Willard-bohn-reading-apollinaires-calligrammes.pdf

Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes Willard Bohn

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc N E W YO R K • LO N D O N • OX F O R D • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

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www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2018 © Willard Bohn, 2018 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-1-5013-3831-1 ePub: 978-1-5013-3832-8 ePDF: 978-1-5013-3833-5 Cover design: Eleanor Rose Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com. Here you will find extracts, author interviews, details of forthcoming events, and the option to sign up for our newsletters.

To Anita and Heather, sans lesquelles je ne peux pas vivre

Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgments

ix

Introduction

1

1 Revolution and Renewal “Liens” “Les Fenêtres”

5

x

7 11

2 Simultaneous Exercises  “Lundi rue Christine” “Arbre” “A travers l’Europe”

29

3

61

Miraculous Encounters “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” “Un Fantôme de nuées”

4 Visual Poetry “Lettre-Océan” “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” 5

29 36 50

61 79 93 93 107 123



The War Poetry “La Nuit d’avril 1915” “L’Adieu du cavalier” “Dans l’abri-caverne” “Océan de terre”

6

More War Poetry “Il y a” “Le Chant d’amour”

153



124 132 137 141

153 159

Contents

viii



“Chevaux de frise” 162 “Tristesse d’une étoile” 167

7

Order and Adventure “La Victoire” “La Jolie Rousse”



Conclusion

173 173 187 195

Appendix198 Bibliography 248 Index 256

List of Illustrations 2.1 Augusta Le Baron-desves, Le Marchand de Coco, Paris, Musée Carnavalet 43 4.1 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Lettre-Océan” 94 4.2 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Figue, l’oeillet et la pipe” 108 4.3 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou” 109 4.4 Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou” (Gallimard) 111 5.1 Canon de 75 modèle 1897 serviced by Apollinaire and his crew. Bibliothèque de la Ville de Paris, Fonds Adéma 126 5.2 A French gas mask, Paris, Musée de l’Armée 145

Acknowledgments First and foremost, I would like to thank Chris Young and the Interlibrary Loan staff at Illinois State University, without whose help in tracking down articles this book could never have been written. I am also greatly indebted to Anne Hyde Greet and Ian Lockerbie, whose edition of Calligrammes and copious notes have been my constant companion as I analyzed these nineteen poems. Published in 1980, it is still the best translation available and the only one that is fully annotated. I would also like to acknowledge my debt to Claude Debon’s diplomatic edition of Calligrammes, with its extremely useful bibliography and notes. It not only saved me a huge amount of time but also ensured that I did not miss anything. Finally, after forty years of teaching Calligrammes at Brandeis University, the University of California at Santa Cruz, and Illinois State University, I am grateful to my students for asking questions that spurred me to dig deeper and deeper into Apollinaire’s poetry.

Introduction The present volume examines almost all of the more demanding poems in Calligrammes. Given its careful attention to detail and its ambitious scope, I have had to limit it to nineteen poems. Each section examines all of the previous scholarship for the work in question, provides a detailed analysis, and, in quite a few cases, offers a new interpretation. Some of the poems, such as “Arbre” and “Chevaux de Frise,” have received relatively little critical attention. Others, such as “Les Fenêtres” and “La Jolie Rousse,” have generated many more studies. Indeed, by 2008, when Claude Debon published her diplomatic edition of Calligrammes, “Les Fenêtres” had become the subject of the largest number of articles. Regrettably, it has not been possible to include an analysis of “Les Collines.” Not only is it much too long, but several excellent studies already exist. This book marks the one hundredth anniversary of Calligrammes, which was published shortly before the end of the First World War. As much as anything, it serves as a memorial to Apollinaire, who completely revolutionized modern poetry. Unlike the poems in my previous book Reading Apollinaire’s Alcools (2017), which are arranged in roughly chronological order, those in the present volume tend to follow the order in which they appear in Calligrammes. Beginning with “Liens” in 1913 and concluding with “La Jolie Rousse” five years later, they fall into two main groups: experimental poetry and war poetry. The poet himself subtitled the collection Poèmes de la paix et de la guerre. Among other things, the poems provide glimpses of Apollinaire’s personal history, from his passionate affair with Louise de Coligny-Châtillon to his frontline courtship of Madeleine Pagès and his eventual marriage to Jacqueline Kolb. In addition, they chronicle Apollinaire’s eventful life at the Front, first as an ordinary artilleryman then as a member of the infantry, where he was promoted to

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Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

first lieutenant. Because he only managed to join the army in December 1914, Apollinaire was spared the horrible fate that befell so many initial volunteers. The French army suffered the worst casualities of the entire war in August and September, with 235,000 men dead or missing in action.1 However, the days ahead were also filled with carnage and were equally horrendous. The FrancoPrussian War had been fought with swords, horses, and single shot rifles. The addition of airplanes, machine guns, and poison gas made modern warfare a much more dangerous proposition. Although Apollinaire was wounded by a piece of shrapnel in 1916, he was lucky to escape with his life. From the beginning, I planned to make Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes a collective venture. In addition to incorporating the work of previous scholars, many of whom I knew personally, and the work of current scholars, many of whom I also know, it includes an up-to-date review of recent Apollinaire criticism. For nineteen poems at least, the book will acquaint future critics with past and present scholarship, summarize the major arguments, and serve as a point of departure for new investigations. If I have somehow failed to acknowledge an article or an author, I apologize in advance. However, the volume is much more than a collection of previous studies. I have subjected each poem to a meticulous line-by-line analysis and conducted a series of dialogues with other critics. I have also examined earlier interpetations in the light of current knowledge and judged them accordingly. Throughout this process, my final goal has been to illuminate each of the nineteen compositions. In more than a few cases, the reader will find that this procedure has produced a brand new interpretation. Since the third generation of Apollinaire scholars is already quite active, one can look forward to more interpretations in the future. Since one of my readers asked me to say a word about my critical methodology, let me say that I have attempted to be completely objective. I realize that total objectivity is an illusion, if not a myth, but at least I have tried to be objective. While my analyses are inevitably colored by my own predelictions, that is the unavoidable nature of literary criticism. What I mean by “objectivity” is that I have tried to remain completely neutral, carefully weighing competing interpretations and coming to logical conclusions. It also means I have thought long and hard about certain problems, in many cases disagreeing with previous analyses and proposing new ones. Finally, it means

Introduction

3

that I do not have a hidden agenda or a special brand of criticism I am trying to promote. Like the French explication de texte, which has taught generations of students how to read and how to think, my approach is partially text-based. The critic’s task is to divide the text into its different parts and to show how they work together to produce a particular effect. Unlike the traditional explication, my approach also considers the interaction between the author, the text, and the reader. The critic’s task is ultimately to explain how these factors contribute to our final understanding of the poem. Although the following analyses may appear monolithic to some readers, they are in no way intended to inhibit further discussion. On the contrary, I hope they will serve as jumping-off points for future discussions. The same reader, whom I thank for his comments, was also interested in learning about changing interpretations of Apollinaire’s work over the years. He was concerned that my presentation of past criticism was essentially ahistorical. One reason for that is that my analyses basically follow the French model. Since discussion usually takes place in the present tense, a kind of leveling occurs in which temporal differences are partially obscured. Another reason is that my analyses strive above all to be synthetic. They combine previous theories, suggestions, and discoveries into a kind of critical collage in which, at least initially, each is just as important as all the others. Although this approach makes it easier to compare and contrast certain ideas, it is inevitably ahistorical. I should add that the poet has attracted serious interest only in the last sixty years or so. In 1967, when I began doctoral studies under Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire studies were merely twelve years old. Astonishingly, his works were not even included in the national curriculum. In retrospect, the author of Calligrammes seems a more impressive figure than the poet who wrote Alcools. By 1918 Apollinaire’s poetic credentials were well established. In addition, he had become a widely-respected spokesman for modern art, the leader of the Parisian avant-garde, and an officer in the French army. Apollinaire had re-invented visual poetry, been wounded in the war, and had co-founded the Theater of the Absurd. Not only had he invented the term “surrealism,” but he had also introduced the future Surrealists to each other, who, following his death in 1918, adopted the neologism for their movement. In France, the first few decades of the twentieth century were dominated by

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Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

two great poets: Apollinaire and Paul Valéry. Whereas the second individual belonged to the Symbolist movement, whose star was gradually waning, the first was destined to become the father of modern French poetry. *** A word about French prosody may be useful for readers whose background is in other languages and other literatures. Since French poetry has a syllabic foundation rather than an accentual one, the length of a line is determined by its number of syllables rather than by its number of feet as in English. The most common lengths are octosyllables, decasyllables, and alexandrines, which contain twelve syllables. The silent “e” at the end of a line is not counted. Neither is the silent “e” at the end of the sixth syllable in alexandrines or after the fourth syllable in decasyllabic poetry. These two breaks are known as the caesura. The two segments are called hémistiches. Some of the more popular rhyme scheme employ rimes croisées (ABAB), rimes embrassées (ABBA), and rimes suivies—also called rimes plates (AABB). However, composing a poem in French is more complicated than composing a poem in English. The rhymes may have one phonetic element (rimes pauvres), two phonetic elements (rimes suffisantes), or three phonetic elements (rimes riches). Rhymes that are too easy, like bonheur and malheur, are called rimes banales and are discouraged. As if that were not enough, rhymes are divided into masculine (ending with an accented vowel) and feminine (ending with an accented vowel plus a mute “e”). Traditionally the two rhymes are supposed to alternate. Modern French poetry takes considerable liberties with these classic rules or, as in the case of vers libres, ignores them altogether. This is a bare bones description. More information can be obtained from a book such as Maurice Grammont’s Petit Traité de versification française.

Note 1

Bruno Cabanes, Août 1914: La France entre en guerre (Paris: Gallimard, 2014), 123.

1

Revolution and Renewal Introducing Calligrammes to the members of the Club du Meilleur Livre in 1955, Michel Décaudin observed that, despite the volume’s astonishing diversity, an unexpected harmony exists between all the poems.1 Serious remarks are juxtaposed with humorous ones, gaiety with melancholy, happiness with anxiety, tenderness with ribaldry, puns with pure poetry, the past with the future, and tradition with the avant-garde. Despite the poems’ obvious differences, one might add, they consistently reflect Apollinaire’s persistent optimism and his vigorous personality. His enthusiasm for life is evident everywhere, even (especially!) in the battlefield poetry, written under difficult conditions in the midst of unspeakable carnage. The same observation applies to Apollinaire’s continual creativity. Besides a certain “élan vers l’avenir,” Claude Debon identifies “une volonté sans cesse réaffirmée de créer du nouveau” that manifests itself throughout the volume.2 Susan Harrow also detects extensive Cubist influence as Apollinaire “probes the fractured experience of a subjectivity shaped by quotidian events and by the desire to wrest free of the real through fantasy and dream-work.”3 These various qualities not withstanding, the history of the reception of Calligrammes has been rather disappointing. Published in 1918, the volume received quite a few decent reviews but was also accompanied by widespread incomprehension. As Claude Debon remarks, “la nouveauté du recueil et en particulier les calligrammes sont passés sous silence ou, au mieux, considérés avec indulgence.”4 The few reviewers who praised the book did so for all the wrong reasons, some of them stressing its patriotism and others insisting on its classical inspiration. Compared to Alcools, which became a classic relatively quickly, Calligrammes failed to make much of an impression on most readers. This unfortunate situation continued for the next eighty years and has

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Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

persisted up to the present day. Not surprisingly, the number of articles and books published about the first volume far exceed those about the second. Many critics found the visual poetry to be childish and the war poetry rather boring. Following the war, in addition, many European artists and writers adopted a conservative aesthetics—the so-called Return to Order. Europe was exhausted economically, morally, and artistically. People yearned for a return to normalcy: the days of endless experimentation were over. Not until the 1970s, when the second generation of Apollinaire critics came of age, did the visual poetry begin to be taken seriously. Ignored for more years than that, the war poetry has begun to be rehabilitated only recently. Entitled “Ondes,” the first section of Calligrammes consists of poems that were mostly composed during 1913 and 1914. These years witnessed a flurry of intense experimentation as poets and painters competed to see who could produce the most important artistic breakthroughs. Alluding to radio waves in particular, the name evokes the telegraphic style that characterizes the poetry in this section. As immediately becomes apparent, the prosody in “Ondes” is much less restrictive than that in Alcools. However, Apollinaire’s decision to eliminate punctuation dates from the previous volume. “Avec cette suppression,” Michel Butor declares, “Apollinaire obtient une nouvelle ‘couleur’ typographique et nous oblige à une lecture différente, détachant chaque vers.”5 Like punctuation, classical meter and classical rhyme have also been abandoned. Incorporating different techniques, Scott Bates notes, his synthetic style allows him to inject “even more of the twentieth century into his simultaneous vision of it.”6 Expressing his passion for contemporary life, Harrow adds, the poems in “Ondes” capture “the sheer diversity of material experience.”7 Apollinaire found the poetic experiments quite exhilarating and recalled them fondly in later years. Unfortunately, just as he was getting into his poetic stride, they were interrupted by the First World War. Although Apollinaire held a Russian passport, and was thus exempt from the draft, he volunteered for the French army and was sent to artillery school. Discussing his experimental poems in a letter to Madeleine Pagès from the front, dated July 30, 1915, he remarked: “ils resortissent à une esthétique toute neuve dont je n’ai plus depuis retrouvé les ressorts.”8

Revolution and Renewal

7

“Liens” Characterized by ambiguity and a constant oscillation between attachment and detachment, Debon remarks, “Liens” appeared in Montjoie! on April 14, 1913— before Apollinaire had conceived the idea of publishing a second volume of poetry.9 Indeed, his first collection Alcools would not appear in print until six days later. Since “Liens” is the very first poem in Calligrammes, one suspects it was intended to serve as a preface. In actuality, as gradually becomes apparent, it was conceived both as an introduction and as a manifesto—like “Zone” in Alcools. Interestingly, “Liens” is the only poem in the volume that is printed entirely in italics. Although the function of this typeface is primarily emphatic, in French usage italics sometimes take the place of quotation marks. With a little effort one can imagine Apollinaire uttering the words himself. Addressing the reader personally, he confides his most intimate thoughts. Cordes faites de cris Sons de clochers à travers l’Europe Siècles pendus Rails qui ligotez les nations Nous ne sommes que deux ou trois hommes Libres de tous liens Donnons-nous la main.

Written in free verse like so many other poems in Calligrammes, “Liens” exemplifies the poet’s collage style. Sentences and stanzas are abruptly juxtaposed with each other like objects in a Cubist painting. Continuing the theme announced by the poem’s title, the first five stanzas illustrate various kinds of bonds. To Debon, the cords recall a poem by Paul Fort, while the cries evoke Baudelaire’s “Les Phares.”10 Mario Richter signals their resemblance to lines of verse, especially those printed in italics as in “Liens.”11 As several critics have pointed out, the poem’s title is ambiguous. Do the “liens” in question constitute a positive force, one wonders, or a negative force? Do they represent connections or constraints? Garnet Rees believes Apollinaire was trying to free himself from Alcools and thus that the bonds represent “constrictions

8

Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

on the poet.”12 According to Timothy Mathews, however, “Liens” and “Les Fenêtres” announce that the poet’s latest project is “not a headstrong rejection of the experience encountered in Alcools.”13 On the contrary, he maintains, Apollinaire seeks to transform this experience into a poetry that reflects a different world filled with new demands. Seen in this light, the “liens” would seem to exert a unifying force on Europe and the world in general. Regardless of the scenario one chooses, the poem’s ambiguity continues unabated. The first three “liens” are purely metaphoric. Because the cries and bells can be heard throughout Europe, Apollinaire compares them to cords binding the continent together. They are something every country shares with its neighbors. Counterbalancing the two spatial metaphors, the “siècles pendus” introduce a temporal metaphor. Linked together historically to form a chain, the centuries seem to be hanging vertically like a string of dead bodies. Since the experiences they embody are in the past, and thus “dead,” Apollinaire compares them to hanged men dangling from a gibbet. Perhaps this is the source of the cries uttered in the first line. As Greet and Lockerbie observe, lines 2 and 3 suggest the simultaneity of space and time in the modern world.14 Similarly, Richter concludes that the cords are “corde spazio-temporale.”15 Whereas the sound of the cries expands horizontally, the bells are hanging vertically like the hanged men. The same critic notes that “Cordes faites de cris” could conceivably refer to vocal cords or even to stringed instruments. Nevertheless, the poem’s ambiguity refuses to disappear. Are the cries in the first line cries of pleasure, one wonders, or are they cries of pain? Are the bells in the second line celebrating a wedding, or are they sounding a death knell? There is simply no way to be sure. Although the next four lines appear at first to dissolve the initial ambiguity, they compound it still further. According to Marc Poupon, railroad tracks extending from one country to another symbolize connection and comradeship: “La camaraderie, mieux encore que les trains, abolit les distances.”16 Because they link different countries together they enable goods and people to travel easily from one region to the next. Debon concurs with Poupon’s assessment and expands the rails’ symbolism to embrace “solidarité.”17 And yet, Mathews observes, “rails that unite people also bind them.”18 The introduction of the verb ligoter changes the situation dramatically. Whether the nations are

Revolution and Renewal

9

“tied up” or “tied together,” the comparison to prisoners is unavoidable. The countries are actually constrained by the rails instead of being liberated by them. The previous illusion of comradeship and solidarity crumbles before our eyes. Even worse, Apollinaire boasts in the next two lines that he and a few friends (doubtless including Picasso) are “libres de tous liens.” The traditional bonds that hold a community together mean nothing to them. This statement recalls a line from “Il Pleut”: “Ecoute tomber les liens qui te retiennent en haut et en bas.” In order to liberate their creativity, Apollinaire declares, he and his friends need to separate themselves from the stifling crowd. At this point, he invites his companions to join hands in what, ironically, looks like a gesture of solidarity. Although they have shed the external bonds that threatened to suffocate them, the bonds of friendship are too precious to abandon. The next two stanzas list additional examples of “liens”: Violente pluie qui peigne les fumées Cordes Cordes tissées Câbles sous-marins Tours de Babel changées en ponts Araignées Pontifes Tous les amoureux qu’un seul lien a liés D’autres liens plus ténus Blancs rayons de lumière Cordes et Concorde.

Recalling “Il Pleut” once again, the first line evokes a violent storm. Besides describing the downpour, the latter poem depicts the rain visually. At the verbal level, Apollinaire compares the streams of rain to women’s voices, marvelous encounters, and bonds. In “Liens,” by contrast, they resemble the teeth of a fine-toothed comb combing through the mysterious smoke that has suddenly materialized. “Cordes tissées” refers both to the underwater cables in the next line and to the Spiders in line 6. Braided rather than woven, the first telephone cable was laid between France and England in 1891. Because the cable transmits multiple voices simultaneously, Apollinaire compares it to a horizontal Tower of Babel that bridges the gap between different countries. “Pontife” derives from the Latin for “bridge builder” and thus continues the

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previous metaphor. Employing an image that occurs elsewhere in Apollinaire’s writings, the last line gives the metaphor a ribald twist. The single bridge that springs up between lovers all over the world, he jokes, is the “pont de chair” that joins them together while they are making love. Composed of only three lines, the next stanza adds another example to the list: sunbeams. Following the violent rain storm, the sun appears and bathes the scene in its light. Night gives way to day and darkness to light. The scene recalls Noah’s experience following the Flood. Connecting heaven and earth, sunlight is a more tenuous “lien” but one endowed with tremendous symbolic value. According to the Bible, Richter reminds us, it is the origin of life itself.19 Like flame, moreover light was one of Apollinaire’s favorite symbols. “J’aime l’art d’aujourd’hui,” he proclaimed in Les Peintres cubistes, “parce que j’aime avant tout la lumière.”20 The wordplay between “Cordes” and “Concorde” in the last line groups all the “liens” together and introduces a note of harmony. Despite their obvious differences, they have a great deal in common. Citing a line from “La Chanson du mal-aimé,” Richter compares them to strings on a solar lyre.21 In addition, Debon believes the final lines “ceignent l’avenir d’une aura mystique.”22 The world will experience a brand new harmony, she concludes, reflecting and perhaps inspired by new forms of communication. The last two stanzas introduce an entirely different subject: J’écris seulement pour vous exalter O sens ô sens chéris Ennemis du souvenir Ennemis du désir Ennemis du regret Ennemis des larmes Ennemis de tout ce que j’aime encore.

These lines are surprising to say the least. After combining the “liens” in a harmonious vision stressing their commonality, Apollinaire reminds us that he and his friends detest “liens.” They have freed themselves from the demands of society and the world in general, presumably by withdrawing into their poetry or, in Picasso’s case, his art. The next step requires that they free themselves from themselves—from the demands imposed by their minds and

Revolution and Renewal

11

their bodies. The first two lines describe the strategy Apollinaire has adopted himself. Hoping to obliterate his past, he concentrates all his attention on his five senses: sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell. His poetry is devoted exclusively to his physical sensations. As Philippe Renaud declares, “il montre une détermination très nette de s’installer au coeur du présent.”23 Memory, desire, regret, and tears have become Apollinaire’s enemies. Interestingly, Rees points out, these used to represent major sources of inspiration.24 His obsession with living in the present moment is entirely new. The problem, as critics have generally recognized, is that Apollinaire’s project requires him to completely re-make himself, to completely restructure his personality—a difficult plan at best. Renaud characterizes it as “un refus de la profondeur psychologique.”25 The very last line is crucial in this regard. It is also extremely ironic. Striving to rid himself of the impediments he has just enumerated, Apollinaire discovers he is still strongly attracted to them. For this reason Margaret Davies finds the last section full of nostalgia.26 The real theme of the poem, Greet and Lockerbie conclude, is “divided sensibility.”27 In their view, the final line confirms the title’s ambivalence. Despite his best efforts, Apollinaire is ultimately betrayed by his own emotions. In the last analysis, the poem is not ironic so much as tragic.

“Les Fenêtres” Captivated by Robert Delaunay’s prismatic views of airplanes and Parisian landmarks, Apollinaire accompanied the artist to Berlin in January 1913, for an exhibition of his paintings at the Der Sturm Gallery. At Delaunay’s request, he had composed a poem for the exhibition’s catalogue, which also appeared in Poème et Drame the same month. By this time, Apollinaire had become familiar with the painter’s theories and with his principal themes. The two men had spent hours and hours discussing these subjects. Since the poem was intended to celebrate Delaunay’s art, Apollinaire chose a title that emphasized his artistic vision: “Les Fenêtres.” Like windows themselves, the metaphor implies, Delaunay’s paintings are transparent rather than opaque. Viewers do not look at them so much as through them. However, the comparison is not with sash windows—windows that slide up and down—but

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with casement windows, windows hinged at the side that open outward. The entire poem revolves about this central metaphor, which is repeated twice more for emphasis. Like Delaunay’s paintings, “Les Fenêtres” opens outward to encompass the entire world.28 Interestingly, the nineteen works at the Der Sturm Gallery included a series of paintings organized around the very same theme: Les Fenêtres (three paintings), Les Fenêtres simultanées, Les Fenêtres-simultanéité, Fenêtres ouvertes simultanément, Fenetres, Les 3 Fenêtres, and La Fenêtre sur la ville, no 3.29 Although Apollinaire had finished the poem before arriving in Berlin, one suspects the title refers to this group of pictures. However, Delaunay himself claimed on two separate occasions that “Les Fenêtres” was indebted to a single work.30 Unfortunately, he identified a different painting each time. Writing in 1913, he claimed the poem was “influenced” by Fenêtre sur la ville (1911–12), which he described as the “premier germe de la Couleur pour la couleur.” Eleven years later, he claimed it was “inspired” by a painting entitled Fenêtres simultanées (1911). “C’est un des premiers documents de poème simultané” he added, “et le premier poème sans ponctuation.” Both works appear to have been included in the Berlin exhibition. Regrettably, since the artist used many of the same titles over and over, it is impossible to identify either one with any certainty. In defense of Delaunay’s claim, the poem only mentions a single window, which opens on line 12 and provides a spectacular conclusion. Nevertheless, the title of the poem is undeniably plural. “Les Fenêtres” evokes multiple windows—the window in the poem, the windows in other paintings by Delaunay, and windows in general. Following his experience with “Zone,” composed slightly earlier, Apollinaire decided to employ a similar style in “Les Fenêtres”—with some important differences. Although contemporary readers found the first poem shocking and thoroughly disorganized, its prosody was fairly traditional. Most of the verses not only rhymed but resembled alexandrines. Impressed by Delaunay’s bold new vision, Apollinaire created an unrhymed verse form that was equally daring. This was not blank verse, as Renée Linkhorn claims, but a kind of exacerbated free verse.31 The number of syllables was not fixed, and the rhythm varied greatly from one line to the next. Linkhorn herself divides “Les Fenêtres” into three sections: lines 1–9, lines 10–32, and lines 33–36 (the

Revolution and Renewal

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conclusion). However, this division ignores the decisive break after line 23, when the scene shifts abruptly to the Caribbean. As will become apparent, the poem falls neatly into two unequal halves. Much, probably far too much, has been written about the origin of “Les Fenêtres.” André Billy claimed Apollinaire wrote it in a café with the help of several friends, Delaunay that he composed the poem in his studio.32 What interests us here is not the work’s origin but rather the shape it finally assumed. Writing to Madeleine Pagès on July 30, 1915, Apollinaire declared “j’aime beaucoup mes vers depuis Alcools . . . et j’aime beaucoup, beaucoup ‘Les Fenêtres.’”33 Since this was the first poem to employ his revolutionary new style, his pride was certainly understandable. At first glance, “Les Fenêtres” resembles a shopping list more than a poem. Written in a bare, telegraphic style, it is characterized by concision and brevity. Each line consists of a single isolated phrase, often lacking a verb, which is juxtaposed with two equally isolated lines above and below. With few exceptions, each line is totally isolated on the page. There are no conjunctions or other grammatical devices to link various themes and motifs together. In an earlier letter sent to Madeleine on July 1, 1915, Apollinaire confided: “J’ai fait mon possible pour simplifier la syntaxe poétique et j’ai réussi en certains cas, notamment un poème: ‘Les Fenêtres.’”34 Like many of the poems in Calligrammes, “Les Fenêtres” is informed by a cubist aesthetic. For better or worse, no fixed points of reference exist to orient the reader. Allusions to the future, the present, and the past mingle with little regard for each other. The kaleidoscopic passage of events is recorded in hasty notations and dislocated phrases. Space and time are telescoped one moment then expanded the next. As Greet and Lockerbie note, external elements play an unusually large role in “Les Fenêtres.”35 The poem sometimes seems to consist entirely of objects, puns, and bits of conversation. Maciej Zurowski is struck by its resemblance to Cubist collages, which incorporate postage stamps, bits of newspaper, and printed material.36 In both cases, Mathews interjects, the objects “remain open-ended, nobody’s possession and mastered by nobody.”37 One of the poem’s most astonishing aspects, Debon adds, is “l’impossibilité d’assigner une origine à l’énonciation.”38 Although disembodied voices are heard from time to time, none of them seem to be identifiable—least of all

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Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

the narrator’s voice. Words simply materialize on the page with no indication of their origin or, for that matter, their destination. For all practical purposes, “Les Fenêtres” has no narrator—disembodied or otherwise. The poem is an objective portrait of a world in which Apollinaire is conspicuously absent. Although some critics persist in calling “Les Fenêtres” a “poème-conversation,” Margaret Davies remarks, “this is not strictly true.”39 While it may contain snatches of conversation—and this is far from certain—at best they are only snatches. The bulk of the poem is concerned with other things entirely. Debon insists the term should really be applied to a poem like “Lundi rue Christine,” which consists in large part of spoken dialogue.40 “Les Fenêtres” is best described in more general terms—as a “simultaneous poem.” Not only was Delaunay the first person to see Apollinaire’s finished composition, but he was also the first to name it. “C’est un des premiers documents de poème simultané,” he announced, applying a term he had previously reserved for his painting. Ian Lockerbie defines simultanism (or simultaneity) as “la juxtaposition dynamique d’éléments qui, dans le monde réel, sont séparés.”41 Debon expands this definition to include actions that take place at different times or in different locations. “Il s’agit . . . de rompre avec la linéarité temporelle du discours, ou de la narration, pour aplatir en quelque sorte le temps.”42 K. R. Dutton’s definition is oriented more toward practice than theory. According to him, poetic simultanism requires three things: the absence of punctuation, simplified syntax, and puns.43 By contrast, Apollinaire’s definition was much simpler. Discussing Delaunay’s paintings in December 1912, he concluded: “cette simultanéité, c’est la vie même.”44 Not only was “Les Fenêtres” Apollinaire’s first simultaneous poem, Delaunay proclaimed, but it was also his first poem with no punctuation.45 Interestingly, he deleted the punctuation marks in Alcools at about the same time. Since the manuscript had already gone to the printer, Apollinaire waited for the proofs before carrying out his plan—in early November 1912.46 Much has been written about his shocking decision, which received widespread publicity when Alcools appeared in print. Many of the reviewers paid more attention to this disquieting feature than to the poetry itself. Among the possible models that could have persuaded Apollinaire to take this drastic step, Michel Décaudin cites Stéphane Mallarmé, Georges Rouault, and F. T. Marinetti, among others, who also dispensed with punctuation at one time or another.47

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Critics have claimed that Apollinaire wanted to make a big splash when Alcools was published, which is probably true. More than anything, however, he was concerned with how the volume would be perceived. Eliminating the punctuation was one way to stress the poetry’s modernity. That Alcools and “Les Fenêtres” were subjected to the same operation at practically the same time is provocative to say the least. Although definitive proof remains to be discovered, the poem seems to have been the first to undergo this treatment. The abolition of punctuation was part—and only part—of a larger program by Apollinaire to develop a brand new style. Struck by the radical nature of Delaunay’s art, which he had been commissioned to celebrate in “Les Fenêtres,” Apollinaire created an equally radical poetic genre— the poème simultané. Although this is not the place for a detailed comparison, the two aesthetics had more than a few things in common. Traditional perspective was banished in both the paintings and the poems, for example. While much of Delaunay’s art was representational, moreover, it was far from realistic. His experiments with prismatic colors, in particular, allied him to the abstract painters. Simultaneous poetry also oscillated between representation and abstraction. Isolated on the page and removed from their original context, the seemingly random phrases ceased to have much meaning. In retrospect, Delaunay’s impact on Apollinaire’s poetry seems to have been much greater than anyone has imagined. Not only did the experience encourage the poet to revise Alcools, but it supplied him with both the style and the inspiration he needed to write Calligrammes. Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales Abatis de pihis Il y a un poème à faire sur l’oiseau qui n’a qu’une aile Nous l’enverrons en message téléphonique Traumatisme géant Il fait couler les yeux Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche Tu soulèveras le rideau Et maintenant voilà que s’ouvre la fenêtre Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière

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Reading Apollinaire’s Calligrammes

Beauté pâleur insondables violets Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos On commencera à minuit Quand on a le temps on la liberté Bigorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l’Oursin du couchant Une vieille paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre Tours Les Tours ce sont les rues Puits Puits ce sont les places Puits.

As Lockerbie proclaims, “Les Fenêtres” is one of Apollinaire’s most ambitious and most calculated poems.48 To be sure, Delaunay’s take on simultanism differed considerably from Apollinaire’s. The only simultaneity that interested the artist was the simultaneous contrasts of complementary colors. “Le contraste simultané,” he told the poet, “assure le dynamisme des couleurs et leur construction . . . dans le tableau et il est le moyen le plus fort d’expression de la réalité.”49 Scientists have proven that Delaunay was correct. Juxtaposing two complementary colors makes each one appear brighter. On the whole, “Les Fenêtres” reflects Apollinaire’s desire to achieve the same purity that Delaunay had achieved in painting. More particularly, it represents an attempt to adapt the latter’s artistic technique to poetry. Convinced that the poem proceeds phonetically, Rosanna Warren and Beatrice Waggaman treat it like a musical score.50 On the contrary, Zurowski explains, “Les Fenêtres” advances by means of simultaneous contrasts like those in Delaunay’s paintings.51 The first line would seem to bear him out: “Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt.” According to nineteenth century color theory, Greet and Lockerbie explain, red set down next to yellow introduces a “dissonance.”52 Michael L. Rowland is more explicit. “Red juxtaposed with yellow produces a sensation not only of orange, their intermediate color, but also of green, which is red’s complementary.”53 Thus “le jaume se meurt” could mean something like “the yellow deteriorates.” However, another interpretation is equally possible. The colors in the spectrum are arranged as follows: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Since red is at the left end, yellow in the third position, and green

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to its right, yellow (like orange) will “fade away” as the eye moves from left to right and vice versa. It will only be visible for a moment.54 The traditional color wheel contains three complementary pairs, only two of which are present in “Les Fenêtres.” Red and green are contrasted in lines 1 and 35; yellow and violet in a complex series of interactions involving lines 1, 6, 13, and 18. Clark claims the ambiguous “traumatisme géant” (line 6) is a wound of some sort and thus red.55 However, it more likely represents a purplish bruise and thus anticipates the “insondables violets” on line 13. Bergman believes the “lumière” in line 12 is yellow, which would create even more contrasts with violet.56 Although “Les Fenêtres” contains a number of references to Delaunay’s art, Greet and Lockerbie point out, it is largely concerned with the poet’s reaction to his art.57 Because Apollinaire is the poem’s author, one automatically assumes—rightly or wrongly—that the first words and thoughts are his. Evoking Delaunay’s fascination with prismatic effects, the first line reminds Apollinaire of flashy macaws flying about a tropical rain forest. Greet and Lockerbie inform us that the birds come in three models: blue and yellow, red and blue, and red and green.58 Echoing the first line, those in “Les Fenêtres” exemplify the third model—and contribute yet another simultaneous contrast to the poem. In turn, the macaws remind Apollinaire of mythical Chinese pihi birds, encountered previously in “Zone,” who fly in couples, since each has only a single wing. One of my readers suggested that “pihi” could be read as a verbal icon with the two dots representing the eyes, and the letter “h” the body, of this flying bird couple. Abat(t)is continues to bedevil translators because it signifies several different things. Since two of these are “heaps” and “slaughter,” the line probably means something like “Heaps of dead pihis.” What happened to them is difficult to say. That they are all piled together, however, suggests they were killed by human beings. Following a procedure Pierre Brunel calls “mythocritique,” Madeleine Boisson claims the first seven lines describe a sunset.59 In reality there are only two dead pihis, she claims, which represent “les deux yeux du soleil . . . crevés.” What a great poem the pihis would make, Apollinaire thinks to himself, written in a telephonic rather than a telegraphic style. After all a modern poem deserves to be transmitted by a modern device. Or perhaps Apollinaire speaks these lines out loud instead of merely thinking them. The presence of “Nous”

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in line 5 suggests he could even be talking to someone else. Or perhaps this person is talking to him. Or the lines could conceivably be uttered by each of them in turn. Without providing any answers, the poem encourages readers to consider multiple possibilities simultaneously. In the best modern tradition, “Les Fenêtres” is riddled with ambiguity and indeterminacy. Although Apollinaire created the physical text, it is the reader who will construct the final poem. Metaphor introduces a certain amount of ambiguity as well. “Il fait couler les yeux” generates two possible interpretations involving cause and effect. At the realistic level, a painful bruise appears to be making someone cry. At the figurative level, John Wesley Cameron notes, Delaunay’s beautiful violet effects seem to be moving someone to tears.60 Little by little it becomes clear that the poem is situated in the artist’s studio—where most, if not all, of it was in fact composed. Apollinaire’s thoughts and observations are generated by pictures hanging on the wall. Regrettably, nothing is known about the girls from Turin or the man sporting the white tie. Uttered by an anonymous voice, “Voilà” indicates that the speaker actually sees the girls, that they are not merely products of his imagination. Since the curtain is drawn, preventing anyone from looking outside, the girls must be in the studio somewhere. As in “1909,” one suspects Apollinaire is looking at an illustrated calendar. Why the latter should remind him of the unfortunate young man, however, is more difficult to explain. Perhaps the calendar is left over from the previous year (1911), when Apollinaire spent a week in jail after returning two statuettes an acquaintance had stolen from the Louvre.61 Viewed in this light, there is a strong possibility that the young man is Apollinaire himself. Judging from newspaper photographs, he seems to have been wearing a white tie when he was arrested. Again evoking Delaunay’s paintings, the next four lines are deliberately ambiguous. They may represent speech, Apollinaire’s thoughts, or a combination of the two. That the main verb is in the future is initially puzzling, but this construction can sometimes be employed as a neutral imperative. Lifting the curtain, someone merely called “tu” pushes the window open and reveals the scene outside. There are three possibilities. The action may have been performed by another person, by Apollinaire (addressing himself in the third person), or even by the reader. As Linkhorn comments, “la fenêtre ouverte prend des

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valeurs multiples: c’est la fenêtre de la chambre et aussi celle de l’esprit.”62 The gesture reverberates on at least three levels: realistic, metaphoric, and, for lack of a better word, ultra-metaphoric. The window is an actual window first of all before coming to represent Delaunay’s paintings. And, since “tu” may theoretically designate the poem’s reader, the window may also represent the composition itself. The next two lines describe what awaits the viewer who opens Delaunay’s artistic window he or she can expect to encounter purple hues whose depths are inexhaustible. Like spiders, Apollinaire adds, the artist’s hands are adept at spinning light into violet silk. Although they look perfectly straight-forward, lines 14–16 are among the most difficult verses to explicate. Not only is there a total lack of context, but there is no indication as to who is speaking. “Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos” could possibly refer to Apollinaire’s week in jail, during which the bright lights were kept on all night. Juxtaposed with the following line, however, it recalls a similar passage in “Lundi rue Christine” where several individuals are planning to commit a crime later that night. Like those lines, they sound as if they were spoken aloud and overheard by Apollinaire. They also bolster André Billy’s claim that “Les Fenêtres” was written, at least in part, in a café. Line 16 introduces the first of several puns in the poem: “Quand on a le temps on a la liberté.” As Greet and Lockerbie note, this is both a serious statement and a jeu de mots.63 Speaking from experience, Apollinaire knew how difficult it was to find the free time in which to write poetry. On another level, since Le Temps and La Liberté were Parisian newspapers, he implies that they are basically indistinguishable. Like Delaunay’s paintings, the final seven lines present a series of simultaneous contrasts. Thoughts, observations, and impressions are combined in a sort of mental collage. The first line juxtaposes a fish, several kinds of shells, and a sea urchin to create a marine still-life. Found all along the Normandy coast, for example, “bigorneaux” are small whelks with spiral shells. They are eaten raw in the shell using a pin to pry out the meat. “Lottes” can be found both in fresh water, where they are called “burbots,” and in salt water, as in this case, where they are known as “monkfish” (among other things). Although the “soleils” could theoretically be sunfish, the latter live in fresh water. As Cameron has discovered, the reference is to a species of mollusk, including scallops, whose

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shell exhibits a sunburst pattern.64 Since the latter resembles the rising sun, they are known colloquially as “coquilles soleil.” Interestingly, the sea urchin that completes Apollinaire’s series evokes the setting sun. In both cases, the scene is bathed in an orange light that anticipates the poem’s conclusion. Since the urchin itself is purple, moreover, it adds to the interplay between violet and yellow. According to Delaunay, the image was inspired by a sea urchin skeleton in his studio, leaving one to wonder if that describes the whelks and the other shells as well. Clark and Kay both suggest that “oursin” also refers to the Little Dipper, although the time of day hardly seems propitious.65 Despite an attempt by Clark to give all four images the circular shape of the sun, only the last two fit that description: the mollusks and the sea urchin. A text by Empedocles, however, provides an additional connection between urchins and the sun.66 Cameron conjectures that the salt water still-life was inspired by a display of seafood Apollinaire passed on his way from the café, where he apparently began the poem, to Delaunay’s studio. Like the girls from Turin, however, it could just as well have been suggested by a picture on the studio wall. According to Delaunay himself, finally, the pair of yellow boots under the window were his. The remaining lines were inspired by various Delaunay paintings featuring the Eiffel Tower. The Berlin exhibition, for instance, included works entitled: Les Tours, Les Tours de Notre-Dame, La Tour et la Roue, and La Tour Rouge.67 Up to this point, “Les Fenêtres” has concentrated on the studio’s interior. Nevertheless, the window does not open just onto the artist’s paintings, it also opens onto the world outside. Approaching the window, at least in his imagination, Apollinaire gazes out at the Eiffel Tower and down at the streets below. Fittingly, since the monument is depicted in multiple paintings by Delaunay, he sees multiple towers and wells. More than anything else, he is intrigued by the way a change in perspective can alter an object’s appearance. Seen from an elevated angle, for example, a street receding into the distance can appear to have the same shape and proportions as a pointed tower. René Magritte would illustrate this astonishing fact years later in Euclidian Walks (1955). The multiple towers in “Les Fenêtres,” it turns out, are mainly multiple streets. The multiple wells are actually public squares seen from high overhead. Ever vigilant, Linkhorn detects several puns that foreshadow the list of towns

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in the second half: “Tours” evokes the city in the Loire valley and “Puits” several towns whose name begins with “Puy.”68 In addition, as previously in “La Tzigane,” a play on words exists between “puits” and the adverb “puis.” The second half of “Les Fenêtres” continues Apollinaire’s survey of the outside world: Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir Aux Chabines marronnes Et l’oie oua-oua trompette au nord Où les chasseurs de ratons Raclent les pelleteries Etincelant diamant Vancouver Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l’hiver O Paris Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles La fenêtre s’ouvre comme une orange Le beau fruit de la lumière.

Suddenly the scene changes, and for no apparent reason readers find themselves transported to North America—first, to the southern United States and then to the frozen North. As Clark has neatly demonstrated, the characters in the first six lines and their activities were borrowed from an anti-slavery novel by Thomas Mayne Reid entitled The Quadroon (1856).69 Apollinaire read a French translation (twice) while he was languishing in jail. Curiously, although the action is situated in Louisiana, the translator chose to use three terms borrowed from the French Antilles. Perhaps no other terms were available. “Câpresses,” “Chabins,” and “Chabines” describe slaves with one Negro parent and one Mulatto parent. Since a Mulatto is half white, they are one-quarter Caucasian and three-quarters Negro. Although the Chabines are supposedly the only escaped slaves (“marronnes”), this description appears to fit them all—especially the “Câpresses vagabondes.” Freed from their former servitude, the fugitives lead a romantic life, singing and dancing all day long. The hackneyed conceit and racial stereotype are all too familiar. Further north, across the Canadian border, trumpeting geese fly high overhead as rugged

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mountain men prepare to tan a pile of raccoon hides. Like the escaped slaves, these characters were all taken from The Quadroon. The expression “l’oie oua-oua” obviously tickled Apollinaire, who liked to inject a little humor from time to time. Combining onomatopoeia with echolalia, it represents an amusing etymological exercise. Beginning with the capital of British Columbia, the remainder of the poem is sprinkled with the names of various towns. Since it is winter, Vancouver is covered with copious amounts of ice and snow. That Apollinaire compares it to a sparkling diamond, according to Greet and Lockerbie, suggests not only that it is evening but also that the city lights are reflected in its facetted surface.70 This impression is confirmed by the next line, in which a snow-covered train, windows blazing with light, streaks across the landscape trying to escape winter. At this point, the scene shifts to Paris, where the prismatic first line is repeated: “Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt.” Evoking Delaunay’s paintings once again, it provides the poem with a symmetrical frame and prepares the reader for the conclusion. No sooner has Apollinaire returned to Paris, however, than he appears to embark on an epic journey. Paris, Vancouver, Hyères, Maintenon, New York, and the Caribbean flash by in quick succession. Hyères is a picturesque seaside town in Provence. Maintenon is a small town located in the center of France. Juxtaposed with each other, they constitute an amusing play on the words hier and maintenant. Convinced that Apollinaire borrowed the idea of a geographical survey from Walt Whitman, Zurowski thinks the line describes an imaginary train trip.71 On the contrary, Boisson believes it describes an imaginary airplane trip.72 Bergman makes no mention of a train or an airplane but disagrees that the poet was inspired by Whitman.73 In any case, Apollinaire did not need to look outside France for inspiration. Indeed, he did not need to look outside Paris. The model he was seeking was provided by Delaunay, whose works bore similar titles. Among the paintings the artist sent to the Erster Deutsche Herbstsalon in 1913, for instance, was one entitled 4e Représentation Simultanée: Paris New York Berlin Moscou La Tour Simultanée. Since the medium was painting, the cities in the title were intended to be apprehended simultaneously—like the rest of the picture. Inspired by Delaunay’s example, Apollinaire set out to create the first simultaneous poem in which, theoretically,

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everything would be experienced at the same time. There is thus no question of visiting the cities enumerated in “Les Fenêtres,” even in the fastest airplane available. The poem presents an instantaneous birds-eye view of the world in which space and time have been abolished. “Quand le poète ouvre les fenêtres de son imaginaire,” Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas explain, “il embrasse d’un seul regard l’extrême Orient et le Nouveau Monde, à minuit l’heure zero où convergent hier, maintenant, demain.”74 The poem concludes with a striking simile and an equally striking metaphor. “Jusqu’à lui,” Louis Aragon declared, speaking of Apollinaire, “personne peut-être n’avait tant aimé les images.”75 Opening the two sides of the casement window at the same time, the poet announces, is like opening an orange after it has been peeled. Requiring the use of both hands, the two actions are deliberate, symmetrical, and revealing. Sporadic glimpses of the color orange in the course of the poem culminate in a vision of an orange fruit at the end. Although Apollinaire and Delaunay both mention “le beau fruit de la lumière,” no one knows which one invented the phrase. For Delaunay the expression refers to color in general, which is determined by the way light strikes a pigment. For Apollinaire, the expression simply refers to the fruit of the orange tree. In “Les Fenêtres,” paradoxically, the term “orange” seems to have acquired both meanings. Like the fruit glowing with radiant energy, the scene is suffused with a beautiful orange light. As Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas astutely surmise, the source of this light is the sun, which is either rising or setting (or both).76 Like the luminous orange, which is depicted as a miniature sun, the sun itself is depicted as a giant fruit.

Notes 1

Michel Décaudin, ed., Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes (Paris: Le Club du Meilleur Livre, 1955), 179.

2

Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 43.

3

Susan Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self: Subjectivity and Representation from Rimbaud to Réda (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 64.

4 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 41.

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  5 Michel Butor, “Préface,” in Calligrammes, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), 9.   6 Scott Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 106.   7 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 65 and 75.   8 Guillaume Apollinaire, Tendre comme le souvenir (Paris: Gallimard, 1952), 71.   9 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 41. 10 Ibid., 56. 11 Mario Richter, “Apollinaire,” in Il Rinnovamento della scrittura poetica all’inizio del novecento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990), 82. He speculates that the bells may have been suggested by a similar image in Rimbaud’s “Phrases” (p. 83). 12 Garnet Rees, “From Alcools to Calligrammes,” Essays in French Literature 17 (November 1980): 31–2. 13 Timothy Mathews, Reading Apollinaire: Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987), 152. 14 Anne Hyde Greet and S.I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 348. 15 Richter, Apollinaire, 82. 16 Marc Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars (Paris: Minard, 1969), 29. 17 Claude Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 49. 18 Mathews, Reading Apollinaire, 152. 19 Richter, Apollinaire, 87. 20 Guillaume Apollinaire, Méditations poétiques: Les Peintres cubistes (1913), in Oeuvres en prose complètes, vol. 2, ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 18. 21 Richter, Apollinaire, 87. 22 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools”, 50. 23 Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 274. 24 Rees, “From Alcools to Calligrammes,” 32. 25 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 274. 26 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1964), 225. 27 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 348. 28 For a larger overview of the poem’s window symbolism, see Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 365. 29 Pär Bergman, “A propos des ‘Fenêtres’ et de ‘Tour,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes 69–70 (1962): 63.

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30 Robert Delaunay, Du cubisme à l’art abstrait, ed. Pierre Francastel (Paris: SEVPEN, 1957), 63 and 111. 31 Renée Linkhorn, “‘Les Fenêtres’: Propos sur trois poèmes,” French Review 44, no. 3 (February 1971): 518–19. 32 For a detailed account of this dispute, see Michel Décaudin, “Une Controverse sur ‘Les Fenêtres,’” Que Vlo-Ve?” Bulletin International des Etudes sur Apollinaire, 3rd ser., 3 (July–September 1991): 72–8. 33 Apollinaire, Tendre comme le souvenir, 70. 34 Ibid., 48. 35 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes”, 350. 36 Maciej Zurowski, “‘Les Fenêtres’ d’Apollinaire,” Kwartalnik Neofilologiczny 6, no. 1 (1959): 18–19. 37 Mathews, Reading Apollinaire, 135. 38 Claude Debon, Claude Debon commente “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2004), 54. 39 Davies, Apollinaire, 217. 40 Debon, Claude Debon commente, 56. 41 S. I. Lockerbie, “Qu’est-ce que l’orphisme,” in Apollinaire et la musique, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Minuit 1967), 85. 42 Debon, Claude Debon commente, 60. 43 K. R. Dutton, “Apollinaire and Communication,” Australian Journal of French Studies 5, no. 3 (September–December 1968): 309–10 . For a detailed discussion of simultanism, see Pär Bergman, “Modernolatria” et “Simultaneità” (Uppsala: Svenska/Bonniers, 1962), 263–78 and 337–411. 44 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Réalité, peinture pure,” Der Sturm 3, nos. 138–9 (December 1912): 224–5. Repr. in Apollinaire Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin, 1594. 45 Davies, Apollinaire, 217. 46 Michel Décaudin, Le Dossier d’“Alcools,” rev. ed. (Geneva: Droz and Paris: Minard, 1965), 39. 47 Ibid. 48 S. I. Lockerbie, “Le Rôle de l’imagination dans Calligrammes, première partie: ‘Les Fenêtres’ et le poème-créé,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 146–9 (1966): 8. He maintains, however, that Apollinaire confused the technique of contrastes simultanés with a previous technique (“Le Rôle de l’imagination dans

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26

Calligrammes,” 9). For a rebuttal, see J. G. Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les Fenêtres,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes 183–8 (1968): 100–11. 49 Quoted by Apollinaire in “Réalité, peinture pure,” 495. 50 Rosanna Warren, “Orpheus the Painter: Apollinaire and Robert Delaunay,” Criticism 30, no. 3 (Summer 1988): 279–301. Beatrice Waggaman, “Art abstrait pictural et poétique dans ‘Les Fenêtres’ de Delaunay et d’Apollinaire,” Revue de Litterature Comparee 69, no. 3 (1995): 287–95. 51 Zurowski, “‘Les Fenêtres’ d’Apollinaire,” 19. 52 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 351. 53 Michael L. Rowland, “Apollinaire’s ‘Les Fenêtres,’” The Explicator 35, no. 1 (1978): 24–5. 54 Catherine Moore and Anna Saint-Léger Lucas claim that se mourir designates a continuing action and thus that yellow is always on the point of disappearing (“Questions de perspective dans ‘Merveille de la guerre’ et ‘Les Fenêtres’,” Apollinaire et le portrait, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Minard, 2001), 176. 55 Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les Fenêtres,’” 105. 56 Bergman, “A propos des ‘Fenêtres,’” 63. 57 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 350. 58 Ibid., 351. 59 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano di Puglia: Schena & Paris: Nizet, 1989), 385–7. 60 John Wesley Cameron, “Apollinaire and the Painters: His Poetic Orphism” (doctoral thesis, Indiana University, 1955). Reference by Renaud in Lecture d’Apollinaire, 352. 61 For a picture of the statuettes, see John Golding, Cubism: A History and an Analysis 1907–1914 (New York: Harper and Row, 1968), 53–4. 62 Linkhorn, “Les Fenêtres,” 519. 63 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 352. 64 Cameron, Apollinaire and the Painters, 97. 65 Clark, “Delaunay, Apollinaire et ‘Les Fenêtres,’” 109 and W. Blandford Kay, “Apollinaire’s ‘Les Fenêtres,’” The Explicator 22 (1964): item 38. 66 See Lionel Follet, “Apollinaire, lecteur d’Empédocle,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 576–81 (1980): 60–1. 67 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 351. 68 Linkhorn, “‘Les Fenêtres,’” 520.

Revolution and Renewal 69 J.G. Clark, “De fil en aiguille: complément à une étude,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 576–81 (1980): 45–8. 70 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 354. 71 Zurowski, “‘Les Fenêtres’ d’Apollinaire,” 29. 72 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 385. 73 Bergman, “A propos des ‘Fenêtres,’” 65, n. 8. 74 Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas, “Questions de perspective,” 182. 75 Louis Aragon, “Calligrammes,” L’Esprit nouveau 1, no. 1 (October 1920): 105. 76 Moore and Saint-Léger Lucas, “Questions de perspective,” 184.

