...Thus I finished my ode to spring and was not at all unhappy about the way it turned out. There were a few details to touch up, a couple rough lines in the antistrophe, but that could all be done later. I had to think now of how I could use it in my hero’s tale. How could it be sung in such an opera with so many sweeping laments? I knew it would have to be while my hero is wasting away on a far-flung island. He’ll be given a reminiscence of youth and springtime grandeur. There, he will set out on discovery and return to sing his findings. Perhaps at the end, he laments the passage of time. Better clarify...
Beneath the tree, in the grass, I picked up once again my childish chalk with the aim to write, paused a moment . . . then feeling a fresh dose of April air, I sighed and set the pen down again and peered at the sun coming through the branches overhead. It was a sacred day! No, let it not pass . . . but if it must pass, let me wander again to prolong the joy, if I only could…
All this while inspiring and expiring, a rustle in the grass could be heard to my side. I looked over then and noticed a new girl was sitting not far off on a little torn blanket. I looked away and then again. She was dusting crumbs from her lap. Her lip was full and drooping. At her solitary picnic, she sat deflated in grief. I squinted to see closer . . . Aye!, she was a lady, sweet in years; young yes, but no mere girl . . . “Young lady!” I called over, “Why are you pouting?"
The girl turned to me but said nothing.
“Why are you pouting,” I repeated myself, “for is it not just now the coming of spring? And besides, you are past the age of pouting!”
“We are never past the age of pouting!” she called back to me.
“Dear girl!” I cried, and with this I stood up and went to charm her. Rather, to enchant her into feeling a bit of joy on this singular day. Did she want to read my ode to spring? No? Well, we could walk together…
This, I suggested. One could find easily a pleasant terrace nearby. We’d need only to pass through the gates. Was she coming?
I took her hand, held it a moment, then let it drop. Her face fell like the shadows on the poplar trees when a cool cloud passes beneath the generous sun. The day was still young in years and growing warmer. I had more exploring to do, alone on my own.
Whereat the sun sat in its zenith, I wanted to call to it from a solitary place. There and only then could I truly finish my ode to spring. Besides, although this girl was sweet: tender of face, with youthful breasts, excellent in their form; her countenance was rather fallen and grim for such a grandiose season; and I knew from the pallor of her thighs and the tint in her eyes, that while we might know passion, we would not know the kind of youthful love as is fitting for spring. Thus I let her go…
And wander far, my dear! . . . With words such as these, I found myself turned away and passing on my own beneath the stones of the great rotunda.
Out on the boulevard, I walked again as absorbent as ever. I was fully aware that the sun was soaking into my blood stream at a pace that no human had ever before experienced. Only an accidental meeting with someone I knew could pull me out of this blissful state. Just then, it happened! I tramping down the Boulevard de Courcelles, happily alone, when I heard the voice of familiar fawn pass over my shoulder…
“Well if it isn’t Monsieur de Quincy!” At first these words meant nothing to me. I kept at my pace.
“Frederic!” the high-pitched voice called again. Some female, it seemed, had spotted me, and was addressing me by one of my more seldom-used identities. I turned to see who it was…
“Good girl!” I cried, “I thought you were in Berlin!” It was sweet Katell. She was holding a silver makeup case and a tiny purse.
“I forgot something!” she laughed. She looked fresh. Her eyes were brushed with yellow powder like the legs of a summer bee. I kissed her. “Will you walk with me?” she asked.
I nodded and lent my arm and the two of us began to walk towards Clichy.
“I just have to get a couple things from an apartment up here,” she said after were well on our way down the Boulevard Malesherbes, “Did you get my postcard?” she asked.
I told her I did.
“What are you doing in the eighth?” she asked me while we walked along.
“I was in the seventeenth a minute ago. You led me over here.”
“Oh! So I did!”
“I was in the park, writing and thinking. When are you going back to Berlin?”
“Tonight,” she said. And did I want to come?
