beautiful and I am not an
Emperor. The only Empire worth the ruling is the one you
penetrate, old Wang-Fô, by the walk of a thousand turns and
the
ten thousand colours. Only you rule over mountains whose
snows
never melt, over fields whose narcissi never wither.
With this,
Wang-Fô, I have found the torment of your curse, am
disgusted by all I own and wish for all I cannot have. To
lock
you in the only cell from which you cannot escape I have decided to
burn your eyes since they are the magic doors to your realm.
And
since your hands are the two roads with their ten bifurcations that
lead you to the heart of your kingdom I will have them cut
off.
Do you understand me old Wang-Fô ?
Upon hearing the sentence
the disciple Ling pulled a gap-toothed
blade from his belt and threw himself on the Emperor, but long before
his lunge reached the Son of the Sky two guards caught him up and the
Dragon-king smiled as he added in a whisper: I hate you also old
Wang-Fô because you have been loved—kill the dog !
Ling quickly jumped
backward so as not to offend his master with the
splashing of his blood, and one of the guards lifted his sabre and
Ling’s head was separated from his body like a plucked
flower. The soldiers picked up the pieces of his body and
Wang-Fô, though desperate, couldn’t none-the-less,
avoid admiring
the gorgeous scarlet stain juxtaposed against the green jade floor.
The Emperor made a slight
sign and two eunuchs cleaned his eyes.
Listen to me old
Wang-Fô, said the Emperor, dry your tears, it
is not the moment to cry. Your eyes must remain clear for the
purpose that the little light left to them must be put to, a use that
mustn’t be ruined by the mist of sorrow. I do not
want your
death because of rancour, nor for cruelty do I want to see you
suffer. I have another project, old
Wang-Fô. Among my
collection of your paintings I own an admirable but unfinished sketch
in which is reflected the mountains in the river’s estuary,
infinitely reduced it is true but with an evidence of their truth that
overwhelms the thing in itself, like figures looking at themselves
through a glass sphere. But this work is unfinished
Wang-Fô, your masterpiece no more than an outline.
Probably
you were distracted in the moment you sat in a solitary valley by a
bird that flew by, or the boy who chased it or the bird’s
beak,
or the child’s cheek, made you forget the blinking purple
waves
of the sea. You did not finish the shawl of the sea, nor the
hair
of the algae on the rocks.
I want you to use the
hours left to you finishing this painting that
will lock the accumulated secrets of your long life in its
beauty. I do not doubt your hands, so near to being separated
from you, will tremble on the silk and the infinite will penetrate
your work. Nor do I doubt your eyes so near being
annihilated,
will discover relationships at the limit of human
sensibility.
Think that this last desire of mine is a benevolence on my part as I
know the cloth is the only lover you have ever caressed; think of my
offering you some brushes and pigment as akin to a charitable
offering of a lover to a man about to die.
At the lifting of the
small finger of the Emperor’s hand two
eunuchs brought the unfinished painting where Wang-Fô had
sketched the sea and sky. Wang-Fô dried his tears
and
smiled at the sight of the old sketch that brought back memories of his
youth. Everything about the few lines drawn on silk testified
to
a freshness of soul old Wang-Fô could no longer aspire to,
but at
the same time it spoke of something essential that was missing—at the
time of its execution Wang-Fô had not contemplated duly the
mountains, nor the rocks that made up its naked flanks nor the water of
the sea that wet them. Nor had he been soaked sufficiently by
the
sadness of twilight.
He chose a brush among
those offered by a slave and began painting
some broad strokes of blue over the water while a eunuch squatted at
his feet and ground colours for him, a task he did rather badly and
Wang-Fô missed Ling more than before.
He began adding a tiny
point of rose to a cloud that rested on the
mountain, then added some wrinkles to the surface of the sea which did
no more than accentuate its serenity. The jade floor on which
he
stood began to become distinctly humid but Wang-Fô, absorbed
in
his work, did not notice.
The fragile boat in the
foreground now filled the whole first plane
of the silk scroll and the sound of oars splashing in the water could
be heard in the distance but came closer and closer and grew louder and
louder, till it filled the hall of the Son of the Sky. Then
it stopped and only the melancholy dripping of the raised oars broke
the imperturbable silence. It had been some time since the
red
irons heated to close old Wang-Fô’s eyes had gone
out and
become cold in the hot coals of the executioner’s brass
bowl. The courtiers, immobilised by the etiquette of the
court,
stood on tip-toe reaching for breath above the waters that filled the
room without walls.
The water finally reached
the Imperial chest and Ling, for it was
Ling who rowed the boat, a tear in one sleeve still un-darned since it
had been ripped that very morning by the soldiers at the inn, wore
around his neck a strange red scarf. Wang-Fô said
to him
with sweetness as he continued to paint: I thought you were
dead.
While thou lives, how could I die ?
He helped his master into
the boat. The green jade ceiling
reflected in the still waters and the braids of the courtiers floated
beside their heads like serpents while the pale head of the Emperor
floated like a lotus above the wetness.
Look my disciple, said
Wang-Fô with melancholy, these poor
unfortunates will drown if they haven’t already, I
didn’t
know there was enough water in the sea to drown an Emperor, what can we
do ?
Don’t worry
master, they will soon be left without even a
memory of having been wet, only the Emperor will retain a bit of marine
bitterness in his heart as memory of this moment.
These
people weren’t made to lose themselves in a painting.
And he added: The sea is
tranquil and the wind favourable.
The marine birds are making their nests; shall we be underway Master,
to a country the other side of the waves ?
Let’s embark,
said the old painter. Wang-Fô took
the tiller and Ling bent over the oars, their cadence filled once
again the room without walls, firm and regular as a
heartbeat.
The water’s level lowered around the majestic vertical rocks
that
turned back into pillars and very soon only puddles on the floor
remained and a little sea foam on the Emperor’s sleeve.
The roll of
painted silk sat on the low table and the boat that
filled its foreground receded slowly in the sea of blue jade invented
by Wang-Fô, until it became so small only Ling’s
red scarf and the Master’s long beard could be divined.