French poet and dramatist (1868–1918)
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Rhymer, brawler, and musician,
Famed for his lunar expedition,
And the unnumbered duels he fought, — And lover also, — by interposition! — Here lies Hercule Savinien
De Cyrano de Bergerac,
Who was everything, yet was naught.
I cry you pardon, but I may not stay;
See, the moon-ray that comes to call me hence! I would not bid you mourn less faithfully
That good, brave Christian: I would only ask
That when my body shall be cold in clay
You wear those sable mourning weeds for two,
And mourn awhile for me, in mourning him.
...But...to sing,
to dream, to smile, to walk, to be alone, be free,
with a voice that stirs and an eye that still can see!
To cock your hat to one side, when you please
at a yes, a no, to fight, or- make poetry!
To work without a thought of fame or fortune,
on that journey, that you dream of, to the moon!
Never to write a line that's not your own...
Cyrano: I can see him there — -he grins — -
He is looking at my nose — -that skeleton — -What's that you say? Hopeless? — -Why, very well! — -
But a man does not fight merely to win!
No — -no — -better to know one fights in vain!...
You there — -Who are you? A hundred against one — -
I know them now, my ancient enemies — -
Falsehood!...There! There! Prejudice — -Compromise — -Cowardice — -
What's that? No! Surrender? No!
Never — -never!...
Ah, you too, Vanity!
I knew you would overthrow me in the end — -
No! I fight on! I fight on! I fight on!
Yes, all my laurels you have riven away
And all my roses; yet in spite of you,
There is one crown I bear away with me,
And to-night, when I enter before God,
My salute shall sweep all the stars away
From the blue threshold! One thing without stain,
Unspotted from the world, in spite of doom
Mine own! — -
And that is...
Roxane: — -That is...
Cyrano: My white plume....
Valvert: Villain, clod-poll, flat-foot, refuse of the earth! Cyrano: [taking off his hat and bowing as if the Vicomte had been introducing himself] Ah? … And mine, Cyrano-Savinien-Hercule of Bergerac! Valvert: [exasperated] Buffoon! Cyrano: [giving a sudden cry, as if seized with a cramp] Aï! … Valvert: [who had started toward the back, turning] What is he saying now? Cyrano: [screwing his face as if in pain] It must have leave to stir … it has a cramp! It is bad for it to be kept still so long! Valvert: What is the matter? Cyrano: My rapier prickles like a foot asleep! Valvert: [drawing] So be it! Cyrano: I shall give you a charming little hurt! Valvert: [contemptous] Poet! Cyrano: Yes, a poet, … and, to such an extent, that while we fence, I will, hop!, extempore, compose you a ballade! Valvert: A ballade? Cyrano: I fear you do not know what that is. Valvert: But … Cyrano: [as if saying a lesson] The ballade is composed of three stanzas of eight lines each … Valvert: [stamps with his feet] Oh! Cyrano: [continuing] And an envoi of four. Valvert: You … Cyrano: I will with the same breath fight you and compose one. And, at the last line, I will hit you. <p> Valvert: Indeed you will not! Cyrano: No? … [Declaiming] Ballade of the duel which in Burgundy house
Monsieur de Bergerac fought with a jackanape … Valvert: And what is that, if you please? Cyrano: That is the title. [ … ] Cyrano: [closing his eyes a second] Wait. I am settling upon the rhymes. There. I have them. [in declaiming, he suits the action to the word]
Of my broad felt made lighter,
I cast my mantle broad,
And stand, poet and fighter,
To do and to record.
I bow, I draw my sword … En garde! With steel and wit
I play you at first abord … At the last line, I hit!<p> [They begin fencing] <p> You should have been politer;
Where had you best be gored?
The left side or the right — ah?
Or next your azure cord?
Or where the spleen is stored?
Or in the stomach pit?
Come we to quick accord … At the last line, I hit! <p> You falter, you turn whiter?
You do so to afford
Your foe a rhyme in "iter"? … You thrust at me — I ward — And balance is restored.