“Good girl, no! You know I never leave Paris.”
“But you just sent me a card from the Alps!”
“Did I really?” I was surprised. “Well,” I said, “Maybe it is so, but I only leave Paris when I’m dragged away without my knowing.”
“Tu dis n’importe quoi!” she laughed, “Let’s take a drink here…”
The two of us sat at a terrace at the Place Saint-Augustin, in full sunshine. I ordered drinks and Katell ran off to get some things from an apartment nearby. I closed my eyes and felt the sun warm my eyelids; and, with joy in my heart, I thought of the work I would undertake that evening. My hero’s tale was abloom in my head. I knew exactly where the warrior was. He was prospering fine.
Katell came back a moment later and stood before me holding a papier-mâché parrot, traveling bag, and a silver bracelet. “Do you need some métro tickets,” she asked me. “I have some.”
“No thanks. I prefer to walk in the spring.”
“Do you know what this is?” she asked, pulling a burnished metal stick from her bag. She held it up.
“A strigil?”
“How did you know?”
She sat down beside me and we both pulled off the cool lotus-seed wine from tall glasses. Katell showed me the strigil and told me the story of how she had wandered away from Rome. She found herself in a strange little city where the people spoke no language at all, but only made sounds, like… bar-bar-bar! She tried to find out what kind of people they were, but no one understood her when she greeted them in the many languages she knew. “Barbarians!” she’d exclaimed.
...It was while she was walking down a dusty street of cracked clay, that she came upon a dark little doorway. She peered inside and saw there were some women inside, dressed in muslin sheets. ‘At least women,’ she thought, ‘here I may be safe to sit until I figure out where I am!’
She sat down beside me and we both pulled off the cool lotus-seed wine from tall glasses. Katell explained her strigil, telling me the story of how she had wandered away from Rome. She found herself in a strange neighboring city where the people spoke no language at all, but only made sounds, like: bar-bar-bar! She tried to find out what kind of people they were, but no one could understand her when she greeted them in the many languages she knew. It was while she was walking down a dusty street fashioned of cracked clay, that she came upon a dark little doorway. She peered inside and saw there were some women inside, dressed in muslin sheets. ‘At least they are women,’ she thought, ‘Here I may be safe to sit until I figure out where I am!’
It was here in this room that an old woman with sun-baked skin tried to wheedle her Italian money from her. Katell gladly gave one coin, but that was all. The woman led her into a dry room that was hot. Chars were glowing in a crude furnace. Sweet Katell was asked to lie down, which she did; and the woman proceeded to instruct her on some useful thigh exercises. With the heat and the exertion, Katell sweated a great deal; and when she was done, a robust old hag came in to dust her skin with purple spices.
I listened and had a good smile imagining young Katell all dusted with purple spices on her bare breasts, tiny buttocks and soft calves, all colored in sweat. “But it was really grimy!” she said, and told me how she was caked in mud and spice and sweat and dirt and all kinds of filth, and standing naked in this dark hot room, the two old women began to scrape the grim off her with these strigil tools. They scraped her off and flung the grime on the walls, to where it stuck and fastened like plaster; and then she felt cool and clean and light as they began to dust her with cold water and white powder. Following this exercise, Katell was dressed in a robe and was led to a bright open courtyard where she was offered a place to lie and dry in the sun. The women made up her face, dusted her eyes with color: lemon yellow, as she requested. The queenly Katell, upon leaving their care, had the audacity to ask to keep a strigil tool for her future travels. The old hag handed it over and young Katell skipped away fresh and beautiful. She found Rome later without any trouble.
“And how do you like living in Berlin?” I asked her.
“I’m moving to Turkey next week.”
“Of course you are.”
“Really though! I was just at the Turkish embassy for my visa before I ran into you. That’s the main reason why I’m in Paris.” She said all this holding out her proud and long-traveled passport for display.
“Why Turkey of all places? Is it that you want to go find the sacred citadel of Troy?”
