Collected Poems and Other Verse (Oxford World’s Classics) by Stéphane Mallarmé

Author:Stéphane Mallarmé
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oxford University Press
Published: 2006-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

The White Water Lily

I had been rowing for a long time, with a strong, clean, soporific motion, my eyes turned inward and utterly oblivious of my journey, as the laughter of the hour was flowing all around. So much motion-lessness was idling away the time that, brushed by a dull sound into which my skiff half slid, I was able to confirm that it had come to a stop only by the steady glittering of initials on the bared oars, which reminded me of my worldly identity.

What was happening, where was I?

To understand the episode properly, I had to remember my early departure, on this flaming July day, through the lively gap between the drowsing vegetation of a persistently narrow and wayward stream, in search of water flowers and with the intention of exploring a property that belonged to the friend of a friend, to whom I should say hello on the spur of the moment. Without having been detained by any strip of grass before one vista more than another, as all alike were borne away with their reflections in the water by the same impartial oar-strokes, I had just run aground and mysteriously ended my little voyage on some clump of reeds in the middle of the stream: where, suddenly widening into a fluvial grove, it displays all the indifference of a pool rippled with a well-spring’s reluctance to depart.

Detailed inspection showed me that this obstacle of tapering greenery in the current masked the single arch of a bridge that was extended on land, in both directions, by a hedge enclosing a series of lawns. I understood. Merely the gardens of Madame ——, the unknown lady whom I was to greet.

A pretty enough neighbourhood during the season; the character of a person who had chosen so watery and impenetrable a retreat for herself could only be in harmony with my own tastes. Surely she had formed this crystal into an internal mirror to shelter her from the brilliant tactlessness of the afternoons; she would come there, and the silvery mist icing the willows would soon be only the limpidity of her gaze familiar with every leaf.

Toute je l’évoquais lustrale.

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