Laridon! Look to your spit! … No, you shall not be floored
Before my cue to hit! <p> [He announces solemnly] <p> Envoi <p> Prince, call upon the Lord! … I skirmish … feint a bit … I lunge! … I keep my word!
[The Vicomte staggers, Cyrano bows.]
At the last line, I hit!''
A kiss! When all is said, what is a kiss? An oath of allegiance taken in closer proximity, a promise more precise, a seal on a confession, a rose-red dot upon the letter i in loving; a secret which elects the mouth for ear; an instant of eternity murmuring like a bee; balmy communion with a flavor of flowers; a fashion of inhaling each other's hearts, and of tasting, on the brink of the lips, each other's soul!
ROXANE:
Live, for I love you!
CYRANO:
No, In fairy tales
When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says 'I love you!' all his ugliness fades fast — But I remain the same, up to the last!
ROXANE:
I have marred your life — I, I!
CYRANO:
You blessed my life!
Never on me had rested woman's love.
My mother even could not find me fair:
I had no sister; and, when grown a man,
I feared the mistress who would mock at me.
But I have had your friendship — grace to you
A woman's charm has passed across my path.
I carry my adornments on my soul.
I do not dress up like a popinjay;
But inwardly, I keep my daintiness.
I do not bear with me, by any chance,
An insult not yet washed away- a conscience
Yellow with unpurged bile- an honor frayed
To rags, a set of scruples badly worn.
I go caparisoned in gems unseen,
Trailing white plumes of freedom, garlanded
With my good name- no figure of a man,
But a soul clothed in shining armor, hung
With deeds for decorations, twirling- thus-
A bristling wit, and swinging at my side
Courage, and on the stones of this old town
Making the sharp truth ring, like golden spurs!
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I què em caldria fer?
Procurar-me un patró molt poderós, Le Bret,
i, com una heura obscura que puja una paret,
grimpar amb enganys, i a més, llepar-li les rajoles,
veient que m'han clavat a la terra les soles?
No, senyor!, que un banquer m'estimi per pallasso
llepaculs que dedica sonets? No!, passo, passo!
Afalagar, adular les passes d’un ministre
per si m'adreça un gest que no sigui sinistre?
No senyor! Empassar-me per esmorzar un gripau?
Tenir el ventre gastat d'arrossegar-me al cau?
I la pell dels genolls de nit i dia bruta?
Ordenar a l'espinada que doblegui la ruta?
No, senyor! Ser una estora als peus d’un idiota?
Agitar l'encenser davant d'una carota?
No, senyor! O saltar de faldilla en faldilla?
O ser un gran homenet enmig d'una quadrilla?
Potser passar la mar amb madrigals per rem
i a la vela sospirs de vella? No fotem!
No, senyor! Potser anar fins a can Seyrecet
fer-me editar els versos, a quin preu? No, Le Bret!
O fer-me elegir Papa en els pobres concilis
formats per uns imbècils que van destil·lant bilis?
No, senyor! Treballar perquè aplaudeixin altres
un sonet que hagi fet, en lloc d'escriure’n d’altres?
Trobar belles orelles de ruc, llargues i tristes?
O viure amb l'objectiu de sortir a les revistes?
Estar terroritzat com un que quasi es mor
quan va veure el seu nom escrit al Mercure d'or?
Calcular, esporuguit davant d'un anatema?
Anar a fer una visita en comptes d’un poema?
Relligar els aprovats o fer-me presentar?
No, senyor! No, senyor!... Més m’estimo cantar,
entrar, sortir, ballar, ser sol, sentir-me viure,
mirar amb el cap ben alt, parlar fort, i ser lliure;
anar amb el barret tort, contemplar l'univers,
per un sí o per un no, barallar-me... o fer un vers!
No tenir gens en compte la fama i la fortuna,
poder, amb el pensament, enfilar-me a la lluna!
No haver d'escriure un mot si de mi no ha sortit,
i molt modestament poder-me dir: Petit,
estigues satisfet de flors i fruits i fulles
si és al teu jardí que en culls o bé n’esbulles!
I si arriba el trio