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Simultaneous Exercises During the period 1912–14, a fierce debate erupted in Paris concerning which artist or writer had been the first to utilize simultaneity. Annoyed by all the claims and counter-claims, Apollinaire cited his own simultaneous accomplishments. Writing in Les Soirées de Paris, he protested: “On a donné ici des poèmes où cette simultanéité existait dans l’esprit et dans la lettre même puisqu’il est impossible de les lire sans concevoir immédiatement la simultanéité de ce qu’ils expriment, poèmes-conversation où le poète au centre de la vie enregistre en quelque sorte le lyrisme ambiant.”1 Although Apollinaire did not cite them by name, the poems to which he was referring were “Lundi rue Christine,” “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” and “Rotsoge” (later retitled “A travers l’Europe”). While all three contain extensive simultaneous passages, as we will see, “Lundi rue Christine” is the only work that really fits Apollinaire’s description.

“Lundi rue Christine” Published in Les Soirées de Paris on December 15, 1913, “Lundi rue Christine” pushed simultaneous poetry to the absolute limit. Conceived as a poèmeconversation, it juxtaposes phrases overheard in a café on the rue Christine with random thoughts and observations. Although Madeleine Boisson believes Apollinaire originally borrowed the idea from a short story by Jean Richepin, there are enormous differences between the two texts.2 Whereas the speakers in “Lundi rue Christine” are entirely anonymous, those in the short story are identified by name. Whereas the phrases in the first work are simultaneous, those in the second are sequential. Boisson’s account of the

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event that precipitated the poem is also suspect. Drawing on a description by André Salmon, published twenty years later, she maintains that Apollinaire and his friends originally went to the café to found Le Festin d’Esope.3 Unfortunately, the journal antedates “Lundi rue Christine” by a good ten years. According to the poet Jacques Dyssord, on the contrary, the gathering took place toward the end of 1913, which seems much more likely. Astonishingly, given all the different voices in the poem, Apollinaire and his friends were “les seuls clients de ce petit café, ce soir-là.”4 Thus much, if not most, of “Lundi rue Christine” appears to be pure fabrication. Dyssord provides other details that clarify various references in the poem. As welcome as these are for the average person, Philippe Renaud points out that they seriously distort the original composition.5 He invites readers to reread “Lundi rue Christine” while ignoring extraneous information that others have provided. Only then will they experience the work as the author originally intended. The role of Apollinaire himself in the poem is curious to say the least. Theoretically reduced to that of a tape recorder, he is effectively banished from his own composition. He is present as a witness, but he cannot interact with other people around him. As Renaud observes, Apollinaire’s absence parallels that of other people in the café, whom we hear but never see.6 No longer an original creation since it has no author, the poem resembles one of Marcel Duchamp’s “ready-mades,” which depend on chance discovery rather than creativity. An early example of aleatory poetry, at least in theory, “Lundi rue Christine” anticipates future compositions by Dada and Surrealist poets. In the absence of a narrator, it is left to the reader to interpret the random snatches of conversation. Despite these restrictions, one senses the author’s presence nevertheless. Somebody had to collect the spoken fragments, after all, and somebody had to arrange them on the page. Elsewhere in the document quoted at the beginning of the chapter, Apollinaire noted that simultaneity had preoccupied Picasso and Braque as early as 1907, “qui s’efforçaient de représenter des figures et des objets sous plusieurs faces à la fois.”7 In “Lundi rue Christine,” Margaret Davies notes, “the poet emulates his painter friends, who have been busy developing ‘a method of becoming inhuman.’”8 Borrowed from Apollinaire’s Les Peintres cubistes (1913), the concept of inhumanity describes the goal of modern art

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in general—to exclude the artist from the finished work.9 Just as the Cubists used pieces of real material to create their pictures, Davies adds, “Lundi rue Christine” employs real fragments of speech. Apollinaire exploits the Cubist principle of fragmentation to the maximum. “The blocks of words become shorter,” Leroy C. Breunig observes, “the images and statements more heterogeneous. Notations replace complete sentences.”10 Juxtaposed with each other, the fragments form a dense collage of overlapping statements—like the overlapping planes in a Cubist painting. Renaud divides them into four categories. Some lines are spoken aloud, some describe the café’s appearance, some express the author’s ideas, and some are authorial interventions.11 As one would expect, since this is a conversation poem, spoken phrases are the most numerous, followed by descriptive phrases. Since Apollinaire is not supposed to participate, however, the last two categories are problematic. Another idea might be to classify the forty-eight phrases according to the cognitive process involved: sight, sound, or thought. La mère de la concierge et la concierge laisseront tout passer Si tu es un homme tu m’accompagneras ce soir Il suffirait qu’un type maintint la porte cochère Pendant que l’autre monterait Trois becs de gaz allumés La patronne est poitrinaire Quand tu aura fini nous jouerons une partie de jacquet Un chef d’orchestre qui a mal à la gorge Quand tu viendras à Tunis je te ferai fumer du kief Ça a l’air de rimer Des piles de soucoupes des fleurs un calendrier Pim pam pim Je dois fiche près de 300 francs à ma probloque Je préférerais me couper le parfaitement que de les lui donner.

While the women in the poem don’t count for much, Boisson comments, the men are either professionals or involved in literature or the arts: “C’est le milieu auquel appartiennent le poète et ses amis.”12 By contrast, Debon is horrified by the petty criminals and other unsavory types that frequent the café.

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The first stanza reproduces a conversation between two burglars, for example, who are planning to ransack someone’s apartment. Instead of reporting them to the police, the building’s caretakers have agreed to look the other way! While the dirty dishes pile up on the counter by the sink, another customer is planning to abscond without paying his overdue rent. In addition, Debon notes, “les personnages sont malades, peu ragoûtants ou sales.”13 She cites the consumptive proprietress, the orchestra leader with an infected throat, and several other clients that will be encountered later. Not surprisingly, in view of the café’s sleazy clientele, slang expressions are also sprinkled throughout the poem. The “type” on line 3 who will watch the building’s entrance and the customer on line 13 who “doi[t] fiche près de 300 francs à [sa] probloque” are good examples. Besides creating a realistic setting, such expressions have an important role to play. As Susan Harrow points out, they challenge the arbitrary separation of poetic lyricism and living language. In addition, they “communicate the immediacy of contemporary socio-cultural experience in the very language of that experience.”14 For Boisson, the poem is filled with sexual references. In particular, she detects “le thème secret du doute sur la virilité et des angoisses liées à ce doute.”15 Observing that the theme of masculine virility is introduced in the second line, she suggests that entering the “porte cochère” is a coded reference for sexual intercourse, in this case apparently rape. In a similar vein, Boisson recalls that Mallarmé employs bec de gaz as a phallic symbol and that the three gas jets in the poem are “allumés.” In addition to registering sounds, such as the invitation to play backgammon, Apollinaire possesses the ability to record what he sees (the gas jets and the orchestra leader) and what he thinks (the observation concerning the café’s proprietress). Since Jacques Dyssord confided that he was leaving for Tunisia the next day, line 7 is obviously uttered by him (not by Apollinaire as Greet and Lockerbie imply). According to Apollinaire, Dyssord was going to Tunis for his health and to become the editor of a journal.16 A popular intoxicant in North Africa, kief is powdered marijuana smoked in a narrow pipe with a small bowl. At this point, someone notices that “kief ” and “Tunis” nearly rhyme. Although the phrase probably represents one of Apollinaire’s thoughts, it could also be pronounced by somebody in the group. The following stanza begins with a description of saucers piled on the counter

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next to a calendar and a vase of flowers. Unlike Debon, who is disgusted by the dirty dishes, Harrow finds the objects interesting. “With its tropes of consumption, nature, and transience,” she writes, the construction resembles a still-life composition that embraces everyday reality.17 A certain amount of disagreement exists about the next line: “Pim pam pim.” Although some critics think it refers to sexual intercourse, it is hard to see how that interpretation would fit in here. More than likely, as has been suggested, the line records kitchen noises such as dishes being clinked together. The next two lines are uttered by the disgruntled renter who is plotting to cheat his landlord. Although some critics believe the last line refers to auto-castration, this is far from clear. The reader’s initial impression is that “parfaitement” refers to the speaker’s penis. In defense of this interpretation, Debon cites a scurrilous quatrain about women, who “manquent les parfaitement / Pour entrer au Parlement.”18 Nevertheless, the lack of agreement between the article and the noun is an indication that something is wrong here. It should either be “le parfaitement” or “les parfaitements.” If the term really means “penis,” moreover, it has escaped the extraordinarily diligent notice of Scott Bates, who published a Dictionnaire des mots libres d’Apollinaire in 1991. His suggestion, in conversation with the present author, was that “parfaitement” represents a sudden interjection by somebody else. The lack of punctuation in “Lundi rue Christine” obscures this crucial distinction. The initial confusion about the meaning of “parfaitement” was perpetuated subsequently by the authors of the scurrilous quatrain. Thinking it meant “penis,” Ardengo Soffici and Giovanni Papini—both good friends of Apollinaire—apparently borrowed the term from “Lundi rue Christine.” Finally, it is by no means certain that the missing word in the poem is “penis.” The speaker could just as easily be referring to his arm. Je partirai à 20 h. 27 Six glaces s’y dévisagent toujours Je crois que nous allons nous embrouiller encore davantage Cher monsieur Vous êtes un mec à la mie de pain Cette dame a le nez comme un ver solitaire Louise a oublié sa fourrure

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Moi je n’ai pas de fourrure et je n’ai pas froid Le Danois fume sa cigarette en consultant l’horaire Le chat noir traverse la brasserie Ces crèpes étaient exquises La fontaine coule Robe noire comme ses ongles C’est complètement impossible Voici monsieur La bague en malachite Le sol est semé de sciure Alors c’est vrai La serveuse rousse a été enlevée par un libraire.

If Apollinaire and his friends are having an aperitif in the café, the time could be 6:00 or 7:00 p.m. In which case, the first line could be uttered by anybody who is planning to go home for dinner. If they are getting together after dinner, the time could be around 10:00 p.m. In which case, “20 h. 27” would refer to the following day. Since we know Dyssord will be leaving for Tunisia the next day, he is probably the speaker in question. From Paris he can take an overnight train to Marseille and from there a boat to Tunis. On the other hand, since the Dane is consulting a time-table, perhaps he is the one who will be leaving the next day. The fact that the six mirrors are staring at each other suggests they occupy opposite walls. While someone complains about getting even more mixed up, someone else begins to compose a letter. The letter’s sudden juxtaposition with the following line is meant to be comical. A particularly pungent slang expression, “Vous êtes un mec à la mie de pain” can be translated as either “You are a crummy pimp” or “You are a lousy pimp.” Like “parfaitement,” the phrase represents an interjection by somebody else—probably one of the reprobates encountered at the beginning of the poem—who is insulting a third person. One of the disgusting people identified by Debon, the woman in the next sentence seems to have an unusually ugly nose. As several other women prepare to depart—at least two of them without their furs—the Dane continues smoking his cigarette, and a black cat traverses the café. Despite the bad omen, nothing serious seems to ensue. According to

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Dyssord’s account, the Danish smoker was Peter Madsen who, together with André Billy, was part of Apollinaire’s group. The second stanza has been analyzed in great detail by Renaud, who is struck by the role of undecidability in the poem.19 What makes the poem so enigmatic, he observes, is that the phrases make no sense by themselves. Or rather, their sense varies according to whether they represent spoken language, notations, or reflections. Ultimately, he concludes, it is the reader not the author who determines what they mean. Of course, this paradoxical situation is true of poetry in general, but it is much more acute in “Lundi rue Christine.” Accompanied by the sound of running water in the sink, Apollinaire notes a woman with a black dress, someone wearing a malachite ring, and sawdust on the floor. During this process, a server brings a client his or her order, someone praises the crèpes, and other customers argue among themselves. According to Dyssord, the people in his group ordered drinks but nothing to eat. They were served by a stunning waitress with freckles and “cheveux de flamme,” who is mentioned in the last line. Unfortunately, however, the waitress in the poem has run off with a book seller. Un journaliste que je connais d’ailleurs très vaguement Ecoute Jacques c’est trés sérieux ce que je vais te dire Compagnie de navigation mixte Il me dit monsieur voulez-vous voir ce qu je peux faire d’eaux-fortes et de tableaux Je n’ai qu’une petite bonne Après déjeuner café du Luxembourg Une fois là il me présente un gros bonhomme Qui me dit Ecoutez c’est charmant A Smyrne à Naples en Tunisie Mais nom de Dieu où est-ce La dernière fois que j’ai été en Chine C’est il y a huit ou neuf ans L’Honneur tient souvent à l’heure que marque la pendule La quinte major.

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As Apollinaire leans toward Dyssord to give him some advice, he sees a journalist who is vaguely familiar but whom he cannot place. Either then or a few minutes later, he notices an advertisement featuring a large ship and friendly natives framed by palm trees. In all probability, Dyssord has brought along a brochure from the shipping company. Headquartered in Marseille, La Compagnie de Navigation Mixte—“mixte” because the ships carried both cargo and passengers—operated routes between Marseille and North Africa and between Marseille and the West Coast of Africa. With a little effort, as the last two stanzas demonstrate, some of the original conversations can be partially reconstructed. The initial sentence seems to be uttered by a shady artist or art dealer who is seeking to interest a potential buyer. The second is spoken by a woman who, despite her relative prosperity, would like to live a more lavish lifestyle. The last stanza is much more fragmentary. Place names are jumbled together with geographical references, random interjections, questions, reminiscences, and enigmatic pronouncements. After so many poetic irregularities, Debon suspects the last two lines represent a call to order: “L’Honneur commande d’abord qu’on arrête là le jeu.”20 In Timothy Mathews’s opinion, the penultimate line means something like “Honour is as fickle as fame.”21 In retrospect, chance plays a greater role in human affairs than we like to admit. Whether an action is viewed as honorable or dishonorable often depends on its timing. Among other things, the phrase may be an ironic reference to the criminal code of honor evoked in line 2. Fortunately or unfortunately, the final line is highly ambiguous. Since one meaning of la quinte major is “a slap in the face,” a brawl may suddenly have broken out in the café. However, since the phrase also describes a winning hand in piquet, a group of customers may simply be engaged in a card game.

“Arbre” Arguably the most difficult poem Apollinaire ever composed, “Arbre” appeared in Le Gay Sçavoir on March 10, 1913. Always on the lookout for provocative material, the Dadaists reprinted it three years later in Cabaret Voltaire, published in Zurich, and the Portuguese Futurists the following year in Portugal Futurista,

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which was edited in Lisbon. In 1918, when “Arbre” appeared in Calligrammes, it was accompanied by a dedication to Frédéric Boutet, a journalist and prolific author. Four years earlier, in April 1914, Apollinaire had reviewed a collection of his short stories for Les Soirées de Paris. Although several critics are convinced that “Arbre” represents a poème-conversation—notably Philippe Renaud—this is far from the majority opinion. Despite its fragmentary nature, the poem bears little resemblance to “Lundi rue Christine.” The poet is not situated “au centre de la vie [où il] enregistre en quelque sorte le lyrisme ambiant,” as specified in “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” but appears to be everywhere at once. Rather than a simple recording device, moreover, he seems to be an active participant. By contrast, as will become apparent, Renaud’s concept of a conversation poem differs radically from Apollinaire’s. In the last analysis, “Arbre” resembles “Les Fenêtres” rather than “Lundi rue Christine.” As such, it bears all the hallmarks of a poème simultané. At first glance, “Les Fenêtres” and “Lundi rue Christine” seem to be completely impenetrable. After considerable trial and error, however, they eventually begin to yield some of their secrets. While many details are not immediately available, the texts are not impossible to comprehend. Like them, “Arbre” exemplifies Apollinaire’s collage aesthetics. Like them, it utilizes fragmentation, parataxis, and superimposition. Despite these similarities, however, it is much more difficult to construct a coherent interpretation. The difference is not in kind, it turns out, but in degree. “L’abolition de tout ordre logique ou narratif apparent,” Anna Boschetti complains, “rend impossible de décider avec une certitude raisonnable du statut de ces fragments juxtaposés.”22 For this reason, Alexander Dickow calls “Arbre” “l’un des poèmes les plus énigmatiques et déstructurés d’Apollinaire.”23 One can easily collect a number of fragments centered around the theme of voyaging, he continues, but the voyage doesn’t lead anywhere. The reader merely encounters a series of discontinuous snapshots. As a result, “[il] se voit engagé dans une quête de sens pleine d’une angoisse sourde.”24 Due to the work’s deliberate obscurity, readers receive little more than a general impression. Despite the manic energy that pervades much of “Arbre,” the critics agree that it is a melancholy composition. However, the source of this emotion is not so easy to ascertain. Noting the images of loss and abandonment that recur with some regularity,

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Boschetti and Margaret Davies propose a romantic explanation.25 Evoking the radical new aesthetics that was invading Paris, Renaud suggests Apollinaire was threatened by the advent of modernism.26 Claude Debon is more precise: “Il s’agit à non pas douter d’un poème de crise, où le viel homme combat avec celui qui veut renaître.”27 The first problem facing the hapless reader is how to interpret the title, which, like a single tree in the middle of a public square, stands totally alone. Although the poem contains three references to trees (lines 3, 34, and 39), these are no more informative than the naked title. In the beginning, therefore, the reader’s options are completely open. Unfortunately, they are also practically limitless. Anne Hyde Greet and Ian Lockerbie are attracted to folkloric, biblical, and linguistic interpretations.28 They envision a magic tree with precious fruit conveying godlike powers, a hidden tree guarded by a monster, or a tree that is both a cross and a gallows. Alternatively, they explain, the tree may represent the poem itself adorned with thoughts, associations, and memories. Dickow adds the Trees of Life and Knowledge to this list as well as Jesus Christ and Apollinaire himself.29 However, even a cursory glance at a dictionary of symbols reveals many more possibilities. According to Rabanus Maurus in his Allegoriae in Sacram Scripturam, for example, the tree symbolizes human nature.30 In addition, one discovers, the tree is widely regarded as constituting an axis mundi. Since “Arbre” is situated at a spatio-temporal cross-roads, like all simultaneous poetry, this image seems particularly appropriate. Since Apollinaire specifically evokes “La Prose du Transsibérien,” it comes as no surprise to learn that Blaise Cendrars plays a role in “Arbre.” Where the critics differ is regarding the extent and the significance of his participation. Debon readily admits the poem “probably” constitutes a dialogue with Cendrars. However, since he is never named and is not physically present, she believes it is an implicit dialogue.31 Although Renaud calls “Arbre” “un poèmeconversation,” it in no way resembles “Lundi rue Christine.” On the contrary, he agrees with Debon that the poem contains a dialogue between the two poets.32 Since there are a number of deliberate references to Cendrars, however, he thinks the dialogue is explicit. Dickow’s position is much the same, at least initially. He believes “Arbre” participates in a continuing dialogue composed of echoes, quotations, and pointed references. Beginning with “L’Emigrant

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de Landor Road,” the dialogue involves several other poems as well. When Dickow attempts to sort out the various pronouns in “Arbre,” nevertheless, he treats the dialogue as if the words were actually spoken. Marc Poupon goes even further. In his opinion, Apollinaire is accompanied by Cendrars “dont la présence se décèle partout dans ‘Arbre.’”33 The author of the “Prose du Transsibérien” serves not only as his “bon génie” but also as his Reisekamarade. One wonders how these statements are meant to be interpreted—literally or metaphorically? Does Cendrars accompany Apollinaire in spirit or in the flesh? Are the conversations between them real or imaginary? A Frédéric Boutet Tu chantes avec les autres tandis que les phonographes galopent Où sont les aveugles où s’en sont-ils allés La seule feuille que j’aie cueillie s’est changée en plusieurs mirages Ne m’abandonnez pas parmi cette foule de femmes au marché Ispahan s’est fait un ciel de carreaux émaillés de bleu Et je remonte avec vous une route aux environs de Lyon. At first glance, “Arbre” seems to be a typical collage poem. As in other simultaneous compositions, time and space are purely subjective. Apollinaire provides an instantaneous glimpse of life all over the world. Once again he juxtaposes several different pronouns to create multiple perspectives and overlapping planes. For the same reason, he jumps from one tense to another without any attempt to be consistent. To those readers who are acquainted with “Zone,” the alternation between “Je” and “Tu” looks familiar. Apollinaire seems to be referring to himself in both the first person and the second person. He uses “Je” to speak about himself and “Tu” to speak to himself. However, there is one vital difference between the subject pronouns in “Arbre” and those in “Zone.” Although Apollinaire occasionally varies the alternation between “Je” and “Tu” in “Zone” by inserting “Vous”—by which he again means himself—“Vous” has another function entirely in “Arbre.” As lines 4 and 6 clearly demonstrate, the pronoun alludes to another person altogether. It cannot possibly refer to Apollinaire. In turn, this discovery introduces an unexpected ambiguity into the poem. If “Vous” refers to another person, then the same thing may very well be true of “Tu.” One can no longer assume that it automatically applies to Apollinaire. And if “Tu” refers to somebody else, that person is not necessarily

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the same person as “Vous.” Finally, since “Vous” may be either singular or plural, it may allude to several individuals. For better or worse, the poem is continually sabotaged by its fundamental undecidability. Readers can only pick their way through the referential mine field by trial and error. In order to go any further, it is necessary to re-examine several assumptions. The initial impression that “Je” is Apollinaire is probably correct. As the author of the composition and the principal speaker he provides the sole unifying force in the poem. Most of what happens, or happened in the past, or will happen in the future is presented through his eyes. Similarly, “Tu” and “Vous” are almost certainly two different people. The critics all agree that one of them probably represents Blaise Cendrars, who is present either in person or in spirit. Not surprisingly, since the second pronoun vanishes after the first stanza and the first pronoun appears throughout the poem, their unanimous choice is “Tu.” No one has anything at all to say about “Vous,” whom nobody has even tried to identify. And yet “Vous” is the only person who actually accompanies Apollinaire anywhere—first to Iran, if the speaker is to be believed, and then to Southern France. The two of them are clearly close companions. Again, first impressions are worth a great deal. The most reasonable scenario, it seems to me, would cast Apollinaire as both “Je” and “Tu” and Cendrars as “Vous.” Endorsed by Renaud, the first suggestion has an important precedent in “Zone,” published four months earlier, in which Apollinaire played the same two roles.34 As Renaud himself declares, “l’emploi de la deuxième personne . . . est une très grande trouvaille d’Apollinaire.”35 By utilizing multiple perspective in “Zone,” “Arbre,” and other poems, he managed to revolutionize his own poetry and modern poetry in general. My second suggestion is motivated by two observations. Since “Tu” refers to Apollinaire, “Vous” must necessarily be reserved for Cendrars. It is the only option open to him. More importantly, since the two men did not tutoyer each other, Cendrars cannot possibly be “Tu.”36 The pronoun would have been totally inappropriate. Having met some five months earlier, Cendrars and Apollinaire were not old friends but recent acquaintances.37 Since the former was a brash newcomer and the latter a wellknown poet, their exchanges were fairly formal. Writing to Apollinaire in August 1913, Cendrars confided: “Vos poèmes me touchent énormément . . . Vous êtes mon maître—vous êtes notre maître à tous.”38

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Addressing himself in the first line, Apollinaire recalls happier times when he and his friends used to sing along to songs playing on the phonograph. Greet and Lockerbie wonder if the “music” they are playing is not the remaining five lines. As far as one can tell, the entire stanza is composed of widely disparate memories. Since parataxis reigns supreme, there may be a connection between the various lines, or there may not. The lack of punctuation poses more problems. Formulated as a question, the second line appears to be purely rhetorical. Embodying the ubi sunt motif, it recalls François Villon’s poetry in particular. Greet and Lockerbie believe the blind men may be vanished poets, Renaud and Debon that they are wandering musicians or Homeric bards.39 Their blindness supports all three interpretation but also suggests they may be prophets or soothsayers. The fact that the line is an alexandrine reinforces its association with poetry and music. A number of critics think the leaf in the third line was probably taken from the tree in the poem’s title. Although Renaud thinks the tree alludes to the Tree of Knowledge, it could just as easily refer to The Cross, The Poem, or Human Nature. That it is transformed into several mirages could symbolize the futility of knowledge or of religion, poetry’s ability to create “authentiques faussetés” (Apollinaire’s words), or mankind’s fondness for deception.40 Noting that the poem contains a reference to Finland, Dickow detects several parallels with The Kalevala.41 In addition, he associates the tree’s leaves with the pages (also “feuilles”) of books, whose words generate imaginary images in the reader’s mind. More than anything, nevertheless, “mirages” appears to describe the fluctuating thoughts, memories, dreams, and fantasies that constitute “Arbre” itself. These are not false images so much as virtual images, images that beckon seductively in the distance. The fact that they are ephemeral and inevitably unstable explains why deciphering the poem is so difficult. Apparently addressed to Cendrars, who loved traveling to exotic destinations, the fourth line suddenly transports the reader to Iran. Exploring Isfahan, the former capital of Persia, Apollinaire feels threatened by a crowd of women he encounters at the market. One wonders what the women could possibly be doing that could make him feel so uneasy. As Debon points out, the situation recalls the story of Orpheus torn apart by maenads following the loss of Eurydice.42 In 1988, however, Scott Bates made a very interesting

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discovery. He found that another poem, “Ispahan,” had been largely inspired by a travel book entitled Les Huit Paradis.43 Returning to this book recently, which was authored by the Princess Marthe Bibesco, Dickow found that it also influenced portions of “Arbre.”44 Not only does the fourth line take place in Isfahan, for example, but it echoes passages in the book that portray Persian customs in a disturbing light. Finding herself in a bazaar surrounded by veiled women in dark, shapeless robes, Bibesco remarks: “il me semble m’être égarée de nuit dans un cimitière où des ifs funèbres se seraient mis en marche.” Thus Apollinaire turns out to be threatened by the women’s appearance rather than by their behavior. Despite his initial misgivings, he is not in any actual danger. The fifth line derives from Les Huit Paradis as well, which repeatedly evokes the blue earthenware tiles for which Isfahan is famous. Although Dickow thinks the “ciel de carreaux” represents falseness and illusion, the phrase probably refers to the Masjed-e Shah’s interior with its perfectly proportioned blue-tiled dome. The scene changes from fantasy to memory in the sixth line, evoking a stroll, or perhaps a hike, with Cendrars in the hills near Lyon. Je n’ai pas oublié le son de la clochette d’un marchand de coco d’autrefois J’entends déjà le son aigre de cette voix à venir Du camarade qui se promènera avec toi en Europe Tout en restant en Amérique Un enfant Un enfant dépouillé pendu à l’étal Un enfant Et cette banlieue de sable autour d’une pauvre ville au fond de l’est Un douanier se tenait là comme un ange A la porte d’un misérable paradis Et ce voyageur épileptique écumant dans la salle d’attente des premières.

The next two stanzas are filled with more fanciful images. The marchand de coco is an especially interesting character (Figure 2.1). Appearing in Paris and Brussels toward the end of the eighteenth century, the latter was a street vendor who sold a cool drink in the summer and a hot drink in winter (when he became a “marchand de tisane”). According to one source, “le marchand de coco, en tablier blanc, portait une fontaine en tôle peinte sur le dos et quelques gobelets à la ceinture. Il s’annonçait au son d’une

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Figure 2.1  Augusta Le Baron-desves, Le Marchand de Coco, Paris, Musée Carnavalet

clochette et criait: « Coco, coco, coco frais! Qui veut du coco? »”45 The drink in question had nothing to do with coconut, as the name suggests, but consisted of liquorice water with lemon and sugar. Although Renaud associates the vendor with “l’enfance, le bonheur, l’harmonie perdus,” he was equally popular with adults and stationed himself outside theaters in the evening.46 While Dickow detects a possible echo of a short story by Maupassant, Apollinaire

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is clearly speaking from personal experience.47 Coco vendors continued to ply their trade until the beginning of the twentieth century, when bottled soft drinks became popular. The memory of a past sound in the first line prompts Apollinaire to imagine a future sound in the second. The ringing bell is replaced by the sound of a shrill human voice belonging to a mysterious “comrade.” Even more mysteriously, this individual is able to walk and talk with Apollinaire in Europe while somehow remaining in America. The solution of course, as other critics have seen, is that Apollinaire is predicting the invention of the transatlantic telephone. In all probability, the person with whom he is talking is Cendrars, who was introduced as his comrade in the preceding stanza. Indeed, Cendrars had recently returned from a visit to New York (which he apparently detested). The voice that reaches Apollinaire on the telephone is probably not “shrill,” as aigre is usually translated, but “tinny.” Judging from contemporary recordings, Apollinaire undoubtedly realized, it would be a long time before people’s voices ceased to be distorted. In contrast to the preceding stanza, in which Apollinaire seems to speak directly to the reader (even though he may only be speaking to himself), the second stanza has no narrator at all. Whereas the former tone verges on the confidential, the latter tone is completely impersonal. Rather than a selfportrait, the stanza resembles a bizarre still-life painting—like the work by Chagall in the second line. Since the infant in the miserable eastern town is clearly the Christ child, one wonders if the painting is hanging on the wall of his manger. What matters in any case is the juxtaposition of the two images, which, in Susan Harrow’s words, creates “a vision of vulnerability and violence.”48 That the flayed calf foreshadows Christ’s torture and crucifixion is abundantly evident. To complete the picture, Apollinaire chooses another one of his favorite artists, the Douanier Rousseau, whom he stations before the town gate “comme un ange / A la porte d’un misérable paradis.” This gesture recalls a line from the epitaph he composed for Rousseau: “Laisse passser nos bagages en franchise à la porte du ciel.”49 The source of both images, Robert Couffignal explains, was a painting by Rousseau entitled L’Octroi.50 Depicting customs officials guarding the gates of Paris, it reminded

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Apollinaire of a story in Genesis. Inspired by Adam and Eve’s expulsion from the Garden of Eden, he transformed Rousseau into one of the angels assigned to protect Paradise. To date, unfortunately, no one has been able to identify the poor traveler having an epileptic fit in a first class waiting room. Dickow speculates that it may be Prince Mychkin in Dostoievski’s The Idiot, one of Cendrars’s favorite books.51 Since the episode is situated in a railroad station, in any case, it looks forward to the next stanza, which takes place aboard the Transsiberian Express. Engoulevent Blaireau Et la Taupe-Ariane Nous avions loué deux coupés dans le transsibérien Tour à tour nous dormions le voyageur en bijouterie et moi Mais celui qui veillait ne cachait point un revolver armé.

The most intriguing explanation for the three animals that suddenly appear out of nowhere has been provided by Dickow.52 In 1914 Frédéric Boutet, to whom “Arbre” is dedicated, published a collection of short stories entitled La Lanterne Rouge. As the title indicates, the stories are set in the red light district of Paris and populated by all sorts of unsavory characters with picturesque nicknames, including “Engoulevent,” “Blaireau,” and “la Taupe-Ariane.” We know from Scott Bates’s Dictionnaire des Mots Libres that “taupe” was a slang word for prostitute.53 According to Césaire Villatte’s Parisismen, it was also slang for “old woman.”54 Apollinaire associates “la taupe” with Ariadne not because she herself is immoral but because she is associated with the Minotaur’s labyrinth. According to Parisismen, moreover, “engoulevent” was slang for “glutton” and “blaireau” for “slut.” Apollinaire’s list is devoted not to animals, therefore, but to sluts and whores, who apparently accompany him on the Transsiberian Railway. Among other things, this explains why two sleeping compartments have been reserved—one for the two men, the other for their dissolute companions. One wonders exactly where the jewelry salesman is supposed to fit in. For that matter, with friends like these where does Apollinaire himself fit in? Many critics have pointed out the resemblance between the last three lines and a similar passage in “La Prose du Transsibérien”:

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Et je partis moi aussi pour accompagner le voyageur en bijouterie qui se rendait à Kharbine Nous avions deux coupés dans l’express et 34 coffres de joaillerie de Pforzheim … Je couchais sur les coffres et j’était tout heureux de pouvoir jouer avec le browning nickelé qu’il m’avait aussi donné.55

Although certain critics have been quick to claim that this passage acknowledges Apollinaire’s poetic debt to Cendrars, nothing could be further from the truth. Like two men waving to each other in the street, they liked to refer back and forth to each other in their poetry. “La Prose du Transsibérien,” for example, contains two lines taken from “Les Fiançailles”: “‘Pardonnez-moi mon ignorance / Pardonnez-moi de ne plus connaître l’ancien jeu des vers’ / Comme dit Guillaume Apollinaire.” Similarly, as Renaud and Dickow insist, “Arbre” is full of lighthearted winks and nods to Cendrars.56 Inspired by some of the women in “La Prose du Transsibérien,” Blaireau and her slutty girlfriends provide an excellent illustration. “Puis il y avait beaucoup de femmes,” Cendrars confides at one point, “Des femmes des entre-jambes à louer.” That Apollinaire’s Transsiberian passage differs slightly from Cendrars’s passage is unimportant as well. Although he had seen the poem and had perhaps heard Cendrars read it aloud, he was probably quoting from memory. Tu t’es promené à Leipzig avec une femme mince déguisée en homme Intelligence car voilà ce que c’est qu’une femme intelligente Et il ne faudrait pas oublier les légendes Dame-Abonde dans un tramway la nuit au fond d’un quartier désert Je voyais une chasse tandis que je montais Et l’ascenseur s’arrêtait à chaque étage.

The first line continues to trouble critics. Debon suggests the thin woman may be Marie Laurencin, who, under the name of Tristouse Ballerinette dresses as a man in Le Poète assassiné.57 Greet and Lockerbie note that Marie had married a German citizen. Some critics also think “Tu” represents Cendrars, who spent some time in Leipzig. Nevertheless, Apollinaire appears to have visited Leipzig as well. Writing to his mother from Munich on March 17, 1902, he informed her that he and his party would be going to Nuremberg and to Leipzig.58 Since

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he was accompanied by the Viscountess Elinor de Milhau (who had hired him as a French tutor), her mother, her daughter, and the latter’s governess Annie Playden, the thin woman would seem to have been one of these. Since the viscountess’s daughter was too young, her mother too old, and Annie rather full-bodied, only one choice is left. The woman walking with Apollinaire must have been the viscountess herself. As surprising as this discovery is, the fact that she was disguised as a man is even more surprising. What on earth can Apollinaire possibly mean? According to Michel Décaudin, the viscountess was a rather unconventional woman for her time. “[Elle] se promenait jambes nues l’été, se baignait et nageait, portait des toilettes qu’on jugeait excentriques et des anneaux aux chevilles.”59 Not only did she drive her own automobile, but she drove it all the way from Paris to Germany with Apollinaire beside her—an astonishing feat for the time. Although photographic proof is lacking, one suspects she also wore men’s trousers whenever she drove the car—at least when she drove it a long distance. Trousers would have been much more comfortable and much more convenient than contemporary feminine attire. This, then, is why Apollinaire says she was disguised as a man. Always ready to surprise the reader, he injects a little private humor into the poem. Deliberately or not, the second line is highly ambiguous. At first glance, Apollinaire seems to be praising the viscountess for her unusual intelligence. As the previous description makes clear, she was an extremely capable woman. However, it is equally possible that he is making fun of her. “There’s an intelligent woman for you,” he could also be saying, “a woman who really wants to be a man.” What the connection might be between intelligent women and legends is never made clear. Greet and Lockerbie take the third line to be a warning. Despite her later association with malignant spirits, Dame Abonde was originally far from threatening. Littré calls her “la principale des fées bienfaisantes.” According to one authority, [elle] apporte l’abondance dans les maisons qu’elle fréquente et dispense le bonheur à ses favoris. Elle visite la nuit la chaumière des plus démunis et au matin ils trouvent une huche bien garnie. Elle confère une bonne santé, procure de beaux enfants aux parents, donne au jardins des fleurs odorantes et aux vergers de superbes fruits. Elle est aussi la grande tisseuse et fileuse de tout ce qui germe au sein de la terre.60

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Since Dame Abonde was presumably able to fly, like all fairies, the fact that she is taking a streetcar in “Arbre” is rather unexpected. Where could she be going in the middle of the night, one wonders, and in such a deserted part of town? The answer may very well be that she is bringing toys to children, as she does every year during the Christmas season. Unfortunately, the last two lines are totally enigmatic. One wonders who is chasing whom (or what), for example, and whether Apollinaire is getting on the streetcar or taking the elevator. At this point, his thoughts have become too private for the reader to follow. Entre les pierres Entre les vêtements multicolores de la vitrine Entre les charbons ardents du marchand de marrons Entre deux vaisseaux norvégiens amarrés à Rouen Il y a ton image. Elle pousse entre les bouleaux de la Finlande Ce beaux nègre en acier La plus grande tristesse C’est quand tu reçus une carte postale de La Corogne.

The scene changes once again, and now Apollinaire finds himself walking aimlessly through Paris at night. He observes the cobblestones in the street, the colorful clothes in the shop windows, and the glowing coals of a chestnut vendor’s brazier. He even remembers the harbor at Rouen, where he gave a lecture on “Le Sublime moderne” on June 23, 1912. As Debon remarks, it was about this time that his relationship with Marie Laurencin fell apart.61 These and other sights and memories merge in the first stanza to form a moving litany, a litany in honor of someone designated only as “Tu.” Although the pronoun could continue to refer to Apollinaire, for the first and last time it seems to refer to somebody else. Two critics are convinced that “ton image” refers to Cendrars. Poupon believes Apollinaire is thanking the poet for his precious friendship, now that Marie is no longer with him.62 Dickow suggests the third line contains a hidden play on words: braises and cendres secretly evoking “Blaise Cendrars.”63 Nevertheless, most critics believe the stanza is addressed to Marie, who even now, nine months after their breakup, is constantly on

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Apollinaire’s mind. The memory of her face pursues him everywhere—even to the middle of a Finnish forest, where he has presumably gone to lose himself. As Greet and Lockerbie remark, “Ce beau nègre en acier” probably alludes to Marie as well, who supposedly had a Caribbean ancestor. In particular, it seems to evoke her sharply defined profile, which various writers call “numismatic.” While most critics assume the last two lines also apply to Marie, in fact, Debon points out, they refer to another unhappy event in the poet’s life—the departure of his brother for Mexico, from which he would never return.64 According to a postcard dated January 23, 1913, Albert left from La Coruña in northwest Spain, where he boarded a ship bound for Cuba.65 Le vent vient du couchant Le métal des caroubiers Tout est plus triste qu’autrefois Tous les dieux terrestres vieillissent L’univers se plaint par ta voix Et des êtres nouveaux surgissent Trois par trois.

The world-weariness expressed in the final stanza encompasses far more than Apollinaire and his personal problems. It affects all of life, the earth itself, and indeed the entire universe. Imagining his brother’s ship departing from La Coruña, the poet turns toward the west in time to glimpse the sun slipping beneath the horizon. Like the latter image, the wind that accompanies it is associated with loss and disappointment. Spreading over the land, it envelopes everything before it, including the Spanish carob trees with their long copper pods. Bathed in an immense sadness, the next three lines were taken nearly verbatim from a rough draft of “La Chanson du mal-aimé.”66 Incredibly, Apollinaire complains, the gods themselves are growing old and feeble. Religion is losing its former relevance, its moral imperative, and its traditional hold on society. As the old world prepares to vanish, the poet voices a universal lament that resonates across the globe (“ta voix” was originally “ma voix”). Counterbalancing the images of disappearance and loss, the final two lines provide a momentary glimpse of the future, when the world will be ruled by unknown “beings.” Timothy Mathews remains optimistic. The emergence of more knowledgeable human beings, he declares, “heralds the emancipation of thought and creativity.”67 By contrast, Renaud believes modern

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technology will triumph in the end. “Tout porte à croire,” he concludes, “que ce sont des machines surgissant ‘trois par trois,’ fabriquées en série.”68 Since Apollinaire will soon be thirty-three (3 + 3), Greet and Lockerbie note, he is probably worried about growing old himself. As if to confirm this fact, “Arbre” ends with a three syllable line. Juxtaposed with the preceding four lines, it completes a rhyming quintil and brings the poem to a close.

“A travers l’Europe” Completing the trio of poems devoted to major artists, the next work is concerned with Marc Chagall. Entitled “Rotsoge” initially, it appeared in Les Soirées de Paris on April 15, 1914, was reprinted in Der Sturm in May, and prefaced the catalogue for his show at the Der Sturm Gallery in June. At some point thereafter, Apollinaire transferred the title to the first line and retitled the poem “A travers l’Europe.” Although the composition has received relatively little critical attention, it has managed to attract a number of fans. Authored the very same year by Willy (Henry Gauthier-Villars), for example, Les Amis de Siska contained a character who praised the version published in Der Sturm.69 As we will see, another writer has been attracted to one of the poem’s enigmatic characters. Although Apollinaire was not the first to discover Chagall—that honor goes to Blaise Cendrars and Ricciotto Canudo—he was able to generate some valuable publicity for his art. While he seems to have visited the artist’s studio only once, that was enough to convince him of the latter’s genius. The experience itself is recounted in Chagall’s autobiography My Life. Stunned by all the paintings around him, Apollinaire smiled and murmured “surnaturel,” which in his vocabulary was high praise. As he immediately realized, the artist’s mixture of fantasy and reality was not far removed from his own. The discovery of a major new talent hidden away in Montparnasse clearly excited Apollinaire, who according to the artist, sent him a letter with a version of the present poem the next day entitled “Rodztag.” Indeed, Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie conclude that Chagall affected the poet more powerfully than any other painter except Picasso.70 As Claude Debon declares,

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“‘A travers l’Europe’ célèbre la révélation d’un monde nouveau—l’art de Chagall.”71 Conceived as a poème simultané, like “Les Fenêtres” and “Arbre,” it forms a spatio-temporal collage in which images from the artist’s paintings are juxtaposed with memories, arcane references, and bits of conversation. The poem’s title is fundamentally ambiguous. While it evokes Chagall’s peregrinations from Vitebsk to Paris to Germany and back to Vitebsk again, it just as surely recalls Apollinaire’s Italian childhood, his adolescence on the Côte d’Azur, the year spent in Germany, and his Russian passport. Both men were experienced European travelers. A M. Ch. Rotsoge Ton visage écarlate ton biplan transformable en hydroplan Ta maison ronde où il nage un hareng saur Il me faut la clef des paupières Heureusement que nous avons vu M. Panado Et nous sommes tranquilles de ce côté-là Qu’est-ce que tu vois mon vieux M. D … 90 ou 324 un homme en l’air un veau qui regarde à travers le ventre de sa mère.

Much ink has been spilled trying to decipher the first line and former title “Rotsoge,” which differs from what Chagall remembers: “Rodztag” (German for “red day”). Elsewhere in his autobiography he calls the poem “rote Hölle” (red Hell), and in an interview with Etienne-Alain Hubert he maintained that it meant “parole rouge.”72 Since the artist had red hair, Greet and Lockerbie speculate that the title may refer to his nickname, to his self-portrait, or to a metaphorical description of him by Apollinaire as a red comet (Rotsoge = red + trail).73 Scott Bates associates the term with menstruation.74 In Madeleine Boisson’s opinion, Chagall constitutes a mythical transfiguration of the solar phallus. “Ses cheveux d’un roux flamboyant font de lui une torche en marche,” she explains; “son voyage dessine un sillage rouge.”75 It has also been suggested that “rotsoge” is the German rotes auge (red eye) pronounced à la française.76 In which case it would refer to Chagall’s Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers and evoke his passion for color. Finally, Philippe Geinoz believes the word may be Yiddish and translates it accordingly as “advisor” or “counselor.”77

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Since Apollinaire composed the poem after he returned from Chagall’s studio, he was forced to rely on his memory. “Ton visage écarlate” in the second line may refer to the artist’s portrait of himself, which is actually pink, or it may simply evoke his fondness for red in his paintings. For Bates, the biplane that can be transformed into a seaplane symbolizes Woman, who can return to her native element whenever she wishes.78 Hubert detects a reference to an airplane rally in Monaco that included just such a machine and believes it is a metaphor for Chagall’s hypermodern art.79 By contrast, Boisson calls attention to a specific painting: Paris, à travers la fenêtre (1913), which Apollinaire confided was his favorite work.80 Recalling a familiar myth, a redfaced parachutist descends toward the Seine near the Eiffel Tower, watched by a two-faced Janus figure and a cat with a human head. In Boisson’s opinion, he represents both the “biplan transformable” and Icarus, who falls into the water and thus becomes a “hydroplan.” Regardless of its symbolism, the scene records a practice that was becoming more and more common: daredevils parachuting from the Eiffel Tower. Nicknamed “La Ruche” because of its circular shape, the three-story “house” in the next line was designed by Gustave Eiffel for the 1900 Exposition Universelle, dismanteled, and then rebuilt by Alfred Boucher as a refuge for Parisian artists. Situated on the rue de Dantzig in Montparnasse, this legendary building was filled with low cost studios for painters and sculptors, most of whom came from eastern Europe. Kippers (harengs saurs) were a cheap but nutritious dish and thus a familiar meal for Chagall, who depicted them in a number of paintings (before he ate them). That an artist should call attention to such a commonplace object was one of the hallmarks of modern art. “C’est justement l’art que je voudrais bannir des arts,” Apollinaire wrote in 1915, “ou sinon l’art surtout l’artiste et celui qui fait tout en artiste, qui attache plus de prix . . . à une rose qu’à un hareng saur.”81 According to Bates, finally, La Ruche and the herring both represent sexual symbols.82 The fourth line, like several other verses, is taken from an earlier Symbolist poem entitled “La Clef.”83 Removed from its original context, it makes very little sense. Inserted between two lines devoted to Chagall and several lines of anonymous conversation, it makes even less sense. Nonetheless, since this is the first time Apollinaire talks about himself, it is potentially important. Since “paupières” is a common

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substitution for “eyes” in France and since keys are used to unlock (or lock) things, a working translation might be: “I need a key to open my eyes.” At least this is what the line seems to mean in “La Clef.” Although the next three lines could conceivably be uttered (or thought) by Apollinaire, the common opinion is that they represent random fragments of conversation. Unexpectedly, the first line continues to generate ripples of interest even today. Nobody knows for sure who M. Panado was. Geinoz is probably correct that the name was suggested by the word panade, which in French is basically synonymous with “poverty.”84 Hubert believes the line refers to Ricciotto Canudo, the editor of Montjoie!, who had recently organized a Chagall exhibition and who was running out of money.85 Writing to Apollinaire on June 19, 1914, Canudo quoted both lines, which someone was kind enough to send him after finding them scrawled on a pissoir in Montparnasse.86 Was Apollinaire’s secretary telling the truth, he asked, when he declared that M. Panado was actually Canudo? Unfortunately, history does not record the poet’s reply. In 1937, Geinoz adds, Alexandre Vialotte published a short story entitled “Les Tours de M. Panado,” in which the latter was described as “un personnage incroyable et hallucinant.” In 1951, he reappeared in Les Fruits du Congo, again authored by Vialotte, in which he played a sinister character. More recently, he made a brief appearance in a novel by Claude Duneton, Rires d’homme entre deux pluies (1989). As of this writing, a Fan Club de Monsieur Panado also exists on the internet. Like that of M. Panado, the identity of “mon vieux M. D …” has bedeviled critics for years. Although the front runner is probably the artist Maurice Denis, there is no concrete evidence to connect him with the poem. Geinoz points out an interesting fact that everyone appears to have missed: since M is followed by one dot and D by three dots, the first letter may actually stand for “Monsieur.”87 He suspects Apollinaire could be referring to his arch enemy Georges Duhamel. Hubert believes the line refers to another enemy: an antiimmigrant artist and critic named Maurice Delcourt, who detested modern art.88 The last line contains a few additional puzzles. Ironically, although 90 and 324 appear to be precise figures, what they signify is far from clear. They may designate heights, distances, weights, or quantities, for example. The units of measurement could be grams or kilograms, centimeters or kilometers. Not to

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be deterred, Geinoz argues that the numbers are a coded reference to the SelfPortrait with Seven Fingers.89 The remainder of the line evokes the parachutist in Paris, à travers la fenêtre and an inquisitive calf in La Vache enceinte (1913). In Boisson’s opinion, consistent with her mythocritical approach, the latter recalls Icarios the Cowherd.90 Abandoning Chagall for a moment, the second stanza focuses on Apollinaire. J’ai cherché longtemps sur les routes Tant d’yeux sont clos au bord des routes Le vent fair pleurer les saussaies Ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre Regarde mais regarde donc Le vieux se lave les pieds dans la cuvette Una volta ho inteso dire Chè vuoi Je me mis à pleurer en me souvenant de vos enfances.

Like line 4 of the preceding stanza, the first three verses are borrowed from “La Clef.” As before, they invoke the speaker’s persistent search for a key to dispel the blindness that surrounds him. Like the thought of his endless quest, the wind whipping through the trees invests the scene with a melancholy aura. Even the willows are weeping. For a moment, Chagall’s bright colors and fanciful scenes are eclipsed by the sadness so often associated with Symbolism. As others have noted, the insistent imperative in the fourth line recalls a similar line in “Le Voyageur”: “Ouvrez-moi cette porte où je frappe en pleurant.” Like the latter, the line may well be a childhood memory. Like the parallel imperative in the following line, it is not a command so much as a plea. Echoing the opposition between open and closed, sight is contrasted with blindness and vice versa. Indeed, there appears to be a cause and effect relationship between them. Apollinaire commands all the people who have closed their eyes to open them so they can see what is happening around them. The rest of the stanza is apparently concerned with his early years in Rome, where he was born. This explains why one of the lines is in Italian. Composed of two snatches of conversation, the words themselves are unimportant: “Once I heard someone say” and “What do you want?” Their only purpose is to evoke Italy and Apollinaire’s childhood. Several critics claim the second fragment comes from Jacques Cazotte’s Le Diable amoureux, but, if so, this fact appears

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to be irrelevant.91 By contrast, the old man washing his feet is impossible to identify. One wonders nevertheless why the poet found this scene so memorable. Supposedly motivated by the thought of others’ misfortunes, Apollinaire’s tears in the last line parallel those shed by the weeping willows earlier. In studying the poem’s evolution, however, one discovers that he hesitated between “vos enfances,” “mon enfance,” and “nos enfances.”92 Although Apollinaire had a reasonably happy childhood, he had to pretend it was miserable to maintain the stanza’s mournful tone. Since this fiction apparently made him uncomfortable, he decided to transfer the childhood misery to someone else. For this reason, he opted for the more distant pronoun “vos.” Et toi tu me montres un violet épouvantable Ce petit tableau où il y a une voiture m’a rappelé le jour Un jour fait de morceaux mauves jaunes bleux verts et rouges Où je m’en allais à la campagne avec une charmante cheminée tenant sa chienne en laisse Il n’y en a plus tu n’as plus ton petit mirliton La cheminée fume loin de moi des cigarettes russes La chienne aboie contre les lilas La veilleuse est consumée Sur la robe ont chu des pétales Deux anneaux d’or près des sandales Au soleil se sont allumés Mais tes cheveux sont le trolley A travers l’Europe vêtue de petits feux multicolores.

The poem undergoes an abrupt shift at this point, as the poet returns to his original subject: Chagall. Framed by two substantial stanzas, a single line marks the sudden change in focus. All of a sudden, we are back in the artist’s studio surrounded by numerous pictures, one of which is apparently painted a hideous violet. This is surprising to say the least. While blue plays a major role in Chagall’s early paintings, violet is conspicuous by its consistent absence. Perhaps Apollinaire saw an experimental work that was subsequently destroyed. The final stanza combines the two previous themes: Chagall’s cheerful art and Apollinaire’s melancholy frame of mind. The painting mentioned initially could conceivably be La Calèche volante (1913), in which a horse and cart fly away as

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smoke issues from a burning house. As Boisson points out, the cart is an attribute of Icarios the Wagoner.93 For some reason, the painting reminds the poet of a colorful walk he took with Marie Laurencin and her dog. He calls his former lover a “charming smokestack” because she liked to smoke so much. With his customary brio, Apollinaire transforms the hackneyed expression: “fumer comme une cheminée” into a startling new metaphor. However, his momentary attempt at humor is ultimately unsuccessful. As he is forced to acknowledge, he and Marie are no longer together. According to Bates, the mirliton is a traditional metaphor for the virile member.94 Whatever the reference means, the fact that the toy flute no longer exists underlines Apollinaire’s loss. Sinking back into his dejected state, he watches as the death of his former relationship is confirmed line by line. The reason Marie’s dog is barking at the lilacs, Boisson explains, is because someone is dead.95 As proof, she cites the myth of Icarios and Erigone, who was guided to his grave by her dog Maera. The next four lines are again taken from “La Clef.” Whereas Apollinaire chose verses involving blindness for the first two stanzas, those in the final stanza involve suicide by drowning. Returning from her lengthy search for “la clef des paupières,” the young woman in “La Clef ” discovers that her beloved is dead. Placing her dress, sandals, empty oil lamp, and two gold rings by the edge of the lake, she jumps in and drowns. The passage’s meaning is crystal clear. Just as the rings symbolize the two lovers, the fact that her lamp has run dry symbolizes death. Geinoz speculates that the two rings also symbolize Apollinaire and Marie, who informed him of her engagement to somebody else early in 1914.96 Reminiscent of the tramways in “La Chanson du MalAimé,” which generate electric sparks as they go along the street, the trolley in the last two lines is purely metaphoric. Geinoz believes “tes cheveux” refers to Chagall’s curly red hair in his Self-Portrait with Seven Fingers. Citing the modernist images in the last two lines, he concludes that Apollinaire rejects Symbolist poetry, represented by “La Clef,” in favor of a brand new poetics.97 In Greet and Lockerbie’s judgement, however, the hair in question belongs to Marie, who assumes the status of a goddess.98 Blazing across the European sky like a comet, it “expresses the exalted vision of the artist, be he poet or painter.” Despite occasional setbacks, Apollinaire is “transfigured and illumined by his aesthetic experience.”

