Où les vieux arbres songent…*

“Un jour, au crépuscule, on passe, après la pluie,

Le long des murs d’un parc où songent de beaux arbres…”

["One day, at dusk, we pass, after the rain, along the walls of a park where the beautiful trees dream..."]

I read this line today from a poem by Léon-Paul Fargue [1876-1947], and was so transported by this and the rest of the poem that I have been re-reading it both in French and in its English translation all morning! It reassures me to know that a tree can dream, too, even as it is forever rooted to one spot. It may not breathe in the wider world but what it sends out is precious to those in its immediate embrace. The ones who seek its shade in the heat of summer, to steal an hour or two in the day on a nearby bench, even under a shared umbrella in a light rain… and after the rain…

“On entend le bruit nombreux

Des feuilles partout

Comme un feu qui prend…

Des branches clignent. Le silence

Epie

Et il passe des odeurs si pénétrantes

Qu’on oublie qu’il y en ait d’autres

Et qu’elles semblent l’odeur même de la vie…

Plus tard, un peu de soleil dore

Une feuille, et deux, et puis tout!

Alors, l’oiseau nouveau qui l’ose le premier

Après la pluie

Chante!“

["We hear the dulcet rustle of the leaves all around like a fire just lit...of drooping branches. The silence observes as wafting scents pervade the air so we forget that others exist and these seem the fragrance of life itself...

Later, a ray of sunshine gilds a leaf, then two, and then all! Then the first bird to venture forth after the rain sings!"]

And the tree is now spectator and audience to the sweet sounds of other birds on its branches, to the whispered wishes of lovers in its shadows, to the delighted shrills of romping children and to the compliant murmurs of the old couple still sitting under their umbrella. The tree observes me, too, as I pass by this park – perhaps the Square Léopold Achille, just a few steps from the lovely garden of the Musée Carnavalet – small and hidden from the hurried masses and surrounded by the grace of 17th and 18th century hôtel particuliers.

“Un rayon rôde encore la crête du mur,

Glisse d’une main calme et nous conduit vers l’ombre…

Est-ce la pluie? Est-ce la nuit?

Au loin, des pas vieux et noirs

S’en vont

Le long des murs du parc où les vieux arbres songent…“*

["A beam of light touches only the top of the wall, sliding along like a calm hand and glides towards darkness... Is it the rain? Is it nightfall? Further away, go some sad aged steps by the walls of the park where old trees dream..."]

I have on occasion been moved by certain trees, beseeching of their divine greenness that is grandly evident of their long vie vitale… and believing in their innate spirits, their benign benevolence, their ever steadfast presence. And these in a little park in Paris resonate to the words of a poet who really didn’t write too much in his life, but what he did express in this poem, “Au Fil de l’Heure Pâle“, somehow found their way to one who sits for a while in the same park and dreams of the gracious reaching trees…

[Addendum:

Monsieur Léopold Achille (1844-1921) was a writer and perfumer, and for a term the deputy mayor of this 3rd arrondissement, who was dedicated with this square in 1913. Three loyal trees have called this square home now for over a hundred years - a distinguished Caucasian Elm (Zelkova Carpinifolia), a sweet Olive (Osmanthus Aquifolium) and a pretty Peach (Prunus Persica). I like to think of them as a ménage à trois that have stayed faithful to each other all these years, and have doted on the inhabitants of this neighbourhood with their seasonal whims and offerings, and of course, always their gentle dreams.

Monsieur Léon-Paul Fargue (1876-1947) was a member of the Symbolist poetry circle and a good friend of the composer Ravel, who set to music his poem "Rêves". Although Monsieur Fargue was not a prolific writer, he was considered a master of the modern prose poem. His work includes "Tancrède", "Poèmes suivis de Pour la Musique", "Espaces", and two books, D'après Paris (1931) and Le Piéton de Paris (1939). A contemporary of his had described him thus: "Chacun des mots qu'il prononce vibre avec une étrange résonnance; est-ce la place qu'il occupe, sa musique, son sens, il semble reveiller en nous des rumeurs inconnues. C'est un art tout de finesse, de charme et de mélancholie." He is buried in the Cimetière du Montparnasse beneath a dreaming cherry.]

Luxe, Calme et Volupté

Luxuriating an afternoon away at the Jardin du Luxembourg can be more of an adventure than you would think. Especially on one of those sparkling fall days when the foliage is turning multi-hued shades of gold and bronze, dried leaves crunch underfoot and it is still warm enough to take off your coat in the sunny spots.

We biked there on a Monday afternoon and even with the weather being so perfect it wasn’t overrun with people. We locked our bikes to the fence at the south end of Rue d’Assas and entered the park where the pétanque courts are. Right away I spotted a woman player inside the end court which is, of course, an unusual sight in this male dominated game. We had brought our cameras along, Monsieur L with his large format fancy one and me with my teeny coolpix. He took his time shooting the pétanque players and I wandered off towards the children’s playground.

A little boy seemed lost and was looking about for someone. I went up to him to see if I could be of help. Almost immediately a man came over and took charge all the while ignoring me. He told the boy that he would find a park attendant to take care of him, and began leading him away. I was a little concerned [and somewhat paranoid] that he might be a child snatcher so I followed them until I saw the little boy being handed over to a uniformed guard.

I was peeved at the way I was treated by the boy “handler”. He had read me as a foreigner and perhaps thought that I was incapable of dealing with such a serious situation, but the mother in me was offended nonetheless. I went back to look for Monsieur L and found him talking to an older woman out walking her Norwegian cat on a leash. She had a lot to say about her cherished cat.

We finally continued on towards the pond around which crowds of people were basking in the late afternoon sun. A crazy glittering and intricate sculpture caught our attention. Some children were busy helping to decorate it with more little tags and flags and hanging baubles. The project’s creator told us that the “galleon” has been 20 years in the making and he planned to finally launch it in the pond in a week’s time. We were all invited to witness and celebrate the momentous occasion. I am always moved by such random eccentricities often encountered so serendipitously, and the connection they engender between strangers, young and old. And the idea that an elderly man continues to act upon his childlike inclinations, building his cobwebby ship to sail around his whimsical little world, and where else but in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Voir sur ces canaux dormir ces vaisseaux dont l’humeur est vagabonde; c’est pour assouvir ton moindre désir qu’ils viennent du bout du monde.

Les soleils couchants revêtent les champs, les canaux, la ville entière, d’hyacinthe et d’or; le monde s’endort dans une chaude lumière.

Là, tout n’est qu’ordre et beauté, luxe, calme et volupté

[from"L'Invitation au Voyage" by Charles Baudelaire, 1821-67]