“How did you know?”
“Clever girl,” I laughed. We smiled and we drank and felt the cool lotus-seed wine softening our spirits. I kissed her and she squeezed my hand and asked if I would consent to leave Paris to visit her in Turkey, and this time I said, “Perhaps.”
“We have a house in the desert there."
“Who is we?”
“My friend Julie, me, and her aunt.”
An aunt, I considered, and slowly my thoughts drifted away. An aunt in the sand and heroic thoughts of the far-tossed Turkish desert made me forget for a moment this idyllic vernal day…
“What are you doing later?” Katell put forth suddenly to interrupt my thoughts.
“Laboring through the day,” I said idly, “Laboring in the spring.” Then, “Wait! Katell! Just a moment!” I had an idea. I left the terrace and ran into the café and over to the zinc of the bar to ask for a slip of paper, since the one sheet of paper I’d left the house with was covered, every speck, in the ink scrawls of my Ode to Spring. The barman furnished me with a clean sheet and I took my pen from my happy pocket and immediately began to write these lines…

Not to waste the spring
I threw down everything,
And ran into the open world
To sing what I could sing…
To dance what I could dance!
And join with everyone!
I wandered with a reckless heart
beneath the newborn sun.

I then paused and wrote…

Not to waste the spring
I ceased my laboring,
and ran out in the open world
to join with everything!
To dance what I could dance!
To sing what could be sung!
I wandered in an open door
wherever there was one.

I set down the pen and examined what I had written. ‘This!’ thought I, ‘This is more correct! . . . Not, I ran out in the open world to sing what I could sing . . . No, not that! Saying this would mean I am performing, when actually what I wanted to express was that I was a spectator . . . I ran out in the open world to join with everything!’
I smiled to myself and took another look over what I had written at first, beneath that tree in the park. ‘Wait!’ I thought, taking a closer inspection. A vague feeling that something was awry crept over me. ‘Indeed,’ I thought, ‘Ceased my laboring is closer in meaning than threw down everything, for I didn’t really throw down everything – I just ended my indoor labors. Yes, threw down everything was not quite accurate in meaning. Accurate, no, but closer in feeling! Do you see what you’ve done, my good poet? Ceased my laboring is too dry to express the feeling of leaping outside to experience the holiness of spring. There’s that and also...
...But wait! The second version is better. I ran out to join with everything. Not just to sing what I could sing. Singing is an exhalation. I went out to inhale as well as to exhale . . . to inspire and expire. Singing expires audibly but only silently inspires. My inspirations were greater at that moment that what I exhaled.’ With these thoughts, a feeling of defeat began to seep in. ‘No,’ I thought, ‘The first version was better after all! Wait! Perhaps, I threw down everything, to join with everything.’ I paused. ‘Throw down everything to join with everything…? Utter nonsense!’
“Complete nonsense!” I exclaimed aloud, crumpling up the paper, rapping my fingers on the bar, “It was better the first time!” And with a fallen heart, I left the zinc of the bar and returned to the terrace to reclaim sweet Katell. She was busily sitting out there unpacking and repacking her traveling bag.
"What did you find?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I replied, “absolutely nothing.”
Katell then began to talk and tell me a story, and while she was busy talking, a last idea occurred to me…
‘This… I wandered in an open door, wherever there was one. This is gorgeous! I must keep these lines. But wherever there was one must be preceded by sing what could be sung. But if I throw down everything as was decided, I have to go into the open world to sing what I could sing. As I can’t very well throw down everything to join with everything – that is nonsense! But I sing what I could sing up there, I can’t sing what could be sung, later on . . . thus, I wandered through an open door wherever there was one must be proceeded by to dance what I could dance, beneath the newborn sun . . . That’s it!’ ‘…To Dance what I could dance! / beneath the newborn sun! / I wandered through an open door wherever there was one.’ A short-lasted feeling of triumph surged my breast. I realised then I’d not found the key. ‘Nonsense, again! If I was happy beneath a newborn sun, why on earth would I wander into doorways? What is beyond doorways besides shade? Good poet, you are losing the sense!’ Was it the wine that was making me lose my skillful thoughts? I yearned at this moment to be back alone at the desk where worked I with goodly ink, bearing no trace of wine in my brain; only then could I resume my admirable task.