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Notes   1 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” Les Soirées de Paris, June 15, 1914. Repr. in Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 976.   2 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano di Publia: Schena and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 588.   3 Ibid., 589.   4 Jacques Dyssord, “Le Miracle d’Apollinaire,” Chronique de Paris 1 (November 1943). Repr. in Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, ed. Marcel Adéma and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1081.   5 Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 295.   6 Ibid., 322.   7 Apollinaire, “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” 977.   8 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 234.   9 Guillaume Apollinaire, Méditations esthétiques. Les Peintres cubistes (1913). Repr. in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 8. 10 Leroy C. Breunig, ed. The Cubist Poets in Paris: An Anthology (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1995), 76. 11 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 315–16. 12 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 583. 13 Claude Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 75. 14 Susan Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self: Subjectivity and Representation from Rimbaud to Réda (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 73. 15 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 588. 16 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Jacques Dyssord et La Bataille de Tunis,” Mercure de France, May 1, 1914. Repr. in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 3, 192. 17 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 79. 18 Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 76. 19 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 316–22. 20 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 76. 21 Timothy Mathews, Reading Apollinaire: Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987), 160. 22 Anna Boschetti, La Poésie partout: Apollinaire, homme-époque (1898–1918) (Paris: Seuil, 2001), 171.

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23 Alexander Dickow, “‘Arbre,’ Une Quête de sens,” Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes Apollinariennes 14 (November 2011): 43. 24 Ibid., 47. 25 Boschetti, La Poésie partout, 171; Davies, Apollinaire, 226. 26 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 340–1. 27 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 74. 28 Anne Hyde Greet and S.I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 372 . Future references to this work will be to 373–7. 29 Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 56. 30 J. E. Cirlot, A Dictionary of Symbols, trans. Jack Sage (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1985), 347. 31 Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2004), 62. 32 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 339. 33 Marc Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars (Paris: Minard, 1969), 29. 34 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 336. 35 Ibid., 343. 36 See, for example, Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars, 58 and 60. 37 Ibid., 6. 38 Quoted in Pierre Caizergues, “Apollinaire et Cendrars,” Sud 18 (1988): 71. 39 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 341; Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 74. 40 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Réponse à une enquête.” Repr. in Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 984. 41 Dickow, “Arbre,” 48. 42 Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire, 74. 43 Scott Bates, “Un Voyage a Ispahan,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 183–8 (1968): 82–8. He also detected a link to “Arbre.” 44 See Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 49–50. 45 https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coco_(boisson). 46 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 342. 47 Dickow, “Arbre,” 51. 48 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 80. 49 Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, 654. 50 Robert Couffignal, L’Inspiration biblique dans l’oeuvre de Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Minard, 1966), 76.

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51 Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 55. 52 Ibid., 51–2. 53 Scott Bates, Dictionnaire des Mots Libres d’Apollinaire (Sewannee: privately printed, 1991), 261. 54 Césaire Villatte, Rudolf Meyer-Riefstahl, and Marcel Flandin, Parisismen: Alphabetisch geordnete Sammlung der enartigen Ausdrücke des pariser Argot (Berlin-Schöneberg: Langenscheidesche Verlagsbuchhandlung,1912), 367. 55 Blaise Cendrars, “Prose du Transsibérien et de la petite Jeanne de France,” Du monde entier au coeur du monde. Anthologie nègre (Paris: Denöel, 1963), 22. 56 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 339; Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 53. 57 Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire, 74. 58 Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec son frère et sa mère, eds. Gilbert Boudar and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Corti, 1987), 46. 59 Michel Décaudin, “L’Année allemande,” Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes Apollinariennes 5 (May 2009): 13. 60 Amarië Arywen, “Dame Abundia ou fée Abonde,” accessed July 19, 2017, http:// aubedesfees.forumactif.fr/t677-dame-abundia-ou-fee-abonde. 61 Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire, 74. 62 Poupon, Apollinaire et Cendrars, 31. 63 Dickow, “‘Arbre,’” 55. 64 Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire, 74. 65 Apollinaire, Correspondance avec son frère et sa mère, 123. 66 Debon, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire, 74. 67 Mathews, Reading Apollinaire, 159. 68 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 343. 69 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres completes, ed. Marcel Adéma and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1085. 70 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 396. 71 Claude Debon, “M. D . . . ou le bel inconnu,” in En hommage à Michel Décaudin, ed. Pierre Brunel et al. (Paris: Minard, 1986), 222. 72 Etienne-Alain Hubert, “Apollinaire et Chagall: à travers ‘Rotsoge,’” in Apollinaire: Le Regard du poète (Paris: Musées d’Orsay and de l’Orangerie/Gallimard, 2016), 200. 73 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 397. Further references to this volume will be to pp. 398–402. 74 Bates, Dictionnaire des mots libres, 234–5.

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75 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 241. 76 Willard Bohn, “Orthographe et interprétation des mots étrangers chez Apollinaire,” Que Vlo-Ve? 27 (January 1981): 27–30. 77 Philippe Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode: Lecture de ‘A travers l’Europe,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes 22 (2007): 160. 78 Bates, Dictionnaire des mots libres, 234–5. 79 Hubert, “Apollinaire et Chagall,” 200. 80 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 242. Guillaume Apollinaire, “Marc Chagall,” Paris-Journal, June 2, 1914. Repr. in Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, ed. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1997), 745–6. 81 Letter from Apollinaire to Georgette Catelain, dated November 7, 1915. Le Figaro Littéraire, No. 1174 (November 4–10, 1968), 9–10. 82 Bates, Dictionnaire des mots libres, 234–5. 83 Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, 553–5. 84 Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode,” 164, n. 26. 85 Ricciotto Canudo, Lettres à Guillaume Apollinaire, 1904–1918 (Paris: Klincksieck, 1999), 123 . A panade is a poor man’s soup made from bread, milk, and cheese. 86 Ibid., 125. 87 Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode,” 162, n. 14. 88 Hubert, “Apollinaire et Chagall,” 200. 89 Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode,” 163, n. 19. 90 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 244. 91 Hubert, “Apollinaire et Chagall,” 202. 92 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 111. See pp. 108–10. 93 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 244. 94 Bates, Dictionnaire des mots libres, 234–5. 95 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 245. 96 Geinoz, “La Reconnaissance d’une méthode,” 158. 97 Ibid., 156–7. 98 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 401–2.

3

Miraculous Encounters Thanking Henri Martineau on July 19, 1913 for his recent review of Alcools, Apollinaire explained his decision to eliminate punctuation and defended himself against the all-too-common charge of mystification. Reassuring the critic that his compositions were meant to be taken seriously, he volunteered the following information: “Chacun de mes poèmes est la commémoration d’un événement de ma vie.”1 This is especially true of the two works that form the subject of this chapter: “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” and “Un Fantôme de nuées.” Situated in the streets of Paris, where anything may happen, each one recounts the poet’s encounter with the modern marvelous. “Le champion du poème-événément,” André Breton explained in later years, Apollinaire was “l’apôtre de cette conception qui exige de tout nouveau poème qu’il soit une refonte totale des moyens de son auteur, qu’il coure son aventure propre hors des chemins déjà tracés, au mépris des gains réalisés antérieurement.”2 Not only do the two poems commemorate a personal experience, therefore, but each is a monumental achievement in its own right.

“Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” “Uno de los poemas más turbadores y misteriosos de Apollinaire,” according to Octavio Paz, “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” appealed to the Surrealists in particular. Breton and his colleagues were fascinated by Apollinaire’s protagonist, who in their opinion epitomized le merveilleux—one of the central principles of Surrealist activity. Published in Les Soirées de Paris on February 14, 1914, the poem is unusually symmetrical and unusually well-crafted.3 Oscillating between a heroic tone and an elegiac tone, as Claude Debon has pointed out, it incorporates three movements and three interludes of varying lengths.4 Nothing

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is left to chance, everything is meticulously ordered. While “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” is composed of fragments, it is fragmentary only in the sense that it resembles a collage—a collage whose elements are held together by the glue of symmetry and reflexive reference. It is “un univers . . . créé de toutes pièces,” to quote Apollinaire in a different context, and it is noteworthy that he was conscious of similarities between his technique and Picasso’s.5 The plot of “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” is deceptively simple. Strolling through the streets of the Marais district in Paris, a mysterious flute-player attracts hordes of women, who blindly follow him to his ultimate destination. For all its basic simplicity, however, the composition is extraordinarily complex. It is shaped by two structural devices in particular: the figure of the cortège and the creation of narrative multiplicity. Constructed around an autobiographical center, the poem magnifies personal experience and projects it onto a number of different levels, where it undergoes some startling transformations. Traversing the domains of autobiography, history, and psychology, multiple narratives are superimposed on one another to form a series of structural parallels. As Michel Décaudin observes, “On passe dans ‘Le Musicien’ d’une réalité vécue, chronologiquement située, à quelque chose qui est de l’ordre du mythe.”6 In effecting this transition, one passes through at least eleven different levels. Some of these are of major importance, others are relatively minor. J’ai enfin le droit de saluer des êtres que je ne connais pas Ils passent devant moi et s’accumulent au loin Tandis que tout ce que j’en vois m’est inconnu Et leur espoir n’est pas moins fort que le mien Je ne chante pas ce monde ni les autres astres Je chante toutes les possibilités de moi-même hors de ce monde et des astres Je chante la joie d’errer et le plaisir d’en mourir

As Timothy Mathews remarks, “Apollinaire consummates his love affair with the present in the first line.”7 Freed at last from the curse of introspection, Greet and Lockerbie explain, he is able at last to confront external reality.8 Having regained confidence in his creative powers, Margaret Davies adds, he claims his share not only of the present but also of the future.9 Since every line contains at least one pronoun referring to Apollinaire, this is clearly an important personal statement.

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The second stanza, which is largely a restatement of the first, has one purpose: to present Apollinaire’s poetic credo. This is the major theme of both stanzas, whose function is to justify “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” and the poet’s work in general. Apollinaire’s ars poetica, summarized in lines 1 and 6, is simply this: he asserts the primacy of pure, unrestricted imagination in poetry, unfettered by the demands of reality.10 Lines 1, 3, and 5 emphasize the fantastic nature of his story, and lines 2 and 7 anticipate the story itself. The last line, in which “errer” has the double meaning of “to wander” and “to be mistaken,” asserts his right to experiment, even at the risk of failure. In the last analysis, then, the song Apollinaire is singing is the poem itself. The act of singing corresponds to the act of poetic creation. And since the next stanza reveals that the mysterious musician is playing Apollinaire’s song, he must be identical to Apollinaire himself. More precisely, he is a fantasized version of the author—Apollinaire as he wished to see himself. For he possesses one key attribute not found in the author of “La Chanson du Mal-Aimé”: an irresistible attractiveness to women. Le 21 du mois de mai 1913 Passeur des morts et les mordonnantes mériennes Des millions de mouches éventaient une splendeur Quand un homme sans yeux sans nez et sans oreilles Quittant le Sébasto entra dans la rue Aubry-le-Boucher Jeune l’homme était brun et ce couleur de fraise sur les joues Homme Ah! Ariane Il jouait de la flûte et la musique dirigeait ses pas Il s’arrêta au coin de la rue Saint-Martin Jouant l’air que je chante et que j’ai inventé. Les femmes qui passaient s’arrêtaient près de lui Il en venait de toutes parts Lorsque tout à coup les cloches de Saint-Merry se mirent à sonner Le musicien cessa de jouer et but à la fontaine Qui se trouve au coin de la rue Simon-Le-Franc Puis Saint-Merry se tut L’inconnu reprit son air de flûte Et revenant sur ses pas marcha jusqu’à la rue de la Verrerie Où il entra suivi par la troupe des femmes Qui sortaient des maisons

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Qui venaient par les rues traversières les yeux fous Les mains tendues vers le mélodieux ravisseur Il s’en allait indifférement jouant son air Il s’en allait terriblement.

Significantly, the poem’s meter is based on the alexandrine, whose slower rhythm corresponds to the deliberate advance of the cortège. Although it is written in blank verse, a rhymed couplet brings the procession to a halt at the end. On the surface level, “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” recounts a supernatural occurrence that is meant to mystify the reader. The aura of mystery is intensified by the precision of the references. Apollinaire gives the exact itinerary of the procession, street by street, which can easily be retraced on any pre-1934 map of Paris. In a similar vein, he gives the precise date of the supposed encounter: “Le 21 du mois de mai 1913.” In addition, the poem incorporates three processions that are rooted in contemporary reality. The critics agree, for example, that the mysterious women who follow the musician are prostitutes residing in the area. For one thing, this quarter was infested with filles de joie and associated hoodlums in Apollinaire’s day, and had been since the Middle Ages.11 For another, the list of women enumerated further along à la François Villon is headed by Ariadne, who appears as a prostitute in “Arbre.”12 It is generally agreed that the words “mordonnantes mériennes” designate the local prostitutes, who confer la petite mort via sexual intercourse. Thus the poem may be seen as depicting a group of prostitutes in pursuit of a potential customer, perhaps even Apollinaire. Headquartered in the Saint-Merry district since the Middle Ages, Marc Poupon recounts, the Parisian bakers went on strike in May 1913. Two bakeries remained open in the rue de la Verrerie and were swamped by customers— until their windows were broken by strikers.13 Poupon suggests that Apollinaire transformed the long queues of housewives waiting for bread into his mysterious procession, which, among other things, is “long comme un jour sans pain” (l. 55). Not only do the broken windows of the bakery echo the “vitres brisées” of an abandoned house on the rue de la Verrerie—to be encountered later— but there was, and still is, a type of French bread called a flûte. While the bread lines seem to have played a role in the poem’s elaboration, the initial idea seems to have been provided by another experience. Jean Mollet recounts

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that he and Apollinaire entered a hotel courtyard in the rue de la Verrerie one day and discovered a musician surrounded by a group of women singing “Au bord de la Riviera.”14 However, the actual poem was engendered by a different experience. Pierre Caizergues has discovered that on May 4, 1913, Apollinaire led a guided tour through the Saint-Merry district on behalf of the Société des Amis du Paris Pittoresque. The notes he used for the tour have subsequently come to light.15 Apollinaire’s reasons for choosing the cortège as the basis of his poem, and for situating it in this area, were thus partly autobiographical. This explains why the poem exhibits such a detailed knowledge of the quarter. The faceless protagonist follows the route taken by Apollinaire and his charges two weeks before. From the boulevard de Sébastopol (“le Sébasto”) he enters the rue Aubry-le-Boucher and stops at the intersection of the rue Saint-Martin. Apollinaire undoubtedly halted his own process to explain that on June 5, 1832, a terrible battle took place here during the popular insurrection that erupted on the occasion of General Lamarque’s funeral. The widespread fighting, which involved most of the area, is commemorated by a later line: “Quand l’émeute mourait autour de Saint-Merry.” The insurrection itself was immortalized by Victor Hugo in Les Misérables, which includes a curious episode. After Inspector Javert, who has been spying on the revolutionaries, has been caught and tied to a post, Gavroche makes a request: “‘A propos, vous me donnerez son fusil!’ Et il ajouta: ‘Je vous laisse le musicien, mais je veux la clarinette.’”16 One wonders if this is simply a coincidence. The hero next stops at the corner of the rue Saint-Martin and the rue Simon-le-Franc, where he pauses to drink from a fountain. Apollinaire’s notes reveal that he stopped here to point out the Fontaine Maubuée, dating from the thirteenth century and immortalized by François Villon in his Testament (stanza 105). The rhythm of the advancing procession is interrupted three times by simultaneous interludes. Comprising a series of historical vignettes, the last two are concerned with temporal simultanism. Devoted to spatial simultanism, the first interlude evokes events occurring all over the world at the same time, thus creating a global slice of life. Puis ailleurs A quelle heure un train partira-t-il pour Paris

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A ce moment Les pigeons des Moluques fientaient des noix muscades En même temps Mission catholique de Bôma qu’as-tu fait du sculpteur Ailleurs Elle traverse un pont qui relie Bonn à Beuel et disparaît à travers Pützchen Au même instant Une jeune fille amoureuse du maire Dans un autre quartier Rivalise donc poète avec les étiquettes des parfumeurs En somme ô rieurs vous n’avez pas tiré grand-chose des hommes Et à peine avez-vous extrait un peu de graisse de leur misère Mais nous qui mourons de vivre loin l’un de l’autre Tendons nos bras et sur ces rails roule un long train de marchandises Tu pleurais assise près de moi au fond d’un fiacre Et maintenant Tu me ressembles tu me ressembles malheureusement Nous nous ressemblons comme dans l’architecture du siècle dernier Ces hautes cheminées pareilles à des tours Nous allons plus haut maintentant et ne touchons plus le sol.

Among the heterogeneous elements collected together in this section, “A quelle heure un train partira-t-il pour Paris?” evokes a conversation in a provincial railroad station. Apollinaire used the phrase as a title for a dramatic version of “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” the following year.17 The pigeons of the Moluccas, or Spice Islands, whose diet consists of nutmegs, were chosen for their exoticism. The same is probably true of the line “Mission catholique de Bôma qu’as-tu fait du sculpteur?,” which represents an unspoken question in Apollinaire’s mind. However, several additional factors are at work here as well. As Philippe Renaud remarks, the question constitutes “une prise de position à la fois idéologique et esthétique.”18 Apollinaire opposes the missionaries in the Belgian Congo (of which Bôma was the capital) to the African sculptors under

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their jurisdiction for two reasons. First of all, he attacks the imposition of Christianity on the African populace in general. By eradicating African culture and replacing it with its European counterpart, the missionaries were in effect destroying the people they were supposed to be saving. Secondly, Apollinaire deplores the eradication of African art. A convert to Christianity, the sculptor can no longer carve masks and statues depicting his tribal gods. Since this is the only art form available to him, however, he will have to abandon his profession. The theme of African art is linked to another line in the first interlude: “Rivalise donc poète avec les étiquettes des parfumeurs.” This is a silent exhortation by Apollinaire to his fellow practitioners. Just as African sculpture was influencing modern painting at the time, labels and posters had begun to inspire modern poetry. As Susan Harrow notes, “the call to merge materiality and poetry, high art and commodity culture, [was becoming] more insistent.”19 These themes are complemented by two additional motifs: machinery and industrialization. The image of the train at the beginning of the interlude is echoed by that of an airplane in the last line: “Nous allons plus haute maintenant et ne touchons plus le sol.” According to Antoine Fongaro, the two lines beginning “En somme ô rieurs” provide a glimpse of the class struggle between capitalists, who exploit the misery of the poor, and the proletariat, which must struggle daily to survive.20 Following the next three lines, which continue the main story: Et tandis que le monde vivait et variait Le cortège des femmes long comme un jour sans pain Suivait dans la rue de la Verrerie l’heureux musicien

Apollinaire inserts a brief second interlude: Cortèges ô cortèges C’est quand jadis le roi s’en allait à Vincennes Quand les ambassadeurs arrivaient à Paris Quand le maigre Suger se hâtait vers la Seine Quand l’émeute mourait autour de Saint-Merry

After which he returns to the main story again: Cortèges ô cortèges Les femmes débordaient tant leur nombre était grand

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Dans toutes les rues avoisinantes Et se hâtaient raides comme balle Afin de suivre le musicien Ah! Ariane et toi Pâquette et toi Amine Et toi Mia et toi Simone et toi Mavise Et toi Colette et toi la belle Geneviève Elles ont passé tremblantes et vaines Et leurs pas légers et prestes se mouvaient selon la cadence De la musique pastorale qui guidait Leurs oreilles avides L’inconnu s’arrêta un moment devant une maison à vendre Maison abandonnée Aux vitres brisées C’est un logis du seizième siècle La cour sert de remise à des voitures de livraisons C’est là qu’entra le musicien Sa musique qui s’éloignait devint langoureuse Les femmes le suivirent dans la maison abandonnée Et toutes y entrèrent confondues en bande Toutes toutes y entrèrent sans regarder derrière elles Sans regretter ce qu’elles ont laisssé Ce qu’elles ont abandonné Sans regretter le jour la vie et la mémoire Il ne resta bientôt plus personne dans la rue de la Verrerie Sinon moi-même et un prêtre de Saint-Merry Nous entrâmes dans la vieille maison Mais nous n’y trouvâmes personne.

The faceless man walks in the opposite direction to the corner of the rue SaintMartin and the rue de la Verrerie (the site of the Eglise Saint-Merry) and proceeds down the latter street until he reaches an abandoned house. This is very possibly the building at 83, rue de la Verrerie, mentioned in Apollinaire’s notes and praised by all the guidebooks for its exposed staircase. The rectory of the Eglise de Saint-Merry across the street stands on the former site of a house

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belonging to “le maigre Suger”—the abbé of Saint Denis who was counselor to Louis VI and Louis VII, an able diplomat, and the author of several histories. It is fitting that Apollinaire chose the rue de la Verrerie in which to evoke the historical processions, for, as he doubtless explained during the tour, Louis XIV widened the street in 1672 to facilitate his passage between the Louvre and his chateau at Vincennes and to serve “les ambassadeurs étrangers [qui] passaient par cette rue lors de leur entrée solennelle [à Paris].”21 The remainder of the poem consists of an epilogue (two lines), a brief interlude (five lines), and a second epilogue (five lines): Voici le soir A Saint-Merry c’est l’Angelus qui sonne Cortèges ô cortèges C’est quand jadis le roi revenait de Vincennes Il vint une troupe de casquettiers Il vint des marchands de bananes Il vint des soldats de la garde républicain O nuit Troupeau de regards langoureux des femmes O nuit Toi ma douleur et mon attente vaine J’entends mourir le son d’une flûte lointaine.

Apollinaire obviously gleaned some of these details from a guidebook, but the hatters, banana peddlers, and Republican Guardsmen are taken from personal observation. The quarter was sprinkled with fruit and clothing stores, and the Republican Guard had a barrack nearby. Poupon suggests that the casquettiers are not cap-makers but cap-wearers, that is pimps and hoodlums. He adds that the guardsmen are probably on leave and have come to patronize the prostitutes. Besides filtering the previous details through his personal experience, Apollinaire manages to give them a mythic dimension. It has long been recognized that he is the hero of his own poem. He is present in three different guises: as the protagonist (the musician), as the narrator (the speaker), and as the poet (the singer). The attributes of the first two roles are combined in that of the third. Thus Apollinaire is present both as an observer and as

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a participant—that is, as the embodiment of the different aspects of poetic creation.22 This explains the puzzling statement that the faceless man is playing the very tune that Apollinaire is singing, which he invented: they are one and the same person. Insofar as the faceless protagonist represents Apollinaire the poet, it is fitting that at least five of his female followers are taken directly from his works.23 One of them, Mia, also seems to have been a former love of his when he was growing up in Monaco. The fact that the women are prostitutes is as important as their rapturous subservience. For if Apollinaire suffered mightily at the hands of his various loves, he was finally able to punish them in this poem as he could never do in real life. In his misogynistic mood, he lumps all women together under the heading “prostitute” and disposes of them as he wishes. As S. I. Lockerbie states, “le poète s’installe en quelque sorte comme le spectateur de son propre triomphe—que ce triomphe soit sur les femmes nommées, sur toutes les femmes du monde, ou sur l’amour lui-même.”24 Apollinaire’s revenge assumes two forms. In one, which belongs to the poem’s mythic dimension, he leads the women to Hades/Hell. The theme of death runs through the entire poem, and the women enter the abandoned house “sans regretter ce qu’elles ont laissé . . . le jour la vie et la mémoire” (emphasis added). Renaud believes the faceless Apollinaire disappears along with them, symbolizing a break with the past, but this does not seem to be true. For one thing, he is characterized as a “passeur des morts,” transporting his charges to the underworld but not remaining there himself. For another, in the dramatic version of the poem he reappears on stage at the end. The other form of revenge is erotic: Apollinaire takes the women for himself, consigning them to his own personal harem. It should be stressed that the faceless musician is not indifferent to his followers, as some critics have charged, but merely unconcerned (“indifférent” having both meanings). He simply has complete confidence in his power over the women, and it is this power that makes him so “terrible.” In fact, he is described as “heureux” in one place—both happy and fortunate. The nature of his happiness, and the destination of the women, are evident from the erotic epithet “mélodieux ravisseur.” Finally, without going into details at this point, it appears that the mysterious “homme sans yeux sans yeux et sans oreilles” is actually a membrum

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virile (Apollinaire’s). In its erect state it is eminently worthy of the prostitutes’ attention. Thus sexual fantasy and revenge blend in an image of irresistible phallic magnetism. Poupon astutely observes that the bond between the women and their seducer is that of fascination but incorrectly links it to the fascine (“fagot,” “bundle of sticks,” hence “flute”) instead of the etymological fascinum. The latter term designated a spell of witchcraft, an amulet, often phallic, and the phallus itself.25 Like Apollinaire’s revenge, the occasional touches of melancholy are motivated by the recent demise of his relationship with Marie Laurencin, traces of which are scattered throughout the poem. For example, he invokes their mutual suffering following the breakup in the lines “Mais nous qui mourons de vivre loin l’un de l’autre / Tendons nos bras.” His longing for reconciliation is exposed here like a raw nerve. These lines are also the key to understanding the puzzling statement: “Et maintenant / Tu me ressembles tu me ressembles malheureusement.” Addressing Marie, Apollinaire detects an ironic resemblance, which he expresses via a jeu de mots centered on “malheureusement.” On the one hand they are both “unfortunate,” on the other they resemble each other because they are both “unhappy.” This emotional state contrasts sharply with that of the “heureux musicien.” As Poupon has shown, the line “Tu pleurais assise près de moi au fond d’un fiacre” recalls how Apollinaire had recently consoled Marie upon the death of her mother. The line “Elle traverse un pont qui relie Bonn à Beuel et disparaît à travers Pützschen” probably also refers to Marie—with echoes of Annie Playden. For this is the path followed by Tristouse Ballerinette, Marie’s double, in Le Poète assassiné. Despite their fragmentary appearance, the preceding lines are not gratuitous. The references to Marie are separated and isolated on the page to indicate they are random thoughts and memories passing through Apollinaire’s mind. They also serve to prepare the reader for the conclusion, where the different themes are finally resolved. Like the daylight, the main event is coming to a close. The ringing of the Angelus serves as the line of demarcation between fantasy and reality. Recalling another confrontation with the supernatural, that is, the Annunciation, the Angelus seems rather ironic. For if it commemorates “le Salut que l’Ange prédit” (Villon, Le Lais), salvation seems extremely remote for the women in the poem who have been led off to eternal damnation.

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More importantly, the bells mark the hour of evening prayer, calling to mind Millet’s painting L’Angélus and its atmosphere of complete tranquility. According to Fongaro, the line evoking the Angelus was taken from a popular song entitled “L’Angélus de la mer”: “Au loin, c’est l’angélus qui sonne.”26 Once the flurry of activity has ceased, a similar peace descends upon the Saint-Merry quarter, where one sees Apollinaire the poet left alone with his memories in a setting full of historical memories. The line “Troupeau de regards langoueux des femmes,” which may be a metaphor for the sky filled with stars, as in “Voyage,” represents the memory of the women in his life as well as those in the poem. Apollinaire’s anguish stems from his isolation. Just as he is alone in the Saint-Merry streets, he is alone in life. His immediate source of anguish is the loss of Marie, the “tu” of the next-to-last line. While he had initially hoped for a reconciliation, his expectations have proved to be in vain. The contrast is striking: surrounded by women who throng to become the musician’s slaves, Apollinaire himself has been unable to capture the woman he loves. The last verb mourir underlines the finality of his failure. In the last analysis, his anguish is an avowal of his impotence. The final line, with its blending of memory, music, and love’s suffering, recalls the ending of “Cors de chasse.” In both poems the music fading in the distance symbolizes the passage of life itself. Wishing to give “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” a mythic dimension that would surpass his personal experience, Apollinaire chose first to graft the legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin onto his initial guided-tour structure. This idea may have been suggested by the statue of a piper on the main façade of the Eglise de Saint-Merry or by a guidebook note that the rue Saint-Martin was inhabited by musicians and jongleurs in the Middle Ages.27 The salient features of the legend, which exists in several versions, are the following: on either June 26 or July 22, 1284, having been refused payment for ridding Hamelin of its rats, a mysterious piper took his revenge by piping away 130 children and disappearing with them into a cavern high on Koppenberg Hill.28 The last sound anyone heard was that of flute music gradually dying away. From this brief outline it is clear that the legend’s influence was crucial. The precise date, the flute-player with his irresistible music, the theme of revenge, the disappearance by engulfment, the fading flute music at the end—all these are repeated in “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” whose shape they largely determine.

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Apollinaire skillfully integrated cortèges on another three levels that dovetail perfectly with the Hamelin legend. As noted, the different versions specify either June 26 or July 22 as the day of the exodus hamelensis. These are the saint’s days of John and Paul on the one hand, and of Mary Magdalene on the other. In his treatise Des divinités génératrices chez les anciens et les modernes (which Apollinaire owned), J. A. Dulaure devotes some interesting pages to prostitution in medieval Paris, including the Saint-Merry quarter. He states, for example, that the prostitutes belonged to a special guild with its own rules, judges, and taxes, and that once every year they filed across Paris in a solemn procession. This day was, appropriately, Mary Magdalene’s Day.29 There is little doubt that “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” incorporates this historical procession, which parallels the theme of modern-day prostitutes pursuing potential customers in the same area. While the role of the procession is minor, it links the protagonist’s followers to the mythic figure of Mary Magdalene (The Eternal Whore)—whose first name in French is also Marie. On yet another level, the critics are unanimous in interpreting Apollinaire’s faceless musician as a manifestation of the Devil. In this context, it is noteworthy that the Pied Piper legend has a definite demonic aspect and that the Piper is identified with the Devil in disguise in many versions. In the legend, as in the poem, the hypnotic flute music represents a form of sorcery. Apollinaire may also have been inspired by a statue on the main façade of the Eglise de Saint-Merry replacing a religious figure destroyed during the Revolution. One guidebook states “Another blunder of the modern architect is the placing of a demon on the center—at the point of the arch, where the Medieval artists invariably put the figure of Christ or Our Lady.”30 From this it is easy to imagine a church devoted to the worship of Satan, and indeed Poupon reports that “toute une tradition occultiste situe l’enfer sous l’Eglise Saint-Merry, église suspecte où des rites démoniques se seraient déroulés.” The demonic component of the faceless musician is acknowledged at the beginning of the poem: Passeur des morts et les mordonnantes mériennes Des millions de mouches éventaient une splendeur.

The key to these verses lies in the image of the flies. Poupon takes the second line as a metaphor for the moon and the stars. Here, as elsewhere in his

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works, Apollinaire evokes the image of infernal flies, who, being female, are associated with dancing and eroticism. Moreover, as the symbols of death and putrefaction, they are inextricably bound up with Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies. In “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” they not only serve to identify the protagonist but foreshadow the end of the poem where the women are led off to death/Hell. As in “Voyage,” Apollinaire is in effect wishing that his former loves—that all women—would go to the Devil. The two lines above, which announce the appearance of the protagonist in the next line, prefigure the procession of the musician and his women. Their relation to one another is chiasmic. “Passeur des morts” and “splendeur” describe Beezelbub, while the “mordonnantes mériennes” and the “millions de mouches” are his female followers. The flies are metaphors for the prostitutes (and vice versa), who are attracted to the unclean in swarms and who are unclean themselves. This metaphorical metamorphosis is likewise evident in the epithet mordonnantes, a portmanteau word but also a pun. For if it combines mort and donnant, it just as obviously fuses mordant and bourdonnant. On the one hand, the “mériennes” are seen as death-dealing women companions, even accomplices, of the ferryman. On the other, they are depicted as a swarm of biting, buzzing (cf. the verb éventer) flies. As prostitutes, they are lethal in the first instance and annoying in the second. The two images are inextricably intertwined, leaving the reader with the image of hordes of whores-flies performing an obscene danse funèbre. Within the realm of ancient Greek mythology Apollinaire’s hero has been identified as Hermes, Orpheus, Pan, and Dionysos. Detailed investigation fails to substantiate the first three claims, but the fourth has much to recommend it. This is not to deny that Apollinaire’s works are full of references to Hermes, Orpheus, and Pan, or that the figures are sometimes associated with groups of women, or that his first collection of poetry was subtitled Cortège d’Orphée. However, none of their legends make sense in the context of the poem. If Orpheus’s music had the power to charm wild animals, his instrument was the lyre, not the flute. It is symptomatic that Renaud is compelled to postulate “une sorte d’Anti-Orphée, d’Orphée retourné” to explain why Orpheus seems to be leading Eurydice down to Hades instead of rescuing her.31 Similarly, if Pan usually played “musique pastorale” like Apollinaire’s musician, his instrument

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was not the flute but the pan-pipe (syrinx). Neither are his associations with fright and bestiality helpful. As Scott Bates notes, it is Dionysos—a fluteplayer—who is associated with Ariadne.32 Abandoned on the isle of Naxos by Theseus, whom she had managed to save from the Minotaur, she was rescued by Dionysos subsequently and became his consort. It is possible that Apollinaire combined the Dionysos myth and the Pied Piper story on his own initiative. However, an intriguing precedent exists in the writings of Friedrich Nietzsche, who seems to have influenced the dramatic version of “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” via Alberto Savinio and Giorgio de Chirico. This influence may go as far back as the original poem.33 The parallels with “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” are certainly striking. First, Nietzsche’s protagonist is simultaneously Dionysos and the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Second, his irresistible personal magnetism—enhanced by a disguise—attracts hordes of followers. And third, he is connected with a descent into the underworld. These parallels are so marked that they can scarcely be coincidental. It is evident in any case that Apollinaire’s poem reproduces part of the Dionysos myth. In the latter Dionysos wanders about the East (cf. Apollinaire’s “Je chante la joie d’errer”) playing his flute and accompanied by a band of maenads, ecstatic female followers crowned with vine leaves and each carrying a thyrsus. There is an even greater resemblance to Euripides’ The Bacchae, in which Dionysos enchants the entire female population of Thebes, who abandon their homes and go off with him. Not for nothing do the Homeric Hymns call him the “inspirer of frenzied women.” In The Bacchae, as in Apollinaire’s poem, the motive behind the abduction/seduction is one of revenge. Moreover, the death of Pentheus at the end parallels the disappearance of the “mériennes,” both of which may be seen as sacrifices to Dionysos. In this context it is tempting to view the biting, buzzing flies as modern-day Eumenides or Furies (cf. JeanPaul Sartre’s Les Mouches). If “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” incorporates the Dionysos myth, it also refers to the worship of Dionysos, that is, to specific religious ceremonies. Apollinaire superimposes the structure of an actual Dionysian rite upon his Pied Piper framework—the phallic procession. As noted previously, the physical source of the musician is clearly anatomical. Representing the membrum virile, the faceless man is “brun et ce couleur de fraise sur les

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joues” and is devoid of any physiognomy except for a mouth. One should thus imagine him as a human body surmounted by a smooth, spherical head. As numerous classicists have noted, the phallus was the symbol par excellence of Dionysos and figured prominently in seasonal processions honoring the god. According to one authority, “la procession avait probablement caractère d’un charme destiné à promouvoir la fertilité des champs et des jardins et la fécondité des foyers.”34 The joyous mood and bawdy songs of these ceremonial festivities can be glimpsed in Aristophanes’ Acharnians, which Apollinaire certainly knew, and in the History of Herodotus (Vol. 2). The typical procession was headed by one or more flute-players, followed by several maidens (canephoroi) carrying baskets on their heads with materials for sacrifice. Then came the phallophoroi, bearing an enormous phallus, followed by a chorus of musicians and the ithyphalloi, men dressed in women’s clothing, pretending drunkenness and singing phallic songs. Dulaure, who describes the Dionysian procession in detail, remarks concerning the costume of the phallophoroi: “C’étaient des hommes qui ne portaient point de masque sur leur visage, mais qui le couvraient avec un tissu formé par des feuilles de lierre, de serpolet et d’acanthe.”35 Thus the phallus-bearers resembled phalli themselves, and as men “sans yeux sans nez et sans oreilles” they prefigured Apollinaire’s phallomorphic hero to an astonishing degree. The poet clearly integrated the key elements of the procession into his poem. The giant Dionysian phallus and its bearers inspired the physical appearance of his protagonist, while the worship of the phallus as a fertility symbol suggested the worship of the phallus as phallus. This concept dovetails perfectly with his sexual fantasies and their representation in the poem. The existence in “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” of yet another level, whose scope surpasses that of myth and ritual, has been implicit in much of the preceding discussion. For insofar as mythic characters and actions lend themselves to symbolic interpretation, they belong to a larger pattern—that governing life itself. As such, they exemplify universal principles and dramatize the human condition. One indication that Apollinaire wishes his readers to consider his poem in this perspective concerns the faceless musician: “Il jouait de la flûte et la musique dirigeait ses pas.” This is an astonishing piece of information: the musician is not a free agent. Like his female followers he

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must follow the path indicated by his music. This means that he is not the creator of the music he is playing but rather its vehicle. Alternately “charmeur et charmé,” in Poupon’s words, he is moved by the same irresistible force as the women and is subject to some greater power (symbolized by the music). If at one level this represents poetic inspiration, here it represents the life force itself that Apollinaire associates with sexuality. In directing their steps according to the imperious commands of the music, the faceless man and his troupe are performing the dance of life—which in several respects resembles the dance of the flies about the “splendeur.” Both are situated within the confines of birth and death, both are automatic responses to instinctual impulses. In shifting from the Pied Piper to Dionysos, from demon to daimon, Apollinaire chose the perfect vehicle for his sexual life force. As a fertility god, Dionysos’s significance far surpassed his importance as an individual. According to one authority, “[il] réunit en sa personne le représentant du monde infernal et le daimôn en qui et par qui l’exubérance de la nature éclate dans la floraison du printemps et dans la fructifération de l’automne.”36 As such, he was involved with the interplay of sexual forces in nature and with the concept of potency or sexual power. In the Greek cosmology, which resembled Apollinaire’s, birth and death were interpreted in terms of sexuality. The death of vegetation in the Fall was attributed to a loss of potency (symbolized by Dionysos’s descent into the underworld), and its (re) birth in the Spring resulted from an increase in potency (the ascent of Dionysos). If one substitutes “fertility” for “potency,” the same concept applies to Ariadne, who became the consort of Dionysos precisely because she was already a fertility goddess. Thus the Greek cosmology was dualistic and divided the world into male and female. “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry” is informed by an identical world view. Scholars have observed that Apollinaire’s poetry is shaped by a dialectic of opposites, corresponding to the functioning of the psyche itself according to Sigmund Freud. Fire is opposed to water, death to rebirth, past to future, and so forth.37 In the present poem, the dialectic is primarily sexual. Paralleling the biological separation of the sexes, the world is divided into masculine and feminine, active and passive, animus and anima. Apollinaire evokes this dichotomy at the beginning, interrupting the description of his protagonist with the following apostrophe:

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Homme Ah! Ariane

Although the male/female opposition is anticipated by the pairing of the ferryman with the “mordonnantes mériennes,” the entrance of Ariadne and Dionysos here officially announces the theme. The dichotomy is structural as well as thematic, for it extends throughout the poem and polarizes the various processions into opposing sexual camps. It is evident in the following couples: the musician and his women, Apollinaire and Marie, the prostitutes and their customer, the phallus and the canephoroi, Beelzebub and the female flies, the Devil and Mary Magdalene. Moreover, the poem is sprinkled with sexual symbols. Among the masculine symbols are the magic flute, the industrial smokestacks, the bananas, and the flautist himself in his phallic costume. The feminine symbols include the fountain, the various women, the open door, the broken windows, and the empty house that finally engulfs the procession. The Apollinarian universe is thus a highly sexualized entity, reflecting his belief that “la sexualité est l’élément préponderant dans la vie humaine.”38 Despite its sexual polarization, however, Apollinaire’s universe is not at all fragmentary. If male and female exist as separate entities, they are not totally self-contained. Neither are they hopelessly isolated. Each category is meaningful only in the context of the other. It is the tension between them that generates the sexual life force—a sort of electric current passing between the positive and negative poles of the universe. Thus Eros is the connecting link between male and female, between man and woman. Eros holds the universe together and provides its motive force. Apollinaire clearly had this function in mind when he spoke in one place of “L’Amour qui emplit ainsi que la lumière / Tout le solide espace entre les étoiles et les planets” (“Poème lu au mariage d’ André Salmon”). One suspects Apollinaire was influenced here by two illustrious predecessors: Dante and Empedocles. In the Paradiso, the former depicts (divine) love as the power by which the universe is governed. In the latter’s cosmology, Love is the universal unifying principle and Hatred the divisive principle. Even more revealing is Apollinaire’s pronouncement elsewhere that “l’amour guide toute la nature.” Postulated as a universal law governing the categories of animal, vegetable,

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and mineral, this statement summarizes the world view underlying “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry.”39 Throughout the foregoing analysis the one constant, recurring theme has been sexuality in its various forms—from commercial commodity to the basis of love to universal principle. Each of the parallel narrative structures represents the projection of primal desire at a distinct level of meaning, ranging from autobiographical concerns to mythic preoccupations. For, as André Breton points out, “la région où s’erige le désir sans contrainte . . . est aussi celle où les les mythes prennent leur essor.”40 The eventual integration of the various dimensions takes place at the level of the work of art itself. To insist on a single theme, however, is to ignore the poem’s complexity. For as Peter Read nicely puts it, “Apollinaire réussit l’entrelacement inextricable d’une realite vécue, de ses connaissances historiques, de ses fantasmes mythologiques et érotiques.”41 Uncovering successive layers of meaning, one comes to realize that the poem’s subject is really life. This explains why Apollinaire’s personal experiences (past and present) are juxtaposed with life in general (actual and historical). Conceived initially as a fantasy of revenge enacted against a backdrop of desire, the poem goes beyond its original premises to dramatize the structures of human existence.

“Un Fantôme de nuées” Like “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” the next poem describes an encounter with a mysterious stranger in the middle of Paris. Despite the fact that it takes place in broad daylight, it has all the hallmarks of a supernatural experience. Published in Les Ecrits Français on December 5, 1913, “Un Fantôme de nuées” was punctuated initially by overly zealous typographers. Not until the following year, when it was reprinted in Le Nouvel Imagier, did a non-punctuated version appear. Published by the Société de la Gravure sur Bois Originale, the latter volume included sixty-three wood engravings, one of which, by Paul Baudier, was accompanied by Apollinaire’s poem. The composition’s title alludes to an episode taken from classical mythology that led to the birth of the centaurs. Learning that Ixion was planning to seduce Hera, Zeus fashioned a facsimile

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out of clouds with which Ixion copulated instead. Traditionally, as Claude Debon observes, the episode serves as a “symbole d’illusion trompeuse et mortelle.”42 From this one deduces that “Un Fantôme de nuées” will be organized around some kind of deception. As other critics have noted, the first three stanzas are completely unremarkable. According to André Billy, Apollinaire had completed the first ten lines of a short story, when he suddenly decided to turn it into a poem43: Comme c’était la veille du quatorze juillet Vers les quatre heures de l’après-midi Je descendis dans la rue pour aller voir les saltimbanques Ces gens qui font des tours en plein air Commencent à être rares à Paris Dans ma jeunesse on en voyait beaucoup plus qu’aujourd’hui Ils s’en sont allés presque tous en province Je pris le boulevard Saint-Germain Et sur une petite place située entre Saint-Germain-des-Prés et la statue de Danton Je rencontrai les saltimbanques.

Composed entirely of declarative sentences, the first ten lines are almost purely descriptive. Leaving his apartment at 202 boulevard Saint-German for a Sunday stroll, Apollinaire turns left and proceeds in the direction of the boulevard Saint-Michel. How far he goes depends on how one interprets the directions given in the poem. Assuming that “Saint-Germain-des-Prés” describes the church of the same name, Debon situates the itinerant acrobats in the Place Jacques-Copeau right across the street.44 However, “Saint-Germain-des-Prés” also designates the boulevard on which the church stands. Continuing down the street, one encounters another compact square, near the Odéon, currently named after Henri Mondor. Although this square had no name in Apollinaire’s day, a statue of Georges Jacques Danton, one of the leaders of the French Revolution, was erected there in 1891. One suspects that the scene described in the poem—which Apollinaire may have actually witnessed—takes place in the narrow space between the boulevard and the statue. In any case, as Debon points out, the date and the place of the encounter are far from accidental.

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Not only does the setting evoke the French Revolution, but it also serves as “le signe de la révolution poétique . . . sacralisée par la présence de l’Eglise.”45 La foule les entourait muette et résignée à attendre Je me fis une place dans ce cercle afin de tout voir Poids formidables Villes de Belgique soulevées à bras tendu par un ouvrier russe de Longwy Haltères noirs et creux qui ont pour tige un fleuve figé Doigts roulant une cigarette amère et délicieuse comme la vie De nombreux tapis sales couvraient le sol Tapis qui ont des plis qu’on ne défera pas Tapis qui sont presque entièrement couleur de la poussière Et où quelques taches jaunes ou vertes ont persisté Comme un air de musique qui vous poursuit

While the crowd waits for the performance to begin, Apollinaire insinuates himself into the circle of spectators. Since saltimbanques traditionally specialize in feats of strength as well as agility, a number of impressive weights are lying on the ground. Warming up the crowd before the main event, two weight lifters demonstrate their talents, while a third calmly smokes a cigarette. As Antoine Fongaro points out, the line describing the last action is composed of an octosyllable plus a decasyllable. This construction “[exprime] à la fois la lente aspiration que fait le fumeur et le prolongement du plaisir du fumeur (et du vivant).”46 Located near the Belgian and Luxembourg borders, Longwy is a French commune and a center of the mining industry. To date, no one has managed to explain the reference to Belgian towns, but the fact that they are raised at arms’ length presumably testifies to the performer’s strength. The reference to barbells with frozen rivers for handles remains to be explained as well. Nevertheless, the fact that the barbells are hollow, i.e., fake, suggests that both performers are charlatans. Briefly evoking the flute music in “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” the second stanza focuses on the rugs spread out on the ground, which represent an implicit metaphor. Like them, the performers are tired, dirty, and basically worn out. Their nomadic life, wandering from town to town with barely enough to eat and nowhere to sleep, is thoroughly exhausting. Moved by their poignant existence, Apollinaire lingers a while longer on their portrait:

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Vois-tu le personnage maigre et sauvage La cendre de ses pères lui sortait en barbe grisonnante Il portait ainsi toute son hérédité au visage Il semblait rêver à l’avenir En tournant machinalement un orgue de Barbarie Dont la lente voix se lamentait merveilleusement Les glouglous les couacs et les sourds gémissements Les saltimbanques ne bougeaient pas Le plus vieux avait un maillot couleur de ce rose violâtre qu’ont aux joues certaines jeunes filles fraîches mais près de la mort Ce rose-là se niche surtout dans les plis qui entourent souvent leur bouche Ou près des narines C’est un rose plein de traîtrise Cet homme portait-il ainsi sur le dos La teinte ignoble de ses poumons Les bras les bras partout montaient la garde Le second saltimbanque N’était vêtu que de son ombre Je le regardai longtemps Son visage m’échappe entièrement C’est un homme sans tête Un autre enfin avait l’air d’un voyou D’un apache bon et crapule à la fois Avec son pantalon bouffant et les accroche-chaussettes N’aurait-il pas eu l’apparence d’un maquereau à sa toilette.

Lost in reverie, an aging figure with a haggard appearance slowly turns the handle of a barrel organ, which emits a series of mournful sounds. To a certain extent, as Debon remarks, he is a reincarnation of Baudelaire’s old saltimbanque.47 Since his beard is beginning to show his age, Apollinaire jokes that his ancestors’ ashes are being transformed into gray hair. Implicit in this remark is the suggestion that his forbears have all been saltimbanques too. Not only has his whole family been poor since time immemorial, but it continues

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to be haunted by the threat of tuberculosis, symbolized by the unhealthy color of his vest. At this point, what looks like a fairly ordinary experience is suddenly transformed into something else. Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie describe it as “a metamorphosis of the everyday into the magical.”48 Not only is the second performer dressed entirely in his own shadow, but he does not have a head. While this is presumably a humorous way of saying that Apollinaire can’t remember what he looked like, once again it recalls “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry.” Ironically, the poet has no trouble remembering the third performer, who looks like a hoodlum and dresses like a pimp. Despite his dissolute appearance, he apparently possesses some good qualities. Just as “Les Fenêtres,” celebrates Robert Delaunays’ paintings, “Un Fantôme de nuées” pays homage to Picasso’s Rose and Blue periods. As many writers have noted, Apollinaire’s descriptions of the saltimbanques closely resemble Picasso’s paintings of emaciated performers and their families. Several critics have also noted similarities between “Un Fantôme de nuées” and an article by Apollinaire entitled “Picasso, peintre,” later incorporated into Les Peintres cubistes.49 For example, the old saltimbanque turning the barrel organ recalls the “arlequins taciturnes [qui] ont les joues et le front flétris par les sensibilités morbides.” Like Picasso, Apollinaire not only sympathized with the itinerant performers, he obviously identified with them. In the former’s eyes they were the ultimate image of the artist, in the latter’s eyes the ultimate image of the poet. For both men, the performers’ precarious life style symbolized their own marginal existence. La musique se tut et ce furent des pourparlers avec le public Qui sou à sou jeta sur le tapis la somme de deux francs cinquante Au lieu des trois francs que le vieux avait fixés comme prix des tours Mais quand il fut clair que personne ne donnerait plus rien On se décida à commencer la séance De dessous l’orgue sortit un tout petit saltimbanque habillé de rose pulmonaire Avec de la fourrure aux poignets et aux chevilles Il poussait des cris brefs

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Et saluait en écartant gentiment les avant-bras Mains ouvertes Une jambe en arrière prête à la génuflexion Il salua ainsi aux quatre points cardinaux Et quand il marcha sur une boule Son corps mince devint une musique si délicate que nul parmi les spectateurs n’y fut insensible Un petit esprit sans aucune humanité Pensa chacun Et cette musique des formes Détruisit celle de l’orgue mécanique Que moulait l’homme au visage couvert d’ancêtres.

Once the preliminaries are over, it is time for the main event to take place. With the crowd’s appetite whetted by the previous feats of strength, the old saltimbanque exhorts the spectators to contribute some money to see the amazing spectacle. Slowly, reluctantly, they pitch five centime coins onto the rug. Despite the speaker’s continual encouragement, the final amount is less than he originally asked for. By Madeleine Boisson’s calculations, there are approximately one hundred spectators, of whom fifty have contributed a sou.50 Figuring that two and a half francs are better than nothing, the performers decide to go on with the show. Emitting a series of Indian war whoops, another member of the troupe emerges from beneath the organ and elaborately salutes the spectators. According to Boisson he is the fifth saltimbanque, but he actually seems to be the seventh: the three weight lifters, the old man, the headless figure, the hoodlum, and the little saltimbanque.51 Although the latter is wearing a rose-colored costume, his wrists and ankles are ringed with fur. For a moment he appears to be a monkey rather than a boy. That his cries are “cris de Peau-Rouge” is revealed only later but suggests, in retrospect, that he is wearing war paint and feathers in his hair. Initially, the little saltimbanque simply looks like a young boy playing Indian. However, this impression is quickly dispelled when he begins to balance on the ball. As a number of critics have noted, this scene was inspired by one of Picasso’s best-known paintings: L’Acrobate à la boule (1905). Although Boisson claims the position of the child’s arms is identical in both

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works, this is not entirely true.52 His arms extend over his head in the painting but open outward to embrace the audience in the poem. Nevertheless, the overall effect in both works is simply stunning. Evoking Apollinaire’s acrobat, Margaret Davies could also be describing the painting: “All the grace and artistry and harmony of the world is summed up in the movement of the little boy walking on a ball.”53 Symbolically, she adds, the scene represents the Orphic spirit, which will eventually triumph over twentieth-century obstacles. Citing the ball-balancing saltimbanques in “Picasso, peintre,” who “commandent à [des] sphères le mouvement rayonnant des mondes,” Greet and Lockerbie conclude that Apollinaire’s scene possesses a cosmic significance as well.54 Le petit saltimbanque fit la roue Avec tant d’harmonie Que l’orgue cessa de jouer Et que l’organiste se cacha le visage dans les mains Aux doigts semblables aux descendants de son destin Foetus minuscules qui lui sortaient de la barbe Nouveaux cris de Peau-Rouge. Musique angélique des arbres Disparition de l’enfant.

