The Poet's Princess

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A breach of style à La Rochefoucauld

Apropos of my two protagonists one can hardly speak of true love. The Princess loves to be adored. The Poet mirrors himself in his love. Looking for their own image, they find themselves one in the other. I advise you not to get enmeshed in the analysis of their feelings. They will always evade you. Words, their faithful allies, will not betray them.

In case you would surprise the Poet down on his knees, in voluble adoration before the Princess, do not feel obliged to draw back discretely. Stop a few steps away from their courting and marvel. This love thrives on public display.

The garden is built in the classical French style. The well-trimmed lawns, edged with cruelly disciplined trees, are dressed up according to the slopes and terraces, bordered with flower-beds covered with plants in well-matched colours. Whispering fountains in the centre of roundabouts, dainty marble statues of mischievous sylphs and graceful goddesses, are artfully scattered about the greenery. At the bottom of the garden, a fanciful maze pays careful attention not to make you lost. All that artistry incites you to take refuge in your ivory tower or, at least, poise and take a rest.

I invite you to settle in the red plush box, my grandmother and I lovingly shared in the days past. The leading part in this lyric drama is assigned to love: glamorous dispassionate love which dissects sentiments and live on tasteful deceit.

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