‘Leave me now to return to the world and the moment and forsake any modifications to that which was perfect to begin with!’
…So thinking, I left off thinking and returned my ear to sweet Katell…
“…And he had the nerve to put it on my plate!” she roared with laughter, “Can you believe it?! . . . Everywhere in Africa where I went, there were peppers stuffed in the goat meat, and the meat itself was covered in hair. As if they didn’t pluck it! Can you imagine?!”
No, I couldn’t, but it sounded interesting what fair Katell was saying. I was sorry I’d missed the beginning.
Shade cast itself over the Place Saint-Augustin as a swift cloud o’er took the sun, and coolness fell on the brow of the powerful iron Jeanne d’Arc on her leaping bronze steed. I looked to the cool sky and missed the warmth that perhaps I’d only imagined. I looked at my watch. It was the eighteenth hour, that roguish hour that seems to steal earlier, fresher hours with almost imperceptible stealth. What have I missed?, I wondered, and turning to Katell I asked her…
“Good girl, what are you going to do before you leave tonight?”
“I have to take a coffee with a girlfriend in the fifth.”
“Sure,” I said, “well I will be off, I have much work to undertake.” And so I left it, kissing Katell and wishing her well until the next time we would see each other. I flew off, off towards the Madeleine, my head spinning about my shoulders as I tried to spot the sun.
“Not only is it behind a cloud, but it is behind the buildings as well!” I cried, feeling as though I’d missed something of the coming of spring . . . as though when the sun had shone in the day my eyes were not as open as wide as they could have been to receive its light . . . as though my body did not receive the sun's heat to its fullest potential. Had I missed something? Or was that it? That couldn’t have been it! For the first time I felt spring had come and set in without the rush. It had rained in the weeks before, petrichor had scented the air, but I hadn’t felt the delights of spring. Then I thought it was just a matter of the sun. Today it shone vibrantly, I sought it fervently, I felt it but I didn’t meet it! I wanted to become like that sun – ancient and ageless.
…All the while my thoughts were rambling on, I was walking on, looking around me I passed a spray of columns – Doric, Ionic, Corinthian. How did I get here? Over there is the Opéra! And here is Place du Pont Neuf! How am I already at the Place du Pont Neuf? I will just cross the Pont Bizarre, and then I will sort things out. At least it is only April. I will have time to work tonight and fathom the comings and goings of spring later on.
It was while I was passing the bouquinistes’ book carts along the river, I felt a draft of strangely warm wind. It was a dry city wind, so arid that it sifted apart the white flowers that had gathered beneath a bouquiniste’s stall. These wind-dried petals flit across the pavement, dusting it like patisserie flour dusts a bakery board. The warm wind passed me and seeped into all around me – sweet plants in the river, garbage on the street, the wood of the rocking boats beneath the crepuscular bridges – and new and old fragrances filled me, reminding me of the past, of ancient cities where I’d walked, of strange countries I’d wandered through, of conversations I’d had with old and newfound friends on ship bows, in unfamiliar houses, on fast traveling trains, and far-flung fields. And I knew the grace of spring was around me, but like a tender untrained maid, like a wild steed one rides on a sandy ocean shore, it had to be listened to and known. And now it was already gone, but I carried with me a single vision on up the rue des Saints-Pères where the café owners were dumping the day's eggshells on the sidewalk: that of the fragrant white petals, floury and soft, dusting the garbage along the edge of the river. I recall that strongly now that night has fallen. Now that we sit on the moonlit terrace with our wine, talking wildly of things to come.