That the organist falls silent as he witnesses the boy turn a graceful cartwheel speaks for itself. “Cette musique des formes” is so far superior to the music he has been playing that he is overcome with awe. Holding his head in his hands, he watches the young acrobat go through his routine. As Debon observes, “jamais l’équivalence parfaite entre la forme circulaire et la musique n’apparaît aussi clairement que dans ce poeme.”55 Philippe Renaud’s interpretation has been adopted by most Apollinaire scholars: the organ music is “une image de la poésie musicale traditonnelle, poésie ‘mécanique’ et ‘machinale’ qu’Apollinaire refuse de recréer une fois de plus.”56 By contrast, the aesthetic embodied by the little saltimbanque is thoroughly modern. Similarly, “Un Fantôme de nuées” represents an attempt to create a new kind of poetry more in tune with the twentieth century. Noting that the boy and old man both wear rose-colored clothing, however, Debon emphasizes the continuity between the generations: “la nouveauté ne peut etre issue que de la tradition.”57 Attempting to describe

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what the poet means by a “musique des formes,” Mario Richter argues that he is referring to syntactic forms, to forms that are abstract and/or purely mental. Indeed, he continues, this is precisely what the poem’s title signifies.58 However, most readers would probably agree with Fongaro that the expression refers to the boy’s performance rather than to the poem describing his performance. The music in question is clearly the product of visual forms, of forms that can be observed rather than imagined.59 A certain amount of disagreement exists about the ontological status of the little saltimbanque. Is the poem about a person who is exceptionally talented or about a visitor from another realm who possesses supernatural powers? Should “Un Fantôme de nuées” be regarded as fiction, in other words, or as science fiction? The line that comes up repeatedly in this regard describes the astonishing performer as “un petit esprit sans aucune humanité.” According to Renaud, on the one hand, “esprit [ne peut] signifier que fantôme, revenant ou, bien mieux, survenant.”60 According to Fongaro, on the other hand, the adjective “petit” automatically rules out any spiritual, intellectual, or supernatural interpretation. Applied to a lively child, “c’est un petit esprit” simply means “he is a little imp.”61 As for “sans aucune humanité,” he points out that in Apollinaire’s lexicon the expression qualifies as high praise. “Avant tout,” Apollinaire writes in Les Peintres cubistes, “les artistes sont des hommes qui veulent devenir inhumains. Ils cherchent péniblement les traces de l’inhumanité, traces que l’on ne rencontre nulle part dans la nature.”62 Like modern artists, therefore, the little performer is totally unique, which is to say totally original. Accompanied by Indian war cries and angelic tree music, the boy finishes his performance and runs off stage. For Greet and Lockerbie, the reference to musical trees simultaneously evokes the sound of wind passing through the leaves and “the winglike shape of the branches.”63 Boisson’s explanation is more ingenious. For her, the line evokes “l’Angélus du soir,” which from the Eglise Saint-Germain-des-Prés rains down on the trees lining the boulevard.64 She estimates the time accordingly to be about 8:00 p.m. Because the boy’s disappearance coincides both with the Angelus and with sunset, she concludes that he is a solar hero—“un Ixion solaire.” According to her scenario, however, the saltimbanques’ performance would need to last four hours, which seems excessive. Adding to the confusion, the evening Angelus is traditionally rung

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at 6:00 p.m., and the sun sets around 9:40 p.m. on July 13th. Thus there is no way the three events could be simultaneous. Les saltimbanques soulevèrent les gros haltères à bout de bras Ils jonglèrent avec les poids Mais chaque spectateur cherchait en soi l’enfant miraculeux Siècle ô siècle des nuages.

Once the star of the show has disappeared, the weight lifters return to performing feats of strength. This time they have added a new wrinkle: juggling with heavy weights. Sometimes one person juggles the weights, sometimes two people toss them back and forth, and sometimes they juggle objects of unequal size and/or weight. Despite their robust example, one suspects the old saltimbanque does not resume playing the organ. Stunned, like the spectators around him, he pauses to let the little acrobat’s performance sink in. At least that seems to be the sense of the penultimate line. Not surprisingly, perhaps, interpretations differ considerably from one person to the next. “At the end of the poem,” Greet and Lockerbie write, “the spectators and the poet possess within themselves the essence of what they have just experienced.”65 Susan Harrow prefers to view the experience through a rhetorical trope. In her opinion, the spectators discern “a metaphor for their own desire to escape finitude.”66 Boisson offers two separate but interrelated interpretations.67 The first one resembles Greet and Lockerbie’s assessment: “Chacun des spectateurs . . . est enceint d’un enfant semblable au petit saltimbanque.” The second one compares the boy’s performance to a religious experience: “[Les spectateurs] ont reçu l’Eucharistie poétique.” This comparison is less farfetched than it may seem. In fact, Boisson continues, Apollinaire identified Picasso’s child acrobats with the baby Jesus in his article published in 1905: Les mères, primipares, n’attendaient plus l’enfant, peut-être à cause de certains corbeaux jaseurs et de mauvais présage. Noël! Elles enfantèrent de futurs acrobates parmi les singes familiers, les chevaux blancs et chiens comme les ours.68

Despite the reader’s first impression, therefore, “Un Fantôme de nuées” is not organized around some kind of deception, as the mythological reference

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implies, but around a quasi religious experience. However, it remains to interpret the poem’s title. What does Apollinaire mean by “fantôme,” for example, and to what does it actually refer? Once again there is a certain amount of disagreement. For example, Boisson believes the term alludes to the crowd of spectators encircling the saltimbanques.69 Curiously, since the critics are generally reluctant to say so, the term obviously designates the young performer. Not only is he the only candidate available, but, like a ghost, he suddenly appears from nowhere. The question that arises next is what does the boy represent? Just as the mythological phantom represents Hera, Greet and Lockerbie conclude that the title describes poetry (i.e., the work of art).70 Fongaro believes the relationship between the two involves an extra step. For him, the boy represents an abstract idea (“idéal inhumain”). Just as the conjunction of Ixion with the figure made of clouds produced the centaurs, he reasons, so that between the poet and an abstract idea produces the work of art.71 The final line celebrates the role that creativity will play in the twentieth century. According to Debon, it also acknowledges Apollinaire’s debt to Baudelaire’s “L’Etranger,” which likewise equates clouds with creative illusions.72 “La Soupe et les nuages” would be an even better example.

Notes 1

Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres Complètes, ed. Michel Décaudin, Vol. 4 (Paris: Balland-Lecat, 1965–6), 768.

2

André Breton, Entretiens (1913–1952) (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), 31.

3

For a detailed structural analysis, see Willard Bohn, Apollinaire and the Faceless Man: The Creation and Evolution of a Modern Motif (Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1991), 19–24.

4

Claude Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 52.

5

Quoted by L. C. Breunig and J.-Cl. Chevalier, “Introduction to Guillaume Apollinaire,” Méditations esthétiques: Les Peintres cubistes (Paris: Hermann, 1965), 19.

6

Michel Décaudin, following three presentations on “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” Cahiers de l’Association Internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 366.

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  7 Timothy Mathews, Reading Apollinaire: Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987), 150.   8 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 384. Future references to this work will be to pp. 384–6.   9 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1964), 227. 10 “I sing the possibilities of myself ” recalls a similar line from Whitman’s Song of Myself: “I celebrate myself, and sing myself.” 11 In Eglise Saint-Merry de Paris, histoire de la paroisse et de la collégiale 700–1910 (2 vols, Paris: Oudin, 1911), the Abbé Baloche chronicles the repeated, unsuccessful attempts by the Saint-Merry clergy to get rid of the prostitutes surrounding their church. 12 Scott Bates, “taupe,” Petit Glossaire des mots libres d’Apollinaire (Sewannee: Privately printed, 1975), 99. See also “Pâquette,” 70. 13 Marc Poupon, “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” Cahiers de l’Association internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 212. 14 Jean Mollet, “Lettres à Guillaume,” Sélection 3 (1924). Cited by Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 93. 15 Pierre Caizergues, “Une Précision,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 276–9 (1971): 113–14. “Guillaume Apollinaire, manuscrits et documents à la Bibliothèque nationale,” Que Vlo-Ve?, 2nd ser. 12 (October‒December 1984): 8–11. 16 See Les Misérables, ed. Maurice Allem (Paris: Gallimard, 1964), 1137. 17 See Bohn, Apollinaire and the Faceless Man, 41–76; Caitlin Glosser, “Reimagining the Gesamtkunstwerk: Guillaume Apollinaire’s ‘A quelle heure partira-t-il un train pour Paris?’” (Master of Arts thesis: American University, 2014). 18 Philippe Renaud, “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,’” Cahiers de l’Association Internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 189. 19 Susan Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self: Subjectivity and Representation from Rimbaud to Réda (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 78. 20 Antoine Fongaro, “‘Le vingt et un du mois de mai …,’” Revue des Lettres Modernes 380–4 (1973): 135. 21 Apollinaire, “Manuscrits et documents,” 10–11. See Jacques Hillairet, Dictionnaire historique des rues de Paris, Vol. 2 (Paris: Minuit, 1963), 622. 22 Renaud analyzes the different voices in detail in “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry.’”

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23 Mia (Le Poète assassiné and “Colombe poignardée”), Pâquette (“La Chanson du Mal-Aimé”), Mavise (Couleur du temps), Ariane (“Arbre”), and Geneviève (Histoire d’une famille vertueuse). 24 S. I. Lockerbie, “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,’” Cahiers de l’Association Internationale des Etudes Françaises 23 (May 1971): 204 . Renaud believes Apollinaire wishes to rid himself of a form of inspiration based on suffering in love. Margaret Davies links the faceless man to Apollinaire’s use of masks in other works as symbols of alienation in “Vitam Impendere Amori,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 249–53 (1970): 81–2. 25 Marc Poupon, “‘Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,’” 215. See also George Ryley Scott, Phallic Worship (London: T. Werner Laurie, 1941). 26 Fongaro, “Le Vingt et un du moi de mai,” 136. 27 Baloche, Eglise Saint-Merry de Paris, Vol. 2, 415–16 and Vol. 1, 77, and 80. 28 See Hans Dobbertin, Quellensammlung zur Hamelner Rattenfängersage (Göttingen: Schwartz, 1970). 29 J. A. Dulaure, Des Divinités génératrices chez les anciens et les modernes (Paris: Mercure de France, 1903), 240. 30 S. Sophia Beale, The Churches of Paris (London: Allen, 1893), 252. 31 Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 282. 32 Scott Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 121. 33 Friedrich Nietzsche, Jenseits von Gut und Böse, Sämtliche Werke, Vol. 3 (Stutgartt: Kröner, 1964), 230 . The same passage appears in Ecce Homo, part 6. 34 Martin P. Nilsson, Geschichte der Griechischen Religion, 2nd ed., Vol. 1 (Munich: Beck’sche, 1955), 590. 35 Dulaure, Des divinités génératrices, 98. 36 H. Jeanmaire, Dionysos, histoire du culte de Bacchus (Paris: Payot, 1951), 39 . See also Nilsson, Geschichte der Griechischen Religion, 593. 37 See Monique Jutrin, “La Présence du conteur dans la poésie d’Apollinaire,” Regards sur Apollinaire conteur, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Lettres Modernes, 1975), 10 and Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, 130. 38 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Echos et on-dit des lettres et des arts,” L’Europe Nouvelle, August 24, 1918. Repr. in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, eds. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 1469–70. 39 Guillaume Apollinaire, Le Poète assassiné (Paris: Gallimard, 1947), 37. Lionel Follet, “Apollinaire lecteur d’Empédocle,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 576–81 (1980): 59–68.

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40 André Breton, “Du surréalisme en ses oeuvres vives,” Manifestes du surréalisme (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 181. 41 Peter Read “Tout Paris chez Apollinaire ou l’amphionie quotidienne,” Paris et le phenomène des capitales littéraires. Carrefour ou dialogue des cultures (Paris: Université de Paris IV, 1986), 457. 42 Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 98. 43 Quoted in Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, eds. Marcel Adéma and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1084. 44 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 98. 45 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 60–1. 46 Antoine Fongaro, Apollinaire poète: Exégèses et discussions 1957–1987 (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail-Toulouse, 1988), 220. 47 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 98. 48 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 389. 49 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Picasso, peintre,” La Plume, May 15, 1905. Repr. in Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 19–25. 50 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasana: Schena and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 558. 51 Ibid., 555. 52 Ibid., 556. 53 Davies, Apollinaire, 237. 54 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 391. 55 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 60–1. 56 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 278. 57 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 60–1. 58 Mario Richter, Apollinaire: Il rinnovamento della scrittura poetica all’inizio del novecento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1990), 177. 59 Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 225. 60 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 279. 61 Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 223. 62 Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, 8. 63 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 392. 64 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 558. 65 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 392. 66 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 77. 67 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 558–9.

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68 Apollinaire, “Picasso, peintre,” 21. 69 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 555 and 558. 70 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 389. 71 Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 226. 72 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 98.

4

Visual Poetry The months leading up to the First World War were destined to exert a decisive influence on European avant-garde circles. During the first half of 1914, poets and painters vied with each other in a race to invent new and more exciting genres. Anxious to be the first to discover a striking new art form, they experimented with a number of hybrid creations, especially those involving different media. In particular, artists experimented with poetic effects, and poets experimented with artistic effects. One of the more popular intermedia genres, visual poetry attracted the attention of the Futurists in Italy and Guillaume Apollinaire in France. By expanding the expressive possibilities of the printed page it represented a radical new breakthrough. Defined as poetry that is meant to be seen, visual poetry has continued to be popular ever since.

“Lettre-Océan” Apollinaire’s first experiment with visual poetry was in some ways his most successful. Published in Les Soirées de Paris on June 15, 1914, “Lettre-Océan” would be followed by some one hundred and fifty idéogrammes lyriques (as he initially called them) during his lifetime. In 1917, he replaced the original term with a brilliant neologism: calligrammes (calli = beauty + grammes = writing). The poem’s title is borrowed from post office terminology and designates a type of mail that was exchanged at sea between outgoing and incoming ships. Ironically, although “Lettre-Océan” was Apollinaire’s very first visual composition, Scott Bates calls it “the most complex, profound, and influential” of them all.1 So momentous was the poet’s achievement in his eyes, that it constitutes the literary equivalent of Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du printemps and Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

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Although the poem includes a few horizontal elements as well, it basically comprises two large wheel-and-spoke patterns (Figure 4.1).

Figure 4.1  Guillaume Apollinaire, “Lettre-Océan”

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The lines of poetry form a series of concentric circles radiating outward from a circular center, from which extend a number of symmetrical “spokes.” Thus “Lettre-Océan” exploits the physical properties of language to create an ideogrammatic composition in which the formal configuration reinforces the

Figure 4.1 (Continued)

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linguistic message and vice versa. As Anna Boschetti explains: “la disposition spatiale et l’aspect iconique remplissent . . . toutes les fonctions assurées par la syntaxe et par les autres moyens traditionnels d’agencement, de structuration, et de symbolisation.”2 Perception and conception, image and metaphor tend to merge into one indivisible whole. Despite its undeniable novelty, “Lettre-Océan,” represents a logical development from previous poems such as “Les Fenêtres” and “Lundi rue Christine.” Building on his previous experiments with simultaneity, Apollinaire emphasizes the physical properties of the words on the page, so that the impression they convey is simultaneous, like the elements of a picture, rather than consecutive. “The reader has to take it all in at once,” Margaret Davies remarks, “not each line successively in turn.”3 Indeed, Philippe Renaud interjects, “Lettre-Océan” is the only visual poem by Apollinaire that is truly simultaneous and synthetic—the only one that is a poème-conversation simultané.4 In addition, Boschetti declares, the poem “apparaît comme la réalisation du projet subversif annoncé en 1912 dans ‘Zone.’ Apollinaire intègre les moyens de la communication publicitaire et d’autres codes jusque-là exclus de la poésie.”5 Pushing his previous experiments to the limit, he questions the nature of poetry itself. Apollinaire was not the first poet in the twentieth century to invent (or reinvent) visual poetry. That honor goes to the Italian Futurists, who approximately six months earlier began to experiment with visual analogies.6 On November 15, 1913, Francesco Cangiullo published a text entitled “ADDIIOOOOO” that, except for its title, was unremarkable. Taking the word for “good-bye” in Italian, he repeated the final letter in smaller and smaller type as if a voice were dying away. Two weeks later, a work by F. T. Marinetti appeared that contained a similar experiment: “POESIA NASCERE.” The poet employed progressively larger type to illustrate the concept “to be born.” Inspired by the new genre’s endless possibilities, Marinetti and his colleagues experimented with it thereafter in poem after poem. That Futurist influence abounds in “Lettre-Océan” should come as no surprise following the audacities of Apollinaire’s Antitradition futuriste (1913). The poet never attempted in any case to disguise his debt to the Futurists in his early visual poetry, which after “Lettre-Océan” evolved into a distinct genre of its own.

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One month after “Lettre-Océan” appeared, Apollinaire published an article about the poem authored by Gabriel Arbouin, who cited the precedence of eight different Futurists.7 Since the metaphor of wireless telegraphy dominates the imagery of literary Futurism, the letters T S F in “Lettre-Océan” may well indicate Futurist influence. Reflecting the Futurists’ use of mathematical signs to indicate relationships, Apollinaire writes “Pendeco c’est + qu’un imbécile” and “rue St. Isidore à la Havane cela n’exist +.” In a similar fashion, he peppers the poem with Arabic numerals in phrases such as “Haute de 300 mètres.” “Je traverse la ville / nez en avant / et je la coupe en 2” he writes at the beginning, using a stylized boldface numeral to represent a nose seen in profile. Daniel Delbreil and Françoise Dininman raise the possibility that the sentence describes the Seine.8 Indeed, the verse’s triangular shape suggests the speaker is on a barge crossing Paris. Two of the best known Futurist techniques, onomatopoeia and expressive typography, are also found throughout “Lettre-Océan.” However, they are utilized much more conservatively than in Futurist compositions. The poem’s most startling aspect is undoubtedly the way in which the lines are arranged on the page. Unlike Apollinaire’s subsequent calligrams, it is not truly figurative but schematic. Rather than attempting to depict the appearance of objects and events, it presents them in a geometric, diagrammatic fashion. Thus “Lettre-Océan” represents a transitional phase between the parole in libertà and the later calligrammes. Apollinaire’s poem was presumably written a few weeks before its publication, and it is probably safe to assume that its facsimile postmark indicates the date of composition: May 29, 1914. Parenthetically, the fact that the poet signed and dated his first visual poem testifies to the close ties between the calligrams and painting. In addition to the Futurist influence noted above, the presence of analytical and synthetic Cubism is also evident. At least as far back as “Zone,” Apollinaire began to imitate the Cubist painters, who decomposed an object into its constituent parts, seen from different angles, and re-grouped them in twodimensional patterns (simultanism). In “Lettre-Océan” he juxtaposes radically disparate objects, images, and lines to form a psychovisual collage representing a faithful impression of contemporary reality. The distortions of the traditional space-time nexus wrought by recent advances in communication (telephones,

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telegraphy) and transportation (airplanes, automobiles) are reflected by comparable fragmentation and distortion in the poem. The composition’s most obvious parallel is with the accomplishments of synthetic Cubism. Braque and Picasso introduced letters, words, papiers collés, and other objects into their paintings in an attempt to incorporate bits of everyday reality chosen for their aesthetic, not their utilitarian, value. Significantly, two postage stamps and a postcard have been introduced into “Lettre-Océan.” More importantly, Bates observes, the poem is “crammed with the trivial fragments of a great city’s sounds.”9 Sirens, buses, gramophones, the poet’s new shoes, and numerous snatches of conversation compete for the reader’s attention. As Boschetti remarks, “Apollinaire exploite sciemment la découverte que les mots décontextualisés ne cessent d’être ‘référentiels.’”10 Georges Schmits finds another interesting analogy: Certaines de ces bribes de conversation sont amputées comme le sont d’un coup de ciseaux les papiers collés des cubistes; mais elles se reconstituent facilement: [En voi]ture les voyageurs de Chatou Propriétaire de 5 ou 6 im[meubles] Allons circulez Mes[sieurs].

On the most basic level, Apollinaire and Picasso were performing analogous experiments with form, mixing verbal and pictorial elements in their works (although in different proportions). Both were in effect painting with words— whence the title of Apollinaire’s projected volume of visual poetry: Et moi aussi je suis peintre (Corregio’s response to a painting by Raphael). Michel Butor views this project as “une réponse poétique à la prise de possession de la lettre et du mot par la peinture cubiste.”11 His words describe “Lettre-Océan” as well. Apollinaire was fond of contrasting the inherent successiveness of music and literature with the immediacy and simultaneity of painting. In his article “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” published in the same issue of Les Soirées de Paris as “Lettre-Océan,” he indicates how he meant his startling new poem to be approached. Whereas in his earlier simultanist poetry he had tried to “habituer l’esprit à concevoir un poème simultanément comme une scène de la vie,” he now wished to “[habituer] l’oeil à lire d’un seul regard l’ensemble d’un poème, comme un chef d’orchestre lit d’un seul coup les éléments plastiques et

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imprimés d’une affiche” (my italics). The change in emphasis from the mind to the eye, from simultaneous conception to simultaneous perception, was a large step to take. If Apollinaire’s reference to an orchestra conductor recalls Mallarmé’s Un Coup de dés, which, conceived as “une partition,” employs “une vision simultanée de la Page,” the basic analogy is not to music but to painting. In singling out the “éléments plastiques” of a poster for imitation, Apollinaire is following up a longstanding interest in posters as a theoretical source of poetry. As Butor notes, “Lettre-Océan” possesses “une puissance plastique frappante.” The eye is free to wander over its surface at will as in a painting, attracted by one feature, then by another, perceiving (and enjoying) the various patterns and contrasts.12 As it was originally printed, on two opposite pages, “Lettre-Océan” was clearly conceived as an aesthetic whole. In particular, it is noteworthy for the symmetry of its elements and the parallels between them. The two wheel-and-spoke patterns are balanced against each other but differ in size and detail. Visually the smaller pattern is a condensed version of the larger. It presents a simplified statement that the latter takes up and develops in more detail. Similarly, the large expanses of open space in the larger wheel counterbalance the confined, dense field of type at the upper left-hand corner, in a dialogue between freedom and constraint. In like manner, the two wheels, which threaten to roll (or expand) off the page, are contained by horizontal lines of type, continuing the dialectical opposition mentioned previously. The visual sign reinforces the linguistic sign in an extremely direct, concrete fashion. Visual cues prepare the reader for various manifestations of the basic dialogue as they appear in the text, where known is contrasted with unknown, personal with impersonal, near with far. Related structures of large versus small and circular versus linear are likewise mirrored by the visual and verbal text. Finally, the reader is introduced to the spatial relations of the poem via the visual, diagrammatic configuration of the large wheel, which serves to chart the open regions ahead. France is balanced against Mexico, everyday banality against exoticism, safety against danger, Parisian politics against those in Meso-America, separation against unification. The immensity of the distance bridged by wireless telegraphy, linking the two continents, contrasts with that covered by the Pont d’Iéna, connecting the left and right banks of the Seine.

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Remembering “Lettre-Océan”’s status as a poster poem, the reader is struck initially by six phrases in heavy boldface type that function as “headlines”: “LETTRE-OCÉAN,” “REPUBLICA MEXICANA,” “TARJETA POSTAL,” “T S F,” “MAYAS,” and “MON FRÈRE ALBERT.” These fragmentary cues, perceived simultaneously like those of a poster, immediately establish the boundaries of the poem. We know its purpose, its destination, and the basic form it will take; a telegraphic letter connecting the author with his brother Albert in Mexico. Once the basic motifs have been established, the eye proceeds to recognize the pictorial elements in the poem, that is, to consider it as a painting. Next comes the process of actually reading the work. From poster to painting to poem, simultaneous perception leads to simultaneous conception once the text has been decoded. As mentioned, the poem’s title refers to a special kind of telegraphic mail exchanged between two ships. Here it is used in a broader sense to describe a letter sent across the ocean, ostensibly by telegraph. Apollinaire’s name at the end is also the signature to his letter. In reality, however, the poem is a sort of Cubist collage, incorporating one or more of Albert’s postcards to him. The final achievement represents a synthesis of the correspondence between the two brothers and an evocation of their physical surroundings (Paris and Mexico City). Just as Apollinaire introduces the Eiffel Tower to symbolize Paris, he evokes several symbols of Mexico—for example, “chirimoya,” a tropical fruit similar to a custard apple, and “Jeunes Filles à Chapultepec.” The latter is probably the title of a picture postcard received from Albert depicting the famous Chapultepec gardens and presidential palace. The arrow reading “Bonjour / anomo / anora / tu ne connaîtras jamais bien les MAYAS” seems to symbolize the Mayan Indians, who in turn symbolize Mexico. As George Schmits has shown, “Mayas” is a pun on Indians and breasts.13 Jean-Pierre Goldenstein has discovered that anomo apparently means “bonjour hommes” and anora “bonjour femmes.”14 One wonders which language these words belong to. The Yucatec Mayans have no word for “hello,” for instance. The Mayan word for man is xiib and for woman ch’up. Similarly, a survey of some eighty Mexican Indian dialects fails to uncover a single match. A glance at the poem reveals that it consists of three distinct figurative poems (four counting the arrow) linked together by theme and concept: a postcard,

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a bunch of keys on a ring, and the Eiffel Tower transmitting a telegraphic message. The last one is not immediately discernible and emerges as something of a shock. One suddenly recognizes, on reading the central notation “Haute de 300 mètres,” that the spectator is not looking at a wheel but down upon the Tower from above. The abrupt shift in perspective—perhaps the poem’s greatest surprise—is exhilarating, for the numerous scattered fragments suddenly join together in a meaningful pattern. The “postcard” presents the disconnected halves of a dialogue between Apollinaire and his brother, framed at the top and divided in the middle by four parallel wavy lines representing cancellation marks, radio waves, telephone cables, and/or the ocean itself. As Apollinaire reminds his brother, he could not say good-bye when Albert left for Mexico, in January 1913, because he was in Berlin lecturing on modern French art. “Ta voix me parvient malgré l’énorme distance,” Goldenstein points out, refers to Albert’s written voice which reached him via the “câblogramme” mentioned elsewhere.15 Apollinaire’s initial remarks are followed, in the lower half, by a faithful evocation of a Mexican postcard from Albert that probably reproduces the actual message on one such card. The postmark reading “Rue des Batignolles” undoubtedly records its arrival in Paris from Mexico, since Apollinaire himself normally frequented the blvd. Saint-Germain post office. The card bears two postage stamps—a United States two cent stamp (carmine, with a portrait of George Washington) and a Mexican four centavo stamp (also carmine, with a portrait of Juan Aldama, a Mexican patriot executed in 1811). This indicates that it was sent or given to someone leaving Mexico for the United States on the French liner Espagne, someone who remailed it upon reaching his destination. The reference to “Ypiranga” is connected with Albert’s message, both reflecting political events of the period. As a result of two separate incidents at Veracruz and Tampico in 1914, the US Atlantic Fleet blockaded these ports to prevent the unloading of arms and ammunition President Huerta was importing from Germany: The German ship Ypiranga was approaching Veracruz with a cargo of two hundred machine guns and 15,000,000 rounds of ammunition for Huerta. The Ypiranga could not be seized, but the port facilities of Veracruz could

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[and were on April 21, 1914], resulting in the deaths of nineteen Americans and 300 Mexicans. Meanwhile the Ypiranga turned around, sailed south, and without hindrance unloaded its cargo [at Coatzacoalcos].16

This explains why the “courier de Vera Cruz n’est pas sûr” and why the ocean liner is leaving from Coatzacoalcos instead of Veracruz. It also indicates that the “gens de mauvaise mine sur le quai à la Vera Cruz” are members of the United States Marines. Finally, the message sent by Albert, “Tout est calme ici,” corresponds to the message received by Apollinaire on the opposite page: “La câblogramme comportait 2 mots EN SURETÉ.” Apollinaire constantly worried about his brother’s safety in the midst of the never-ending Mexican revolution and must have received many reassurances like these. A postcard from Albert dated February 19, 1913, reveals that much of the worry was justified.17 Apollinaire’s anxious characterization of Mexico as “ce sacré pays d’Indiens et d’érotisme sanglant” summarizes the image conveyed by the present poem.18 It is generally assumed that, like its neighbor, the small circle-poem is a representation of the Eiffel Tower broadcasting telegraphic messages. This interpretation is supported by the observation that its center is situated “sur la rive gauche devant le pont d’Iéna”—the location of the Eiffel Tower—and by the letters T S F conspicuously posted in the margin. Nevertheless, this is almost certainly not the case. For one thing, in the manuscript the letters T S F are placed exactly in the middle of the space between the two circles and thus have no particular association with the small circle.19 The shift to the left was apparently the decision of the typographer who, faced with a full page on the right and a middle disappearing into the gutter, shoved the letters into the only space available. For another thing, the center originally read “la foule.” “LettreOcéan” obviously represents a poème-conversation in which “le poète au centre de la vie enregistre en quelque sorte le lyrisme ambiant” (“SimultanismeLibrettisme”). Thus, as Davies implies, the center of the poem is occupied by the poet (Apollinaire) standing somewhere between the Point d’Iéna and the Eiffel Tower.20 The poem’s shape is a perfect diagram of the spatial relations in this, and every, conversation poem and illustrates Apollinaire’s description above. One more important point remains to be made: the figure’s shape seems to be that of a bunch of keys on a ring. This impression is strengthened by the

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shape of several of the verses and by the line “Des clefs j’en ai vu mille et mille.” The most protuberant verse, it serves as the poem’s starting point and carries a disproportionate amount of weight. Although it probably has nothing to do with St. Peter, as Schmits claims, it does furnish an ironic commentary on the four political slogans, each of which claims to be the “key” to an ideal society. In “La Clef,” the poem from which this line is borrowed, it functions in an identical manner. The resemblance of the small circle-poem to “Lundi rue Christine” is made even more striking by the fact that several lines seem to be left over from the earlier poem, especially “Jacques c’était délicieux” and “La Tunisie tu fondes un journal.” However, these remarks refer to more recent events, recounted by Apollinaire in his column in the Mercure de France on May 1, 1914. His friend Jacques Dyssord, who had recently started a newspaper in Tunis, sent him a copy containing several “delicious” anecdotes. Besides the allusion to Pierre Roy, there are two additional private references: “Zut pour M. Zun” and “ta gueule mon vieux pad.” Schmits astutely interprets the former as a sour commentary on Henri-Martin Bazun, who, in a heated dispute culminating in Apollinaire’s “Simultanisme-Librettrisme,” accused the latter of stealing Simultanism, Dramatism, and Orphism from him. “Pad” is identified as “une réduction populaire de ‘padre’ avec le sens de ‘petit père.’” Given the reactionary politics of Pope Pius X, Goldenstein remarks, the insult could very well be directed at the Holy Father.21 However, both manuscripts reveal that the phrase originally read “ta gueule mon vieux Bar.” Added to “Zun,” it was apparently too transparent an allusion for Apollinaire, who modified the letters on the proofs. As Antoine Fongaro has shown, the line “Arrêtez cocher” was taken from a chanson gaillarde: “Arrêtez, arrêtez cocher, / J’ai un poil du cul pris dans la portière.”22 To maintain the lines’ identity as snatches of conversation, Apollinaire injects a certain amount of slang. Such words as “croquant” (“clodhopper,” “hick”) and “zut” are immediate clues that this is spoken language. Nevertheless, Goldenstein points out, Apollinaire could simply be amusing himself at our expense. Some of the terms could be scattered references to Jacquou le Croquant, a novel by Eugene Le Roy published in 1899. Since spoken language is involved, the key-ring structure, with Apollinaire in

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the center, is particularly appropriate. If the spoken phrases (sound waves) are all receding from the poet, they are also converging toward the center where he is standing—to which they become fastened forever as soon as they are captured by the recording process (“enregistrement”) of the ear. The final ideogram depicting the Eiffel Tower as a telegraph station 300 meters in the air (as indeed it was) exemplifies a more sophisticated version of simultanism. Like “Les Fenêtres,” it is a poème simultané in which the poet’s visual and/or aural impressions of a given scene are mingled with thoughts passing through his mind at the same time. Besides the ship sirens and other noises at the center, the auditory dimension is filled with street cries and snatches of conversation. To the shouts of a bus driver (“changement de section”), who is leaving for Chatou where Apollinaire’s mother lives, are added the cries of a gendarme (“allons circulez Messieurs”) and those of a street vendor. The latter are recorded on an earlier manuscript as “A la crème à la crème fromage à la crème.” The most vivid conversational fragment is “et comment j’ai brûlé le dur avec ma gerce,” uttered by an underworld character and containing two particularly savory slang expressions. Brûler le dur means to “to ride the rails” (without a ticket), and gerce means “lover” or “prostitute.” The image is that of a pimp and his girl. Among Apollinaire’s random thoughts—sent as telegraphic messages— “Toussaint Luca est maintenant à Poitiers” informs his brother of the whereabouts of an old friend. “Je me suis leve à 2 h. du matin et j’ai déjà bu un mouton” refers to a bottle of Mouton wine. While it could theoretically represent one of Apollinaire’s thoughts, it is probably a snatch of overheard conversation. It has nothing to do with General Huerta, identified by Goldenstein, who in any case resided in Mexico not Paris.23 In the simultaneous poems, Apollinaire commonly adds yet another dimension to expand the scope of the action. He will suddenly cut to historical and/ or geographically dispersed events occurring at the same time as the action in Paris. With the location of the poem as its center, the action radiates outward to encompass the arrondissement, the city, the nation, the continent, and the whole world. This strategy is illustrated by the series of concentric circles on the right, in which the implicit structure of the poème simultané is rendered visible. References to the past are brief and include an earthquake

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that Apollinaire, his mother, and his brother experienced on the Côte d’Azur in 1887. Geographically one proceeds from Paris to the suburb of Chatou and then, via Poitiers, to Havana and eventually to Mexico, the final destination. The line “rue St.-Isidore à Havane cela n’existe +” refers to the Cuban redlight district in the Calle San Isidro, which had recently been closed down. The Mexican references have already been discussed, except for “il appelait l’Indien Hijo de la Cingada,” which is a misspelled Spanish obscenity: “He called the Indian Son of a Whore.” Another obscenity, “pendeco,” should actually be spelled “pendejo”—a slang expression for a hopeless moron, someone who is “plus qu’un imbécile.” Thus this pungent Mexicanism is followed by its own definition. Philippe Renaud thinks Apollinaire borrowed the large wheel from “la représentation symbolique des ondes hertziennes, sans doute déjà poularisée en 1914.”24 Given the poem’s Mexican context, it may also refer to the Aztec calendar-stone preserved in the Museo Nacional, which resembles a giant sun. To Delbreil and Dinninman, it suggests an aerial view of a huge sundial in which the shadow marking the hour is cast by the Eiffel Tower. The same authors note that in 1912 the International Conference on Time designated the French capital as the location from which the international hour would be transmitted. Henceforth the rest of the world would dance to Paris’ tune, making the city and the tower a symbolic axis mundi. Although the concentric circles clearly represent radio waves, they are open to other interpretations as well. As Timothy Mathews points out, “they can be read as representing the music, in the form of grooves on the record, from the gramophones commemorated in the text.”25 Indeed, one of the circles contains the following line: “de vos jardins fleuris fermez les portes,” which comes from a song entitled “Les myrtes sont flétris.”26 One is also free, Matthews adds, to imagine Apollinaire walking around in circles trying to break in his new shoes. In this context, Pénélope Sacks-Galey interjects, “cré cré cré” represents the sound not only of his squeaky shoes but of the gramophone being rewound.27 Ultimately, the sounds emanating from its horn are those of the city itself. For Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, finally, the circles evoke “the radiating force of the sun.”28 The latter is a vital source not only of heat, light, and life, Sacks-Galey reminds us, but also of Apollinaire’s inspiration.29

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These considerations may have influenced Apollinaire when he came to design his poem, but the configuration is consistent with his own artistic evolution as well. Apart from his use of the circle as an important thematic structural principle or his related preoccupation with circular myth (e.g., Ixion, Icarus, and Christ), Apollinaire’s personal and poetic vision had long utilized circle patterns in an intimate psychological context. In his important analysis of poetic form in Alcools, Jean-Claude Chevalier concludes that “dès le moment pourtant des premiers poèmes, le cercle est un élément fondamental d’organisation.”30 Among the various recurring forms that he isolates—forms that recall the obsessive metaphors of Charles Mauron—Chevalier discerns one figure of particular interest: l’ombilic. A central point surrounded by a circle, the “umbilicus” configuration is precisely that of the large wheel in “Lettre-Océan.” Jean Levaillant, in an article on the spatiality of Calligrammes, detects a related but separate structural figure: the circle and the line.31 The symbolism of this figure is evident, springing from the unconscious depths of the poet’s sexuality, and finds its archetypal expression in the last two lines of “Tour,” inspired by Robert Delaunay: “La Tour à la Roue / S’adresse.” Citing this poem Levaillant emphasizes Apollinaire’s need to orient his space according to fixed coordinates and his tendency to choose a high vantage point in order to dominate it. In “Tour,” as he says, “nous sommes . . . au centre de l’univers traversé par toutes les lignes de force, humaines et cosmiques.” Needless to say, these characteristics are all found in “Lettre-Océan.” For one thing, the large wheel has a vertical center (the Eiffel Tower), thus duplicating the circle-line opposition. And from the top of the tower Apollinaire can look out in every direction along twelve axes extending to the distant horizon. In this way he is able to impose order on his environment, both immediate and global, and to take possession of the world around him.32 Apollinaire’s description of the fourth dimension in Les Peintres cubistes provides an excellent description of the spatiality of the large wheel: “Elle figure l’immensité de l’espace s’éternisant dans toutes les directions à un moment déterminé. Elle est l’espace même, la dimension de l’infini.”33 As a simultanistic tranche de vie in which time and space are momentarily frozen, the large wheel begins to take on the appearance of a full cosmology. And since the Eiffel Tower at the center possesses the power to actuate the fourth dimension, it becomes a superb mechanical symbol for the creative artist.

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“La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” Although Apollinaire undoubtedly found the experience of composing “Lettre-Océan” exhilarating, it failed to completely satisfy him. Despite a large number of personal touches, the poem contained too many traces of Italian Futurism. As long as his visual compositions continued to resemble schematic diagrams, there was a risk he would be viewed as a Futurist himself. In any case, since he valued originality more than anything, Apollinaire was hardly cut out to be a disciple. Some way needed to be found to differentiate his visual poetry from that of Marinetti and his colleagues. Eager to carve out his own territory, he began to experiment with poems that were mimetic rather than schematic. One month later, on July 15, 1914, Apollinaire published four “idéogrammes lyriques” in Les Soirées de Paris that were entirely figurative. Each composition included multiple figures, S. I. Lockerbie notes, “composed of coherent phrases fashioned into extremely simple and instantly recognizable shapes.”34 Although most of the figures were outlined, some of them were solid creations. Half of the compositions were landscapes, and half were still-lifes. In “Voyage,” a cloud, a bird, and a locomotive were outlined against the starry sky. “Paysage animé” (later changed to “Paysage”) depicted a man and a cigar standing before a house and a tree. A necktie was juxtaposed with a pocket watch in “La Cravate et la montre.” And “Coeur couronne et miroir” featured a heart, a crown, and a mirror. Coming on the heels of “Lettre-Océan,” the figurative compositions elicited a storm of protest. Anna Boschetti explains why, even today, visual poetry is viewed as a subversive genre: “Le poème-dessin, objet irréduciblement bâtard, est perçu comme un attentat à l’ordre logocentrique et intellectualiste, comme une régression à un alphabet primaire et sauvage.”35 Thus far too often it is merely regarded as curiosity. Although the members of the Parisian avantgarde were generally enthusiastic, most critics shared the opinion of Félicien Fagus, who, citing visual poems by Panard and Rabelais, objected: “Mais c’est  vieux comme la monde la machine de ce vieux farceur d’Apollinaire” (Paris-Midi, July 20, 1914). Replying two days later, Apollinaire mounted a twofold defense:

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M. Fagus a raison: dans ma poésie, je suis simplement revenu aux principes puisque l’idéogramme est le principe même de l’écriture. Cependant, entre ma poésie et les exemples cités par M. Fagus, il y a juste la même différence qu’entre telle voiture automobile du XVIe siècle, mue par un mouvement d’horlogerie, et une auto de course contemporain. Les figures uniques de Rabelais et de Panard sont inexpressives comme les autres dessins typographiques, tandis que les rapports qu’il y a entre les figures juxtaposées d’un de mes poèmes sont tout aussi expressifs que les mots qui le composent. Et là, au moins, il y a, je crois, une nouveauté. (Paris-Midi, July 22, 1914)

When war broke out in August 1914, cultural life in Paris came to an abrupt standstill. Deprived of the prosperity, leisure, and sense of well-being that characterized the previous thirty years, the Belle Epoque suddenly came to an end. Although Apollinaire was not a French citizen, and thus not required to register for the draft, he hurried to enlist in the army but was initially rejected. With time hanging heavy on his hands, he decided to join his friend Henri Siégler-Pascal in Nice, where he could indulge in occasional opium parties. There he met Louise de Coligny-Châtillon—better known to posterity as Lou. Apollinaire bombarded her with declarations of love from the very beginning, sending her a visual poem on October 8th depicting a fig, a carnation, and an opium pipe (Figure 4.2).

Figure 4.2  Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Figue, l’oeillet et la pipe”

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Rebuffed by Lou initially, he replaced the fig with a mandolin, completely re-worded the other two figures, and sent the new composition to someone named Mounette Diaz—doubtless another potential conquest. The new poem also bore a different title: “Avénement des fumées.” Still not satisfied, Apollinaire considered four additional titles before choosing the one it bears today: “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou parfumé,” “La Mandoline l’oeillet et l’odeur,” “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le mystère odorant,” and “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le Rève.”36 In contrast to most of the visual compositions in Calligrammes, which were set in type before being printed, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” is printed in Apollinaire’s own handwriting (Figure 4.3).

Figure 4.3  Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou”

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Even the section entitled “Case d’armons,” which was published at the front in a handwritten format, has been largely replaced by a printed version. Only four handwritten poems remain: “1915,” “Carte Postale,” “Madeleine,” and “Venu de Dieuze.” Described in a 1918 patent application, the photo engraving process was rather complicated: It has been the practice . . . first to make a negative, then to strip this from its glass backing, reversing it and applying it to another glass plate, then to make a contact print of this reversed negative upon a metal plate of zinc or copper sensitized with a bichromate solution. Thereafter the bichromate coating is developed, and after other well-known steps have been taken to protect the plate, the latter is etched with any suitable acid.37

Since Calligrammes contains so few poems in Apollinaire’s handwriting, one suspects the process was also fairly expensive. Although setting visual poetry in type was even more labor intensive, it was probably quite a bit cheaper. Reproducing “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou” in the poet’s own handwriting, however, had two clear advantages. At a time when this procedure was rarely, if ever, employed, it emphasized the poem’s revolutionary aspect. In addition, the reader was able to retrace Apollinaire’s hesitations and enthusiasms word by word. Since the reading process was essentially unmediated, he or she enjoyed an unparalleled sense of intimacy. Although the three visual figures in the poem are basically mimetic, they are far from realistic. At best they resemble some extremely crude sketches, although what they depict is not immediately evident. Although Margaret Davies and Jean-Pierre Goldenstein claim the title is redundant, this statement is slightly misleading.38 While the words in the title identify the objects depicted visually, the latter do not fully illustrate the words in the title. Only after they have been identified does the relationship become reciprocal. The round figure on the left and the linear figure at the bottom are seriously underdetermined. They could be all sorts of things. And while the remaining figure clearly depicts a flower, it does not necessarily portray a carnation. Without the title, which indicates where to start and how to proceed, one would be tempted to begin with the carnation rather than the mandolin. Unfortunately, the reproduction included in the Oeuvres poétiques (and other Gallimard editions) is flawed.

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Figure 4.4  Guillaume Apollinaire, “La Mandoline, l’oeillet et le bambou” (Gallimard)

Although the missing “n” in “ma doline” has been restored, the composition needs to be rotated clockwise until the carnation is vertical.39 Although the figures still form a right triangle, the opium pipe no longer provides a horizontal base.

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Interestingly, Apollinaire utilizes two different visual techniques in the poem. While the mandolin and the pipe are composed of outlined forms, the carnation basically employs solid forms. The first style is light and airy, the second is dense and opaque. It is often used to depict a heavy object or one with a dark color. Since the three objects are apparently related in some way, one immediately wonders what they have in common. Georges Longrée suggests that all three are associated with “élégance, raffinement, luxe, oisiveté sinon même décadence.”40 In addition, one might add, they all participate in the same still-life composition. To a certain extent, the latter resembles numerous Cubist compositions where a stringed instrument is juxtaposed with a pipe and other objects. Nevertheless, as Longrée points out, the presence of definite articles in the title marks it as a literary, rather than an artistic, composition.41 Otherwise it would read “Mandoline oeillet et bambou.” Despite the work’s literary origins, Apollinaire has taken pains to create a pleasing visual arrangement. According to Longrée, nevertheless, the composition lacks a consistent perspective. The mandolin is portrayed from above, the carnation from the side, and the opium pipe from the side except for the two ends and the middle, which are seen in cross-section.42 To another pair of eyes, however, the perspective seems (almost) perfectly consistent. Theoretically, at least, all three objects could be viewed from above, in which case the carnation would be lying on its side. Then again, the calligram could represent a side view, which is almost certainly the correct interpretation. The opium pipe is lying on its side with its bowl facing the viewer, the mandolin is propped up at a forty-five degree angle, and the carnation is standing upright (in a vase). The three circles associated with the pipe will be discussed later on. What makes Apollinaire’s calligrams so fascinating to study is the way in which the visual elements complement the verbal elements and vice versa. The two aspects are closely intertwined like strands of DNA. As Davies neatly puts it, “le langage donne lieu au dessin qui renvoie au langage.”43 This reciprocal relationship, which continues indefinitely, is what is known as a feedback loop. Judging from the shape of the musical instrument, the figure represents a pot bellied mandolin. Since the four pairs of strings are usually anchored by a tailpiece, and thus extend all the way across its body, the straight line must be the neck and the fingerboard, which typically reaches as far as the sound

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hole. The capital letters delineating the instrument’s right side are apparently meant to provide some shading. Since a single curved line traces the edge of the upper right quadrant, this is technically an “assisted” calligram. Some critics have had trouble deciding how to read the mandolin. For example, Longrée claims that five different readings are possible, and Davies advises readers to begin anywhere on the mandolin’s circumference.44 Nevertheless, Fongaro argues convincingly that there is only one correct way to proceed. The reader must decipher the fingerboard first, proceeding from the bottom to the top, and then the instrument’s perimeter, beginning at the upper right and continuing in a clockwise direction.45 Ironically, while the words on the mandolin’s left side easily adhere to the visual contour, those on the right side are torn between visual and verbal conventions. Although they follow the figure’s downward curve, they still read from left to right and from top to bottom. By the time one reaches the bottom, they have to be read backwards. This complicated procedure produces the following poem: ô batailles la terre tremble comme une mandoline COMME LA BALLE A TRAVERS LE CORPS LE SON TRAVERSE la vérité car la RAI SON C’est ton Art Femme.

Some words are printed in lower case letters, some in capitals, and some in small capitals. Apollinaire varies the size of the words for purely artistic reasons, not because he wants to emphasize or de-emphasize them. The verbal poem is basically constructed around two similes, both of which involve warfare. Although Apollinaire was probably still a civilian at the time, France had been at war for several months. The first line introduces both the image of a mandolin and the theme of war. Bombarded by cannon fire at the front, the ground vibrates frantically like the sound of a tremolo played on a mandolin. The simile itself encompasses an interesting metaphor: trembler, which bridges the distance between the two terms. Although it normally represents a dead metaphor, because it is so often used to describe earthquakes, it is reactivated here by the vivid simile. The earth shakes from the cannon fire but, like a helpless witness, it trembles from fear at the terrible battles. In addition, SacksGaley detects two implicit similes: “l’instrument est rond comme la terre qui

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tremble et son manche le traverse comme une balle.”46 At this point there is a double progression from the general to the particular via synecdoche. Just as battles are associated with bullets, mandolins are associated with (musical) sounds. The second simile develops the comparison introduced in the first. Like a bullet shot from a rifle, sound possesses the ability to penetrate certain things. As several critics have pointed out, this is precisely what Apollinaire means by the pun on raison: “RAI SON.” Nevertheless, several questions remain at this point. How can a physical sound “cross,” “pierce,” or “penetrate” an abstraction such as “truth”? What kind of sound does Apollinaire have in mind and what kind of truth? Assuming the mandolin is the source of the sound, the statement could possibly mean that music possesses a truth all of its own. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty,” Keats proclaimed; “that is all / Ye know on earth and all ye need to know.” Although the poem’s final clause begins with a promising “car,” it fails to answer the previous questions. Instead, it prefers to introduce another abstraction: raison. For some reason, Apollinaire associates this trait with women, for whom it constitutes an “art” rather than a faculty. At any rate, it seems to be a desirable trait. Fortunately, the term occurs elsewhere in Apollinaire’s poetry. One thinks, for example, of “Le Chat,” published in Le Bestiaire in 1911, where he wishes for “une femme ayant sa raison.” That he finally received his wish is attested by “La Jolie Rousse,” in which his future wife represents “la Raison ardente”—a symbol of order as opposed to adventure. Reason is consistently associated in Apollinaire’s mind, therefore, with stability, common sense, and domesticity. Greet and Lockerbie discern an analogical circle extending from war to sound, truth, reason, woman, and back to sound again.47 Although Apollinaire was probably still living in Nice, they believe the poem strives to relate “the exhilaration he experiences in war to the delight he feels in love.” Although Apollinaire had experimented with the carnation earlier in “La Figue l’oeillet et la pipe à opium,” the visual design left much to be desired. Wisely jettisoning his earlier efforts when he decided to compose the present poem, he created a much more attractive flower. Compared to the mandolin, which is crudely drawn, the carnation seems positively elegant. The stem is long and slender, and the leaves are symmetrical and sensitively drawn—as is the

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flower itself. While Apollinaire employs solid forms, he avoids the heaviness that often accompanies them. Running the length of the flower’s head, two white spaces break up the solid mass and probably represent highlights. The cluster of capital letters at the stem’s bottom may represent the top of a vase. That the poet has gone back over parts of the poem with his pen contributes an intimate note—as does the fact that the words are addressed to an unknown woman, presumably Mounette Diaz. For some reason he has changed the very first letter from a capital to lower case. Once again, the process of deciphering the text is essentially a literary exercise. Reading from left to right, the reader descends the page one line at a time. At most, the verbal digressions that constitute the leaves are a momentary distraction. Except for “SA / GES / SE,” the letters are all basically the same size. Reflecting Apollinaire’s fragmentary experiments with Futurism, two plus signs serve as an adverb and a conjunction. que cet oeillet te dise la loi des odeurs qu’on n’a pas encore promulguée et qui viendra un jour régner sur nos cerveaux bien + précise + subtile que les sons qui nous dirigent Je préfere ton nez à tous tes organes ô mon amie Il est le trône de la future SAGESSE.

