The Yellow Bust

Poem by Jules Barbey d'Aurevilly Collection PoussièresPeriod 19th century

To my great friend
the Count Roselly de Lorgues

Day dies, — and Night sets her foot on his tomb
With the black pride of having killed the Day.
The heavy curtain falls from the paten to the sphinx,
And the deserted drawing room in its vast circuit
Has taken on the airs of a catacomb.

And the shutters closed above the curtain
Have made like a coffin for my sombre thought…
I am alone like a dead man; — and the lowered lamp
Placed near me under its black hood
Seems a monk upon a tomb.

And the alabaster vases in the depths of the corners
Grow pale and vaporous, yet still appear.
Nothing stirs the heavy folds of the hangings anymore…
All is silent, — except the wind from the corridor
That weeps too upon the rooftops!

And darkened by the hood of the lamp
The great walls of the drawing room seem an ell longer…
And in the chiaroscuro, oscillating, vague, toneless,
One sees stand out a bust, — a yellow bust
Bulging from an angle of the wainscot.

It is a beautiful blond bust, — of a pale blond, — in clay,
Divinely molded with a charming art.
No name is read upon its fragile base.
I have always seen it there, in that corner, remaining
Like a dream, — a motionless dream.

It is a bust of a woman with arched and fine features,
With hair raised, with temples uncovered,
And who, — there, — from that corner, veiled in discreet shadows,
Extends to you, in three-quarter view, her open eyelids,
With haughty uncertain glances.

It was always for me a strange figure,
That bust of a woman, — and from my earliest years,
I sought it with my eyes in its obscure half-light…
Then, when I was far from it through space and time,
In my heart, — that other corner!

For that bust, it was… yes! my first love,
The first mad love of my solitary heart!
The woman it was has remained a mystery…
It was — I had been told — my mother’s aunt,
A lady of Chavincour

Dead around thirty… Nothing more. Her dress
On this bust is very simple and of her time.
Her tiered hair does not even have a plume.
One would say, but then without bows and without ribbons,
Queen Marie-Antoinette.

That is indeed the necklace, — that necklace of sequins
That women tightened as one does one’s belt,
The necktie of the neck, far more than its adornment…
And that bodice too, whose sudden neckline
Descends to between the two breasts.

O bust, idolized by my foolish childhood,
Mysterious bust that I see again this evening!…
When nothing, nothing in my heart has any more a halo,
You still shine, yellow, in your dark corner,
O bust! my first idol!

All the living busts that I have taken to my heart
Have broken there, worn, deformed by life…
Their clay of flesh softened more quickly
Than your clay, O bust! motionless effigy
And conqueror of inert time!

You alone have not moved, bust! form and matter,
Life, in flowing away, could take nothing from you…
My dream, beside you, I come to finish…
I will dream of you until the cemetery,
But, O bust! after me, what heart will make dream
Your clay, — upon my dust?…

Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-the-yellow-bust-jules-barbey-d-aurevilly/