As far as one can tell, the flower appears to be a solid color. Since the poem is addressed to a woman, one suspects the petals are actually deep red—which, among other things, symbolizes passionate love.48 According to a lengthy tradition, in any case, the carnation symbolizes the poet. Learning that he had mistakenly included gilly flowers in his portrait of Apollinaire and Marie Laurencin, the Douanier Rousseau painted a new portrait with carnations. According to the Grande Larousse Encylopédique, a special variety even exists called “l’oeillet de poète” (dianthus barbatus) that symbolizes “finesse des sentiments.” In contrast to the ease with which one deciphers the poem, the message that it conveys is as enigmatic as the mandolin’s. Concluding with a convoluted compliment, Apollinaire invites the anonymous woman to sniff the carnation and enjoy its fragrance. At the same time, he makes a startling prediction: that one day smelling will play a greater role in our lives than

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hearing. Our more highly developed sense of smell will be able to discern one subtle odor from another with astonishing precision. Fortunately, Debon manages to shed some light on these puzzling lines.49 Not only was Apollinaire proud of his own sense of smell, she explains, but he fantasized about creating an infinitely subtle “art des traces.” As he wrote to an unidentified recipient the following year, “La subtilité est le grand domaine scientifique et intellectuel qui s’ouvre à l’homme en ces temps glorieux.” Connecting the mandolin and the carnation, “le bambou” possesses the simplest form of all: two straight lines linked together by three evenly distributed circles. Although this visual combination is somewhat ambiguous, the text and the title explain that the object is a bamboo pipe. With this description in mind, several critics have logically deduced that the circles represent bamboo joints. However, the pipe is not nearly as innocuous as it looks. An early manuscript is specifically entitled “La Figue l’oeillet et la pipe à opium.”50 “Depicted in a side view, the length of bamboo is open at one end, capped at the other and surmounted in the middle by a shallow bowl connected to the pipe by a short stem. In the later poem, however, the object’s true nature has been disguised (Figure 4.4). Turned on its side so the bowl and stem are obscured, it resembles a simple bamboo pipe. All that remains of the bowl and stem is a large circle. Where problems arise is with regard to the two ends of the pipe, whose openings are seriously distorted. Neither one is rendered according to the proper perspective. Perhaps Apollinaire was jealous of the liberties enjoyed by African sculptors and Cubist painters. In any case, since neither end is closed, the pipe is impossible to smoke. As before, the critics are unable to agree how to read the figure. As before, however, there is only one correct way to proceed. The reader follows the upper edge from left to right and then the lower edge the same way: O nez de la pipe les odeurs (centre O fourneau) y forgent les chaînes O (O univers) infiniment déliées qui lient les autres raisons formelles.

The fact that the poem contains two interjections (indicated by imaginary parentheses) has prevented readers from grasping its basic structure. The first interjection identifies the circle in the center as the pipe’s bowl. The second one is the apostrophe addressed to the universe in the second line.

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It parallels the earlier apostrophe in the first line addressed to the pipe’s “nose.” Both constructions are introduced by the same circle on the left, which thus does double duty. The circle on the right has a purely visual function. Once again, the wording of the text is confusing. The first line is relatively straightforward. It appears to say that those who smoke opium can become enslaved by it. The second line contains a play on words, a double paradox, and a final puzzle. Unfortunately, it also appears to contradict the first line. On the one hand, since opium’s chains are infinitely “déliées”— that is, “slender” and/or “no longer joined together”—they do not seem to represent much of a threat. On the other hand, they are strong and intact enough somehow to “bind” or “connect” the other formal reasons (whatever those are). Not surprisingly, no two critics agree what all of this means. As Davies points out, the concept of a “lien qui se délie” is a long time paradox in Apollinaire’s work.51 The fact that the chains are “infiniment déliés” implies not only that they are tenuous but that they are pleasurable as well—in fact, infinitely pleasurable. But how are they able to link the other “raisons formelles” together, and what does Apollinaire actually mean? Greet and Lockerbie offer two contradictory interpretations.52 On the one hand, the chains may fruitfully bind together “the more conscious faculties of the mind.” On the other hand, they may shackle and restrict “the formal powers of thought and intelligence.” Sacks-Galey astutely relates the chains to the three rings on the pipe but concludes that they refer to the three visual figures.53 The key to solving the puzzle, nevertheless, lies precisely in the way it is formulated. Apollinaire specifically refers to “les autres raisons formelles.” In other words the smell of opium fumes, or rather the ability to detect them, is a raison formelle as well. The others must therefore be hearing, sight, touch, and taste. Even so, an annoying problem still remains. What does it really mean to say that smoking opium connects all the senses? The answer, which Apollinaire has done his best to conceal, is that opium smokers apparently experience a whole range of sensorial delights. The poem is not about opium addiction after all, one discovers, but about opium-induced synesthesia. Synesthesia is not just a literary device, it turns out, but also a physiological condition affecting non-opium smokers as well. As such, it is recognized by the American Psychological Association:

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The phenomenon . . . comes in many varieties. Some synesthetes hear, smell, taste or feel pain in color. Others taste shapes, and still others perceive written digits, letters and words in color. Some, who possess what researchers call “conceptual synesthesia,” see abstract concepts, such as units of time or mathematical operations, as shapes projected either internally or in the space around them.54

Among other things, this explains what Apollinaire is talking about in the previous poem. Fascinated by the variety of synesthetic experiences that are available through smell, he foresees the time when the underlying principle (“la loi des odeurs”) will be discovered and systematically exploited. Regrettably, scientists today have investigated the phenomenon extensively, but have yet to find a way to harness it. At best, they report, people with synesthesia are able to remember things better than those without it.55 Citing Mallarmé, several scholars have wondered about possible sexual symbolism in “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou.”56 In keeping with the carnation’s intermediate position in the title, they wonder if it could be the joint product of the (masculine) pipe and the (feminine) mandolin. Although the carnation shares the word “odeurs” with the first figure, and “son” with the second figure, this is not remarkable. Each of the other figures also shares a word with its two neighbors. What this arrangement means is that they are all related to each other—like all of the five senses. However, only people who are blessed with synesthesia happen to be aware of this fact. If any one of the figures possesses the ability to generate the others, it is the opium pipe, whose fumes can transform any sense impression into any other. Yet Apollinaire is fascinated by all the senses not just by one in particular. As he exclaims in “Liens,” “J’écris seulement pour vous exhalter / O sens ô sens chéris.”

Notes 1

Scott Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 107.

2

Anna Boschetti, La Poésie partout: Apollinaire, homme-époque (1898–1918)

3

Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 240.

(Paris: Seuil, 2001), 321.

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  4 Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 371.   5 Boschetti, La Poésie partout, 181.   6 See Willard Bohn, Modern Visual Poetry (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2001), 71–99.   7 Gabriel Arbouin, “Devant l’idéogramme d’Apollinaire,” Les Soirées de Paris 26–7 (July–August 1914): 383–5.   8 Daniel Delbreil and Françoise Dininman, “Lettre-Océan,” Que Vlo-Ve? 21–2 (July–October 1979): 31.   9 Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, 107. 10 Boschetti, La Poésie partout, 319. 11 Michel Butor, preface to Guillaume Apollinaire, Calligrammes (Paris: Gallimard, 1966), 9. 12 Dininman analyzes and charts the poem’s formal properties in detail in “LettreOcéan,” 16–18. 13 George Schmits, “Lettre-Océan,” Savoir et Beauté 2–3 (1964): 2691–8. 14 Jean-Pierre Goldenstein, “Anomo/Anora: Tu connaîtras un peu mieux les Mayas,” Que Vlo’Ve?, 4th ser. 11 (July–September 2000): 94–5. 15 Goldenstein, “Anomo/Anora,” 80. 16 William Weber Johnson, Heroic Mexico: The Violent Emergence of a Modern Nation (Garden City: Doubleday, 1968), 141. 17 Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec son frère et sa mère, eds. Gilbert Boudar and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Corti, 1987), 127. 18 Letter to Louise Coligny-Châtillon dated February 2, 1915. See Apollinaire Lettres à Lou, ed. Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1969), 154. 19 See Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 79. 20 Davies, Apollinaire, 240. 21 Goldenstein, “Anomo/Anora,” 82. 22 Antoine Fongaro, Apollinaire poète: Exégèses et discussions 1957–1987 (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail-Toulouse, 1988), 239. 23 Ibid., 97. 24 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 372. 25 Timothy Mathews, Reading Apollinaire: Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1987), 176. 26 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 82. 27 Pénélope Sacks-Galey, Calligramme ou écriture figurée: Apollinaire inventeur de formes (Paris: Minard, 1988), 97.

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28 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 381. 29 Sacks-Galey, Calligramme ou écriture figurée, 99. 30 Jean-Claude Chevalier, “Alcools” d’Apollinaire: essai d’analyse des forms poétiques (Paris: Lettres Modernes, 1970), 82; see also 78–87. 31 “Le regard hanté d’imaginaire se porte sur des courbes, puis sur des formes droits ou vice versa, les unes semblent appeler les autres.” In Jean Levaillant, “L’Espace dans Calligrammes,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22 (1969): 51. 32 According to Roland Barthes this is the monument’s most important function: “The Tower is merely the witness, the gaze which discretely fixes, with its slender signal, the whole structure—geograpical, historical, and social—of Paris space.” The Eiffel Tower and Other Mythologies (New York: Hill and Wang, 1979), 13. 33 Guillaume Apollinaire, “Méditations esthétiques: Les Peintres cubistes,” in Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (eds.), Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2 (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 11. 34 S. I. Lockerbie, “Introduction,” in Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 11. 35 Boschetti, La Poésie partout, 322. 36 Debon reproduces the different stages of the poem’s transformation in “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 123–8. 37 www.google.com/patents/US1285015 38 Margaret Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” Que Vlo-Ve? 29–30 (July‒October 1981): 1. Each fasicule is numbered separately. 39 See Georges Longrée, L’Expérience idéocalligrammatique d’ Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Paris: Touzot, 1985), 194–236. 40 Ibid., 203. 41 Ibid., 210. 42 Ibid., 194. 43 Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 3. 44 Longrée, L’Expérience idéocalligrammatique, 216–18; Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 8. 45 Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 208–9. 46 Sacks-Galey, Calligramme ou écriture figurée, 120. 47 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 406. 48 J. C. Cooper, An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Traditional Symbols (London: Thames and Hudson, 1978), 30.

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49 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 129. 50 Reproduced in ibid., 124. 51 Davies, “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 5. 52 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire: “Calligrammes,” 407. 53 Sacks-Galey, Calligramme ou écriture figurée, 122. 54 www.synesthete.org 55 See the Oxford Book of Synesthesia, eds. Julia Simner and Edward M. Hubbard (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014). 56 Longrée, L’Expérience idéocalligrammatique, 206; Fongaro, Apollinaire poète, 209.

5

The War Poetry On November 29, 1914, having been rejected twice, Apollinaire volunteered for the army again while he was in Nice. This time he was accepted, assigned to the 38th Field Artillery Regiment, and sent to a training camp near Nîmes. Having finished his training, he left to join the 45th artillery battery in Champagne on April 4, 1915. Apollinaire’s first exposure to the rigors of warfare was surprisingly pleasant. During April and June his battery was situated in a small wooded area well behind the front line. With the arrival of Fall, however, he and his men found themselves fighting at the Front during a major confrontation with the enemy. Eager to become an officer, Apollinaire transferred to the infantry on November 18th with the rank of second lieutenant. Unfortunately, as he quickly discovered, he was continually surrounded by death and destruction. On March 17, 1916, he was wounded in the head, evacuated to the rear, and hospitalized for several months. Awarded the Croix de Guerre, he also received the French citizenship he had so eagerly coveted. During the fifteen months that Apollinaire was involved in the war, he managed to compose an astonishing number of poems. Only some of these were included in Calligrammes. Writing in 1971, Norma Rinsler noted that Apollinaire’s war poems had generally met with unfavorable criticism. She speculated that they suffered from being grouped together with his cubist poems, “whose seriousness is often doubted.”1 Because of difficult conditions at the Front, she continued, only short lyrics could be conveniently written. As Els Jongeneel recently complained, French critics tended for many years to ignore or marginalize the war poetry. Some were offended by Apollinaire’s patriotism, others by his “subjectivism,” theatrical effects, or outdated rhetorical models and clichés. “Ce n’est qu’au cours des années ’80,” he remarks, “que l’on constate une

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tournure positive, due entre autres à un regain d’intérêt pour les avant-gardes du début du siècle.”2 Although the cubist poetry has been largely rehabilitated today, the war poetry is still viewed with some suspicion. Three-quarters of Calligrammes is devoted to works composed while Apollinaire was in the army. Gone for the most part are the earlier experiments with simultaneity, fragmentary discourse, and multiple points of view. Although it is easy to lump the war poems all together, and thus to treat them as if they were all alike, this approach does them a grave disservice. So too does the assumption that, because they are concerned with battle, they have nothing to teach us. Since Apollinaire had many more poems than he needed for Calligrammes, he chose only the very best examples. One of the surprises awaiting the reader who encounters the war compositions for the first time is their amazing variety. On the one hand, as Michel Décaudin declares, they possess “une étonnante diversité formelle.”3 Some of the poems are rhymed, some are in free verse, some alternate between the two, and some employ visual effects. On the other hand, the experiences they relate are even more diverse. Apollinaire is a keen observer of life at the Front, which he witnessed in a number of different capacities. Rising from a lowly horse handler in the artillery to a first lieutenant in the infantry, he experienced the full gamut of military operations. Although some poems possess a mythical dimension, as Décaudin and Lockerbie point out, these are few and far between.4 Those that possess an epic vision are equally rare. Apollinaire’s poetic gifts simply lay in another direction. As he had done so many times before, he turned to lyric poetry to express his innermost thoughts and feelings. Many of the compositions are written in the confidential first person. Others employ first person pronouns that evoke Apollinaire indirectly. Most of the poems are candid, succinct, intimate, and relatively brief.

“La Nuit d’avril 1915” Shortly after joining the 45th artillery battery at the Front, Apollinaire began to compose one of his best known war poems. Originally entitled “Le 10 avril 1915,” it underwent a large number of transformations before being included

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in Calligrammes.5 Changed to “La Nuit aux armées” at the end of April, the title assumed its definitive form only in June, when the work was published in Case d’armons. The latter volume was printed on graph paper with violet ink and then polycopied using a gelatin process. It included twenty-one war poems by Apollinaire with calligraphy and visual effects by one of the men in his battery. “La Nuit d’avril 1915” appeared subsequently in L’Elan (March 1916) and L’Union des Automobilistes et Aviateurs Militaires (July 2, 1916). Dedicated to Louise de Coligny-Châtillon, the text is divided into four quintains with alternating rhymes plus two additional lines that continue the alternation. The rhymes are all suffisantes and observe the traditional alternation between masculine and feminine. Although the composition consists entirely of alexandrines, these are systematically displaced and/or dislocated in order to vary the text’s rhythm and appearance. When Apollinaire first joined his battery, it was situated in a pleasant wooded area fairly distant from the firing line. Since he was in the artillery, there was no need to be near the front-line fighting. A spotter with a telescope would relay the target’s coordinates, watch where the rounds fell, and call for corrections accordingly. One of the finest artillery pieces of the time, the French Canon de 75 Modèle 1897 (Figure 5.1) could fire a shell more than five miles. Its superiority lay in its novel recoil system, which allowed the weapon to stay trained on its target after firing instead of needing to be repositioned.6 While fierce fighting raged at the Front, Apollinaire and his comrades were hidden away among the trees, which provided a convenient refuge. As canonnier conducteur 2e classe, his job was mainly to care for the six horses that were assigned to his cannon and the two-wheeled supply caisson plus the six horses that pulled each additional two-cart group. The rest of the time he could compose poetry, write letters, and observe nature. However, Apollinaire received a series of promotions that kept him fairly busy. On April 8, 1915, he was appointed corporal at the echelon level, on April 10th liaison officer, on April 16th corporal, at the end of July quartermaster corporal, and then on August 25th sergeant. After serving as a foreword observer, he was put in charge of a cannon on September 1st—at which point he transferred to a more active battery.7

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Figure 5.1  Canon de 75 modèle 1897 serviced by Apollinaire and his crew. Bibliothèque de la Ville de Paris, Fonds Adéma

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A L. de C.-C. Le ciel est étoilé par les obus des Boches La forêt merveilleuse où je vis donne un bal La mitrailleuse joue un air à triples-croches Mais avez-vous le mot Eh! oui le mot fatal Aux créneaux Aux créneaux Laissez là les pioches

The first stanza describes Apollinaire’s initial reaction to his new surroundings, which he found exciting and curiously beautiful. Judging from the first line, it is night, and the sky is lit up by enemy star shells—so called because they were designed to burst open and release a shower of stars. Indeed, according to Debon, the military slang for “to launch flares” was “étoiler le ciel.”8 If the Germans are about to launch an attack, as seems likely, they would use these to light up the French defenses. The second line makes use of military slang as well. According to the same source, “donner le bal à quelqu’un” means “to give someone a hard time.” In other words, things are about to heat up on the battlefield. As several critics point out, “merveilleuse” possesses both a literal and a figurative meaning. On the one hand, the forest is astonishingly beautiful. With the coming of Spring the trees have leafed out, grasses have sprouted, and wildflowers have begun to appear. On the other hand, the forest seems to have been placed under a spell, as if a fairy godmother had suddenly waved her magic wand. Continuing the métaphore filée, a machinegun begins to fire rounds in ¾ time as if it were a musical instrument. Charming and charmed, enchanting and enchanted, two parallel scenes take place simultaneously. At the literal level, shells burst overhead, machineguns chatter, and the forest looks beautiful. At the metaphorical level, anonymous couples waltz to ethereal music beneath a starry sky. For Madeleine Boisson the latter represents all-seeing Argus, endowed with a hundred eyes, who watches silently from above.9 Up until this point, all the activity has been on the German side. All of a sudden someone on the French side, possibly Apollinaire, asks someone else if he has “le mot.” The usual explanation, which makes perfect sense in a military context, is that he is asking for the password. On the contrary, Mario Richter believes he is searching for the secret word that will break the magic spell and

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restore reality.10 Uniquely among Apollinaire critics he believes the spell is evil because it conceals the real world and hence the challenges facing Apollinaire and his comrades. Placed in apposition and dislocated, the second hemistich is even more puzzling. The emphatic break between the two halves suggests they represent a question and a response. Consistent with his earlier interpretation, Richter believes “Eh!” represents a call to order. Depending on the speaker’s tone, nevertheless, it could express a number of emotions including surprise, disgust, and contempt. Why “le mot” is qualified by “fatal” is difficult to say. According to Greet and Lockerbie, the term signifies mystery.11 Richter suspects it may be an order to retreat.12 Ironically, although fatal is one of Apollinaire’s favorite words, it is hard to pin down. According to Le Petit Robert, it could mean “deadly,” “the sign of death,” “disastrous,” “unavoidable,” or “marked by destiny.” In the present context, the best choice would appear to be “deadly.” Some kind of military action is evidently being planned against the enemy. Before the word can be given, however, the Germans launch an attack themselves. Apollinaire and his comrades are ordered to stop digging the trench and to shield themselves behind the earthworks piled up in front of it. Although it was in common military usage, the antique word “créneaux” continues the medieval tone established by the métaphore filée. Comme un astre éperdu qui cherche ses saisons Coeur obus éclaté tu sifflais ta romance Et tes mille soleils ont vidé les caissons Que les dieux de mes yeux remplissent en silence Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons.

The second stanza ignores the war momentarily and focuses on Apollinaire’s disappointed love for Lou, to whom the poem is nonetheless dedicated. The theme of suffering in love is announced by the title, Richter asserts, which refers to Alfred de Musset’s four “Nuit” poems.13 The first four lines constitute an apostrophe addressed to the poet’s bewildered heart, which resembles a wandering star “qui cherche ses saisons.” However, stars are fixed luminous points in the night sky. Although they appear to rotate around the earth, their position with regard to each other is permanent. The only heavenly bodies that actually move, besides comets, meteors, and the moon, are the nine planets—known in

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Greek as asteres planetes or “wandering stars.” As the seasons progress, they occupy thirteen constellations in succession to which they return year after year. Although they continue to wander, they also possess a certain regularity, which is what Apollinaire’s heart is longing for. Throughout the war poetry, Greet and Lockerbie note, stars are constantly compared to shells and vice versa. The image of the heart as an exploded shell establishes a similar analogy and brings a stale expression—“mon coeur éclate”—back to life. A violent emotional explosion has emptied the poet’s heart of vital feelings. Since artillery shells “whistle” through the air before they strike their target, Apollinaire compares the sound to a person whistling a tune—ironically, a sentimental romance. By contrast, lines 3 and 4 are rather obscure. Richter offers two interpretations: (1) the heart has exhausted all of its resources and (2) the battery has exhausted all of its munitions in repelling the sudden attack.14 A third possibility also exists: that the artillery-shell-heart set the munitions off when it exploded with the energy of a thousand suns. The fourth line appears to describe the broken-hearted poet filling the empty wagons with his tears. Why his eyes are associated with gods, unfortunately, is never made clear. The fifth line continues to frustrate critics because it appears to contradict itself: “Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons.” Like a passionate suitor who cannot help irritating the woman he adores, mankind is caught in a nasty bind. While we love life, we continue to offend her by preventing other people (the enemy) from enjoying her too. As Margaret Davies notes, Apollinaire has been criticized for his apparent celebration of war. “In fact it is not war that he celebrates,” she insists, citing this very line, “but life in the midst of death …, life that had now become so precious.”15 Les obus miaulaient un amour à mourir Un amour qui se meurt est plus doux que les autres Ton souffle nage au fleueve où le sang va tarir Les obus miaulaient Entends chanter les nôtres Pourpre amour salué par ceux qui vont périr.

The themes of the previous two stanzas are intertwined in the third stanza. At its best, Bates declares, quoting portions of the present poem, Apollinaire’s war

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poetry presents “a unique appreciation of life and love in the most harrowing situations.”16 Love and war alternate with life and death as enemy shells fly overhead and Apollinaire mourns the loss of his beloved Lou. Whereas the previous shells whistled through the air, the present ones—nicknamed “les miaulants” according to Tournadre—yowl like cats in the midst of mating.17 In the present circumstances, the expression “un amour à mourir” is particularly apt but also highly ironic. The shells fired by the German 77 cannons convey a love that is both “desperate” and “fatal.” The second line continues to associate love with death, but this time it is Apollinaire’s passion for Lou that is the target. Paradoxically, he declares, a love that is dying away is the sweetest love of all. The scene described in the next line defies both the imagination and interpretation. How can someone’s breath swim in a river whose water changes into blood and then dries up? Apollinaire links several metaphors together, deletes their first terms, and retains their second terms. Reconstructing the original sentence is virtually impossible. All one can do is proceed by analogy. Connecting the third line to the preceding line, Greet and Lockerbie offer a tentative translation: “the poetic self (souffle) willingly immerses itself in the fatal current of dying love …, drawing nourishment from that experience.” In their scenario, the drying blood would be associated with an abstraction (dying love) rather than with a person. Apollinaire would ultimately benefit from this painful experience, which, like his previous love for Annie and Marie, would presumably inspire him to write more poetry. Like Greet and Lockerbie, Richter assumes the individual in question is Apollinaire. Curiously, he argues that the line also describes “l’amour collectif des soldats.”18 Since it specifically mentions “ton souffle,” however, this does not seem very likely. Following an elaborate analysis, Richter concludes that the mysterious “fleuve” describes the protective trench dug by Apollinaire and his comrades. The blood in question will presumably be spilled by one of them. Since the trench filled up with water during the rainy season, one might add, it actually resembled a river at times. As an indication of how seriously the battery is being bombarded by the Germans, Apollinaire repeats the initial hemistich in the next line: “Les obus miaulaient.” Since the French respond by launching their own artillery shells, which sing rather than yowl, he divides the line into two-halves representing the two opposing sides. The last line is modeled on a well-known Latin phrase

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quoted by Suetonius in De Vita Caesarum: “Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant” (“Hail Emperor, those who are about to die salute you”). Like many people, Richter believes this statement was pronounced by the Praetorian Guard proclaiming their loyalty to the Roman emperor. In reality, these words were addressed to the emperor Claudius in AD 52 by a group of gladiators hoping to save their lives. Incredibly, and against all expectations, they received a mass reprieve. One wonders, naturally, which story the poet was familiar with. Was he able to separate the historical version from the popular version? For reasons that will become clear in a moment, Apollinaire substituted “pourpre amour” for “Imperator.” Although purple was traditionally reserved for royalty, he could scarcely have wished to proclaim his loyalty to a supreme ruler, as the Roman soldiers supposedly did. France no longer had a supreme ruler. Neither could he have intended to ask a supreme ruler for mercy, as the gladiators did, for the same reason. Eventually, the suspicion arises that the line actually applies to the Germans, who still had an emperor, rather than to the French. In retrospect, the fifth line appears to be introduced by the preceding line, “Entends chanter les nôtres,” which is addressed to the only possible recipient: “pourpre amour.” “Listen to our shells singing Kaiser Wilhelm,” Apollinaire declares, “you who are saluted by your soldiers who are about to die.” The soldiers are neither proclaiming their loyalty nor asking for mercy, it turns out. They are merely destined to be slaughtered by the French. Le printemps tout mouillé la veilleuse l’attaque Il pleut mon âme il pleut mais il pleut des yeux morts Ulysse que de jours pour rentrer dans Ithaque Couche-toi sur la paille et songe un beau remords Qui pur effet de l’art soit aphrodisiaque Mais orgues aux fétus de la paille où tu dors L’hymne de l’avenir est paradisiaque.

As if the enemy attack were not bad enough, it turns out that it is also pouring down rain. The protective trench encountered earlier is probably knee-deep in water. To escape the weather, Apollinaire has withdrawn into a primitive home-made shelter—doubtless the reed hut described in his letters

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to Lou—where he has lit some kind of nightlight.19 As Debon points out, the second line is modeled on a song entitled “Il pleut bergère,” composed by Fabre d’Eglantine in the eighteenth century and supposedly inspired by Marie Antoinette. “La pluie” and “pleuvoir” were military slang, she notes elsewhere, for machinegun fire and anti-personnel bombs.20 Fortunately, the main attack appears to be taking place elsewhere, so Apollinaire does not need to take cover in the soggy trench. The same line also contains one of Apollinaire’s most haunting images: “il pleut des yeux morts.” For Boisson, pursuing her mythocritical interpretation, the line evokes the murder of all-seeing Argus. At the same time, she admits, “ces ‘yeux morts’ sont, certes, les retombées des fusées éclairantes ou des éclats d’obus.”21 The first explanation is nearly correct. Apollinaire is referring not to the shells themselves but to the burning “stars” they release. Since the latter die out before they reach the ground, Apollinaire compares them to eyes that have gone dead. Deprived of light, it is the human observers who are temporarily blind not the stars. Like Ulysses, who must endure one adventure after another, the poet simply longs to go home. Unlike the hero of the Odyssey, unfortunately, he will not have a faithful woman waiting for him when he returns—or even a faithful dog. The most either one can look forward to is an erotic dream, which, since it is entirely imaginary, represents a “pur effet de l’art.” But—and the contrast here is marked—even that fails to materialize. Instead of dreaming of a voluptuous woman, Apollinaire’s alter ego, who is lying on a pile of straw, hears organ music playing a hymn to the future (which promises to be “paradisiaque”). Expressing the poet’s fundamental optimism, the poem thus ends on a hopeful note. Reviewing Calligrammes three years later, André Breton quoted “La Nuit d’avril 1915” in its entirety. “Il n’appartient qu’aux grands poètes,” he declared, paraphrasing Verlaine, “de toujours faire luire ‘un brin de paille dans l’étable.’”22

“L’Adieu du cavalier” When hostilities broke out in August 1914, Marie Laurencin and her German husband were forced to settle in another country. Writing from Spain to Apollinaire the following year, she asked her ex-lover for some recent poems,

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which she proposed to illustrate and publish in order to raise money for a charity. On August 20, 1915, Apollinaire sent her seven poems via a mutual friend, Louise de Faure-Favier, for a slim volume to be entitled Le Médaillon toujours fermé. For unknown reasons, the volume never appeared, but the poems were published in the Mercure de France on July 1, 1916. Composed of only two quatrains, “L’Adieu du cavalier” is written in octosyllables with alternating rhymes. With one minor exception, this form was adopted by the other six compositions as well. From the beginning Apollinaire sought a poetic form that would complement the qualities he discerned in Marie’s art. What he loved about the latter, he confided in Les Peintres cubistes (1913), was its “esthétique entièrement féminine.”23 Endowed with “une certaine simplicité naturelle,” her paintings were both graceful and charming. Since a complicated poem like “La Nuit d’avril 1915” would never do, Apollinaire limited each work to a couple of stanzas, kept the lines short, and used simple declarative sentences. Like its companion poems, “L’Adieu du cavalier” is surprisingly compact while still light and airy: Ah Dieu! Que la guerre est jolie Avec ses chants ses longs loisirs Cette bague je l’ai polie Le vent se mêle à vos soupirs Adieu! Voici le boute-selle Il disparut dans un tournant Et mourut là-bas tandis qu’elle Riait au destin surprenant.

As Peter Read observes, “‘L’Adieu du cavalier’ est un texte difficile, en dépit de sa brieveté et de son apparence conventionnelle.”24 It turns out to be nearly as challenging as “La Nuit d’avril 1915” but in a completely different way. What the poem leaves out, for example, is just as important as what it includes. Maciej Zurowski believes Apollinaire borrowed the first line from a Polish song.25 Read calls attention to an English song, entitled “What a Lovely War,” that Apollinaire could have heard as well.26 Unlike the latter, however, which is a satirical composition, “L’Adieu du cavalier” depends heavily on irony, much of which is delayed. Whereas the English singer actually means the opposite of what he or she says, the French speaker is perfectly sincere.

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Judging from his naivety, he appears to be a recent arrival. So far the war has been a series of enjoyable experiences because he hasn’t been exposed to any fighting. Every night he gets drunk and sings lusty songs in the cantine with his fellow soldiers. During the day he has time to craft an aluminum ring for his beloved girlfriend, about whom we know nothing. The first line is not just provocative, as several critics claim, it is outrageous. Nobody but a fool or a psychopath could possibly mistake war for a lovely experience. It is amazing, nevertheless, how many people fail to read the second stanza, which contains an important corrective. Despite its obvious absurdity, they only remember the first line, which they assume is spoken by Apollinaire. Anthony Hartley makes that mistake in The Penguin Book of French Verse, for example, where he attributes the first two lines to Apollinaire’s “innocent eye.”27 “Few other poets,” he manages to stammer, “would have chosen precisely that epithet [‘jolie’] for modern war.” André Breton himself did not know what to make of the poem when it first appeared. Quoting the first two lines, he merely praised the poet’s “don prodigieux d’émerveillement.”28 Even more extraordinary, the former doyenne of Apollinaire studies, Marie-Jeanne Durry, seems to have misunderstood the composition. Writing in 1968, she evoked “cette capacité à la fois merveilleuse et presque révoltante qu’Apollinaire possède de pouvoir s’exclamer ‘Ah! Dieu que la guerre est jolie!’”29 Other readers find the sentiment so appalling that they quit reading altogether. Laurence Campa calls attention to the enunciative ambiguity that pervades the entire poem.30 So much of what transpires is implicit. Are the first five lines spoken by the same person, she wonders, and if so, who is that person? Or are they spoken by several different people as in “Lundi rue Christine”? Does the speaker change from one stanza to the next or remain the same? Which lines, if any, are spoken by Apollinaire? Critics find the shift from “je” in the third line to “vos” in the fourth especially disconcerting. Are both lines uttered by the same individual? Do they both allude to the speaker, as is common in cubist poetry, or to the speaker and somebody else? Greet and Lockerbie believe they probably refer to the narrator—presumably the person who also speaks lines 6, 7, and 8.31 Campa manages to agree and to disagree at the same time. “Le ‘je’ du poème est et n’est pas le ‘moi’ du poète,” she declares; “il est à la fois singulier et pluriel.”32 The simplest scenario—and therefore the best according to Ockham’s

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razor—is to assume that the first five lines are spoken by the horseman. The first two lines evoke the joys of warfare, and the second two focus on the young lovers. In line three, he gives his beloved the ring and explains that he made it for her himself. In line four, she kisses him passionately in return as the wind suddenly (and symbolically) springs up. Holding her in his arms, he exclaims: “le vent se mêle à vos soupirs.” Instead of “a more distant attitude” (Greet and Lockerbie), the switch from “je” to “vos” simply represents a change in focus— from the horseman to his girlfriend. Her sighs do not convey “boredom” or “inner emptiness” but rather love and affection. Completely unexpectedly, the lyrical introduction is succeeded by a harsh conclusion. The contrast between the two stanzas is positively brutal. Following the idyllic first scene, the characters (and the reader) are exposed to the bitter reality. War, they discover, is actually a terrible calamity. Millions of young men exactly like the horseman died in the First World War. As much as anything, the distance between the two stanzas is epitomized by their initial words: “Ah Dieu!” and “Adieu!” Although these are puns, they are intended to be instructive rather than amusing. The first exclamation communicates enthusiasm and excitement. The second simply expresses the desire to be gone. The young man can hardly wait to engage in battle. Responding to a bugle call, he saddles his horse, abruptly says goodbye, and rides off to his death. As Campa remarks, “l’adieu du cavalier est un adieu bien cavalier.”33 Thereafter love gives way to indifference and irony, as the horseman’s narrative is replaced by anonymous narration. First person testimony yields to impersonal constructions. Margaret Davies detects a surprising fact: the effect (“Adieu!”) seems to precede the cause (the sounding of the bugle). In his hurry to construct a symmetrical pun, Apollinaire unconsciously reverses the two. “Avec une rapidité aussi choquante,” Davies adds, “le présent se mue sans transition en un passé historique.”34 While two of the final three lines employ the past definite, situating the action in the distant past, the third utilizes the imperfect. Unexpectedly, the last two lines turn out to contain a double surprise. Although the horseman’s death could perhaps have been predicted from the first line, nothing has prepared the reader for his beloved’s extraordinary reaction. In the normal scheme of things, her emotional response would reflect

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the tragic fate of her partner. One would expect happiness to be followed by sadness, depression and despair. In reality, how she receives the tragic news defies all expectations: she bursts into laughter! Her reaction is not just surprising, therefore, but totally inappropriate. This shocking turn of events is virtually unprecedented. It is also one of the things that makes this composition a little gem. The question that naturally arises is how to interpret the puzzling conclusion. As Debon points out, the poem was originally inspired by Lou, who, in an earlier version, “cueillait des fleurs en se damnant” at the end. The concluding laughter was meant to illustrate both her lack of feeling and her treacherous character. By removing the original (implicit) reference, Debon argues, Apollinaire broadened the accusation to include other previous loves as well. Indeed, there is no reason to stop there. Since Apollinaire suffered from occasional attacks of misogyny, the accusation may be aimed at women in general. In his own mind at least, the young woman’s behavior may illustrate the faithlessness of the female sex. Since no trace of Lou remains, readers are forced to imagine other reasons for the woman’s laughter. For Debon she is a “symbole de l’incompréhension, de la cruauté indifférente,” Campa complains that she is ungrateful for the horseman’s sacrifice, and Gilberte Jacaret finds her basically unfeeling.35 Greet and Lockerbie offer three possibilities: she is laughing either to keep from crying, from surprise, or “as a way of facing up.” Since the horseman is dead, Debon’s second explanation appears to be irrelevant. There is no way the woman can inflict cruelty on him now. The remaining explanations are all aspects of what psychiatrists refer to as “reaction formation.” “An important method of transforming uncomfortable or unacceptable feelings into something more manageable,” one authority explains, it is “the superficial adoption and exaggeration of ideas and impulses that are diametrically opposed to one’s own.”36 The problem is not that the young woman doesn’t understand what happened, but rather that she understands it all too well. The reason she seems to be ungrateful or unfeeling is because she is overwhelmed by her emotions. If, as Campa claims, the poem is “ultimately a meditation on destiny,” this realization is postponed until later.37 Her immediate response—and the reader’s—is a purely emotional one. Although “L’Adieu du cavalier” is fiercely ironic, its irony is delayed until the last moment. Not until the reader has reached the penultimate line, which

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reactivates the first line and infuses it with new meaning, does the poem assume its ultimate form. Until then, the sentence is merely a thoughtless utterance pronounced by a silly young man playing soldier. Among other things, the poem demonstrates that foolish talk, or at least a foolish attitude, can have serious consequences. The horseman’s death serves as a warning to anyone seeking to glorify or romanticize warfare. In general, as Jacaret declares, “la poésie d’Apollinaire est un lyrisme renouvelé et enrichi par l’ironie.”38 At the poetic level, irony endows his verse both with a cutting edge and with added poignancy. At the personal level, it serves as a defense mechanism. In this capacity, it protects Apollinaire from the vicissitudes of love and death. Nowhere is this more evident than in the war poetry. “L’Adieu du cavalier” is an excellent example. Composed in the midst of an international conflagration, it allowed the poet to ward off the memory of Lou and also the constant threat of death.

“Dans l’abri-caverne” Returning to Nîmes on January 2, 1915, after a short leave spent with Lou in Nice, Apollinaire struck up a conversation on the train with a young schoolteacher who lived in Algeria. Madeleine Pagès had spent Christmas with her elder brother’s family and was traveling to Marseille, where she planned to take a boat back to Oran. Having exchanged addresses, they began to correspond after Apollinaire joined his battery in Champagne. In what must surely rank as one of the most unusual romances, he fell in love with Madeleine, courted her by mail, and asked her to marry him. For nearly a year, until he was wounded on March 17, 1916, she provided a precious lifeline to normal life and an outlet for his erotic fantasies. Apollinaire wrote to her nearly every day and sometimes more than once. In addition, she inspired a great many poems that, in S. I. Lockerbie’s words, “fulfill[ed] a vital need for spiritual replenishment and creative stimulation.”39 However, her greatest gift was her abiding love, which not only enabled the poet to endure the war but inspired a similar devotion on his part. As Claude Debon trenchantly observes, “l’amour seul peut s’opposer à la souffrance . . . Suprême ‘divertissement,’ il permet de se détourner momentanément de la réalité.”40

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The third of five poems inspired by Madeleine and included in Calligrammes, “Dans l’abri-caverne” was sent to her on October 8, 1915.41 Originally entitled “Plainte,” it was published in La Grande Revue in November 1917, where it was dated December 1915. The title refers to a large underground bunker buried at least 20 feet deep, where the poet and his comrades could take shelter. Although it provided some protection from enemy fire, the living conditions were primitive at best. “Quelle tristesse,” Apollinaire wrote to Madeleine on September 30, 1915, “La pluie a inondé le trou où nous vivons j’ai dormi toute la nuit dans l’eau.”42 Written in free verse, “Dans l’abri-caverne” contains unusually long lines (up to forty syllables) interspersed with occasional octosyllables and decasyllables. At times, it is almost like reading prose. Je me jette vers toi et il me semble aussi que tu te jettes vers moi Une force part de nous qui est un feu solide qui nous soude Et puis il y a aussi une contradiction qui fait que nous ne pouvons nous apercevoir En face de moi la paroi de craie s’effrite Il y a des cassures De longues traces d’outils traces lisses et qui semblent être faites dans de la stéarine Des coins de cassures sont arrachés par le passage des types de ma pièce.

“Dans l’abri-caverne” is divided into four sections. The first evokes the frustrating situation of the two lovers, who would like to be together but who are separated by events beyond their control. Imagining themselves rushing toward each other with open arms, they are stopped short by cold reality. Not only can they not embrace each other, but they cannot even see each other. Nevertheless, although Apollinaire and Madeleine are physically separated, they are united by the irresistible force of love. Conceived as solid fire, he explains in “Poème lu au mariage d’André Salmon,” love, like light, is the glue that holds everything in space together.43 Following this passionate preamble, the second section provides a brief description of life underground. What gives champagne its unique taste, is the region’s clay soil with its huge calcium carbonate deposits. Like the white-walled trenches that appear in several

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poems, the bunker is basically carved out of chalk, which crumbles easily and contains numerous fractures. By contrast, the long, smooth shovel marks on the walls seem to have been made in tallow. According to Apollinaire, the bunker provided shelter for himself and “[les] types de ma pièce.” Since the standard crew consisted of six men, each of whom had a specific task during firing, the bunker contained seven men in all. This is confirmed by “Chef de pièce,” sent to Madeleine on October 3, 1915, and by a letter dated October 27, 1915, which contains a drawing of the bunker. “Moi et mes hommes,” Apollinaire wrote, “couchons dans un trou recouvert de 2 couches de rondins de craie et de plaques de tôle ondulée.” Moi j’ai ce soir une âme qui s’est creusée qui est vide On dirait qu’on y tombe sans cesse et sans trouver de fond Et qu’il n’y a rien pour se raccrocher Ce qui y tombe et qui y vit c’est une sorte d’êtres laids qui me font mal et qui viennent de je ne sais où Oui je crois qu ‘ils viennent de la vie d’une sorte de vie qui est dans l’avenir dans l’avenir brut qu’on n’a pu encore cultiver ou élever ou humaniser Dans ce grand vide de mon âme il manque un soleil il manque ce qui éclaire. C’est aujourd’hui c’est ce soir et non toujours Heureusement que ce n’est que ce soir.

By the time Apollinaire came to write the third section, he was thoroughly exhausted and subject to occasional bouts of depression. Like a good portion of the war poetry, Harrow observes, “Dans l’abri-caverne” reflects “the extreme pressures of physical survival and psychic self-preservation.”44 On September 25, 1915, General Joffre mounted a major French offensive that continued until November 6th. The Second Battle of Champagne, as it came to be known, gained a mere two and a half miles but consumed all of the available ammunition and resulted in 145,000 French casualties. “On a canonné toute la journée,” Apollinaire wrote to Madeleine the first night, “C’est le soir je me repose jusqu’à minuit trente où je reprends le feu avec ma pièce …. Je suis fatigué ce soir mon amour de notre tir presque incessant.” “Dans l’abricaverne” contained a similar complaint about “la brutalité incessant des coups de canon” which was later deleted. Since the French cannons could deliver

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fifteen rounds per minute—and twice that for short periods of time—it is no wonder that Apollinaire was exhausted. The next section continues and develops the image introduced in the preceding four lines: that of the abri-caverne, which is transformed into a powerful métaphore filée.45 Instead of a hole in the ground, Apollinaire complains that he suffers from a hole in his soul. Not only is it completely empty, but it has no bottom and nothing whatsoever to hold onto. Like the Slough of Despond in The Pilgrim’s Progress, it is depicted as a bottomless pit. Like the latter, the metaphor implies, the depths of Apollinaire’s despair are impossible to plumb. As if this were not enough, the pit is completely pitch dark and inhabited by ominous beings who like to torture the poet. A more vivid description of his psychological anguish would be hard to imagine. That the beings are associated with the future conveys Apollinaire’s momentary pessimism concerning mankind’s destiny. Such an overwhelming despair is rarely encountered elsewhere in his writings and reflects the overwhelming circumstances in which he found himself. Fortunately, Apollinaire catches himself at this point and hastens to reassure his fiancée. This is just a temporary mood, he informs her, which will be gone by tomorrow. Les autres jours je me rattache à toi Les autres jours je me console de la solitude et de toutes les horreurs En imaginant ta beauté Pour l’élever au-dessus de l’univers extasié Puis je pense que je l’imagine en vain Je ne la connais par aucun sens Ni même par les mots Et mon goût de la beauté est-il donc aussi vain Existes-tu mon amour Ou n’es-tu qu’une entité que j’ai créé sans le vouloir Pour peupler la solitude Es-tu une de ces déesses comme celles que les Grecs avaient douées pour moins s’ennuyer Je t’adore ô ma déesse exquise même si tu n’es que dans mon imagination.

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What usually keeps Apollinaire from going crazy, he confides in the fourth section, is the thought of Madeleine, which serves as a kind of magic talisman. He likes to imagine her beauty in particular, which he raises above the ecstatic universe like a priest elevating the Host. The parallel with devotional poetry here is striking. Apollinaire actually seems to be worshipping his fiancée’s imaginary beauty. His devotion becomes more comprehensible when one consults the original manuscript. The third line, one discovers, originally read “en imagining ta nudité.” Thus it is her naked beauty that he praises to the skies. Since he has never seen his fiancée without her clothes on, he can only imagine what she looks like. To assuage frustration and anxiety, Harrow comments, Apollinaire often resorts to “mental self-pleasuring” in the war poetry.46 The remainder of the poem alternates between a meditation on the nature of beauty and a meditation on the role of the imagination. Apollinaire himself is finally unable to decide whether Madeleine’s beauty—and thus Madeleine herself—is real or imaginary. Has he fallen in love with a real woman, he asks himself in a moment of extraordinary lucidity, or with his own creation like Pygmalion? For Philippe Renaud, the poem is basically undermined by Apollinaire’s refusal to decide between the two explanations. Like the poet, who is “un vide traversé de toutes sortes de fantômes,” Madeleine is “privée de [sa] ‘substance.’”47 In the last analysis, they are empty constructions devoid of any real significance. For Harrow, by contrast, the characters’ virtual existence poses no problem. “Dreaming [which includes fantasizing and imagining] is a transformative and profoundly re-humanizing process,” she explains, “a means of overcoming the dualism of self and Other, art and its object, memory and the real.”48 Rather than delusional, it is highly therapeutic. Apollinaire’s ultimate strategy adopts the philosophy implicit in this analysis. Even if Madeleine proves to be an imaginary Greek goddess, he concludes, he loves her just the same.

“Océan de terre” This poem experienced several major transformations before it assumed its final form.49 Originally entitled “Le poète,” it was initially a four line stanza rhyming AABB. From there it evolved into a much longer work containing a

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calligrammatic approximation of an octopus with eight tentacles. In Clémence Jacquot’s opinion, the latter “peut être perçu, dans la mythologie personnelle d’Apollinaire, comme une figure de la métamorphose plastique.”50 It illustrates three principles in particular: absorption, synthesis, and energy. By the time Apollinaire created a third version of “Océan de terre,” the octopus had disappeared and the poem had acquired a dedication to Giorgio de Chirico. Writing to Apollinaire toward the end of January 1914, the latter had asked him to dedicate a poem to him in exchange for several art works he had received.51 As several critics have pointed out, the central image in “Océan de terre” recalls de Chirico’s eerie paintings. Whether Apollinaire was actually inspired by his art, however, is impossible to say. Dated December 1915, the final manuscript was published in Nord-Sud in February 1918. Thanking Henri Martineau on July 19, 1913, for his recent review of Alcools, as noted previously, Apollinaire confided: “chacun de mes poèmes est la commémoration d’un événément de ma vie.”52 Indeed, one of his more impressive qualities as a poet is the value he placed on originality. Apollinaire could have repeated the statement five years later regarding the poems in Calligrammes, each of which also commemorates a personal experience. The fact that the war poetry was composed by an actual participant, describing his experiences day after day, gives it a special cachet. Whereas the underground bunker represented safety and security while the poet was in the artillery, S. I. Lockerbie observes, now that he is in the infantry it is associated with dread and fear.53 A G. de Chirico J’ai bâti une maison au milieu de l’Océan Ses fenêtres sont les fleuves qui s’écoulent de mes yeux Des poulpes grouillent partout où se tiennent les murailles Entendez battre leur triple coeur et leur bec cogner aux vitres Maison humide Maison ardente Saison rapide Saison qui chante Les avions pondent des oeufs Attention on va jeter l’ancre Attention à l’encre que l’on jette Il serait bon que vous vinssiez du ciel

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Le chèvrefeuille du ciel grimpe Les poulpes terrestres palpitent Et puis nous sommes tant et tant à être nos propres fossoyeurs Pâles poulpes des vagues crayeuses ô poulpes aux becs pâles Autour de la maison il y a cet océan que tu connais Et qui ne repose jamais.

One of the ways in which Apollinaire’s war poems reflect the tensions of battle, Claude Debon remarks, is by deliberately interrupting their unified tone.54 Passages in regular verse alternate with others in free verse and vice versa. She cites “Océan de terre” as an example. Abrupt changes in the poem’s rhythm, one might add, have a similar disruptive effect. The lines vary from a mere four syllables to verses that are four times as long. Daniel Briolet divides the poem into four sections.55 In contrast to the first four lines, which are in free verse, the next four employ alternating feminine rhymes and are set off from the rest of the text. The remainder, which are again in free verse, fall into two groups: lines 9–14, which are roughly the same length, and the last four lines, which end with a rime pauvre (connais/jamais). Lines 9–10 posed a special problem for Apollinaire: “Les avions pondent des oeufs / Attention on va jeter l’ancre.” Faced with a verbo-visual conflict, he chose to emphasize their artistic properties and to downplay their poetic function. Although they were originally aligned with the next four lines, he moved them to the center to give the previous four lines a visual base. Structured around a massive extended metaphor, “Océan de terre” is filled with surprises from beginning to end. In particular, it contains a series of hallucinatory images worthy of the future Surrealists. Indeed, writing to André Breton on June 15, 1918, Louis Aragon included the poem among “ceux que nous aimons.”56 The first hallucinatory image is provided by the work’s oxymoronic title, which initially defies comprehension. For one thing, ocean and land appear to be mutually exclusive. Two of the four primordial elements, water and earth occupy separate domains. For another thing, the preposition “de” is ambiguous. Is the ocean from earth or composed of earth? Neither interpretation seems to make very much sense. Philippe Renaud was perhaps the first critic to realize that the title is actually a metaphor. But a metaphor for what? In his opinion, it was “une image des tranchées . . . infiniment ramifiées.”57

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It has gradually become apparent, however, that the title refers to the entire battlefield. Apollinaire makes this connection himself in several letters to Lou and to Madeleine. Churned up by the incessant artillery bombardments, the chalky soil resembles an ocean topped by furious white caps. The first line of the poem introduces another hallucinatory image. Somehow Apollinaire has managed to construct a house in the middle of the oceanic battlefield. Since that is obviously impossible, it must represent another metaphor. Entitled “Le Poète,” the earliest version of “Océan de terre” contains the following partially crossed out lines: “Je suis comme [vaisseau perdu sur l’océan] / un palais bâti dans l’océan.” Apollinaire clearly identifies with the two forerunners of the “maison,” which, like them, is either under the ocean or on top of it. Its location is still ambiguous at this point. For Michel Décaudin, the house in the middle of the ocean is “l’image de la poésie dans l’univers.”58 According to Debon, it is a “métaphore du livre et du poème en train de se constituer.”59 The second line confirms the previous equation between the house and the poet. Its windows, Apollinaire declares, are “mes yeux.” To be sure, the body as a house (or temple) has been a common topos since time immemorial. The same is true of eyes conceived as windows of the soul. However, the image of rivers gushing from those eyes is much less common. Apollinaire may either be profoundly saddened by something, or, as several writers have suggested, he may be reacting to tear gas unleashed by the enemy. The third line manages to clear up a previous question but adds a further complication. The fact that the poet’s house is surrounded by octopi indicates that it is under the water. Briolet suggests that it could even be a submarine.60 Or, for that matter, it could also be a diving bell. The question that naturally arises at this point is why swarms of cephalopods are attracted to the house. Are they merely curious witnesses, or do they have a more sinister role to play? Apollinaire is certainly correct: all octopi are equipped with a triple heart and a parrot beak. Nevertheless, their grotesque appearance makes their presence far from reassuring. And why on earth are they tapping on the windows? In Anne Hyde Greet’s opinion, the octopi are a symbol of humanity.61 Like Décaudin, however, who thinks they are menacing, Debon finds their presence terrifying.62 For that reason, both critics treat the creatures as harbingers of death.

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At the metaphoric level, the animal’s beak, bulbous head, and large eyes resemble the gas masks used in the First World War. Whereas the American mask had an elephant-like trunk, the French mask connected the filter and the canister directly to the mouthpiece (Figure 5.2).

Figure 5.2  A French gas mask, Paris, Musée de l’Armée

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Peter Read believes the the figure of the octopus was suggested to Apollinaire by a view of himself wearing his own gas mask.63 Indeed, he suspects the poet is still wearing the mask and that the whole scene is viewed through his thick, muddy goggles—the “fenêtres” and “vitres” described elsewhere. At a further remove, the “bec qui cogne à la vitre” may be a metaphor for the ratatatat of a machine gun. Greet and Lockerbie suggest that the “octopi” surrounding the poet are actually his fellow soldiers. This is why he calls them “poulpes terrestres” in line 14. This realization reminds one in turn of the metaphorical equation expressed by the title: océan = terre. Since the “ocean” is really the expanse of ground separating Apollinaire and the Germans, the submerged “house” must be his underground bunker. Faithful to the initial metaphor, nonetheless, he depicts the bunker visually as an actual house. Situated in the middle of the page (and the poem), it occupies the space formerly filled by a calligrammatic octopus. The reason the house is “humide,” finally, is because the season is winter. The reason it is “ardente” is because the soldiers are full of passionate conviction. Since the winter sun is setting sooner, it seems to be setting more rapidly. And since it is the Christmas season, music can be heard everywhere, perhaps even in the bunker. The next three lines, two of which form the house’s foundation, introduce a little humor into the far from cheery situation: “Les avions pondent des oeufs / Attention on va jeter l’ancre / Attention à l’encre que l’on jette.” Greet and Lockerbie suspect the flying airplanes were inspired by a relative of the octopi: flying squid. According to Freud, in any event, humor marks the triumph of the pleasure principle over adverse circumstances.64 The image of airplanes laying eggs like so many chickens is not only fanciful, therefore, but also therapeutic. It allows Apollinaire—and the reader—to distance himself from the actual event, which involves bombing and killing lots of people. Humor permits the poet to overcome the tragedy of the war, Gilberte Jacaret explains, and to free himself from his anxiety.65 In short, it is a convenient way of decompressing. This describes the two remaining lines as well, which are structured chiasmically around the egregious pun: “ancre”/“encre.” As Jean-Claude Chevalier remarks regarding Apollinaire, “jamais personne n’avait tant aimé les calembours.”66 Not only did he love to laugh, but, as Décaudin has shown, punning served as an important compositional device. Not only are puns creative, Chevalier

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continues, but they constitute a “prise de possession de la nature.”67 Like the egg-laying airplanes, they represent a momentary victory over unfortunate circumstances. The third line alludes both to the octopi and to the poet. While the former use clouds of ink to conceal themselves, Apollinaire uses ink to write his poems. For this reason, he even identifies with the octopus in an earlier poem entited “Le Poulpe.” Debon speculates that the line in “Océan de terre” may also refer to literature’s precarious existence during the war. The presence of the anchor is puzzling but consistent with the ocean metaphor. One wonders where it comes from and who is throwing it out. Perhaps Apollinaire is still referring to the bombers, which resemble ships dropping their anchors. In any case, lines 12 and 13 continue to allude to the sky: “Il serait bon que vous vinssiez du ciel / Le chèvrefeuille du ciel grimpe.” Although the pronoun “vous” was introduced implicitly in the fourth line (“Entendez battre …”), it is not clear whom (or what) it refers to. The implicit “vous” could designate the reader, de Chirico, or even Apollinaire himself. The explicit “vous” could refer to the ink, the anchor, or several other items. Thus they do not seem to have the same destinataire. Briolet suspects that “encre” in this context refers to poetic creativity and thus that the next line invokes divine inspiration.68 The roots of the climbing honeysuckle, he adds, are a “metaphorical transmutation” of the octopi’s tentacles. However, PierreMarcel Adéma believes the image may refer to smoke spiraling upward from a recent bombardment (reported by Greet and Lockerbie). The last few lines confirm several previous deductions, introduce a chilling thought, and provide a symmetrical conclusion. The “tu” in the penultimate line presents one last puzzle. That this individual is familiar with the situation described in “Océan de terre” quickly narrows down the choices. He is either one of Apollinaire’s fellow soldiers or Apollinaire himself. At the end, the reader is left with the horrific image of the poet and his comrades digging their own graves. Briolet compares them to “des condamnés . . . contraints de creuser leurs propres tombes.”69 The chiasmic construction in the next line evokes their deathly pallor and reinforces the preceding image. According to this interpretation, the tears shed by Apollinaire at the beginning of the poem are actually bitter tears. However, it is important to recognize that he and his men are soldiers rather than prisoners. Nobody is forcing them to dig trenches

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at the Front. They are there voluntarily (or at least Apollinaire is), and the trenches are supposed to protect them not serve as their grave. In retrospect, the comparison of the soldiers to grave diggers illustrates yet another kind of poetic humor: irony. The line is simply not meant to be taken seriously. Apollinaire is laughing up his sleeve as he pretends to dig his own grave.

Notes   1 Norma Rinsler, “The War Poems of Apollinaire,” French Studies 15, no. 2 (1971): 169.   2 Els Jongeneel, “Les Combats d’Orphée: La poésie de guerre de Guillaume Apollinaire,” RELIEF: Revue Electronique de Littérature Francaise 8, no. 2 (2014): 1.   3 Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire (Paris: Livre de Poche, 2002), 135.   4 Ibid., 133; S. I. Lockerbie, “Introduction,” in Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 17–18.   5 See Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 222–7.   6 www.militaryfactory.com/armor/detail.asp?armor_id=338   7 Claude Tournadre (Debon), “Notes sur le vocabulaire de la guerre dans Calligrammes,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 450–5 (1976): 67.   8 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 227. Subsequent references to Debon without a footnote will refer to this page.   9 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano: Schena and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 425. 10 Mario Richter, “‘La Nuit d’avril 1915,’” in L’Ecriture en guerre de Guillaume Apollinaire, ed. Claude Debon (Paris: Calliopées, 2006), 126. 11 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 441. Subsequent references to this volume will be to pp. 441–2. 12 Mario Richter, “‘La Nuit d’avril 1915,’” 126. 13 Ibid., 123. 14 Ibid., 128–9. 15 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1964), 267–8. 16 Scott Bates, Guillaume Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 132. 17 Claude Tournadre, “Notes sur le vocabulaire de la guerre,” 72.

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18 Richter, “‘La Nuit d’avril 1915,’” 131. 19 See Ibid., 139. 20 Claude Tournadre, “Notes sur le vocabulaire de la guerre,” 72. 21 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 425–6. She also believes the eyes are “les regards du poète, qui ne se distingue plus du paon cosmique.” 22 André Breton, “Guillaume Apollinaire,” L’Eventail, October 15, 1918. Repr. in eds. Marguerite Bonnet et al., Les Pas perdus, Oeuvres complètes, Vol. 1 (Paris: Gallimard, 1988), 205. 23 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres en prose complètes, Vol. 2, eds. Pierre Caizergues and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1991), 34–5. 24 Peter Read, “‘L’Adieu du cavalier’: théâtre, chansons et poésie de guerre,” Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes Apollinariennes 6 (November 2009): 57. 25 Maciej Zurowski, “Apollinaire et la Pologne,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22 (1969): 38–42. 26 Read, “‘L’Adieu du cavalier,’” 59–62. 27 The Penguin Book of French Verse, Vol. 4, ed. and trans. Anthony Hartley (Baltimore: Penguin, 1959), xli. 28 Breton, “Guillaume Apollinaire,” 205. 29 Marie-Jeanne Durry, “Ouverture,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22 (1969): 8. 30 Laurence Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre: experience combattante et activité poétique (Paris: Garnier, 2010), 44–5. 31 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 448. Subsequent references to this volume will be to pp. 448–9. 32 Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre, 45. 33 Ibid. 34 Margaret Davies, “Le Médaillon toujours fermé,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 450–5 (1976): 96. 35 Claude Debon, Claude Debon commente “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2004), 129; Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre, 45; Gilberte Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid dans “Le Poète assassiné” et “Calligrammes” de G. Apollinaire (Paris: Publibook, 2012), 72. 36 www.psychologytoday.com 37 Campa, Poètes de la Grande Guerre, 46. 38 Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid, 15. 39 Lockerbie, “Introduction,” 16. 40 Claude Debon, “Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 163–4.

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41 See Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 259–61. 42 Guillaume Apollinaire, Lettres à Madeleine: Tendre comme le souvenir, rev. ed., ed. Laurence Campa (Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 232. Subsequent references to this volume will not be footnoted. 43 For a discussion of Empedocles and the concept of solid fire in Apollinaire’s work, see Lionel Follet, “Encore Empédocle,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 677–81 (1983): 136–9. 44 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 65. 45 See Michael Riffaterre, “La Métaphore filée dans la poésie surréaliste,” Langue Française 3 (September 1969): 46–60. 46 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 108. 47 Renaud, Lecture d’ Apollinaire, 417–18. 48 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 108. 49 See Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 274–7. 50 Clémence Jacquot, “‘Le Poulpe,’ une figure de la ‘plasticité’ apollinarienne?,” Apollinaire: Revue d’Etudes Apollinariennes 11 (June 2012): 39. 51 Guillaume Apollinaire, Correspondance avec les artistes 1903–1918, eds. Laurence Campa and Peter Read (Paris: Gallimard, 2009), 787. 52 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres complètes, ed. Michel Décaudin, Vol. 4 (Paris: Balland-Lecat, 1965–6), 768. 53 Lockerbie, “Introduction,” 18. 54 Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 170. 55 Daniel Briolet, Lire la poésie du XXe siècle (Paris: Dunod, 1995), Chapter 2, 17–18. 56 Louis Aragon, Lettres à André Breton 1918–1931, ed. Lionel Follet (Paris: Gallimard, 2011), 111. 57 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 407. 58 Décaudin, Apollinaire, 139. 59 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 277. Subsequent references to Debon without a footnote will refer to this page. 60 Briolet, Lire la poésie, 18. 61 Anne Hyde Greet, Apollinaire et le livre de peintre (Paris: Minard, 1977), 116. 62 Décaudin, Apollinaire, 139 and Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools,” 168. 63 Peter Read, “Gaz toxiques et ‘larmes de rire’ dans Calligrammes,” Apollinaire au feu (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005), 56 and “‘Océan de terre’ et la guerre des gaz dans Calligrammes,” in “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire ou la poésie moderne, ed. Samir Marzouki (Tunis: Université de Tunis, 2005), 38.

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64 Sigmund Freud, Collected Works, Vol. 21, trans. James Strachey (London: Hogarth Press, 1962), 163. 65 Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid, 47. 66 Jean-Claude Chevalier, “La poésie d’Apollinaire et le calembour,” Europe 451–2 (November‒December 1966): 56. 67 Ibid., 69. 68 Briolet, Lire la poésie, 19. 69 Ibid., 16.

6

More War Poetry “Il y a” The first version of this composition was sent to Madeleine on September 30, 1915, shortly after she returned to Oran from a visit to France. However, it did not appear in print until three years later, when Calligrammes was published. Apollinaire had experimented with tabular form once before, in a similar work sent to Lou on April 5, 1915. By the end of September, however, his affair with Lou was long over, and he was engaged to be married to Madeleine. Unlike the earlier composition, which was also entitled “Il y a,” the second poem had no title initially. Its form, like that of its predecessor, is extraordinarily simple. It is a list of things that Apollinaire either sees around him, remembers from the past, or is forced to imagine. Except for the last two verses, the lines all begin with the demonstrative statement “Il y a”—whence the work’s title. In theory, the poet could have been influenced by a short poem from Rimbaud’s Illuminations entitled “Enfance III,” which employs the same device. Although Apollinaire’s composition is not totally without precedent, therefore, it is strikingly original nevertheless. As Renée Riese Hubert notes, the poem is situated entirely in the present or involves the present.1 Images of cruelty, solitude, anxiety, and death inflicted by the war alternate with others intended to conjure up Madeleine. While the first half includes a number of references to Apollinaire’s fiancée, it focuses primarily on the First World War: Il y a un vaisseau qui a emporté ma bien-aimée Il y a dans le ciel six saucisses et la nuit venant on dirait des asticots dont naîtraient les étoiles Il y a un sous-marin ennemi qui en voulait à mon amour Il y a mille petits sapins brisés par les éclats d’obus autour de moi

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Il y a un fantassin qui passe aveuglé par les gaz asphyxiants Il y a que nous avons tout haché dans les boyaux de Nietzsche de Goethe et de Cologne Il y a que je languis après une lettre qui tarde Il y a dans mon porte-cartes plusieurs photos de mon amour Il y a les prisonniers qui passent la mine inquiète Il y a une batterie dont les servants s’agitent autour des pièces Il y a le vaguemestre qui arrive au trot par le chemin de l’Arbre isolé Il y a dit-on un espion qui rôde par ici invisible comme l’horizon dont il s’est indignement revêtu et avec quoi il se confond Il y a dressé comme un lys le buste de mon amour Il y a un capitaine qui attend avec anxiété les communications de la T. S. F. sur l’Atlantique Il y a à minuit des soldats qui scient des planches pour les cercueils.

Composed of simple, direct statements arranged in tabular form, the poem basically resembles a series of snapshots. Each line forms a complete sentence by itself and would end with a period if Apollinaire hadn’t abolished punctuation. The vast majority begin with “il y a” followed by a direct object, a relative pronoun, and a dependent clause. Coupled with the impersonal construction at the beginning of each line, the dearth of first person subject pronouns makes each line seem like a miniature still-life. In reality, although the poem is disguised as a series of independent observations, it is not nearly as impersonal or as objective as it seems at first glance. Thanks to a number of other pronouns—direct, indirect, possessive, and disjunctive—Apollinaire’s presence makes itself felt from beginning to end. And since the poem contains only one conjunction (“car”), the lines are linked together in other ways. In particular, as Gilberte Jacaret has shown, they tend to be arranged thematically in groups of two and three.2 Although the lines are arranged sequentially on the page, moreover, they are meant to be apprehended simultaneously. In reality, each one eventually combines with all the others to create a gigantic mental collage. Like “Les Fenêtres,” the composition records what the poet sees, hears, thinks, imagines, and remembers. The portrait that  eventually emerges depicts a generous cross-section of his experience at the Front.

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Despite the dangerous situation in which Apollinaire finds himself, repeating “il y a” over and over provides a comforting mantra. As Timothy Mathews notes, the poem contains “a series of affirmative statements about the world.”3 Continuing to assert the existence of so many things in the midst of widespread destruction is ultimately reassuring. It is a way of fighting back, of resisting warfare’s corrosive effects on the human psyche. The first few lines introduce the two principal themes: love and war. Lines 1 and 3 evoke Madeleine’s departure for Algeria on September 1, 1915, after a brief vacation spent in Provence. A poem entitled “La Traversée” and several letters reveal that Apollinaire was worried about her ship being torpedoed by German submarines. The scene shifts in the second line from the Côte d’Azur to the war zone in Champagne. According to Claude Debon, the six celestial sausages are stationary balloons, which the Germans and the French both used as observation posts.4 Outlined against the night sky, their white shapes resemble maggots, which in turn will be transformed into stars. This image is curious to say the least. Judging from a letter cited by Debon and dated October 11, 1915, Apollinaire is referring to the process of metamorphosis. Unfortunately, he confuses maggots, which develop into filthy flies, with caterpillars, which become beautiful butterflies. Without a doubt, the latter make a much more suitable metaphor for the stars. Following Apollinaire’s remarks about Madeleine and submarines, the next three lines return to the war in Champagne. Instead of stars and butterflies this time, the reader is exposed to the horrors of combat. That so many trees have been devastated by artillery bursts illustrates why the soldiers rarely leave their trenches. It is simply too dangerous to be out in the open. The infantryman who staggers by blinded by poison gas is a reminder that the First World War witnessed the invention not only of trench warfare but also of gas warfare.5 The latter was invented to overcome the unexpected stalemate posed by the former. Both sides used tear gas, mustard gas, phosgene gas, and chlorine gas as the war progressed. Like soldiers today, Apollinaire and his comrades invented names for topographical features around them. Since the three trenches opposite belonged to the Germans, they baptized them “Nietzsche,” “Goethe,” and “Cologne.” Ironically, these are all people and places that Apollinaire greatly esteemed. One hundred years later, however, it is hard to summon up much enthusiasm for his claim that the occupiers were cut to pieces by French fire.

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Following two lines concerned with Madeleine, whose letters Apollinaire cherished and whose picture he carried with him, the next four portray life at the front at a moment when everything happens to be quiet. As German POWs pass by and artillerymen ready their cannons, the quartermaster arrives on horseback from Lone Pine with the unit’s mail.6 Rumor has it, Apollinaire declares in a humorous aside, that an invisible spy has infiltrated the French ranks. The fact that he is wrapped in the invisible horizon makes it difficult to see him or to tell them apart. The key to untangling this double enigma depends on two pieces of information. First, like all French soldiers, the anonymous spy is wearing a pale blue uniform—not just any blue, furthermore, but bleu horizon. Second, as Apollinaire complains in “Chant de l’horizon en Champagne” and elsewhere, the chalky soil makes it impossible to discern the horizon. As a result, both the spy and the horizon are effectively invisible—like the poet himself. The remaining three lines evoke Madeleine once more, a captain waiting to receive a wireless telegram, and soldiers making coffins. At this point, Apollinaire expands his circle of references to include the whole world: Il y a des femmes qui demandent du maïs à grands cris devant un Christ sanglant à Mexico Il y a le Gulf Stream qui est si tiède et si bienfaisant Il y a un cimetière plein de croix à 5 kilomètres Il y a des croix partout de-ci de-là Il y a des figues de Barbarie sur ces cactus en Algérie Il y a les longues mains souples de mon amour Il y a un encrier que j’avais fait dans une fusée de 15 centimètres et qu’on n’a pas laissé partir Il y a ma selle exposée à la pluie Il y a les fleuves qui ne remontent pas leurs cours Il y a l’amour qui m’entraîne avec douceur Il y avait un prisonnier boche qui portait sa mitrailleuse sur son dos Il y a des hommes dans le monde qui n’ont jamais eté à la guerre Il y a des Hindous qui regardent avec étonnement les compagnes occidentales Ils pensent avec mélancolie à ceux dont ils se demandent s’ils les reverront Car on a poussé très loin durant cette guerre l’art de l’invisibilité.

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The second half of “Il y a” presents a kaleidoscopic view of contemporary events all over the world. While the entire poem constitutes “[un] montage rapide d’images oniriques et surprenantes,” to quote Anna Boschetti, this describes the first six lines in particular, which read like a simultanist manifesto.7 Apollinaire was well informed about events in Mexico City thanks to his brother Albert, who was employed by a French bank there. In 1915, a severe frost and massive crop failure led to an alarming shortage of corn, beans, rice, and other staples. As a result, there was a flurry of riots during the Spring and Summer in which many people died. “Fatal Food Riots in Mexico City,” the New York Times trumpeted on June 8th, “Children, carried by starving mothers, crushed to death before corn depots.” As Apollinaire implies in the poem, the rioters were mostly women—women who had families they needed to feed. Subsequent lines evoke the Gulf Stream, which transports warm water up America’s East Coast and over to Europe, an anonymous cemetery filled with crosses. That the latter image is repeated in the following line underlines a disturbing poetic trend. Beginning with the invisible spy, Debon points out, the previous affirmation of existence “se voit progressivement mise en cause par l’évocation indirecte de la mort et de l’invisibliité, qui la nient.” Unfortunately, the positive effect of the comforting mantra is being slowly undermined. Casting about for images to add to his list, Apollinaire chooses a prickly pear cactus in Algeria, which, paradoxically, reminds him of Madeleine’s long supple hands. The link between the two lines is apparently based on incongruity rather than similarity. Closer to hand, the poet spies an inkwell, which he crafted from an unused flare, and also his saddle, which he shouldn’t have left out in the rain. In addition to providing inspiration for his poems, the war supplies him with some of the materials he needs to write them. Like a river flowing down a gentle slope, Apollinaire muses, his love for Madeleine is completely irreversible. It simply carries him along with its gentle flow. Believe it or not, he continues, there are men who have never gone to war—unlike the German prisoner he saw who used to be a machine gunner. Interestingly, the Indian soldiers at the Front do not seem to be any happier than the enemy prisoners. Not only are they astonished at the ferocity of the war, but they also fear they will never see their friends and

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relatives again. In some respects they resemble the Senegalese soldier in “Les Soupirs du servant de Dakar,” who misses his home terribly and has no idea where he is. Apollinaire seems to have been under the impression that, like many Africans, the Indians were inexperienced conscripts. In reality, they were not only professional soldiers—members of the Indian Army—but also volunteers. Approximately 1.3 million Indians served in the First World War, and over 74,000 lost their lives. As the reality of the war begins to seep in and the sound of the comforting mantra grows fainter and fainter, Apollinaire’s faith in existence, and thus in humanity, decreases little by little too. The accumulation of impersonal pronouns finally threatens to sabotage his original project. “Il y a” runs the risk of becoming “Il n’y a pas.” Presence is in danger of succumbing to absence, visibility to invisibility, and life to death. “Le monde se réduit à un présent ligoté,” Hubert declares, “où le poète tâche vainement d’affirmer son existence en ayant recours à l’humour noir.”8 Debon attributes a similar role to the poet’s “humour macabre.” Hoping to combat the pernicious development described above, Apollinaire resorts to an additional strategy employing irony, wordplay, and understatement. To begin with, “l’art de l’invisibilite” can be interpreted in several different ways. Since trench warfare was the norm during the First World War, the participants were actually hidden from each other much of the time. However, as Debon notes, the phrase itself refers to techniques associated with camouflage, whose goal is to make someone completely invisible. Apollinaire goes one step further by associating the phrase with death, which, he jokes, makes everybody invisible sooner or later. Not surprisingly since the Indians are involved in a war, they risk being killed. What makes the conclusion so interesting is that death is never mentioned by name. “Invisibilité” is merely an implicit metaphor and a fairly opaque one at that. The reader has to construct a four-term homology to arrive at the correct interpretation: seeing/not seeing = alive/dead or alternatively: seeing/alive = not seeing/dead. Whether Apollinaire manages to affirm his existence by employing this defensive strategy is hard to say. For the moment, at least, existential disaster has been averted thanks to his outrageous humor.

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“Le Chant d’amour” Sent to Madeleine on December 7, 1915, the original manuscript was one of a series of “poèmes secrets” intended for her eyes only. Since she and Apollinaire were engaged to be married, he spoke openly of the conjugal delights that awaited them and shared his erotic fantasies. Preparing the poem for publication two years later, however, he felt compelled to suppress these private allusions. As a result, when “Le Chant d’amour” appeared in Nord-Sud in December 1917, it had become a completely different poem.9 Voici de quoi est fait le chant symphonique de l’amour Il y a le chant de l’amour de jadis Le bruit des baisers éperdus des amants illustres Les cris d’amour des mortelles violées par les dieux Les virilités des héros fabuleux érigées comme des pièces contre avions Le hurlement précieux de Jason Le chant mortel du cygne Et l’hymne victorieux que les premiers rayons du soleil ont fait chanter à Memnon l’immobile Il y a le cri des Sabines au moment de l’enlèvement Il y a aussi les cris d’amour des félins dans les jongles La rumeur sourde des sèves montant dans les plantes tropicales Le tonnerre des artilleries qui accomplissent le terrible amour des peuples Les vagues de la mer où naît la vie et la beauté Il y a là le chant de tout l’amour du monde.

In theory, this unassuming little poem of fourteen lines represents a free verse sonnet. There is no rhyme scheme whatsoever, and the lines vary in length from six to twenty-five syllables. Unfortunately, since rhyme and/or meter are essentially what characterizes the sonnet, without them the concept simply evaporates. “Le Chant d’amour” is simply a short free verse poem. That it concludes with an alexandrine is the only trace of the sonnet that might have been. If any feature

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cries out for recognition, it is the composition’s idiosyncratic structure, which has not been seen in French poetry since François Villon. Like “Il y a,” the poem resembles a shopping list more than a conventional poem. As Michel Décaudin remarks, both works “représentent une nouvelle avancée vers la simplification du langage poétique.”10 Whereas “Il y a” presents a world-wide tranche de vie, “Le Chant d’amour” lists a series of sounds associated with love, which are enumerated one by one. The examples in the first nine lines are essentially mythological. Those in the remaining lines are taken from nature, the war, and mythology again. Since these sounds are all meant to be heard at the same time, the poem is basically a simultanist composition. As the reader soon discovers, the poem’s title is somewhat misleading. The work is not an ordinary love song, in which a singer expresses his love for his beloved, but rather a symphonic composition—an elaborate musical arrangement for a full orchestra. As such, it constitutes an extended metaphor. The individuals who appear in the poem are portrayed as musicians and the sounds they produce as music. Although Apollinaire claims his initial examples are taken from long ago, only one can truly be called historical: “les amants illustres.” One thinks immediately of Dante and Beatrice or Petrarch and Laura. The remaining examples are borrowed from myth and legend. The next line is unexpected to say the least. While one can easily recall women in Classical mythology who were raped by a god, that they responded with “cris d’amour” is surprising. The implication seems to be that the gods were such great lovers that the women actually enjoyed the experience. A quick survey reveals that this is a common sexual fantasy of women as well as men. By line 4, Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie assert inexplicably, “the reader becomes aware that Apollinaire’s hymn to love is, primarily, a hymn to the heroism he sees around him.”11 On the contrary, as the reader will discover, the role of the First World War in this poem is practically insignificant. The fifth line is a good example. In his haste to revise the original manuscript, Apollinaire overlooked the fact that it contains no sounds at all. Furthermore, although several Classical gods have phallic identities, such as Dionysos and Priapus, one is hard pressed to think of a Classical hero who fits that description. That Jason, the leader of the Argonauts, suddenly begins to howl in line 6 has two possible (or simultaneous) explanations. When, after numerous

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adventures, he finally manages to obtain the Golden Fleece, he lets out howls of exultation. Now he can return to Iolcus, give the Fleece to his uncle Pelias who has usurped the throne, and take his rightful place as king. The expression “hurlement précieux” strikes one as bizarre. Since it is the Fleece that is precious rather than Jason’s howls, “précieux” seems to be a displaced modifier. The other explanation for his howling is that it represents an unexpurgated remnant of the earlier poem. Since “toison” in Apollinaire’s erotic vocabulary refers to female pubic hair, when Jason finally obtains the Fleece his quest ends with a howling orgasm. The reference to the swan’s song in the next line has a similar explanation. According to the earliest manuscript, Zeus, disguised as a swan, is impregnating Leda. At the same time, because the song is “mortel,” it evokes the legend of the dying swan, which sings its beautiful song only once—as it slowly expires. Greet and Lockerbie believe the swan sings his dying song because he is impregnating Leda. The reference to the statue of Memnon in line 8 is actually to two Egyptian statues which the Greeks (mistakenly) thought represented a hero of the Trojan War. Following an earthquake in 27 BC, one of the pair began to emit a strange singing sound at dawn, caused by changes in temperature and humidity. Since Memnon was a mighty warrior—nearly the equal of Achilles—Apollinaire portrays the song as an “hymne victorieux.” Concluding the initial list, the legendary Sabine women kick and scream as they are carried off to become early Roman wives. Since the Sabine king refused to let them marry outside their community, the Roman men simply decided to abduct them. At this point, for no apparent reason, Apollinaire switches from recounting past incidents to describing contemporary events. Although Gilberte Jacaret argues that the two halves are opposed to each other, their lengths are too dissimilar, and the transition between them is seamless.12 The “cris d’amour” of the big cats mating in the tropical jungle parallel those of the women violated earlier by the Classical gods. Contrasting with the silent sound of sap rising in the stems of tropical plants, the thundering artillery is positively deafening. That the cannons are accomplishing the terrible love of warring peoples is a terrible thought in itself. Ultimately, as Jacaret (and Freud) remind us, “guerre et amour ont la même origine, la même force.”13 In this and other poems, S. I. Lockerbie adds, the erotic drive extends beyond Apollinaire himself and is

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portrayed as “a fundamental life force which is larger than hate and unites the combating nations.”14 Proof that Lockerbie is correct may be found in lines 12 and 13, which illustrate his remarks perfectly. Throughout the war poetry, cannons are potent phallic symbols as well as weapons of war. Critics who dismiss line 5 as evidence of Apollinaire’s phallic narcisism are missing the whole point. There is nothing gratuitous about the comparison of cannons to “les virilités des héros fabuleux” (or vice versa). The symbolic cannons represent one half of the universal sexual equation: the masculine principle. The other half is to be found in the penultimate line, which evokes the birth of Venus (or Aphrodite), the goddess of beauty and love. It is not the goddess herself who interests Apollinaire so much as the sea from which she springs. Portrayed as the source of all life, the latter represents the universal feminine principle. That the waves are juxtaposed with cannons in the preceding line is no accident. Representing “tout l’amour du monde,” the poem symbolically re-enacts the original cosmic coupling.

“Chevaux de frise” Apollinaire sent this passionate love poem to Madeleine on November 18, 1915—two days before he actually joined the infantry. Together with twelve other war poems by him, it was published in La Grande Revue in November 1917. One wonders how many of his readers actually understood the work’s title, which, even fifty years later, famously eluded Roger Shattuck.15 While chevaux de frise are certainly not Friesland horses, English translations are notoriously hard to come by. The best Google Translator can do is “entanglements,” which is too broad. Every other dictionary translates (or fails to translate) the term as “chevaux-de-frise.” Invented by the Dutch in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the latter consisted of a row of X-shaped obstacles equipped with sharp wooden spikes and/or barbed wire designed to repel cavalry. Apparently called “knife-rests” by the British, they were frequently used in the First World War to plug gaps in the barbed wire. With this in mind, one wonders if the poem’s jagged right edge represents spikes waiting to impale the enemy.

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Be that as it may, the text’s spiky aspect belies the ease with which the reader is able to follow its development. Despite its atypical appearance and frequent changes in line length, the poem flows effortlessly. Following the first eight lines, which set the stage for the rest of the poem, there are no stanza breaks to impede the flow. “Under the apparent ease,” Margaret Davies remarks, “it is a triumph of suave versification uniting a variety of metre in its rich music.”16 Although the poem is written in free verse, and hence does not rhyme, it utilizes numerous rhetorical devices to achieve “a sweep that matches the ecstatic nature of [its chosen] theme.” The preceding observation is by Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, who list accumulation, repetition, deft changes in rhythm, internal echoes, and innumerable assonantal variations among these devices.17 Several commentators have also detected the influence of biblical texts, especially the Psalms. As Davies declares, “It is no accident that [Apollinaire] evokes le Paraclet, nor that he makes mention of lilies and ‘cantiques.’”18 Unexpectedly, the critics are deeply divided as to the poem’s merit. In Davies’ opinion, it is not only a lyrical tour de force but also “the most perfect of [Apollinaire’s] love poems to Madeleine.”19 By contrast, Claude Debon and Philippe Renaud complain that its style is too artificial, too unconvincing.20 To the former, the poem resembles a homework assignment. To the latter, it resembles a rhetorical exercise. In addition, Renaud dislikes the fact that the composition is so intensely personal. It reveals more of the poet’s psychology, he confides, than he really cares to know. To which Davies would presumably reply that lyric poetry is supposed to be personal. That’s why the poet is so often the one who is speaking. According to Didier Alexandre, the compositions in Alcools all begin in one of three ways: with a physical observation, a comment directed at someone else, or a first person subject pronoun.21 With a few prominent exceptions, such as “Lundi rue Christine” and “Venu de Dieuze,” this describes the poems in Calligrammes as well. “Chevaux de frise” begins with a physical observation: Pendant le blanc et nocturne novembre Alors que les arbres déchiquetés par l’artillerie Vieillisaient encore sous la neige Et semblaient à peine des chevaux de frise Entourés de vagues de fils de fer

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Mon coeur renaissait comme un arbre au printemps Un arbre fuitier sur lequel s’épanouissent Les fleurs de l’amour.

The initial scene is thoroughly depressing. Although it is only November, the night is freezing, and everything is buried under the snow. Severely maimed by the enemy’s artillery fire, the poor trees are wasting away and may not last until Spring. Indeed, since Apollinaire compares them to chevaux de frise, which are only 4 or 5 feet high, they have probably been decapitated. At this point something miraculous takes place. Motivated by his love for Madeleine, Apollinaire experiences a renaissance in his heart as if the dying trees were suddenly transformed into flowering fruit trees. “With a beautifully smooth movement,” Shattuck observes, “[the opening scene] is transformed into a magical panorama of an entirely different nature.”22 This is the first of several metamorphoses that counteract the winter and impel the poem forward. As “Le Chant d’amour” illustrates repeatedly, love is a powerful motive force. The next section develops this theme in greater detail: Pendant le blanc et nocturne novembre Tandis que chantaient épouvantablement les obus Et que les fleurs mortes de la terre exhalaient Leurs mortelles odeurs Moi je décrivais tous les jours mon amour à Madeleine La neige met de pâles fleurs sur les arbres Et toisonne d’hermine les chevaux de frise Que l’on voit partout Abandonnés et sinistres Chevaux muets Non chevaux barbes mais barbelés Et je les anime tout soudain En troupeau de jolis chevaux pies Qui vont vers toi comme de blanches vagues Sur la Méditerranée Et t’apportent mon amour.

Resuming the poem once more, Apollinaire evokes the same depressing November with the same artillery shells howling all around him. This time

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the dying trees are replaced by dead flowers whose earthy smell contrasts markedly with the future odor of blossoming fruit trees. Briefly cheered by the thought of his daily letters to Madeleine, the poet describes the winter scene in more positive terms. For a moment, the snow falling on the trees resembles delicate flower petals and that covering the barbed wire obstacles resembles a luxurious ermine coat. Looking around, however, the poet perceives other chevaux de frise that make a much less favorable impression. Standing in the snow, he jokes, these mute “horses” resemble real horses—not Barbary horses but barbed horses. Immediately, a second metamorphosis takes place. Somehow Apollinaire transforms the group of barbed wire obstacles into a herd of piebald horses that gallop off to Algeria to present Madeleine with his love. As Greet and Lockerbie note, there is a suggestion of a third metamorphosis that transforms the horses into seahorses, so they can cross the Mediterranean “comme de blanches vagues.” Unfortunately, what may strike some readers as a charming flight of fancy may seem totally gratuitous to others. Renaud accuses Apollinaire of acting like a professional magician instead of like a poet.23 The next section is addressed entirely to Madeleine in her role as Apollinaire’s muse: Roselys ô panthère ô colombes étoile bleue O Madeleine Je t’aime avec délices Si je songe à tes yeux je songe aux sources fraîches Si je pense à ta bouche les roses m’apparaissent Si je songe à tes seins le Paraclet descend O double colombe de ta poitrine Et vient délier ma langue de poéte Pour te redire Je t’aime Ton visage est un bouquet de fleurs Aujourd’hui je te vois non Panthère Mais Toutefleur Et je te respire ô ma Toutefleur Tous les lys montent en toi comme des cantiques d’amour et d’allégresse Et ces chants qui s’envolent vers toi

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M’emportent à ton côté Dans ton bel Orient où les lys Se changent en palmiers qui de leurs belles mains Me font signe de venir.

This extended flight of lyricism is virtually unprecedented. In the space of only twenty lines, Apollinaire’s love for Madeleine bursts its bounds and cascades down the page like a lyrical waterfall. “Now that he is in a state of almost religious fervour and supplication,” Davies remarks, “he falls into the style of the Psalms.”24 Unfortunately, this statement is seriously misleading. For one thing, there is nothing spiritual about Apollinaire’s lyrical outburst. He is filled not with religious fervor but with ardent passion. The section begins and concludes with a statement of his great love for Madeleine. For another thing, Apollinaire has come not as a supplicant, to beg a favor from his fiancée, but simply to praise her inspirational beauty. The section itself was not inspired by sacred hymns, finally, but by a text that celebrates the joy of earthly love: “The Song of Songs” (also known as “The Song of Solomon”). Astonishingly, neither reference is listed in Robert Couffignal’s comprehensive catalogue of biblical references in Apollinaire’s works.25 Surrounded by flowers and symbolic animals, as befits her great beauty, Madeleine sits quietly as Apollinaire praises her physical attributes. In contrast to the biblical author, who creates an extensive catalogue of his bride’s assets, he focuses primarily on her head and torso. Like Solomon, who tells his bride “thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks,” Apollinaire announces that Madeleine’s eyes remind him of cool springs. Like the king of Israel, who compares his bride’s lips to “a thread of scarlet,” he compares his fiancée’s lips to a bouquet of roses. Both men praise their beloved’s breasts, finally, which resemble twin fawns in the first instance and twin doves in the second. The holy spirit that inspires Apollinaire to write poetry, he confides, is not the Paraclete but rather that embodied by Madeleine’s lovely breasts. Since her face resembles a bouquet of flowers, he continues, he will call her “Toutefleur” instead of “Panthère.” As Debon notes, her new name is essentially the equivalent of her former name since “panthère” combines pan (tout) with anthos (fleur). Since lilies in particular are a symbol of purity (and virginity), “The Song of Songs” refers to them frequently. For example, Solomon’s bride declares in one place:

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“I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys.” For her part, Madeleine also appears to identify with lilies, whose spirit rises within her like a joyful love song. Other songs destined for his fiancée carry Apollinaire off to the Orient—by which he means Algeria—where another transformation occurs. The lilies suddenly become beckoning palm trees. Following this development, a star shell bursts high over head signaling Apollinaire’s return to the front lines in Champagne. This is the final metamorphosis in the poem. The lilies and palm trees are replaced by a nocturnal flower that showers the poet with stars. Although the latter rain down like tears, there is nothing sad about them. They are joyful tears that express his overwhelming love for Madeleine. Nothing seems to have changed since the beginning of the poem, and yet everything has changed. “Grâce à un rêve,” Renée Riese Hubert explains, “le réel s’anime dans le feu de la guerre et de l’amour.”26 By the time one reaches the poem’s conclusion, one thing has become clear. The “dispute” between Davies and Shattuck on the one hand and Debon and Renaud on the other has ceased to make much sense. The final section is both a perfect love song, as the first two critics maintain, and a rhetorical exercise as the second two insist. By the end of the poem, these qualities have ceased to be opposed to each other and have become complementary. The reason the preceding lines seem artificial, one comes to realize, is because they have incorporated some of the mannerisms of “The Song of Songs,”—which, nevertheless, is widely acknowledged to be a masterpiece. Combining the biblical text with Apollinaire’s text, “Chevaux de frise” is itself a masterpiece—a hybrid masterpiece—with its own unique characteristics. “The attainment of a truly great poet lies not in how he illustrates the world,” Shattuck concludes, “but how he transforms it to create a new reality.”27

“Tristesse d’une étoile” Although “Tristesse d’une étoile” is not, strictly speaking, a war poem, it is included here because it records Apollinaire’s state of mind after being wounded on March 17, 1916. As he was quietly reading the Mercure de France in the late afternoon, a piece of shrapnel pierced his right temple. The

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fact that he was wearing his helmet, as instructed, may have saved his life. Evacuated to the rear, Apollinaire was hospitalized in Paris for several months while he regained his health. Gradually resuming his literary activities during the Summer, he composed “Tristesse d’une étoile” for a poetry reading on November 19th. Since he was not feeling well when the day came, however, he asked Jean Cocteau to read it for him. Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie wonder if the poem is somehow related to Victor Hugo’s “Tristesse d’Olympio,” but apart from their titles they have virtually nothing in common.28 Whereas the latter is a ponderous composition filled with memories of the past, the former is lively and situated firmly in the present. While “de” has a possessive function in the first title, it represents a causal connection in the second title. Unlike Olympio, who is overcome with sadness, the star is not sad itself but rather the source of Apollinaire’s sadness. That it is also a metaphor for the poet’s wound quickly becomes apparent: Une belle Minerve est l’enfant de ma tête Une étoile de sang me couronne à jamais La raison est au fond et le ciel est au faîte Du chef où dès longtemps Déesse tu t’armais

Divided into three quatrains, this intriguing poem employs an alternating rhyme scheme and is composed entirely of alexandrines. Except for a single rime riche in the third stanza, all the rhymes are suffisantes. Not surprisingly, Apollinaire immediately associated his gory head wound with the birth of Minerva (or Athena), who sprang forth both fully developed and fully armed from the head of Jupiter (or Zeus). The mythological narrative was far too compelling, the poetic possibilities far too attractive, to escape his notice. In addition to being the goddess of wisdom, Minerva was also the goddess of the arts and the goddess of war—both areas that keenly interested the poet. The fact that she was a virgin goddess had interesting possibilities as well. For better or for worse, the first line can be read in at least three different ways. At the purely metaphorical level, it represents a description of Apollinaire’s head wound. At the symbolic level, there are two possibilities, both revolving about the poet’s flexible concept of raison. Personified by Minerva, raison includes such notions as wisdom, good sense, logic, the ability to reason, reason itself, intelligence, intelligent behavior,

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and mature judgment. Its precise meaning depends on the context in which it occurs. On the one hand, the emergence of Minerva from Apollinaire’s head may be read as an escape or a desertion. In which case the poet would be left without the qualities enumerated above. On the other hand, since he calls Minerva “l’enfant de ma tête,” the episode may also be read as a kind of birth, as a re-emergence of the qualities associated with raison. In which case, Minerva would not abandon him but remain at his side as a tutelary deity. Possibly inspired by the third line, whose meaning is obscure, Greet and Lockerbie opt for the second choice. They claim that Apollinaire will regain his lost reason— if it is truly lost—in “La Jolie Rousse.” Upon closer examination, however, the third scenario appears to be more convincing. As Madeleine Boisson notes, Minerva almost certainly represents Jacqueline Kolb, whom Apollinaire encountered during the summer and whom he would eventually marry.29 Since Jacqueline personifies raison in “La Jolie Rousse,” which celebrates her entry into the poet’s life (see Chapter 7), there is good reason to think that she and Minerva are identical. In fact, therefore, Apollinaire did not lose his reason when Minerva was born. She and Jacqueline have been by his side ever since. Superimposing the image of a bloody star on that of a crown, the second line is perhaps more difficult to visualize. Boisson suggests that Apollinaire chose to compare his wound to a star because it can be seen as a hole in the celestial vault.30 At the same time, as Greet and Lockerbie point out, the second image recalls Christ and his crown of thorns. As such, it introduces the theme of suffering, which continues throughout the remainder of the poem: C’est pourquoi de mes maux ce n’était pas le pire Ce trou presque mortel et qui s’est étoilé Mais le secret malheur qui nourrit mon délire Est bien plus grand qu’aucune âme ait jamais celé. Et je porte avec moi cette ardente souffrance Comme le ver luisant tient son corps enflammé Comme au coeur du soldat il palpite la France Et comme au coeur du lys le pollen parfumé.

As Greet and Lockerbie remark, the second stanza seems to have been directly inspired by a line from Baudelaire’s “La Vie antérieure.” However, neither poet identifies the source of the suffering that secretly pursues him or, as far as one

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can tell, attempts to combat that suffering. Nor do the three similes in the third stanza shed any light on Apollinaire’s “ardente souffrance,” whose initial play on words (both “ardent” and “burning”) is echoed in the next line by his “corps enflammé”—both “flaming” and “inflamed.” Greet and Lockerbie suspect the first expression refers to the poet’s courage under fire. Whereas the situation of the glowworm closely parallels Apollinaire’s own situation, the next two lines neglect to continue the parallel constructions, and the similes grow progressively weaker. Although the soldier’s heart is presumably burning with patriotism, he does not exhibit any sign of suffering. And the pollen in the lily’s heart is neither burning nor suffering; it simply has a pleasant smell. The use of the impersonal “il,” finally, weakens the similes still further. Reviewing the whole stanza’s imagery, Greet and Lockerbie believe it evokes “the various sides to love.” Since Apollinaire confides that the pain makes him delirious, he could possibly be suffering from a physical ailment. However, the fact that the pain is even worse than that caused by his head wound, makes this interpretation unlikely. In the absence of a physical explanation, therefore, one begins to suspect that the poet’s anguish is psychological. Indeed, theories abound as to what is troubling him. Michel Décaudin suggests Apollinaire is suffering from a lifelong identity crisis.31 Boisson provides a two-pronged explanation: that he suffers from insecurity about his birth date and that he is afraid of going mad like Ludwig II of Bavaria.32 Margaret Davies believes Apollinaire is afraid his poetry will be grievously affected by his head wound.33 Greet and Lockerbie offer several choices. According to them, his “ardente souffrance” may refer to misadventures in love, the death of friends, overwhelming fatigue, or his engagement to Madeleine. Since “Tristesse d’une étoile” was composed following Apollinaire’s horrendous experience in the war, the final three possibilities are the most likely. While he was certainly heavily fatigued and had also lost some friends in the war, the most traumatic experience must have been breaking with Madeleine, who had offered him daily support for nearly two years and who looked forward to marrying him. The only reason he was able to withstand life at the front at all was because he had her love to sustain him. Although the final break was doubtless a terrible blow for her, Scott Bates remarks, it must have caused Apollinaire

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great sorrow as well.34 Racked with guilt at having shamefully deceived an innocent young girl, he would be haunted by that “secret malheur” for the rest of his life.

Notes   1 Renée Riese Hubert, “L’Elan vers l’actuel dans la poésie d’Apollinaire et de Breton,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 183–8 (1968): 197.   2 Gilberte Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid dans “Le Poète assassiné” et “Calligrammes” de G. Apollinaire (Paris: Publibook, n.d.), 141–5.   3 Timothy Mathews, Reading Apollinaire: Theories of Poetic Language (Manchester: University of Manchester Press, 1987), 217.   4 Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008), 300. Subsequent references to this poem will be to the same page.   5 See Peter Read, “Gaz toxiques et ‘larmes de rire’ dans Calligrammes,” in Apollinaire au feu (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005), 49–58.   6 For a map of the area with the place names in the poem, see ibid.   7 Anna Boschetti, La poésie partout: Apollinaire, homme-époque (1898–1918) (Paris: Seuil, 2001), 200.   8 Hubert, “L’Elan vers l’actuel,” 198.   9 See Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 302–4. 10 Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire (Paris: Livre de Poche, 2002), 140. 11 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 473. 12 Gilberte Jacaret, La Dialectique de l’ironie et du lyrisme dans “Alcools” et “Calligrammes” (Paris: Nizet, 1984), 59–62. 13 Jacaret, La Dialectique du beau et du laid, 176–7. 14 S. I. Lockerbie, “Introduction,” in Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 17. 15 Roger Shattuck, trans. and ed. Selected Writings of Guillaume Apollinaire (New York: New Directions, 1971), 188–91. 16 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martins Press, 1964), 275. 17 Greet and Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 492. Subsequent references to this poem will not be footnoted but will be to pp. 492–3. 18 Davies, Apollinaire, 275. 19 Ibid.

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20 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 343; Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 423. 21 Didier Alexandre, Guillaume Apollinaire “Alcools” (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1994), 82–5. 22 Shattuck, Selected Writings, 32. 23 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 420. 24 Davies, Apollinaire, 275. 25 Robert Couffignal, L’Inspiration biblique dans l’oeuvre de Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Minard, 1966). 26 Hubert, “L’Elan vers l’actuel,” 198. 27 Shattuck, Selected Writings, 31. 28 Greet and Lockerbie, Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes,” 497. Subsequent references to this poem will be to pp. 496–8. 29 Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Fasano: Schena and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 287. Laurence Campa, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2013), 656. 30 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 287. 31 Décaudin, Apollinaire, 143. 32 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 287–8. 33 Davies, Apollinaire, 282. 34 Scott Bates, Apollinaire, rev. ed. (Boston: Twayne, 1989), 128.

7

Order and Adventure “La Victoire” Paradoxically, although the final version seems to have only taken a week to put together, “La Victoire” has a long and complex history.1 Portions of it antedate some of the earliest poems in Alcools, including “La Chanson du mal-aimé” (1903). The final manuscript consists of five sheets dated March 11, 1917, plus a sixth sheet dated March 12, 1917. The finished poem appeared in the first issue of Nord-Sud, edited by Pierre Reverdy, only three days later. A note on the first page invited young poets, many of whom had been dispersed by the war, to reorganize and regroup around the well-known figure of Apollinaire. “Plus que quiconque aujourd’hui,” part of it read, “il a tracé des routes neuves, ouvert de nouveaux horizons.” Written by the poet himself, who was trying to revive the pre-war literary scene, it was simply signed “N. S.” By 1917, Apollinaire had already become the de facto head of the Parisian avant-garde. Although he was only thirty-seven years old, he was regarded as something of an elder statesman by the younger generation, which included the future Surrealists. Like André Breton, who was sixteen years younger than Apollinaire, Paul Eluard, Philippe Soupault, and Louis Aragon were born between 1895 and 1897. The challenges facing Apollinaire at this point in his career were appreciable. As chef d’école, Peter Read points out, “il s’efforce . . . de réconcilier les deux rôles qu’il se donne dans l’éditorial de Nord-Sud, celui de pionnier et celui de rassembleur.”2 Apollinaire needed to be advanced enough to impress his young admirers but not so advanced that his readers could not follow him. One glance at “La Victoire” is enough to convince even a casual reader that it is far from a traditional poem. While “Chevaux de frise” has a jagged right hand margin, the remainder of the poem is relatively unremarkable. At most, Apollinaire varies the line lengths from time to time to liven things

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up. By comparison, “La Victoire” seems raggedy and extremely fragmentary. No matter how hard one scrutinizes the text, there doesn’t seem to be any consistent pattern. Some of the lines rhyme, for example, and some of them don’t. The poem’s beginning and end are dominated by alexandrines, while the central portion is written entirely in free verse. Like the line lengths, moreover, which vary from one to twenty syllables, the stanzas themselves are wildly irregular. The shortest one consists of a single verse, while the longest one contains twenty-one lines. Not surprisingly, in view of its impressive variety, the poem appears to be continually in motion. The reader must constantly readjust his or her focus in order to follow its development. This impression is reinforced at the verbal level, where the subject frequently changes from one stanza to the next. In the end, these characteristics conspire to create a poem that is pulsing with energy. As Debon declares, “La Victoire” “est le plus grand des derniers poèmes écrits par Apollinaire.”3 How fitting that its roots stretch all the way back to his poetic beginnings. In keeping with its persistent irregularity, the composition is not constructed around a rigid framework but is designed to retain maximum flexibility. Philippe Renaud calls attention to the role of thematic overlapping, multiplicity, and discontinuity.4 Of these three rhetorical devices, the first is perhaps the most important. “La Victoire” advances not in a linear fashion but by means of overlapping themes—two steps forward and one step back. That is the only structure the poem has, a structure that looks backward as well as forward. The initial theme of winged flight is followed by the themes of blindness, sight, language, and innovation. Claude Debon discerns two different voices in “La Victoire.”5 The powerful lyric voice of Alcools is intertwined with a brash new revolutionary voice, the voice of the past with that of the future. Apollinaire’s strong lyric presence is evident from the very beginning: Un coq chante je rêve et les feuillards agitent Leurs feuilles qui ressemblent à de pauvres marins Ailés et tournoyants comme Icare le faux Des aveugles gesticulant comme des fourmis Se miraient sous la pluie aux reflets du trottoir Leurs rires amassés en grappes de raisin

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As the preceding lines demonstrate, much of “La Victoire” is written in the first person and the present tense. The speaker addresses the reader directly. Advancing a mythological interpretation, Madeleine Boisson argues that the “je” is Aeacus, the king of the Myrmidons.6 However, all the remaining critics assume he is Apollinaire. The very first line appears to situate the poem precisely, both in time and in space. Since a rooster can be heard crowing, it must be early morning. The fact that Apollinaire is still sleeping confirms that impression and suggests he is home in bed. Before the poem has really begun, however, one encounters a feature that is surprisingly common in “La Victoire”: multiple contradictions. How on earth can the poet hear a rooster crow from his apartment in the center or Paris? The nearest farm is miles away! For that matter, how can he hear anything at all, since he is supposed to be sleeping? Is he really asleep, one wonders, or is he simply pretending? Logically, since he is dreaming, he must be asleep. The second activity is a prerequisite for the first. However, the only reason we know Apollinaire is dreaming is because he tells us so himself, which he couldn’t do if he were actually dreaming! In any case, one can no more truthfully say “I am sleeping” than one can say “I am dead.” No wonder the Surrealists loved this poem—it refuses to stand still for a minute. Although the concept of multiplicity fills some readers with dread, like that of indeterminacy or undecidability, in reality it represents a two-edged sword. Where there are multiple contradictions there are also multiple possibilities to explore and multiple opportunities to exploit. As Read observes, “Les juxtapositions contradictoires de ‘La Victoire’ semblent dégager une énergie singulière.”7 At this point, having scarcely begun, one is faced with two choices: either to continue reading, despite the presence of an unreliable narrator, or to dismiss the poem altogether. Readers who choose the first alternative, through curiosity and force of habit, succumb to the text’s linear momentum. More than anything, it is the experience of reading that matters, of following the poem’s unexpected twists and turns to the very end. Despite the contradictions described above, the critics seem to agree that Apollinaire is dreaming during the first six lines. Whether all of it is a dream or whether it is interrupted by sounds coming from outside is left to the reader to decide. Ironically, the noisy rooster may not exist at all. Like the slim branches rustling in the wind, perhaps, it may be part of Apollinaire’s dream. The single branch in “Lul de Faltenin”

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is bare and serves as a weapon. In “La Victoire,” the branches have leaves and wave gaily in the breeze, like sailors saying goodbye to their sweethearts. The second stanza could have easily been borrowed from Hieronymus Bosch. Unexpectedly, Apollinaire’s dream suddenly turns into a nightmare. Whereas the first stanza is simply puzzling, Mario Richter observes, “la seconde strophe confère au rêve . . . un caractère d’absurdité angoissante et grotesque.”8 Whirling around like Icarus plunging to his death, winged blind men are gesticulating like ants. One wonders what they are supposed to represent—Cupids? Angels?—and what they are doing here. The reason Icarus is called “le faux,” Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie explain, is because his wings are only made of wax.9 Among other things, Read adds, the poem portrays the poignant situation of former soldiers who were blinded by gas and who wandered helplessly around Paris.10 Although Boisson connects the ants to the story of Aeacus, who dreamed of the sacred oak of Dodona swarming with multiple Icaruses, the comparison between the insects and blind men would seem to be based on simple observation. While ants can see, they communicate mainly by touching each other’s antennae. In contrast to the blind men, who seem helpless, the gesticulating insects are simply seeking information. These are not just any ants, moreover, but winged ants, which emerge in swarms three to five days after a heavy rain. Among other things, this explains why the blind men are juxtaposed with puddles of rainwater. Apollinaire expands the bizarre comparison by giving them wings. The fact that the puddles serve as impromptu mirrors reveals yet another contradiction. Like the ants that served as their model, the blind men can see after all. Like Icarus before them, they too turn out to be false. Curiously, although they appear to be lost, they seem to find the experience exhilarating. Whirling round and around, the blind men laugh uproariously until they fall down together. At least, this is one possible interpretation of line 6, which again must have fascinated Breton and his friends. Ne sors plus de chez moi diamant qui parlais Dors doucement tu es chez toi tout t’appartient Mon lit ma lampe et mon casque troué Regards précieux saphirs taillés aux environs de Saint-Claude Les jours étaient une pure émeraude.

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Je me souviens de toi ville des météores Ils fleurissaient en l’air pendant ces nuits où rien ne dort Jardins de la lumière où j’ai cueilli des bouquets Tu dois en avoir assez de faire peur à ce ciel Qu’il garde son hoquet On imagine difficilement A quel point le succès rend les gens stupides et tranquilles A l’institut des jeunes aveugles on a demandé N’avez-vous point de jeune aveugle ailé.

Most critics believe the dream sequence ends with the sixth line, but, as we will discover, there seems to be at least one more sequence as well. Indeed, since the poem begins with the statement “je rêve,” all of “La Victoire” may be a dream. It becomes increasingly difficult, in any case, to tell which sections are dreams and which are not. The next stanza confirms our earlier impression that Apollinaire is home in bed. Awaking from his bizarre dream (or perhaps dreaming that he has awoken?), he addresses the woman lying beside him, whom he calls “diamant,” and asks her to stay with him forever. Despite his attempt to conceal her identity, she is clearly his future wife, Jacqueline Kolb, who was known to her friends as “Ruby.” Following a chance encounter during the summer of 1916, she and Apollinaire had become lovers. In March 1917, she became pregnant but unfortunately suffered a miscarriage.11 As we saw in “Tristesse d’une étoile” (Chapter 6), Jacqueline not only personifies la raison but is also portrayed as Minerva/Athena. The next two poems employ the very same symbolism: “La Victoire” and “La Jolie Rousse.” Together with “Tristesse d’une étoile,” they were conceived, among other things, as loving tributes to Apollinaire’s bride. The title “La Victoire” refers not only to the approaching victory of the Allies over the Central Powers, Boisson points out, but also to Jacqueline in her guise as Minerva/ Athena.12 In the latter role, she is simultaneously the goddess of Victory, the goddess of Wisdom, and the goddess of the State. As the latter, she is the protectress both of France and of Western civilization, threatened once again by Barbarians from the north. While the lamp next to Apollinaire’s bed is

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one of Minerva’s traditional attributes, symbolizing wisdom, the hole in his helmet testifies to her miraculous birth. Greet and Lockerbie call attention to the role of synesthesia in the first stanza quoted above, and elsewhere in the poem. Like the previous “rires amassés en grappes de raisin,” the image of a talking diamond exploits sight and sound simultaneously. The second stanza praises Jacqueline’s beauty and the days the lovers have spent together. Continuing the rare gem theme, Apollinaire compares her eyes to sapphires and the precious days to emeralds. Saint-Claude is a commune in the Jura Mountains where he previously saw gemstones being shaped and polished. However, Greet and Lockerbie believe the sapphires refer to the poet’s own eyes. In either case, sight triumphs over blindness as time and space coincide. Jean Burgos proposes an entirely different scenario in which the three gems symbolize Apollinaire’s poetic qualities.13 The next two stanzas evoke one of the poet’s nicest memories of the Front, which, with a brief nod to La Ville Lumière, he depicts as the “ville des météores.” In contrast to the fighting during the day, when there was nothing much to look at, the nocturnal pyrotechnics—described in poem after poem—were spectacular. Since the meteors streaking through the air are followed by flower imagery, Apollinaire seems to be referring to star shells bursting overhead (see Chapter 5). Used to illuminate the landscape, as noted previously, they resemble meteors when launched but blossom into “flowers” when they reach the top of their trajectory, burst open, and rain down showers of sparks. Addressing the battlefield directly, Apollinaire draws a humorous parallel between celestial and human affairs. Although the pyrotechnics were supposed to frighten away the sky’s hiccups, he jokes, it hasn’t worked at all. These comments are followed by two short stanzas that were apparently inserted at random. In theory, since the speaker or speakers are never identified, they pose a whole series of questions, all of which are unanswerable. Is Apollinaire speaking to somebody else? Could somebody be speaking to him? Are these snatches of overheard conversation like those in “Lundi rue Christine”? Are they both even uttered by the same person? Since the rest of “La Victoire” seems to be spoken and/or thought by Apollinaire, the simplest course, in keeping with Occam’s razor, is to treat them as the poet’s random thoughts. According to Claude Debon, the first stanza expresses the poet’s

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annoyance with people he has recently encountered in Paris.14 Now that he has returned to civilian life, he finds himself surrounded by smug shopkeepers for whom the war has no meaning. The second stanza reveals that Apollinaire is still haunted by the winged blind men encountered earlier. Greet and Lockerbie detect a satirical note in the assumption that a center exists where blind people can be bought and sold like cattle and sheep. Modern commercialism apparently knows no bounds. Nevertheless, they prefer to interpret the lines metaphorically—as “a demand for fresh poetic inspiration.” Interestingly, an Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles actually exists in Paris. Founded in 1784 and situated on the boulevard des Invalides, it was the first specialized school for blind students in the world. At this point, Apollinaire introduces one of the poem’s two major themes— the search for a new poetic language. Addressing the millions of mouths in the world, it opens with an enthusiastic apostrophe: O bouches l’homme est à la recherche d’un nouveau langage Auquel le grammairien d’aucune langue n’aura rien à dire Et ces vieilles langues sont tellement près de mourir Que c’est vraiment par habitude et manque d’audace Qu’on les fait encore servir à la poésie Mais elles sont comme des malades sans volonté Ma foi les gens s’habitueraient vite au mutisme La mimique suffit bien au cinéma.

While Apollinaire was off fighting the war, a radical new movement surfaced in New York, Switzerland, and Barcelona. Eventually baptized “Dada” by Tristan Tzara and his colleagues in Zurich, it was dedicated, among other things, to completely reinventing art and literature. In addition to visual poems, for example, the Dadaists created sound poems composed entirely of nonsense syllables and words. In Italy F. T. Marinetti and the Futurists were also experimenting with visual effects and were exploring the possibilities of onomatopoeia. Although Apollinaire was surprisingly well informed about these developments, by the time he returned to Paris he found himself in danger of being left behind. As Renaud notes “le poète sent qu’il perd le gouvernail et qu’il est le jouet de puissances qui parfois le dépassent.”15 In “La Victoire,”

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therefore, one witnesses a struggle not only to master language but also to solidify his position as leader of the avant-garde. On the one hand, Debon declares, the poem is “une interrogation sur les problèmes du langage.” On the other hand, it is preoccupied with “l’avenir de la poésie.”16 More than anything, perhaps, Apollinaire is concerned to demonstrate that he is a cutting-edge poet. Mais entêtons-nous à parler Remuons la langue Lançons des postillons On veut des nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons On veut des consonnes sans voyelles Des consonnes qui pètent sourdement Imitez le son de la toupie Laissez pétiller un son nasal et continu Faites claquer votre langue Servez-vous du bruit sourd de celui qui mange sans civilité Le raclement aspiré du crachement ferait aussi une belle consonne Les divers pets labiaux rendraient aussi vos discours claironnants Habituez-vous à roter à volonté Et quelle lettre grave comme un son de cloche A travers nos mémoires.

Although the stanza continues for another twenty-one lines, Apollinaire suddenly changes the subject. One wonders at this point how Apollinaire’s recommendations are meant to be interpreted. Is he serious, or is he merely pulling the reader’s leg? As Greet and Lockerbie observe, the poet’s intentions become increasingly unclear as he progresses. While some of his initial ideas seem to have possibilities, by the time he recommends (linguistic) belching and farting it is hard to believe he is sincere. Although Apollinaire initially appears to endorse sign language, ultimately he dismisses the idea in favor of some kind of spoken language (“Mais entêtons-nous à parler”). Unfortunately, the two choices he presents seem either impracticable or impractable (or both). He asks the reader to choose between a language consisting entirely of consonants and one that utilizes rude digestive noises. That they were modeled on contemporary experiments with phonetic poetry (poésie bruitiste) is plain to see. Like them, they are composed of sounds instead of words.

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Interestingly, opinion is divided as to what Apollinaire was hoping to achieve here. While Debon insists he is parodying the sound poets, Anna Boschetti rushes to his defense.17 Instead of “ridicule” and “derision,” she detects “une invitation à ne pas se laisser rebuter par l’apparence peu sérieuse ou vulgaire de ces explorations.” Nevertheless, Apollinaire would denounce the sound poets eight months later in “L’Esprit nouveau et les poètes.” However, there is no need to choose between these two interpretations. Susan Harrow offers a thoughtful alternative. “Apollinaire reflects on the scope and the limits of experimentalism,” she explains, “when language is reduced to raw, meaningfree sound . . . [He] hovers between musing playfulness and an ironic alertness to the dangers of linguistic disintegration.”18 To this I would add that being outrageous does not necessarily imply ridicule or condemnation. During his lifetime, Apollinaire was continually accused of being a farceur, a blagueur, or a mystificateur because he was deliberately provocative. One suspects that his outrageous comments in “La Victoire” were simply designed to generate some publicity—as in fact they certainly did. When all is said and done, in any case, Apollinaire’s basic thesis remains unscathed: the modern age needs to be expressed in and by a modern language. Ultimately, of course, “La Victoire” is concerned with language only insofar as it applies to poetry. Ironically, since most of Apollinaire’s examples involve speech, it is concerned with language that is written rather than spoken—with mots rather than paroles. Nous n’aimons pas assez la joie De voir les belles choses neuves O mon amie hâte-toi Crains qu’un jour un train ne t’émeuve Plus Regarde-le plus vite pour toi Ces chemins de fer qui circulent Sortiront bientôt de la vie Ils seront beaux et ridicules.

The first nine lines express the second major theme of “La Victoire”—the beauty of modern things and hence of the modern world. The transition from the notion of a “nouveau langage” to “les belles choses neuves” is both seamless and logical. Since the two sections share the same aesthetic, they also share

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the same stanza. Unfortunately, as Apollinaire reminds Jacqueline, beauty, especially modern beauty, is only transient. Whence the necessity to enjoy it before it fades away—either because it loses its initial appeal or because it succumbs to the ravages of time. Viewed from a hundred years later, his prediction about the fate of modern trains, if not of modern railroads, seems amazingly accurate. Today steam locomotives appear quaint and hopelessly outmoded. Although propeller airplanes are still around, they have suffered a similar devaluation. As Renaud points out, the threat of becoming outmoded is related to the need to find a new language.19 The demand for new words is as acute as the demand for new machines. Modern progress is relentless. Deux lampes brûlent devant moi Comme deux femmes qui rient Je courbe tristement la tête Devant l’ardente moquerie Ce rire se répand Partout Parlez avec les mains faites claquer vos doigts Tapez-vous sur la joue comme sur un tambour O paroles Elles suivent dans la myrtaie L’Eros et l’Antéros en larmes Je suis le ciel de la cité.

The remainder of the stanza is initially rather puzzling. Apollinaire fixes his attention on two lamps before him which, in an apparent burst of paranoia, he compares to two women who are laughing at him. Never mind that the women do not really exist, being the second term in a simile, and that the text does not say they are laughing at Apollinaire (or indeed at anyone at all). Convinced that he is somehow at fault, he hangs his head in shame as the laughter expands to encompass the whole world. Surprisingly, a number of critics confuse this scene with reality (or at least with what passes for reality in the poem). Richter, for example, concludes that the imaginary women are laughing at “les belles choses.”20 However, nothing in the scene appears to make any sense—from the lamps’ mysterious effect on Apollinaire to the two women’s sudden appearance and their impossibly expansive laughter. Upon

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reflection, the reason for Apollinaire’s strange behavior eventually becomes clear. He is not experiencing a psychotic episode after all but seems merely to have fallen asleep. The situation is exactly the same as in the second stanza. As before, his dreams assume the form of a colorful nightmare. In reality, Apollinaire has nothing to be ashamed about. This episode is followed by two lines that flirt with sign language once again before returning to the theme of speech. As they are exchanging “paroles” with one another, Eros and his brother Anteros enter a sacred myrtle grove, for which Apollinaire especially coined the term myrtaie.21 That the grove is sacred to Aphrodite doubtless explains why both gods are in tears. Or perhaps only Anteros is in tears—it’s impossible to tell from the construction. Ironically, although Anteros is the avenger of unrequited love according to one tradition, according to another tradition, which Apollinaire invokes here, he represents “l’amour antiphysique.”22 In other words, Anteros is basically Anti-Eros, the opposite of his brother. That they are quarrelling over love is confirmed by the fact that they have just entered Aphrodite’s precinct. What makes this encounter particularly interesting is that both gods are portrayed as winged youths. Since love is traditionally blind, this suggests that the whirling blind men in stanza 2 are Eros and Anteros! Or are they? Despite the temptation to lump them together, which would have important consequences for the rest of the poem, they do not seem to be identical. Deprived of any real substance, at this point the blind men are simply a motif that is repeated at intervals. The next five stanzas return to the question of speech: Ecoutez la mer La mer gémir au loin et crier toute seule Ma vois fidèle comme l’ombre Veut être enfin l’ombre de la vie Veut être ô mer vivante infidèle comme toi La mer qui a trahi des matelots sans nombre Engloutit mes grands cris comme des dieux noyés Et la mer au soleil ne supporte que l’ombre Que jette des oiseaux les ailes éployées La parole est soudaine et c’est un Dieu qui tremble Avance et soutiens-moi je regrette les mains

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De ceux qui les tendaient et m’adoraient ensemble Quelle oasis de bras m’accueillera demain Connais-tu cette joie de voir des choses neuves O voix je parle le language de la mer Et dans la port la nuit les dernières tavernes Moi qui suis plus têtu que non l’hydre de Lerne.

Apollinaire turns to the sea at this point, which is moaning and crying in the distance, because it provides a convenient model. The best way of being faithful to life, he declares paradoxically, is to be unfaithful. Like the sea, life is always changing and thus demands to be viewed through a variable lens. For some time now, Apollinaire has been growing in size and ambition. Greet and Lockerbie call him “all-encompassing.” For Debon he represents a demiurge, whose enormous appetite matches his size.23 She attributes this development to his equally enormous effort to vanquish time. Somehow Apollinaire has also become “le ciel de la cité.” Now, as the wordplay on “têtu” humorously emphasizes, he stubbornly insists on appropriating the language of the sea. The Lernaean Hydra was a water monster equipped with multiple heads. As soon as one was chopped off, it grew several replacements. As Read points out, the sea can be viewed in two very different ways, much like blindness.24 Just as the latter can be a hindrance or an asset (think of Homer), the sea is associated with drowning but also with poetic language. Nevertheless, since the sea is much larger than Apollinaire, it swallows his mighty cries as quickly as it swallowed Icarus before him. This last, implicit, allusion to the son of Daedalus explicitly connects him to Apollinaire, for whom he symbolizes the poet. This is why the motif occurs repeatedly. Like Icarus, he engages in dangerous (poetic) adventures that could easily end in failure. The theme of poetic language introduces the next stanza, where it is celebrated, praised, and explicitly glorified: “La parole est soudaine et c’est un Dieu qui tremble.” Words, as opposed to sounds, are really what interest Apollinaire. Just as language is and is not the poet’s creation, Renaud explains, it is and is not divine.25 The spoken word appears magically out of nowhere but is shaped and expressed by the poet’s mouth. The written word pops into the poet’s head but is shaped and expressed by his or her hand. What Apollinaire is

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really talking about, however, is not how words are produced but the nature of poetic inspiration, which appears absolutely miraculous. That the magic word is “trembling” when it arrives says more about the recipient than anything else. To a person who has been eagerly waiting for illumination, the inspired word seems to be positively glowing. Meanwhile as the gigantic poet advances, propped up by other hands, he remembers his past admirers and anticipates future admirers. La rue où nagent mes deux mains Aux doigts subtils fouillant la ville S’en va mais qui sait si demain La rue devenait immobile Qui sait où serait mon chemin Songe que les chemins de fer Seront démodées et abandonnées dans peu de temps Regarde La Victoire avant tout sera De bien voir au loin De tout voir De près Et que tout ait un nom nouveau.

The scene suddenly changes, and Apollinaire finds himself walking down a long, empty road leading away from the port. We have no idea how he got there or where he is headed. Curiously, despite his calm demeanor, he appears to be tentatively feeling his way with his hands. Eventually the realization dawns on the reader that Apollinaire cannot see where he is going. Suddenly, with no advance warning, he seems to have become blind! This unexpected incident connects him to the second principal motif: the blind men encountered previously, who, like Icarus, also symbolize the poet. Like them, he advances one step at a time, exploring first one idea then another with no end in sight. To a certain extent, since they represent different aspects of the poet, the two motifs tend to overlap. Icarus cannot see the end that is reserved for him either. Perhaps this also explains why the blind men are equipped with wings—to emphasize their resemblance to Icarus and vice versa. As Greet and Lockerbie note, the road is surprisingly fluid. It flows

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past Apollinaire like a river or like time. More precisely, since his progress is compared to swimming, it envelopes him and carries him along with it. Since ultimately the road represents the course of his life, the longer it continues the better. The final stanza recalls a similar stanza in “Les Collines” about towering heroes who are gifted with superior sight. As Read notes, Apollinaire “retrouve finalement . . . le ton prophétique qui sied aux poètes homeriques, aveugles mais voyants.”26 Returning to the theme of victory announced in the title, he provides an ambitious three-pronged summary that is not a definition so much as a program for the future. The first two recommendations appear to focus on the individual. The third needs to be implemented by society in general. Victory will only be achieved, he announces, after one has acquired prophetic vision. As in “Les Collines,” the reader needs to learn how to foresee the future. By the same token, victory will only be achieved after one has developed microscopic vision. The reader needs to become accustomed to the minute observation of daily life. Finally, Apollinaire insists, victory will only be achieved after society has devised a new language to replace the old one. Modern life needs to be expressed by and in a language that can accommodate all the rapid changes that are taking place. Debon thinks Apollinaire envisions a language composed of visual images, much like his calligrams.27 Once a universal language has been created, she explains, everyone will finally be able to communicate with everyone else. Peter Por traces the final line back to biblical sources and before that to Orpheus.28 The idea of conferring new names on everything is apparently a very old tradition. In addition to conquering the enemy, victory itself assumes many different forms in “La Victoire.” Designating Jacqueline first of all, it involves prophesy, close observation, and linguistic innovation according to Apollinaire. In Read’s opinion, victory will result from conquering ignorance, powerlessness, time, and death.29 According to Michel Décaudin, it will be “celle d’une poétique nouvelle ouverte sur l’avenir.”30 For Margaret Davies, “La Victoire” is essentially a poem about poetry. Described in “L’Esprit nouveau et les poètes,” the victory she foresees is that of “the poet perpetually renewing both himself and poetry.”31

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“La Jolie Rousse” Although Apollinaire had no idea his life was nearly over when he wrote “La Jolie Rousse,” in retrospect the composition serves as a moving poetic testament. Since it is the final poem in Calligrammes, moreover, it provides the volume with important closure. Spanning the immense distance from “Liens” to “La Victoire” by way of “Les Fenêtres,” “Lettre-Océan,” and “Chevaux de Frise,” the poem possesses an unusually broad focus. In addition, it provides a glimpse of a happier, more secure Apollinaire who is about to marry Jacqueline—the “jolie rousse” of the title. As the authors of the Oeuvres poétiques note, “la serénité retrouvée dans l’amour devient le symbole d’une confidence sûre et lucide.”32 Published in the Swiss journal L’Eventail on March 15, 1918, “La Jolie Rousse” is divided into seven unequal sections. The first three stanzas are composed of vers libres, the next three are rhymed, and the last is again written in free verse. Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sens Connaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu’un vivant peut connaître Ayant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l’amour Ayant su quelquefois imposer ses idées Connaissant plusieurs langages Ayant pas mal voyagé Ayant vu la guerre dans l’Artillerie et l’Infanterie Blessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroforme Ayant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l’effroyable lutte Je sais d’ancien et de nouveau autant qu’un homme seul pourrait des deux savoir Et sans m’inquiéter aujourd’hui de cette guerre Entre nous et pour nous mes amis Je juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l’invention De l’Ordre et de l’Aventure.

In contrast to the previous poem, which is often difficult to follow, “La Jolie Rousse” is carefully organized and crystal clear. Addressing his audience directly, Apollinaire advances methodically, line by line and point by point, until he has finished. As a result of this linear approach, Philippe Renaud observes, he is transformed into “une personnalité paraissant extérieur à l’acte

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poétique.”33 The reader receives the impression that it is Apollinaire himself who is speaking rather than the poet who bears his name. As Susan Harrow puts it, “the writing self and the written self coincide.”34 To some extent, therefore, the composition may be viewed as an aesthetic manifesto—which Renaud views as a serious defect. The fact that “La Jolie Rousse” is discursive, he believes, destroys its value as a poem: “Une fois le poète disparu, le ‘poème’ demeure comme une carcasse.” Attempting to maintain the delicate balance between poetry and prose, Apollinaire adopts a presentational mode initially. “Dès les premiers vers,” Jeanine Moulin declares, “le poète cherche par l’énumération de ses mérites— âge, expérience, connaissance—à inspirer la confiance.”35As several critics have noted, the first line echoes the beginning of Paul Claudel’s epic play Tête d’or, composed in 1889. The fact that it is an alexandrine looks forward to the fifth stanza and confers a leisurely rhythm on much of the poem. Lines 2 and 10 employ a figure of speech known as epanadiplosis, where a sentence begins and ends with approximately the same word. The rest of Apollinaire’s soliloquy is filled with binary oppositions. Life is contrasted with death, sadness with joy, old with new, tradition with invention, and Order with Adventure. The next three stanzas are preocupied with defending the members of the avantgarde, who clearly belong to the second category: Vous dont la bouche est faite à l’image de Dieu Bouche qui est l’ordre même Soyez indulgents quand vous nous comparez A ceux qui furent la perfection de l’ordre Nous qui quêtons partout l’aventure Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemis Nous voulons vous donner de vastes et d’étranges domaines Où le mystère en fleurs s’offre à qui veut le cueillir Il y a là des feux nouveaux des couleurs jamais vues Mille phantasmes impondérables Auxquels il faut donner de la réalité Nous voulons explorer la bonté contrée énorme où tout se tait Il y a aussi le temps qu’on peut chasser ou faire revenir Pitié pour nous qui combattons toujours aux frontières

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De l’illimité et de l’avenir Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés.

While the second stanza continues to discuss the dichotomy between Order and Adventure, it is concerned above all with posterity. “Vous dont la bouche est faite à l’image de celle de Dieu” refers to future critics, whose judgement will be as final and as absolute as God’s. What they say will ultimately determine Apollinaire’s reputation and that of his avant-garde colleagues. Wondering how they will look compared to the greatest artists and writers of the past, he urges his judges to be merciful. Since God is the creator of the universe, the equation between “bouche” and “ordre” in the second line needs no explanation. It is he who imposed order on the primordial chaos in the first place. However, as Scott Bates discovered, the line also refers to an obscure character in the Kabbalah.36 The angel both of order and of God’s mouth, Sidra forms and informs such crucial pronouncements as “Let there be light.” Whereas the first stanza is devoted to Apollinaire and the second to future critics, the third stanza is concerned almost entirely with the avant-garde. The transition from je to vous and now to nous parallels the poem’s progress. In order to illustrate the nature of the avant-garde imagination, Apollinaire employs several clever metaphors. In particular, he attempts to pacify hostile critics by portraying modern artists and writers as explorers. Like Christopher Columbus, he declares, they have set out to discover vast and strange domains occupied by mysterious flowers, dazzling fires, and brilliant new colors. Like the early explorers, who returned from their voyages with tobacco, corn, and cacao, they plan to offer their discoveries to society at large (“Nous voulons vous donner …”). Clarifying the avant-garde aesthetic program as he proceeds, Apollinaire also stresses the need to translate numerous ideas (“phantasmes”) into tangible form. Continuing his voyage of discovery in the next stanza, he expands the list of avantgarde projects to include temporal experiments as well. An additional proposal to explore la bonté, however one chooses to interpret that term, is puzzling. Unfortunately, as Claude Debon remarks, the concept does not seem to have had any precise meaning for the poet.37 She speculates that “la bonté serait une facon d’accueillir le monde, de lui manifester de la tendresse.” Interestingly, Apollinaire originally wrote “volonté,” which may have been mistakenly transcribed.

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Dropping the explorer metaphor at this point, Apollinaire depicts the members of the avant-garde as patriotic soldiers fighting on two frontiers at once. The themes of timelessness and the future illustrate his previous remark about experimenting with temporal constructions. Suddenly overcome by a wave of humility, Apollinaire asks his present and future critics to take pity on him and his colleagues: “Pitié pour nous, . . . / Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés.” Judging from their three-part structure and the mention of “sins,” these lines seem to be a prayer as much as a plea. Indeed, they are modeled on the “Kyrie Eleison,” a Gregorian chant used in many church offices. Although Margaret Davies interprets these lines as an expression of guilt, they are really an apology for aesthetic mistakes committed over the years.38 The fact that avant-garde artists and writers fight on such ill-defined terrain, Apollinaire implies, makes erreurs virtually inevitable. Voici que vient l’été la saison violente Et ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printemps O Soleil c’est le temps de la Raison ardente Et j’attends Pour la suivre toujours la forme noble et douce Qu’elle prend afin que je l’aime seulement Elle vient et m’attire ainsi qu’un fer l’aimant Elle a l’aspect charmant D’une adorable rousse Ses cheveux sont d’or on dirait Un bel éclair qui durerait Ou ces flammes qui se pavanent Dans les roses-thé qui se fanent Mais riez riez de moi Hommes de partout surtout gens d’ici Car il y a tant de choses que je n’ose vous dire Tant de choses que vous ne me laisseriez pas dire Ayez pitié de moi.

Since the next two stanzas evoke Apollinaire’s encounter with Jacqueline, they are unusually lyrical. In addition to uniform line lengths, moreover, they employ a variety of rhymes. Stanza 5 consists largely of alexandrines and stanza

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6 of octosyllables. The first line rhymes with the last line in the preceding stanza, the final four lines form two couplets, and the remaining rhymes assume random configurations. At thirty-seven years of age, Apollinaire is aware of no longer being a young man. At this point in his life, he looks forward to settling down. Prepared to enjoy the summer of his years, he tells the sun, he is looking forward to embracing “la Raison ardente.” As we saw in “Tristesse d’une étoile,” this expression describes Jacqueline, who personifies reason and who will preside over his mature years. For this reason, as noted earlier, she represents Minerva/Athena, who personifies wisdom. According to the famous philologist Max Müller, Madeleine Boisson reports, the name “Athena” is derived from the Sanskrit Ahaná, meaning “la brûlante.” That, she maintains, is why Apollinaire calls his future wife “la Raison ardente.”39 However, apart from the question of how much Sanskrit Apollinaire knew, there is a much simpler reason for choosing to call Jacqueline “ardente.” She had beautiful red hair, which the poet in fact praises a few lines later. Referring both to the intensity of her reasoning and to her flaming hair, “ardente” is thus a pun—as is “l’aimant” five lines later. Similarly, as Boisson points out, Jacqueline is “adorable” both because she is lovable and because, as Minerva/Athena, she is the object of religious veneration.40 Apollinaire compares her hair to gold, lightning, flames, and roses in the next to last stanza. Renaud reports that the second line is a translation of the neoPlatonic formula fulgur manens.41 “L’idée géniale,” Boisson explains, “a été de douer de durée l’instant fulgurant pour réaliser la paradoxale synthèse de l’éternel et du transitoire.”42 Unfortunately, as Debon notes, Calligrammes ends on a pathetic note.43 After parading his qualifications, explaining his poetic mission, and celebrating Jacqueline, Apollinaire appears to collapse. Suddenly, with no provocation whatsoever, he invites the readers of “La Jolie Rousse” not only to pity him but also to make fun of him! Paul Waldo Schwartz takes this statement at face value. Recalling “the tragi-comic figure of the circus clown” in Apollinaire’s poetry, he points to his “pathos and hermeticism, frivolity and profundity” in “La Jolie Rousse.”44 According to this interpretation, Apollinaire would finally assume the persona of a circus performer. However, most critics do not believe the first line is intended to be taken seriously. Indeed, they believe it means the

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opposite of what it says. Whether Apollinaire’s words are meant to be ironic or sarcastic is hard to say, but they are clearly uttered in protest. Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie attribute the unexpected outburst to “his fear of the public’s incomprehension.” Upon reflection, however, it appears to be motivated more by anger than by fear. “After I have patiently explained what I am trying to accomplish,” he seems to be saying, “you still don’t get it, do you. I don’t know why I bother.” The remainder of the final stanza is more complicated. Although “car” implies that the first line is related to the third and fourth lines by cause and effect, this is obviously impossible. The request to laugh at Apollinaire because he has suffered so much (presumably in the war) is absurd. Once again, the words mean the opposite of what they say. In reality, the poet is asking his audience for support because he has been through hell. As in the first stanza, Renaud notes, “on retrouve ici l’idée que les épreuves sont un gage de qualité et de perfectionnement.”45 However, although Apollinaire’s earlier pleas were concerned with his poetry, his final request for pity is for personal reasons.

Notes 1

See Claude Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états (Paris: Calliopées, 2008),

2

Peter Read, “‘La Victoire’ d’Apollinaire: contexte, sources et images,” En hommage

354–61. à Michel Décaudin, ed. Pierre Brunel et al. (Paris: Minard, 1986), 212. 3 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 362. Subsequent references to this poem in this volume will not be footnoted but will be to this page. 4

Philippe Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire (Lausanne: L’Age d’Homme, 1969), 459.

5

Claude Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire’” in ed. Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire inventeur de langages (Paris: Minard, 1973), 168.

6

Madeleine Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques (Schena: Fasano and Paris: Nizet, 1989), 290–2.

7

Read, “‘La Victoire’ d’Apollinaire,” 203.

8

Mario Richter, La Crise du Logos et la quête du mythe: Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Cendrars, Apollinaire (Neuchâtel: La Baconnière, 1976), 114.

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  9 Anne Hyde Greet and S. I. Lockerbie, eds., Guillaume Apollinaire “Calligrammes” (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1980), 499. Subsequent references will not be footnoted but will be to pp. 498–506. 10 Peter Read, “Gaz toxiques et ‘larmes de rire’dans Calligrammes,” in Apollinaire au feu (Paris: Réunion des Musées Nationaux, 2005), 53. 11 Laurence Campa, Guillaume Apollinaire (Paris: Gallimard, 2013), 656 and 687 respectively. 12 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 294. For Minerva/Athena’s connection to the poet’s personal mythology, see p. 295. 13 Jean Burgos, “Sur la thématique d’Apollinaire,” La Revue des Lettres Modernes 217–22 (1969): 148. 14 Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire,’” 170. 15 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 459. 16 Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire,’” 169. 17 Claude Debon quoted in Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire (Paris: Livre de Poche, 2002), 142; Anna Boschetti, La Poésie partout: Apollinaire homme-époque (1898–1918) (Paris: Seuil, 2001), 219. 18 Susan Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self: Subjectivity and Representation from Rimbaud to Réda (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2004), 74. 19 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 461–2. 20 Richter, La Crise du Logos, 131. 21 See Claude Debon, Apollinaire: glossaire des oeuvres complètes (Paris: La Sorbonne Nouvelle, 1988). 22 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 275. 23 Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire,’” 177. 24 Read, “‘La Victoire’ d’Apollinaire,” 211. 25 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 466. 26 Read, “Gaz toxiques,” 53. 27 Tournadre (Debon), “A propos de ‘La Victoire,’” 178. 28 Peter Por, “Notes en marge des textes d’Apollinaire,” Guillaume Apollinaire 18. Revue des Lettres Modernes (1991): 137–8. 29 Read, “‘La Victoire’ d’Apollinaire,” 208. 30 Michel Décaudin, “La Guerre dans Calligrammes,” in ed. Samir Mouzouki, “Calligrammes” de Guillaume Apollinaire ou la poésie moderne (Tunis: Ecole Normale Supérieure, 2005), 49.

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31 Margaret Davies, Apollinaire (New York: St. Martins Press, 1964), 296. 32 Guillaume Apollinaire, Oeuvres poétiques, eds. Marcel Adéma and Michel Décaudin (Paris: Gallimard, 1965), 1109. 33 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 455. 34 Harrow, The Material, the Real, and the Fractured Self, 89. 35 Jeanine Moulin, Guillaume Apollinaire: textes inédits (Geneva: Droz & Lille Giard, 1952), 143. 36 Scott Bates, “Notes sur ‘Simon Mage’ et Isaac Laquedem,” Revue des Lettres Modernes 123–6 (1965): 70. 37 Claude Debon, Guillaume Apollinaire après “Alcools” (Paris: Minard, 1981), 178–9. 38 Davies, Apollinaire, 301. 39 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 287. 40 Ibid., 300. 41 Philipe Renaud, “Brèves,” Que Vlo-Ve? Bulletin International des Etudes sur Guillaume Apollinaire, 4th series, 12 (October–December 2000): 128. 42 Boisson, Apollinaire et les mythologies antiques, 300. 43 Debon, “Calligrammes” dans tous ses états, 366. 44 Paul Waldo Schwartz, Cubism (New York: Praeger, 1971), 38. 45 Renaud, Lecture d’Apollinaire, 455–6.

Conclusion Concluding his lengthy study of the poet, Michel Décaudin—the doyen of Apollinaire studies—attempted to sum up his contribution to modern French poetry. Instead of drawing up a list of specific inventions, such as cubist poetry, conversation poetry, or visual poetry, he identified three broad areas in which his influence was decisive. After the Comte de Lautréamont and Arthur Rimbaud, he declared, Apollinaire was “un des premiers à savoir que la poésie n’est pas affaire de règles, ni de respect des valeurs du goût et du beau . . . et que son domaine est illimité.”1 Illustrated by the poems included in Calligrammes, these principles were eventually adopted by modern poetry in general. They are so widespread today that it is hard to imagine a time when they never existed, a time when writing poetry was like putting on a corset. Apollinaire was one of the first poets to cast off the yoke imposed in the seventeenth century by the members of the Académie Française. In the realm of prosody, everything was closely regulated, from the number of syllables in a line to the kinds of rhyme that were permissable and the order in which they could appear. By comparison English and American poets had it fairly easy. Composing French poetry was an arduous task that demanded endless calculations and constantly interfered with what the poet was trying to say. How poets expressed themselves was at least as important as what they succeeded in expressing. At the beginning of the twentieth century, free verse was the most daring verse form available. Cultivated by the Symbolists, it was also relatively new. Invented during the 1880s by Gustave Kahn and Jules Laforgue, the French version quickly caught on. Although Apollinaire was a talented composer of traditional poetry—he boasted that he had instilled new vigor into the eight-syllable line— he preferred to write in free verse, which he liberated still further until there were no restrictions at all. His freest poetry is to be found in Calligrammes, where he experiments with a wide variety of poetic forms, many of them never encountered before. Freedom essentially allowed Apollinaire to do whatever he wanted. As a result, the volume practically pulsates with creative energy.

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Another area in which modern poets have managed to shake off restrictions imposed by the Academy is that of taste and beauty. It was traditionally felt that a certain decorum (bienséance) should prevail in poetry and that readers were not to be puzzled, offended, or shocked. As readers of Calligrammes quickly discover, Apollinaire’s poems are not always easy to assimilate. Although he was capable of writing perfectly limpid poetry, like “Un Fantôme de nuées” or “L’Adieu du cavalier,” many of the poems contain puzzling references or are difficult to read for structural reasons. While the former are part of his Symbolist heritage, the latter reflect the influence of Cubism. In addition, Apollinaire was in the forefront of those who sought to open up poetry to new experiences. Like many poets who came after him, he believed modern poetry should reflect modern life—much of which was unsavory, shocking, and/or downright ugly. Nevertheless, he also found much of it to be exciting. This accounts for the presence of criminals in “Lundi rue Christine,” sexual references in poems like “Le Chant d’amour,” farts and spitting in “La Victoire,” and gesticulating blind men in “La Victoire.”2 It also explains references to wireless telegraphy, phonographs, airplanes, streetcars, cinemas, and other modern inventions. As examples of the “vastes et d’étranges domaines” evoked in “La Jolie Rousse,” which are entirely metaphorical, Apollinaire cites mystery, new colors, phantasms (ideas), time, and “la bonté”—whatever that may be. The domain of mystery includes such works as “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” whose protagonist has no eyes, no nose, and no ears. The domain of aesthetics is illustrated by poems like “Les Fenêtres” and thus includes the notion of time as well. A third domain also exists, an intellectual domain that incorporates poems such as “Le Chant d’amour,” whose subject is love. Since these are all ultimately related to each other, they can be grouped together and assigned to the larger realm of the imagination. Although new physical domains are not mentioned in “La Jolie Rousse,” they obviously play an important role in Calligrammes too. While poems were written by other poets during the First World War, none of them equal works like “Dans l’abri-caverne” or “Océan de terre.” These are not just poems about the war, but poems describing Apollinaire’s intimate experiences with a unique variety of circumstances. For all of these reasons, Calligrammes deserves to take its place alongside Alcools as one of the great poetic achievements of the twentieth century.

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Notes 1

Michel Décaudin, Apollinaire (Paris: Livre de Poche, 2002), 207.

2

For an excellent study of Apollinaire’s use of obscenity, see Antoine Fongaro, “De l’obscène à l’érotique voilé dans Calligrammes,” in Apollinaire poète: exgèses et discussions 1957–1987 (Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail-Toulouse, 1988), 231–45.

Appendix Liens Cordes faites de cris Sons de cloches à travers l’Europe Siècles pendus Rails qui ligotez les nations Nous ne sommes que deux ou trois hommes Libres de tous liens Donnons-nous la main Violente pluie qui peigne les fumées Cordes Cordes tissées Cables sous-marins Tours de Babel changés en ponts Araignées-Pontifes Tous les amoureux qu’un seul lien a liés D’autres liens plus ténus Blancs rayons de lumière Cordes et Concorde J’écris seulement pour vous exalter O sens o sens cheris Ennemis du souvenir Ennemis du désir Ennemis du regret Ennemis des larmes Ennemis de tout ce que j’aime encore

Appendix

Links Cords made of cries Sound of bells across Europe Hanging centuries Rails binding nations together We are only two or three men Free from all chains Let us join hands Violent rain combing the smoke Cords Woven cords Submarine cables Towers of Babel changed into bridges Spider-Pontiffs The lovers all joined by a single link Other more tenuous links White rays of light Cords and Concord I write only to exalt you Oh senses cherished senses Enemis of memory Enemies of desire Enemies of regret Enemies of tears Enemies of everything I still love

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Appendix

Les Fenêtres Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Quand chantent les aras dans les forêts natales Abatis de pihis Il y a un poème à faire sur l’oiseau qui n’a qu’une aile Nous l’enverrons en message téléphonique Traumatisme géant Il fait couler les yeux Voilà une jolie jeune fille parmi les jeunes Turinaises Le pauvre jeune homme se mouchait dans sa cravate blanche Tu soulèveras le rideau Et maintenant voilà que s’ouvre la fenêtre Araignées quand les mains tissaient la lumière Beauté pâleur insondables violets Nous tenterons en vain de prendre du repos On commencera à minuit Quand on a le temps on a la liberté Bigorneaux Lotte multiples Soleils et l’Oursin du couchant Une vielle paire de chaussures jaunes devant la fenêtre Tours Les tours ce sont les rues Puits Puits ce sont les places Puits Arbres creux qui abritent les Câpresses vagabondes Les Chabins chantent des airs à mourir Aux Chabines marronnes Et l’oie oua-oua trompette au nord Où les chasseurs de ratons Raclent les pelleteries Etincelant diamant Vancouver Où le train blanc de neige et de feux nocturnes fuit l’hiver O Paris Du rouge au vert tout le jaune se meurt Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New-York et les Antilles La fenêtre s’ouvre comme une orange Le beau fruit de la lumière

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Windows From red to green the yellow fades away When macaws sing in their native forests Heaps of dead pihis There is a poem to be written about the bird with a single wing We will send it by telephone Enormous bruise It makes your eyes run See the pretty girl among the young girls from Turin The poor young man blew his nose in his white tie Raise the curtain And see the window slowly opening Spiders when hands wove the light Beauty paleness fathomless violets We will try in vain to rest We will begin at midnight When you have time you have liberty Welks Monkfish multiple Suns and the sunset’s Urchin An old pair of yellow shoes before the window Towers The towers are streets Wells Wells are public squares Wells Hollow trees sheltering vagabond Quadroon girls The young men sing melancholy songs To the chestnut girls And wa-wa geese trumpet in the north Where raccoon hunters Scrape fur skins Sparkling diamond Vancouver Where the train covered with snow and nocturnal flickerings flees the winter O Paris From red to green the yellow fades away Paris Vancouver Hyères Maintenon New York and the Antilles The window opens like an orange The lovely fruit of light

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Appendix

Lundi rue Christine La mère de la concierge et la concierge laisseront tout passer Si tu es un homme tu m’accompagneras ce soir Il suffirait qu’un type maintînt la porte cochère Pendant que l’autre monterait Trois becs de gaz allumés La patronne est poitrinaire Quand tu aura fini nous jouerons une partie de jacquet Un chef d’orchestre qui a mal à la gorge Quand tu viendras à Tunis je te ferai fumer du kief Ça a l’air de rimer Des piles de soucoupes des fleurs un calendrier Pim pam pim Je dois fiche près de 300 francs à ma probloque Je préférerais me couper le parfaitement que de les lui donner Je partirai à 20 h. 27 Six glaces s’y dévisagent toujours Je crois que nous allons nous embrouiller encore davantage Cher monsieur Vous êtes un mec à la mie de pain Cette dame a le nez comme un ver solitaire Louise a oublié sa fourrure Moi je n’ai pas de fourrure et je n’ai pas froid Le Danois fume sa cigarette en consultant l’horaire Le chat noir traverse la brasserie. Ces crêpes étaient exquises La fontaine coule Robe noire comme ses ongles C’est complètement impossible Voici monsieur La bague en malachite Le sol est semé de sciure Alors c’est vrai La serveuse rousse a été enlevée par un libraire

Appendix

Monday Rue Christine The concierge and her mother will let us in If you are a man you will come with me tonight We need a guy to watch the front door While the other goes upstairs Three gas lights burning The proprietress is tubercular When you have finished we’ll play a game of backgammon An orchestra leader with a sore throat When you come to Tunis we’ll smoke some kief That appears to rhyme Piles of saucers some flowers a calendar Clink clank clunk I owe my landlady nearly 300 francs I’d rather cut off my exactly than pay him I’m leaving at 8:27 p.m. Six mirrors stare each other down I think we’re going to find ourselves in an even worse mess Dear Sir You are a crummy no good pimp That lady has a nose like a tapeworm Louise forgot her fur I don’t have a fur but I’m not cold The Dane smokes a cigarette while consulting the timetable The black cat crosses the restaurant Those crepes were marvelous The water is running A dress as black as her finger nails That’s completely impossible Here sir The malachite ring The floor is covered with sawdust So it’s true The redheaded waitress ran off with a bookseller

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Un journaliste que je connais d’ailleurs très vaguement Ecoute Jacques c’est très sérieux ce que je vais te dire Compagnie de navigation mixte Il me dit monsieur voulez-vous voir ce que je peux faire d’eaux-fortes et de tableaux Je n’ai qu’une petite bonne Après déjeuner café du Luxembourg Une fois là il me présente un gros bonhomme Qui me dit Ecoutez c’est charmant A Smyrne à Naples en Tunisie Mais nom de Dieu où est-ce La dernière fois que j’ai été en Chine C’est il y a huit ou neuf ans L’Honneur tient souvent à l’heure que marque la pendule La quinte major

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A journalist I barely know Listen Jacques what I am going to tell you is very serious Cargo liner company He says to me Sir can I show you what I can do with etchings and paintings I only have a single maid After lunch at the Café du Luxembourg Once I get there he introduces me to a big guy Who tells me Listen it’s charming In Smyrna in Naples in Tunisia But for God’s sake where is it The last time I went to China That was eight or nine years ago Honor often depends on what time it is A royal flush

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Appendix

Arbre Tu chantes avec les autres tandis que les phonographs galopent Où sont les aveugles où s’en sont-ils allés La seule feuille que j’aie cueillie s’est changée en plusieurs mirages Ne m’abandonnez pas parmi cette foule de femmes au marché Ispahan s’est fait un ciel de carreaux émaillés de bleu Et je remonte avec vous une route aux environs de Lyon Je n’ai pas oublié le son de la clochette d’un marchand de coco d’autrefois J’entends déjà le son aigre de cette voix à venir Du camarade qui se promènera avec toi en Europe Tout en restant en Amérique Un enfant Un veau dépouillé pendu à l’étal Un enfant Et cette banlieue de sable autour d’une pauvre fille au fond de l’est Un douanier se tenait là comme un ange A la porte d’un misérable paradis Et ce voyageur épileptique écumait dans la salle d’attente des premières Engoulevent Blaireau Et la Taupe-Ariane Nous avions loué deux coupés dans le transsibérien Tour à tour nous dormions le voyageur en bijouterie et moi Mais celui qui veillait ne cachait point un revolver armé Tu t’es promené à Leipzig avec une femme mince déguisée en homme Intelligence car voilà ce que c’est qu’une femme intelligente Et il ne faudrait pas oublier les légendes Dame-Abonde dans un tramway la nuit au fond d’un quartier désert Je voyais une chasse tandis que je montais Et l’ascenseur s’arrêtait à chaque étage

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Tree You sing with the others while the phonographs gallop Where are the blind men where have they gone The single leaf I picked has become several mirages Don’t abandon me among this crowd of market women Isfahan has become a sky of enamelled blue tiles And together with you I retrace a road near Lyons I have not forgotten the sound of a cocoa-seller’s bell long ago I hear the shrill voice already of that Future friend who will walk with you in Europe While remaining in America A child A skinned calf hanging in the butcher’s stall A child And that sandy neighborhood surrounding a poor town in the far east A customs officer stood there like an angel At the door of a dilapidated paradise And the epileptic traveler foamed at the mouth in the first class waiting room Nighthawk Badger And the Mole-Ariadne We reserved two compartments on the Transsiberian Railway The jewelry salesman and I took turns sleeping But whoever remained awake brandished a cocked revolver You walked in Leipzig with a slim woman disguised as a man Intelligence for that’s an intelligent woman for you And don’t forget the legends Lady Bountiful on a streetcar at night in the depths of a deserted neighborhood And I spied a hunt while I was rising And the elevator stopped at each floor

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Appendix

Entre les pierres Entre les vêtements multicolores de la vitrine Entre les charbons ardents du marchand de marrons Entre deux vaisseaux norvégiens amarrés à Rouen Il y a ton image Elle pousse entre les bouleaux de la Finlande Ce beau nègre in acier La plus grand tristesse C’est quand tu reçus une carte postale de La Corogne Le vent vient du couchant Le métal des caroubiers Tout est plus triste qu’autrefois Tous les dieux terrestres vieillissent L’univers se plaint par ta voix Et des êtres nouveaux surgissent Trois par trois

Appendix

Between the stones Between the multicolored clothes in the shop window Between the glowing coals of the chestnut seller Between two Norwegian vessels docked at Rouen There is your image It springs up between the Finnish birches This handsome steel Negro Your greatest sadness Was when you received the postcard from La Corogne The wind blows from the west The metal of the Carob trees Everything is sadder than before All the earthly gods are growing older The universe laments with your voice And new beings spring forth Three by three

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Appendix

A travers l’Europe A.M.Ch. Rotsoge Ton visage écarlate ton biplan transformable en hydroplan Ta maison ronde oú il nage un hareng saur Il me faut la clef des paupières Heureusement que nous avons vu M. Panado Et nous sommes tranquilles de ce côté-là Qu’est-ce que tu vois mon vieux M. D… 90 ou 324 un homme en l’air un veau qui regarde à travers le ventre de sa mère J’ai cherché longtemps sur les routes Tant d’yeux sont clos au bord de routes Le vent fair pleurer les saussaies Ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre ouvre Regarde mais regarde donc Le vieux se lave les pieds dans la cuvette Una volta ho inteso dire Chè vuoi Je me mis à pleurer en me souvenant de vos enfances Et toi tu me montres un violet épouvantable Ce petit tableau où il y a une voiture m’a rappelé le jour Un jour fait de morceaux mauves jaunes bleus verts et rouges Où je m’en allais à la campagne avec une charmante cheminée tenant sa chienne en laisse Il n’y en a plus tu n’as plus ton petit mirliton La cheminée fume loin de moi des cigarettes russes La chienne aboie contre les lilas La veilleuse est consumée Sur la robe ont chu des pétales Deux anneaux d’or près des sandales Au soleil se sont allumés Mais tes cheveux sont le trolley A travers l’Europe vêtu de petits feux multicolores

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All Across Europe A.M.Ch. Rotsoge Your scarlet face your biplane transformable into a seaplane Your round house where a kipper swims I need the key to eyelids Luckily we have seen M. Panado And we are not worried about that aspect What are you looking at my old friend M. D. … 90 or 324 a man in the air a calf looking across its mother’s stomach I searched for a long time along the roads So many eyes are closed along the edge of the roads The wind makes the weeping willows cry Open open open open open Look but look now The old man is washing his feet in the basin Una volta ho inteso dire Chè voi Remembering your childhood I began to cry And you you show me a horrible violet This little painting with a car reminds me of the day A day made of mauve yellow blue green and red pieces When I went walking in the country with a charming smokestack holding her dog on a leash There are no more you no longer have your little toy flute The smokestack smokes Russian cigarettes far from me The dog barks at the lilacs The lamp has gone out Petals have fallen on the dress Two gold rings near some sandals Have burst into fire in the sun But your hair is the trolley All across Europe dressed in tiny multicolored lights

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Le Musicien de Saint-Merry J’ai enfin le droit de saluer des êtres que je ne connais pas Ils passent devant moi et s’accumulent au loin Tandis que tout ce que j’en vois m‘est inconnu Et leur espoir n’est pas moins fort que le mien Je ne chante pas ce monde ni les autres astres Je chante toutes les possibilités de moi-même hors de ce monde et des astres Je chante la joie d’errer et le plaisir d’en mourir Le 21 du mois de mai 1913 Passeur des morts et les mordonnantes mériennes Des millions de mouches éventaient une splendeur Quand un homme sans yeux sans nez et sans oreilles Quittant le Sébasto entra dans la rue Aubry-le Boucher Jeune l’homme était brun et ce couleur de fraise sur les joues Homme Ah! Ariane Il jouait de la flûte et la musique dirigeait ses pas Il s’arrêta au coin de la rue Saint-Martin Jouant l’air que je chante et que j’ai inventé Les femmes qui passaient s’arrêtaient près de lui Il en venait de toutes parts Lorsque tout à coup les cloches de Saint-Merry se mirent à sonner Le musicien cessa de jouer et but à la fontaine Qui se trouve au coin de la rue Simon-Le-Franc Puis Saint-Merry se tut L’inconnu reprit son air de flûte Et revenant sur ses pas marcha jusqu’à la rue de la Verrerie Où il entra suivi par la troupe des femmes Qui sortaient des maisons Qui venaient par les rues traversières les yeux fous Les mains tendues vers le mélodieux ravisseur Il s’en allait indifférent jouant son air Il s’en allait terriblement Puis ailleurs A quelle heure le train partira-t-il pour Paris

Appendix

The Musician of Saint-Merry At last I have the right to greet unfamiliar beings They pass before me and gather in the distance While everything about them is strange And their hope is no less strong than mine I sing not of this world nor of other stars I sing the possibilities of myself beyond this world and the stars I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of a wanderer’s death The 21st day of the month of May 1913 Ferryman of the dead and swarming Merry-widows Millions of flies were fanning a splendor When a man with no eyes no nose and no ears Leaving the Sébasto turned into the rue-Aubry–le-Boucher The young man was dark with a strawberry blush on his cheeks Man Oh! Ariadne He was playing the flute and the music guided his steps He halted at the corner of the rue Saint-Martin Playing the tune I am singing and which I invented All the women in his vicinity gathered near him They came from every direction When Saint-Merry’s bells suddenly began to ring The musician stopped playing and drank from the fountain At the corner of the rue Simon-le-Franc Then Saint-Merry fell silent The stranger resumed his melody on the flute And retracing his steps walked as far as the rue de la Verrerie Which he entered followed by the flock of women Who were coming out of the houses Who were coming out ot the side streets with wild eyes Hands stretched toward the melodious ravisher Unconcerned he strolled along playing his tune He strolled along terribly And elsewhere What time does a train leave for Paris?

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A ce moment Les pigeons des Moluques fientaient des noix muscades En même temps Mission catholique de Bôma qu’as tu fait du sculpteur Ailleurs Elle traverse un pont qui relie Bonn à Beuel et disparaît à travers Pützchen Au même instant Une jeune fille amoureuse du maire Dans un autre quartier Rivalise donc poète avec les étiquettes des parfumeurs En somme ô rieurs vous n’avez pas tiré grand-chose des hommes Et à peine avez-vous extrait un peu de graisse de leur misère Mais nous qui mourons de vivre loin l’un de l’autre Tendons nos bras et sur ces rails roule un long train de marchandises Tu pleurais assise près de moi au fond d’un fiacre Et maintenant Tu me ressembles tu me ressembles malheureusement Nous nous ressemblons comme dans l’architecture du siècle dernier Ces hautes cheminées pareilles à des tours Nous allons plus haute maintenant et ne touchons plus le sol Et tandis que le monde vivait et variait Le cortège des femmes long comme un jour sans pain Suivait dans la rue de la Verrerie l’heureux musicien Cortèges ô cortèges C’est quand jadis le roi s’en allait à Vincennes Quand les ambassadeurs arrivaient à Paris Quand le maigre Suger se hâtait vers la Seine Quand l’émeute mourait autour de Saint-Merry Cortèges ô cortèges Les femmes débordaient tant leur nombre était grand Dans toutes les rues avoisinantes Et se hâtaient raides comme balle Afin de suivre le musicien

Appendix

At that moment Pigeons were leaving nutmeg droppings in the Moluccas At the same time Catholic mission in Boma what have you done with the sculptor Elsewhere She crosses a bridge connecting Bonn and Beuel and disappears in the direction of Pütchen At the same moment A girl in love with the mayor In another quarter So emulate oh poet the labels of perfume-makers In short oh mockers you have not gotten a great deal out of men And you have barely extracted a little grease from their misery But we who are dying because we live so far apart Stretch out our arms and along these rails rolls a long freight train Seated next to me you were crying in the back of a horse-drawn cab And now You resemble me unhappily you resemble me We resemble each other as in the architecture of the last century Those tall chimneys shaped like towers We are going higher and higher now and no longer touch the ground And while the world was living and fluctuating The procession of women long as a day without bread Followed the lucky musician in the rue de la Verrerie Processions oh processions When long ago the king would leave for Vincennes When the ambassadors would come to Paris When the meager Suger hastened toward the Seine When the rioting died out around Saint-Merry Processions oh processions So numerous were the women that they overflowed Into all the neighboring streets Hurrying swift as a bullet To follow the musician

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Ah! Ariane et toi Pâquette et toi Amine Et toi Mia et toi Simone et toi Mavise Et toi Colette et toi la belle Geneviève Elles ont passé tremblantes et vaines Et leurs pas légers et prestes se mouvaient selon la cadence De la musique pastorale qui guidait Leurs oreilles avides L’inconnu s’arrêta un moment devant une maison à vendre Maison abandonnée Aux vitres brisées C’est un logis du seizième siecle La cour sert de remise à des voitures de livraisons C’est là qu’entra le musicien Sa musique qui s’éloignait devint langoureuse Les femmes le suivirent dans la maison abandonnée Et toutes y entrèrent confondues en bande Toutes toutes y entrèrent sans regarder derrière elles Sans regretter ce qu’elles ont laissé Ce qu’elles ont abandonné Sans regretter le jour la vie et la mémoire Il ne resta bientôt plus personne dans la rue de la Verrerie Sinon moi-même et un prêtre de Saint-Merry Nous entrâmes dans la vieille maison Mais nous n’y trouvâmes personne Voici le soir A Saint-Merry c’est l’Angélus qui sonne Cortèges ô cortèges C’est quand jadis le roi revenait de Vincennes Il vint une troupe de casquettiers Il vint des marchands de bananes Il vint des soldats de la garde républicaine O nuit Troupes de regards langoureux des femmes O nuit Toi ma douleur et mon attente vaine J’entends mourir le son d’une flûte lointaine

Appendix

Oh! Ariadne and you Pâquette and you Amine And you Mia and you Simone and you Mavise And you Colette and you lovely Genevieve They passed by trembling and vain And their quick light steps moved in cadence To the pastoral music guiding Their eager ears The stranger stopped a moment before a house for sale An abandoned house With broken windows A sixteenth-century dwelling With delivery vans parked in the courtyard The musician proceeded to enter His music became languorous as it grew fainter The women followed him into the abandoned house And all of them entered together in a group All all entered without a backward glance Without regretting light life or memory Soon no one was left in the rue de la Verrerie But myself and a priest from Saint-Merry We entered the old house But we found no one there It is evening At Saint-Merry the Angelus is ringing Processions oh processions When long ago the king would return from Vincennes There came a troop of hatters There came some banana pedlars There came some Republican Guardsmen Oh night Flock of languorous feminine glances Oh night You my sorrow and my vain expectation I hear the sound of a flute dying away in the distance

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Un Fantôme de nuées Comme c’était la veille du quatorze juillet Vers les quatre heures de l’après-midi Je descendis dans la rue pour aller voir les saltimbanques Ces gens qui font des tours en plein air Commencent à être rares à Paris Dans ma jeunesse on en voyait beaucoup plus qu’aujourd’hui Ils s’en sont allés presque tous en province Je pris le boulevard Saint-Germain Et sur une petite place située entre Saint-Germain-des-Près et la statue de Danton Je rencontrai les saltimbanques La foule les entourait muette et résignée à attendre Je me fis une place dans ce cercle afin de tout voir Poids formidables Villes de Belgique soulevées à bras tendu par un ouvrier russe de Longwy Haltères noirs et creux qui ont pour tige un fleuve figé Doigts roulant une cigarette amère et délicieuse comme la vie De nombreux tapis sales couvraient le sol Tapis qui ont des plis qu’on ne défera pas Et où quelques taches jaunes ou vertes ont persisté Comme un air de musique qui vous poursuit Vois-tu le personnage maigre et sauvage La cendre de ses pères lui sortait en barbe grisonnante Il portait ainsi toute son hérédité au visage Il semblait rêver à l’avenir En tournant machinalement Un orgue de Barbarie Dont la lente voix se lamentait merveilleusement Les glouglous les couacs et les sourds gémissements Les saltimbanques ne bougeaient pas Le plus vieux avait un maillot couleur de ce rose violâtre qu’ont aux joues certaines jeunes filles fraîches mais près de la mort Ce rose-là se niche surtout dans les plis qui entourent souvent leur bouche

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A Phantom of Clouds Since it was the evening before Bastille Day Toward four o’clock in the afternoon I went down the street to see the acrobats These people who perform outdoors Are beginning to be scarce in Paris In my youth you saw a lot more than today Almost all of them have gone to the provinces I took the Boulevard Saint-Germain And on a little square between Saint-Germain-des-Prés and Danton’s statue I encountered the acrobats The crowd surrounded them silently resigned to waiting I found a space in the circle where I could see everything Enormous weights Belgian cities lifted at arm’s length by a Russian worker from Longwy Hollow black dumbbells with a frozen river for a handle Fingers rolling a cigarette as bitter and delicious as life Numerous dirty rugs covered the ground Rugs with wrinkles that will never come out Rugs almost entirely the color of dust And with a few yellow or green spots that persist Like a musical tune that pursues you Do you see that savage skinny man His fathers’ ashes were transformed into his graying beard His entire heredity was visible on his face He seemed to dream of the future While mechanically cranking a barrel organ Whose slow voice lamented marvelously Emitting glug-glugs squawks and muffled moans The acrobats didn’t budge The oldest had a rosy violet costume the same color as the cheeks of certain young girls near death The rosiness tends to nestle in the creases around their mouths

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Ou près des narines C’est un rose plein de traîtrise Cet homme portait-il ainsi sur le dos La teinte ignoble de ses poumons Les bras les bras partout montaient la garde Le second saltimbanque N’était vêtu que de son ombre Je le regardai longtemps Son visage m’échappe entièrement C’est un homme sans tête Un autre enfin avait l’air d’un voyou D’un apache bon et crapule à la foi Avec son pantalon bouffant et les accroche-chaussettes N’aurait-il pas eu l’apparence d’un maquereau à sa toilette La musique se tut et ce furent des pourparlers avec le public Qui sou à sou jeta sur le tapis la somme de deux francs cinquante Au lieu des trois francs que le vieux avait fixés comme prix des tours Mais quand il fut clair que personne ne donnerait plus rien On se décida à commencer la séance De dessous l’orgue sortit un tout petit saltimbanque habillé de rose pulmonaire Avec de la fourrure aux poignets et aux chevilles Il poussait des cris brefs Et saluait en écartant gentiment les avant-bras Mains ouvertes Une jambe en arrière prête à la génuflexion Il salua ainsi aux quatre points cardinaux Et quand il marcha sur une boule Son corps mince devint une musique si délicate que nul parmi les spectateurs n’y fut insensible Un petit esprit sans aucune humanité Pensa chacun Et cette musique des formes

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Or near their nostrils It is a rosiness filled with treachery Thus the man bore the ignoble color of his lungs On his back Arms human arms everywhere mounted guard The second acrobat Was dressed only in his shadow I watched him a long time His face escapes me altogether He is a man with no head Another looked like a thug Like a ruffian who was both good natured and a scoundrel With his baggy pants and garters holding up his socks He looked like a dolled-up pimp The music stopped followed by negotiations with the public Which centime by centime tossed the sum of two and a half francs onto the rug Instead of the three francs set by the old man as the price of the performance But when it was clear that no one was going to give any more They decided to begin the show From beneath the organ a tiny acrobat emerged dressed in pulmonary pink With fur around his wrists and ankles He uttered short cries And saluted by gracefully parting his forearms With his fingers outspread One leg in back ready to genuflect He saluted the four cardinal directions And when he balanced on a ball His slim body became a music so delicate that none of the spectators failed to be moved A tiny spirit with no humanity Everyone thought And the music of forms

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Détruisit celle de l’orgue mécanique Que moulait l’homme au visage couvert d’ancêtres Le petit saltimbanque fit la roue Avec tant d’harmonie Que l’orgue cessa de jouer Et que l’organiste se cacha le visage dans les mains Aux doigts semblables aux descendants de son destin Foetus miniscules qui lui sortaient de la barbe Nouveaux cris de Peau-Rouge Musique angélique des arbres Disparition de l’enfant Les saltimbanques soulevèrent les gros haltères à bout de bras Ils jonglèrent avec les poids Mais chaque spectateur cherchait en soi l’enfant miraculeux Siècle ô siècle des nuages

La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou ô batailles la terre tremble comme une mandoline COMME LA BALLE A TRAVERS LE CORPS LE SON TRAVERSE la vérité car la RAISON C’est ton Art Femme que cet oeillet te dise la loi des odeurs qu’on n’a pas encore promulguée et qui viendra un jour régner sur nos cerveaux bien + précise + subtile que les sons qui nous dirigent Je préfere ton nez à tous tes organes ô mon amie Il est le trône de la future SAGESSE O nez de la pipe les odeurs (centre O fourneau) y forgent les chaînes O (O univers) infiniment déliées qui lient les autres raisons formelles

Appendix

Destroyed that of the mechanical organ Cranked by the the man whose face was covered by his ancestors The tiny acrobat turned cartwheels With such harmony That the organ stopped playing And the organist hid his face in his hands Whose fingers resembled descendents of his destiny Miniscule fetuses sticking out of his beard New Redskin cries Angelic music of the trees Disappearance of the child The acrobats lifted the heavy dumbbells at arm’s length They juggled with the weights But each spectator searched in himself for the miraculous child Century oh century of clouds

The Mandolin the Carnation and the Bamboo oh battles the earth trembles like a mandolin LIKE A BULLET PIERCING A BODY SOUND PIERCES truth for REASON is your Art Woman let this carnation teach you the law of odors that is yet to be formulated and which one day will reign over our brains much more precise and subtle than the sounds that direct us I prefer your nose to all your other organs my dear It is the throne of future WISDOM Oh nose of the pipe odors (center O bowl) forge infinitely tenuous chains there O (O universe) linking the other formal reasons together

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La Nuit d’avril 1915  

A L. de C.-C.

Le ciel est étoilé par les obus des Boches La forêt merveilleuse où je vis donne un bal La mitrailleuse joue un air à triples-croches Mais avez-vous le mot Eh! oui le mot fatal Aux créneaux Aux créneaux Laissez là les pioches Comme un astre éperdu qui cherche ses saisons Coeur obus éclaté tu sifflais ta romance Et tes mille soleils ont vidé les caissons Que les dieux de mes yeux remplissent en silence Nous vous aimons ô vie et nous vous agaçons Les obus miaulaient un amour à mourir Un amour qui se meurt est plus doux que les autres Ton souffle nage au fleueve où le sang va tarir Les obus miaulaient Entends chanter les nôtres Pourpre amour salué par ceux qui vont périr Le printemps tout mouillé la veilleuse l’attaque Il pleut mon âme il pleut mais il pleut des yeux morts Ulysse que de jours pour rentrer dans Ithaque Couche-toi sur la paille et songe un beau remords Qui pur effet de l’art soit aphrodisiaque Mais orgues aux fétus de la paille où tu dors L’hymne de l’avenir est paradisiaque.

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April Night 1915  

A L. de C.-C.

The sky is starred by the Hun’s shells The marvelous forest where I live is holding a ball The machine gun plays a tune in ¾ time But do you have the word Eh! yes the fatal word To the earthworks To the earthworks Drop your picks Like a bewildered star searching for its seasons Heart exploded shell you whistled your love song And your thousand suns have emptied the caissons That the gods of my eyes fill in silence We love you oh life and we irritate you The shells were yowling a deadly love A dying love is sweeter than any other Your breath swims in the river where blood will dry up The shells were yowling a deadly love Listen to ours sing Purple love saluted by those about to die Spring drenched in rain the nightlight the attack It is raining my dear it is raining but it’s raining dead eyes Ulysses so many days to return home to Ithaca Fall asleep on the straw and dream a beautiful remorse A purely artistic effect that is aphrodisiac But organ music on the straw where you sleep The hymn to the future is paradisiac

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L’Adieu du cavalier Ah Dieu! Que la guerre est jolie Avec ses chants ses longs loisirs Cette bague je l’ai polie Le vent se mêle à vos soupirs Adieu! Voici le boute-selle Il disparut dans un tournant Et mourut là-bas tandis qu’elle Riait au destin surprenant

Dans l’abri-caverne Je me jette vers toi et il me semble aussi que tu te jettes vers moi Une force part de nous qui est un feu solide qui nous soude Et puis il y a aussi une contradiction qui fait que nous ne pouvons nous apercevoir En face de moi la paroi de craie s’effrite Il y a des cassures De longues traces d’outils traces lisses et qui semblent être faites dans de la stéarine Des coins de cassures sont arrachés par le passage des types de ma pièce Moi j’ai ce soir une âme qui s’est creusée qui est vide On dirait qu’on y tombe sans cesse et sans trouver de fond Et qu’il n’y a rien pour se raccrocher Ce qui y tombe et qui y vit c’est une sorte d’êtres laids qui me font mal et qui viennent de je ne sais où Oui je crois qu‘ils viennent de la vie d’une sorte de vie qui est dans l’avenir dans l’avenir brut qu’on n’a pu encore cultiver ou élever ou humaniser Dans ce grand vide de mon âme il manque un soleil il manque ce qui éclaire C’est aujourd’hui c’est ce soir et non toujours Heureusement que ce n’est que ce soir Les autres jours je me rattache à toi Les autres jours je me console de la solitude et de toutes les horreurs En imaginant ta beauté

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The Cavalier’s Farewell Oh God! what a lovely war With its songs its leisure hours I have polished this ring The wind mingles with your sighs Farewell! the call to saddle up sounds He disappeared around a corner in the road And died over there while she Laughed at fate’s surprises

In the Underground Bunker I propel myself toward you and I think you propel yourself toward me A force comes from within us that is a solid fire welding us together And yet paradoxically we cannot glimpse each other Opposite me the chalk wall crumbles There are some fractures Some long smooth traces of tools apparently made in tallow Some of the fractures’ corners have been damaged in passing by members of my crew My soul this evening is hollow and empty One could fall into it forever seemingly without hitting the bottom And there is nothing to grab onto What falls into it and lives there is a bunch of ugly beings that hurt me and come from I don’t know where Yes I think they come from life from a kind of future life in the brutish future not yet cultivated or improved or humanized In my soul’s huge emptiness there is no sun there is no kind of light It is today it is tonight but not forever Luckily it is only for tonight Other days I cling to you Other days I console myself for the solitude and for all the horrors

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Pour l’élever au-dessus de l’univers extasié Puis je pense que je l’imagine en vain Je ne la connais par aucun sens Ni même par les mots Et mon goût de la beauté est-il donc aussi vain Existes-tu mon amour Ou n’es-tu qu’une entité que j’ai créé sans le vouloir Pour peupler la solitude Es-tu une de ces déesses comme celles que les Grecs avaient douées pour moins s’ennuyer Je t’adore ô ma déesse exquise même si tu n’es que dans mon imagination.

Océan de terre To G. de Chirico J’ai bâti une maison au milieu de l’Océan Ses fenêtres sont les fleuves qui s’écoulent de mes yeux Des poulpes grouillent partout où se tiennent les murailles Entendez battre leur triple coeur et leur bec cogner aux vitres Maison humide Maison ardente Saison rapide Saison qui chante Les avions pondent des oeufs Attention on va jeter l’ancre Attention à l’encre que l’on jette Il serait bon que vous vinssiez du ciel Le chèvrefeuille du ciel grimpe Les poulpes terrestres palpitent Et puis nous sommes tant et tant à être nos propres fossoyeurs Pâles poulpes des vagues crayeuses ô poulpes aux becs pâles Autour de la maison il y a cet océan que tu connais Et qui ne se repose jamais

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By imagining your beauty And raising it above the ecstatic universe Then I think that I am imagining it in vain I don’t know it through any of my senses Nor even by words And my taste for beauty is it also as vain Do you exist my love Or are you only a being I have created involuntarily To populate my solitude Are you like one of those goddesses the Greeks created to stave off boredom I adore you my exquisite goddess even if you exist only in my imagination

Ocean of Earth To G. de Chirico I have built a house in the middle of the Ocean Its windows are the streams that flow from my eyes Octopi swarm all over the walls Listen to their triple hearts beat and their beaks tap on the windows Humid house Ardent house Rapid season Singing season The airplanes are laying eggs Pay attention they are throwing out the anchor Pay attention to the ink they are throwing out It would be excellent if you descended from the sky The sky’s honeysuckle is climbing The terrestrial octopi palpitate And then many of us are basically our own gravediggers Pale octopi of the chalky waves oh octopi with pale beaks Surrounding the house is that ocean you know well And which is continually in motion

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Il y a Il y a dans le ciel six saucisses et la nuit venant on dirait des asticots dont naîtraient les étoiles Il y a un sous-marin ennemi qui en voulait à mon amour Il y a mille petits sapins brisés par les éclats d’obus autour de moi Il y a un fantassin qui passe aveuglé par les gaz asphyxiants Il y a que nous avons tout haché dans les boyaux de Nietzsche de Goethe et de Cologne Il y a que je languis après une lettre qui tarde Il y a dans mon porte-cartes plusieurs photos de mon amour Il y a les prisonniers qui passent la mine inquiète Il y a une batterie dont les servants s’agitent autour des pièces Il y a le vaguemestre qui arrive au trot par le chemin de l’Arbre isolé Il y a dit-on un espion qui rôde par ici invisible comme l’horizon dont il s’est indignement revêtu et avec quoi il se confond Il y a dressé comme un lys le buste de mon amour Il y a un capitaine qui attend avec anxiété les communications de la T. S. F. sur l’Atlantique Il y a à minuit des soldats qui scient des planches pour les cercueils. Il y a des femmes qui demandent du maïs à grands cris devant un Christ sanglant à Mexico Il y a le Gulf Stream qui est si tiède et si bienfaisant Il y a un cimetière plein de croix à 5 kilomètres Il y a des croix partout de-ci de-là Il y a des figues de Barbarie sur ces cactus en Algérie Il y a les longues mains souples de mon amour

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There is / There Are There is a ship that has taken my beloved away There are six sausages in the sky and at nightfall they resemble maggots which will give birth to the stars There is an enemy submarine that threatened my beloved There are a thousand little fur trees broken by the shells bursting around me There is a soldier passing by blinded by clouds of poison gas There is everything we have blasted to pieces in the Nietzsche Goethe and Cologne trenches There is my longing for a letter that hasn’t come There are several photos of my beloved in my wallet There are prisoners who pass by looking very unhappy There is a battery whose crew busy themselves with the cannons There is a quartermaster arriving at a trot on the Lone Tree path There is a spy prowling around whom they say is as invisible as the horizon he is unworthily wearing and which he blends into There is a portrait of my beloved as upright as a lily There is a captain anxiously awaiting radio messages on the Atlantic There are soldiers at midnight sawing planks for coffins There are women loudly demanding corn before a bleeding Christ in Mexico City There is the Gulf Stream so temperate and beneficial There is a cemetery full of crosses 5 kilometers away There are crosses everywhere over here over there There are prickly pears on the cacti in Algeria There are my beloved’s long supple hands There is an inkwell I made from an empty 15 centimeter shell

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Il y a un encrier que j’avais fait dans une fusée de 15 centimètres et qu’on n’a pas laissé partir Il y a ma selle exposée à la pluie Il y a les fleuves qui ne remontent pas leurs cours Il y a l’amour qui m’entraîne avec douceur Il y avait un prisonnier boche qui portait sa mitrailleuse sur son dos Il y a des hommes dans le monde qui n’ont jamais eté à la guerre Il y a des Hindous qui regardent avec étonnement les compagnes occidentales Ils pensent avec mélancolie à ceux dont ils se demandent s’ils les reverront Car on a poussé très loin durant cette guerre l’art de l’invisibilité.

Le Chant d’amour Voici de quoi est fait le chant symphonique de l’amour Il y a le chant de l’amour de jadis Le bruit des baisers éperdus des amants illustres Les cris d’amour des mortelles violées par les dieux Les virilités des héros fabuleux érigées comme des pièces contre avions Le hurlement précieux de Jason Le chant mortel du cygne Et l’hymne victorieux que les premiers rayons du soleil ont fait chanter à Memnon l’immobile Il y a le cri des Sabines au moment de l’enlèvement Il y a aussi les cris d’amour des félins dans les jongles La rumeur sourde des sèves montant dans les plantes tropicales Le tonnerre des artilleries qui accomplissent le terrible amour des peuples Les vagues de la mer où naît la vie et la beauté Il y a là le chant de tout l’amour du monde.

Appendix

There is my saddle exposed to the rain There are rivers that never reverse their course There is love that sweetly carries me away There was a Kraut prisonner who carried his machine gun on his back There are men in the world who have never been to war There are Hindus who regard the Western campaigns with astonishment They wonder sadly if they will ever see their friends and relatives again For the art of invisibility has greatly advanced during this war

The Song of Love This is what love’s symphonic hymn comprises There is the love song of by-gone days The sound of famous lovers’ passionate kisses The love cries of mortal women violated by the gods The virilities of fabled heros erect like anti-aircraft guns The precious shouting of Jason The mortal song of the swan And the victorious hymn the first rays of sunlight caused immobile Memnon to sing There is the cry of the Sabine Women as they were carried off There are also the love cries of felines in the jungles The quiet sound of sap rising in tropical plants The thunder of artilleries inflicting the terrible love of nations The waves in the sea where life and beauty are born That is the love song of the whole world

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Chevaux de Frise Pendant le blanc et nocturne novembre Alors que les arbres déchiquetés par l’artillerie Vieillisaient encore sous la neige Et semblaient à peine des chevaux de frise Entourés de vagues de fils de fer Mon coeur renaissait comme un arbre au printemps Un arbre fuitier sur lequel s’épanouissent Les fleurs de l’amour Pendant le blanc et nocturne novembre Tandis que chantaient épouvantablement les obus Et que les fleurs mortes de la terre exhalaient Leurs mortelles odeurs Moi je décrivais tous les jours mon amour à Madeleine La neige met de pâles fleurs sur les arbres Et toisonne d’hermine les chevaux de frise Que l’on voit partout Abandonnés et sinistres Chevaux muets Non chevaux barbes mais barbelés Et je les anime tout soudain En troupeau de jolis chevaux pies Qui vont vers toi comme de blanches vagues Sur la Méditerranée Et t’apportent mon amour. Roselys ô panthère ô colombes étoile bleue O Madeleine Je t’aime avec délices Si je songe à tes yeux je songe aux sources fraîches Si je pense à ta bouche les roses m’apparaissent Si je songe à tes seins le Paraclet descend O double colombe de ta poitrine Et vient délier ma langue de poéte Pour te redire Je t’aime Ton visage est un bouquet de fleurs

Appendix

Barbed-Wire Barricades During the white November nights While the trees cut to pieces by the artillery Were growing older beneath the snow And scarcely resembled barbed-wire barricades Surrounded by waves of iron wire My heart was reborn like a tree in springtime A fruit tree on which Love’s flowers bloom During the white November nights While the shells sang horribly And earth’s dead flowers exhaled Their deadly odors I described my love to Madeleine every day The snow pasted pale flowers on the trees And ermine fleeces on the barbed-wire barricades That you see everywhere Abandoned and sinister Mute horses Not Barbary horses but barbed And I transform them suddenly Into a herd of lovely piebald horses That run toward you like white waves On the Mediterranean And bring you my love Roselily oh panther oh doves blue star Oh Madeleine Filled with delight I love you If I think of your eyes I think of cool springs If I think of your mouth I think of roses If I think of your breasts the Paraclete descends Oh double dove of your breast And comes to loosen my poet’s tongue To repeat I love you Your face is a bouquet of flowers

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Aujourd’hui je te vois non Panthère Mais Toutefleur Et je te respire ô ma Toutefleur Tous les lys montent en toi comme des cantiques d’amour et d’allégresse Et ces chants qui s’envolent vers toi M’emportent à ton côté Dans ton bel Orient où les lys Se changent en palmiers qui de leurs belles mains Me font signe de venir. La fusée s’épanouit fleur nocturne Quand il fait noir Et elle retombe comme une pluie de larmes amoureuses De larmes heureuses que la joie fait couler Et je t’aime comme tu m’aimes Madeleine

Tristesse d’une étoile Une belle Minerve est l’enfant de ma tête Une étoile de sang me couronne à jamais La raison est au fond et le ciel est au faîte Du chef où dès longtemps Déesse tu t’armais C’est pourquoi de mes maux ce n’était pas le pire Ce trou presque mortel et qui s’est étoilé Mais le secret malheur qui nourrit mon délire Est bien plus grand qu’aucune âme ait jamais célé Et je porte avec moi cette ardente souffrance Comme le ver luisant tient son corps enflammé Comme au coeur du soldat il palpite la France Et comme au coeur du lys le pollen parfumé

Appendix

Today I see you not as a Panther But as Allflower And I breathe you oh my Allflower The lilies all rise in you like canticles of love and happiness And those songs flying toward you Take me to your side In your lovely Orient where the lilies Change into palm trees which with their lovely hands Motion to me to come The signal flare blooms nocturnal flower When it is dark And falls to earth like a rain of amorous tears Of happy tears flowing from joy And I love you like you love me Madeleine

The Sadness of a Star A lovely Minerva is the child born from my head A star of blood crowns me forever Reason is down below and heaven is at the top Of my head where for so long Goddess you armed yourself That is why it is not the worst of my troubles This nearly mortal hole transformed into a star But the secret sorrow that nourishes my delirium Is much greater than any soul has ever concealed And I carry this ardent suffering with me Like the glow worm bearing its flaming body Like France throbbing in a soldier‘s heart Like the fragrant pollen in the heart of a lily

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La Victoire Un coq chante je rêve et les feuillards agitent Leurs feuilles qui ressemblent à de pauvres marins Ailés et tournoyants comme Icare le faux Des aveugles gesticulant comme des fourmis Se miraient sous la pluie aux reflets du trottoir Leurs rires amassés en grappes de raisin Ne sors plus de chez moi diamant qui parlais Dors doucement tu es chez toi tout t’appartient Mon lit ma lampe et mon casque troué Regards précieux saphirs taillés aux environs de Saint-Claude Les jours étaient une pure émeraude. Je me souviens de toi ville des météores Ils fleurissaient en l’air pendant ces nuits où rien ne dort Jardins de la lumière où j’ai cueilli des bouquets Tu dois en avoir assez de faire peur à ce ciel Qu’il garde son hoquet On imagine difficilement A quel point le succès rend les gens stupides et tranquilles A l’institut des jeunes aveugles on a demandé N’avez-vous point de jeune aveugle ailé. O bouches l’homme est à la recherche d’un nouveau langage Auquel le grammairien d’aucune langue n’aura rien à dire Et ces vieilles langues sont tellement près de mourir Que c’est vraiment par habitude et manque d’audace Qu’on les fait encore servir à la poésie Mais elles sont comme des malades sans volonté Ma foi les gens s’habitueraient vite au mutisme La mimique suffit bien au cinéma Mais entêtons-nous à parler Remuons la langue

Appendix

Victory A cock crows I am dreaming and the branches shake Their leaves that resemble poor sailors Winged and whirling like Icarus the false Some blind men gesticulating like ants Were gazing at their reflections on the rainy sidewalk Their laughs heaped up in bunches of grapes Don’t leave me again talkative diamond Sleep sweetly you are at home everything belongs to you My bed my lamp and my punctured helmet Precious glances sapphires cut near Saint-Claude The days were a pure emerald I remember you city of meteors They bloomed in the air during those sleepless nights Gardens of light where I picked bouquets You must be tired of frightening the sky Let it keep its hiccups It’s difficult to imagine How stupid and content success makes people At the institute for the blind someone asked “Don’t you have a young blind person with wings” Oh mouths mankind is seeking a new language No grammarian anywhere will be involved And these old languages are so near to dying That it is only from habit and lack of boldness That people still use them for poetry But they resemble listless patients Frankly people would soon adapt to muteness Pantomiming works just fine in the movies But let’s insist on speaking Let’s move our tongues about

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Lançons des postillons On veut des nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons de nouveaux sons On veut des consonnes sans voyelles Des consonnes qui pètent sourdement Imitez le son de la toupie Laissez pétiller un son nasal et continu Faites claquer votre langue Servez-vous du bruit sourd de celui qui mange sans civilité Le raclement aspiré du crachement ferait aussi une belle consonne Les divers pets labiaux rendraient aussi vos discours claironnants Habituez-vous à roter à volonté Et quelle lettre grave comme un son de cloche A travers non mémoires. Nous n’aimons pas assez la joie De voir les belles choses neuves O mon amie hâte-toi Crains qu’un jour un train ne t’émeuve Plus Regarde-le plus vite pour toi Ces chemins de fer qui circulent Sortiront bientôt de la vie Ils seront beaux et ridicules. Deux lampes brûlent devant moi Comme deux femmes qui rient Je courbe tristement la tête Devant l’ardente moquerie Ce rire se répand Partout Parlez avec les mains faites claquer vos doigts Tapez-vous sur la joue comme sur un tambour O paroles Elles suivent dans la myrtaie L’Eros et l’Antéros en larmes Je suis le ciel de la cité.

Ecoutez la mer

La mer gémir au loin et crier toute seule

Appendix

Let’s splutter We want new sounds new sounds new sounds We want consonants without vowels Consonants that burst quietly Imitate the sound of a top Make a prolonged nasal sound that crackles Clack your tongue Make muffled noises like a slob eating The aspirated scrape of spitting would also make a lovely consonant Various labial farts would also emphasize your words Train yourself to belch at will And what letter cuts like the sound of a bell Across our memories We don’t fully love the joy Of seeing beautiful new things Oh my dear make haste Be afraid that one day a train will fail to Move you Look at it faster for your own sake These circulating railroad trains Will soon vanish from our lives They will be beautiful and ridiculous Two lamps are burning before me Like two women who are laughing I sadly bow my head Before that ardent mockery Their laughter spreads Everywhere Speak with your hands click your fingers Tap on your cheek as on a drum O words In the myrtle garden they follow Eros and Anteros in tears I am the city’s sky

Listen to the sea

The sea moaning far away and crying all alone

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Ma vois fidèle comme l’ombre Veut être enfin l’ombre de la vie Veut être ô mer vivante infidèle comme toi La mer qui a trahi des matelots sans nombre Engloutit mes grands cris comme des dieux noyés Et la mer au soleil ne supporte que l’ombre Que jette des oiseaux les ailes éployées La parole est soudaine et c’est un Dieu qui tremble Avance et soutiens-moi je regrette les mains De ceux qui les tendaient et m’adoraient ensemble Quelle oasis de bras m’accueillera demain Connais-tu cette joie de voir des choses neuves O voix je parle le language de la mer Et dans la port la nuit les dernières tavernes Moi qui suis plus têtu que non l’hydre de Lerne. La rue où nagent mes deux mains Aux doigts subtils fouillant la ville S’en va mais qui sait si demain La rue devenait immobile Qui sait où serait mon chemin Songe que les chemins de fer Seront démodées et abandonnées dans peu de temps Regarde La Victoire avant tout sera De bien voir au loin De tout voir De près Et que tout ait un nom nouveau.

Appendix

My voice as faithful as my shadow Wants finally to be the shadow of life Wants to be oh living sea unfaithful like you The sea which has betrayed innumerable sailors Engulfs my loud cries like drowned gods And the sunny sea only supports the shadows Cast by birds with outspread wings The word is sudden and it is a God that trembles Advance and support me I miss the adoring hands Of those who stretched them toward me all together What oasis of arms will welcome me tomorrow Do you know the joy of seeing new things Oh voices I speak the language of the sea And in the harbor at night the last taverns I who am more stubborn than the Hydra of Lerna The street where my two hands are swimming With subtle fingers searching the town Disappears but who knows if tomorrow The street might become immobile Who knows where my path would be Just think railroads Will be old fashioned and abandoned before long Look Victory will be above all To see far into the distance To see everything Close at hand And may everything have a new name

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La Jolie Rousse Me voici devant tous un homme plein de sens Connaissant la vie et de la mort ce qu’un vivant peut connaître Ayant éprouvé les douleurs et les joies de l’amour Ayant su quelquefois imposer ses idées Connaissant plusieurs langages Ayant pas mal voyagé Ayant vu la guerre dans l’Artillerie et l’Infanterie Blessé à la tête trépané sous le chloroforme Ayant perdu ses meilleurs amis dans l’effroyable lutte Je sais d’ancien et de nouveau autant qu’un homme seul pourrait des deux savoir Et sans m’inquiéter aujourd’hui de cette guerre Entre nous et pour nous mes amis Je juge cette longue querelle de la tradition et de l’invention De l’Ordre et de l’Aventure. Vous dont la bouche est faite à l’image de Dieu Bouche qui est l’ordre même Soyez indulgents quand vous nous comparez A ceux qui furent la perfection de l’ordre Nous qui quêtons partout l’aventure Nous ne sommes pas vos ennemis Nous voulons vous donner de vastes et d’étranges domaines Où le mystère en fleurs s’offre à qui veut le cueillir Il y a là des feux nouveaux des couleurs jamais vues Mille phantasmes impondérables Auxquels il faut donner de la réalité Nous voulons explorer la bonté contrée énorme où tout se tait Il y a aussi le temps qu’on peut chasser ou faire revenir Pitié pour nous qui combattons toujours aux frontières De l’illimité et de l’avenir Pitié pour nos erreurs pitié pour nos péchés. Voici que vient l’été la saison violente Et ma jeunesse est morte ainsi que le printemps O Soleil c’est le temps de la Raison ardente

Appendix

The Pretty Redhead Here I am before you a man full of sense Knowing as much about life and death as a living man can know Having experienced the pains and the joys of love Having sometimes been able to impose my ideas Knowing several languages Having traveled quite a bit Having seen the war in the Artillery and the Infantry Wounded in the head trepanned under chloroform Having lost my best friends in the horrible conflict I know as much about old and new as one person can know And without worrying today about that war Between us and for us my friends I judge the long quarrel between tradition and invention Between Order and Adventure You whose mouth is made in the image of God’s Mouth that is order itself Be indulgent when you compare us To those who were the perfection of order We who search for adventure everywhere We are not your enemies We want to give you vast and strange domains Where mystery in flower awaits those who will pick it There are new fires and colors never seen before A thousand imponderable visions Waiting to become reality We want to explore kindness that enormous silent country There is also time which can be suppressed or evoked Pity us who continually fight on the frontiers Of the unknown and the future Pity our errors pity our sins Here is summer the violent season And my youth is dead like the springtime Oh Sun it is the time of ardent Reason

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Et j’attends Pour la suivre toujours la forme noble et douce Qu’elle prend afin que je l’aime seulement Elle vient et m’attire ainsi qu’un fer l’aimant Elle a l’aspect charmant D’une adorable rousse Ses cheveux sont d’or on dirait Un bel éclair qui durerait Ou ces flammes qui se pavanent Dans les roses-thé qui se fanent Mais riez riez de moi Hommes de partout surtout gens d’ici Car il y a tant de choses que je n’ose vous dire Tant de choses que vous ne me laisseriez pas dire Ayez pitié de moi.

Appendix

And I am waiting To follow forever the noble and gentle form She assumes so I will love only her She arrives and draws me to her as a magnet does iron She has the charming appearance Of an adorable redhead Her hair is made of gold one would say A lovely lasting lightning flash Or those flames that erupt In the fading tea roses But laugh laugh at me People everywhere and especially those from here For there are so many things I don’t dare tell you So many things you would not let me say Take pity on me

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Index Achilles, 161 Adéma, Pierre-Marcel, 147 Aeacus, 175 Alcools, 3, 5, 6, 7, 14–15, 142, 163, 173, 174, 196 Aldama, Juan, 101 Alexandre, Didier, 163 Alighieri, Dante, 78, 160 Anteros, 183 Antoinette, Marie, 132 Aphrodite, 162, 182 Aragon, Louis, 23, 143, 193 Arbouin, Gabriel, 97 “Arbre,” 36–50, 51, 64, 206–9 Argus, 127, 132 Ariadne, 45, 64, 75, 77, 78 Aristophanes, 76 Athena, 168, 177, 191 “A travers l’Europe,” 29, 50–6, 210–211 “Avènement des fumées,” 109 Barthes, Roland, 120n32 Barzun, Henri-Martin, 103 Bates, Scott, 33, 41–2, 45, 51, 52, 56, 58n43, 75, 93, 98, 129–30, 170–1 189 Baudelaire, Charles, 7, 82, 88, 169 Baudier, Paul, 79 Beatrice, 160 Beelzebub, 74, 78 Bergman Pär, 17, 22 Bibesco, Princess Marthe, 42 Billy, André, 13, 19, 35, 80 Boisson, Madeleine, 17, 22, 29–32, 51–2, 54, 56, 80–8, 84–5, 127, 169, 170 Bosch, Hieronymus, 176 Boschetti, Anna, 37–8, 96, 98, 107, 157, 181 Boucher, Alfred, 52 Boutet, Fréderic, 37, 39, 45 Braque, Georges, 30, 98

Breton, André, 61, 79, 132, 134 Breunig, LeRoy C., 31 Briolet, Daniel, 143, 144, 147 Burgos, Jean, 178 Butor, Michel, 6, 98–9 Brunel, Pierre, 17 Caizergues, Pierre, 65 Cameron, John Wesley, 18, 19, 20 Campa, Laurence, 134–6 Cangiullo, Francesco, 96 Canudo, Ricciotto, 50, 53 “Carte postale,” 110 Case d’armons, 110, 125 Cazottes, Jacques, 54 Cendrars, Blaise, 38–9, 40, 41, 42, 44, 45–6, 48, 50 Chagall, Marc, 44, 50–6 “Chant de l’horizon en Champagne,” 156 “Chef de pièce,” 139 Chevalier, Jean-Claude, 106, 146–7 “Chevaux de Frise,” 162–7, 173, 187 Chirico, Giorgio de, 75, 142, 147 Christ, Jesus, 169 Clark, J. G., 17, 20, 21 Claudel, Paul, 188 Claudius, 131 Cocteau, Jean, 168 “Coeur couronne et miroir,” 107 Coligny-Châtillon, Louise, 108–9, 125, 128, 124, 130, 132, 136–7, 144, 146, 153, 160, 170, 195 Columbus, Christopher, 189 conversation poetry, 14, 29–36, 37 Couffignal, Robert, 166 Correggio, 98 “Cors de chasse,’ 72 Cortège d’Orphée, 74 Couffignal, Robert, 44 Cubist poetry, 5, 7–23, 29–37, 38–56, 61–79, 93–106, 159–67, 176–92

Index D..., M., 53 Daedalus, 184 Dame-Abonde, 47–8 “Dans l’abri-caverne,” 137–41, 196 Danton, Georges Jacques, 80 Davies, Margaret, and “Arbre,” 38; “Chevaux de Frise,” 163; “Il y a,” 155; “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 135; “La Jolie Rousse,” 190; “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 110, 112–13, 117; “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124; “La Victoire,” 186; “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,”62, 67; “Les Fenêtres,” 14; “Lettre-Océan,” 96, 102; “Liens,” 11; “Lundi rue Christine,” 30–1; “Tristesse d’une étoile,” 170; “Un Fantôme de nuées,” 85; “Vitam Impendere Amori,” 90n24 Debon, Claude, 5, and “A travers l’Europe,” 50–1; “Arbre,” 38, 41, 46, 48, 49; “Chevaux de Frise,” 163, 167; “Dans l’abri-caverne,” 137; “Il y a,” 155, 157, 158; “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 136; “La Jolie Rousse,” 189; “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 116; “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 127, 130, 132; “La Victoire,” 174, 178–9, 180, 181, 184, 186; “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” 61; “Les Fenêtres,” 13, 14; “Liens,” 7, 8, 10; “Lundi rue Christine,” 31–4, 36; “Océan de terre,” 143, 144, 147; “Un Fantôme de nuées,” 80, 82, 85, 88 Décaudin, Michel, 5, 14, 47, 62, 124, 144, 146, 169, 170, 186, 195 Delaunay, Robert, 11–23, 83, 106 Delbreil, Daniel, 97, 105 Delcourt, Maurice, 53 Denis, Maurice, 53 Dickow, Alexandre, 37–9, 41–6, 48 Dininman, Françoise, 97, 105 Dionysos, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 160 Dostoievski, Feodor, 45 Douanier Rousseau, 44–5, 115 Duchamp, Marcel, 30 Duhamel, Georges, 53

257

Dulaure, J. A., 73, 76 Duneton, Claude, 53 Durry, Marie-Jeanne, 134 Dutton, K. R., 14 Dyssord, Jacques, 30, 34–6, 103 Eglantine, Fabre, d’, 132 Eiffel, Gustave, 52 Eluard, Paul, 173 Empedocles, 20, 78 Erigone, 56 Eros, 78, 183 Et moi aussi je suis peintre, 98 Euripedes, 75 Eurydice, 41, 74 experimental poetry, 6, 7–23, 29–56, 61–79, 93–118 Fagus, Félicien, 107–8 Faure-Favier, Louise de, 133 Fongaro, Antoine, 67, 72, 81, 86, 88, 103, 113, 197n2 Fort, Paul, 7 Freud, Sigmund, 77, 146, 161 Gauthier-Villars, Henry, 50 Geinoz, Philippe, 51, 53–4, 56 Go ldenstein, Jean-Pierre, 100–1, 103, 104, 110 Grammont, Maurice, 4 Greet, Anne Hyde, and “A travers l’Europe,” 51, 56; “Arbre,” 41, 46, 47, 49, 50; “Chevaux de Frise,” 163, 165; “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 134–6; “La Jolie Rousse,” 192; “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 117; “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124, 128, 129, 130; “La Victoire,” 176, 178, 179, 180, 184, 185; “Le Chant d’amour,” 160, 161; “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” 62; “Les Fenêtres,” 11, 13, 16, 17, 19, 22; “Lettre-Océan,” 105; “Liens,” 8, 11; “Lundi rue Christine,” 32; “Océan de terre,” 144, 146, 147; “Tristesse d’une étoile,” 168, 169, 170; “Un Fantôme de nuées,” 83, 85, 87

258 Harrow, Susan, 5, 6, 32, 33, 44, 67, 87, 139–41, 181, 188 Hartley, Anthony, 134 Hera, 79, 88 Herodotus, 76 Hermes, 74 Homer, 184 Homeric Hymns, 75 Hubert, Etienne-Alain, 51, 52, 53 Hubert, Reneé Riese, 153, 158, 167 Huerta, Victoriano, 101, 104 Hugo, Victor, 168 Hydre de Lerne, 184 Icarios, 54, 56 Icarus, 52, 106, 176, 184, 185 “Il pleut,” 9 Ixion, 79–80, 86, 88, 106 “Il y a,” 153–8, 160 Jacaret, Gilberte, 136–7, 146, 154, 162 Jacquot, Clémence, 42 Jason, 160–1 Jongeneel, Els, 123–4 Jupiter, 168 Kahn, Gustave, 195 Kaiser Wlhelm, 131 Kay, W. Blandford, 20 Keats, John, 114 Kolb, Jacqueline, 169, 177, 178, 182, 186, 187, 190, 191 Kostrowitzky, Albert de, 49, 100–2, 105, 157 L’Antitradition futuriste, 96 “La Chanson du mal-aimé,” 10, 49, 56, 63, 173 “La Clef,” 52–3, 54, 56, 103 “La Cravate et le montre,” 107 “L’adieu du cavalier,” 132–7, 196 “La figue l’oeillet et la pipe à opium,” 114, 116 Laforgue, Jules, 195 “La Jolie Rousse,” 114, 187–192 “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou,” 107–18

Index “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124–32, 133 “La Traversée,” 155 “La Tzigane,” 21 Laura, 160 Laurencin, Marie, 46, 48–9, 56, 71, 78, 115, 130, 132–3 Lautréamont, Comte de, 195 “La Victoire,” 173–86, 187, 196 Le Bestiaire, 114 “Le Chant d’amour,” 159–72, 196 “Le Chat, 114 Leda, 161 “L’Emigrant de Landor Road,” 38–9 Le Médaillon toujours fermé, 133 “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” 29, 61–79, 81, 83, 196 Le Poète assassiné, 46, 71 “Le Poulpe,” 147 “Le Roy, Eugène, 103 “Les Fenêtres,” 8, 11–23, 37, 51, 83, 96, 104, 154, 196 “Les Fiançailles,” 46 Les Peintres cubistes, 10, 30, 83, 86, 106, 133 “L’Esprit nouveau et les poètes,” 181, 186 “Les Collines,” 186 “Les Soupirs du servant de Dakar,” 158 “Lettre-Océan,” 93–106, 107, 187 Levaillant, Jean, 106 “Le Voyageur,” 54 “Liens,” 7–11, 118, 187 life in the artillery, 1–2, 123–58, 162–7 life in the infantry, 1–2, 123, 124 Linkhorn, Renée, 12, 18–19, 20–1 Lockerbie, S. I., 8, 25n48 and “A travers l’Europe,” 51; “Arbre,” 38, 41, 46, 47, 49, 50; “Chevaux de Frise,” 163, 165; “Dans l’abri-caverne,” 137; “L’Adieu du cavalier,” 134–6; “La Jolie Rousse,” 192; “La Mandoline l’oeillet et le bambou, 114, 117; “La Nuit d’avril 1915,” 124, 128, 129, 130; “La Victoire,” 176, 178, 179, 180, 184, 185; “Le Chant d’amour,” 160, 161–2; “Le Musicien de SaintMerry,” 62; “Les Fenêtres,” 13, 14, 16, 17, 19, 22; “Lettre-Océan,”

Index 105, 107; “Liens,” 11; “Lundi rue Christine,” 32; “Océan de terre,” 142, 146, 147; “Tristesse d’une étoile,” 168, 169, 170; “Un Fantôme de nuées,” 83, 85, 87 Longré, Georges, 112–13 love, 1, 129–30, 137, 138, 140–1, 153–4 “Lul de Faltenin,” 175–6 “Lundi rue Christine,” 14, 19, 29–36, 37, 38, 96, 103, 134–5, 163, 178, 196 “Madeleine,” 110 Madsen, Peter, 35 Maera, 56 Magritte, René, 20 Mallarmé, Stéphane, 14, 32, 99, 118 Marinetti, Filippo Tomaso, 14, 96, 107, 179 Martineau, Henri, 61, 142 Mary Magdalene, 73, 78 Mathews, Timothy, 8, 13, 36, 49, 63, 105, 155 Maupassant, Guy de, 43 Mauron, Charles, 106 Memnon, 161 Millet, Jean-François, 72 “1909,” 18 “1915,” 110 Minerva, 168–9, 177–8, 191 Minotaur, 45, 75 Mollet, Jean, 64–5 Mondor, Henri, 80 Moore, Catherine, 26n54, 22, 23 Moulin, Jeanine, 188 Mounette-Diaz, 109, 115 Müller, Max, 191 Musset, Alfred de, 128 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 75 Noah, 10 “Océan de terre,” 141–8, 196 “Ondes,” 6 Orpheus, 74, 186 Pagès, Madeleine, 6, 13, 137–41, 144, 153, 155–6, 157, 159, 162–7, 170 Pan, 74–5

259

Panado, M., 53 Panard, Charles-François, 107–8 Papini, Giovanni, 33 “Paysage,” 107 “Paysage animé,” 107 Paz, Octavio, 61 Peleas, 161 Pentheus, 75 Petrarch, 160 Picasso, Pablo, 9–10, 30, 50, 62, 83, 84–5, 87, 93, 98 Pied Piper of Hamelin, 72–3, 75, 77 Playden, Annie, 47, 71, 130 “Poème lu au mariage d’André Salmon,” 78, 138 poems about artists, 11–23, 50–6 Pope Pius X, 103 Por, Peter, 186 Poupon, Marc, 8, 39, 48, 64, 69, 71, 73, 77 Priapus, 160 Prince Mychkin, 45 Psalms, 163, 166 Rabanus Maurus, 38 Rabelais, François, 107–8 Raphael, 98 Read, Peter, 79, 133, 146, 173, 175–6, 184, 186 Rees, Garnet, 7 Reid, Thomas Mayne, 21 Renaud, Philippe, 11, 90n24 and “Arbre,” 37–8, 40–1, 46, 49–50; “Chevaux de Frise,” 163, 165, 167; “Dans l’abricaverne,” 143; “La Jolie Rousse,” 187–8, 191, 192; “La Victoire,” 174, 179, 182, 184; “Le Musicien de Saint-Merry,” 66, 70, 74; “Lettre-Océan,” 96, 105; “Lundi rue Christine,” 30, 31, 35; “Océan de terre,” 143; “Un Fantôme des nuées,” 85–6 Reverdy, Pierre, 173 Richepin, Jean, 29 Richter, Mario, 7, 8, 10, 86, 127, 176 Rimbaud, Arthur, 24n11, 153, 195 Rinsler, Norma, 123 “Rotsoge,” 50, 51 Rouault, Georges, 14

260 Rowland, Michael L., 16 Roy, Pierre, 103 Sacks-Galey, Penelope, 105, 113, 114, 117 Saint-Léger Lucas, Anna, 22, 23, 26n54, Sartre, Jean-Paul, 75 Savinio, Alberto, 75 Schmits, Georges, 98, 100, 103 Schwartz, Paul Waldo, 191 Shattuck, Roger, 162, 164, 167 Sidra, 189 Siégler-Pascal, Henri, 198 simultaneous poetry, 11–23, 129–56, 61–79, 93–106, 153–67, 176–92 “Simultanisme-Librettisme,” 37, 98–9, 102, 103 Soffici, Ardengo, 33 Soupault, Philippe, 133 Stravinsky, Igor, 93 Suetonius, 131 Suger, Abbé, 69 The Kalevala, 41 Theseus, 75 “The Song of Solomon,” 166 “The Song of Songs,” 166–7 “Tour,” 106

Index Tournadre, Claude, see Debon, Claude Toussaint-Luca, Ange, 104 “Tristesse d’une étoile,” 167–71, 177, 191 Tzara, Tristan, 179 Ulysses, 131, 132 “Un Fantôme de nuées,” 61, 79–88, 196 Valéry, Paul, 4 “Venu de Dieuze,” 110, 163 Venus, 162 Verlaine, Paul, 132 Vialotte, Alexandre, 53 Villatte, Césaire, 45 Villon, François, 41, 64, 65, 71, 160 visual poetry, 6, 93–118 “Vitam Impendere Amori,” 90n24 “Voyage,” 72, 74, 107 Waggaman, Beatrice, 16 war poetry, 6, 123–48, 153–71 Warren, Rosanna, 16 Whitman, Walt, 22, 89n10 Willy, 50 Zeus, 79–80, 161, 168 “Zone,” 7, 12, 39, 40, 96, 97 Zurowski, Maciej, 13, 16, 22, 133