Tariq Ali - The Stone Woman

The Baron was in a mellow mood, but without permitting it to dull his competitive edge. “Why don’t you recite your favourite poem from Verlaine and let me see if I can match it with one from my favourite poet?”

Salman put the book down on the table.

“This one is called ‘Mon rêve familier’ from his Poèmes saturniens and I translated it myself though, like all poetry, it is best in its own language. Here then is Verlaine’s ‘Well-Known Dream’:

Often have I this strange and penetrating dream

Of a woman unknown, loved and loving me,

And who each time is neither quite the same

Nor yet another, and loves and understands.

For she understands me, and my heart, transparent

For her alone, alas, is a problem no more

For her alone, and the fevers of my pale brow,

She alone, weeping, knows how to cool.

Is she dark, fair or auburn? — I know not.

Her name? I remember it is soft and clear

Like those of loved ones banished by life.

Her gaze is like the gaze of statues,

And her voice, distant, and calm, and grave,

Has the inflexion of dear silenced voices.

There was a silence. Halil looked at his brother affectionately. Perhaps Verlaine had struck a few chords in the breast of my general-brother. The effect could only be positive. Salman smiled at the Baron.

“Match that if you can, Baron.”

The Baron rose and walked to the shelf containing Latin and Italian poetry, one of the most under-used collections in our library. He climbed up the tiny wooden platform and, having immediately found what he was looking for, gave a little triumphant grunt to himself as he stepped down.

“It gets a bit dusty up there, especially when it isn’t used much. None of you, apart from Memed and Salman, have even understood these languages. Well I, for one, will not read a translation. That would be a travesty and there is not yet a good one in German or French. It is the terza rima that baffles them all. It is Canto V of the Commedia , when our poet meets the lovers Francesca and Paolo in the Second Circle of Hell. Listen closely, Salman, and tell me honestly if the silken verses of your beloved Verlaine can match this gem from the Florentine Renaissance:

Quand’ io intesi quell’ anime offense,

china ’il viso, e tanto il tenni basso,

fin che ’l poeta mi disse: “Che pense?”

Quando rispuosi, cominciai: “Oh lasso

Quanti dolci pensier, quanto disio

menò costoro al doloroso passo!”

Poi mi rivolsi a loro e parla’ io,

E cominciai: “Francesca, i tuoi martiri

A lagrimar mi fanno tristo e pio.

Ma dimmi: al tempo d’i dolci sospiri

a che e come concedetti amore

che conosceste i dubbiosi disiri?”

E quella a me: “Nessun maggior dolore

Che ricordarsi del tempo felice

Ne la miseria; e ciò sa ’l tuo dottore.

Ma s’a conoscer la prima radice

Del nostro amor tu hai cotanto affetto,

Dirò come colui che piange e dice.

Noi leggiavamo un giorno per diletto

Di Lancialotto come amor lo strinse;

Soli eravamo e sanza alcun sospetto.

Per più fïate liocchi ci sospinse

quella lettura, e scolorocci il viso;

ma solo un punto fu quel che ci vinse.

Quando leggemmo il disïato riso

Esser basciato da cotanto amante,

Questi, che mai da me non fia diviso,

La bocca mi basciò tutto tremante.

Galeotto fu ’l libro e chi lo scrisse:

quel giorno più non vi leggemmo avante.”

Mentre che l’uno spirto questo disse,

l’altro piangëa; sì che di pietade

io venni men così com’ io morisse.

E caddi come corpo mono cade. *

The Baron’s histrionic performance had exhausted him and he fell back in his chair, his hand groping for the non-existent glass of champagne. Since I could not understand a word I had looked at the faces of those who could, and while Salman had remained attentive, Uncle Memed’s features were filled with tenderness throughout the performance. He spoke to his friend in a soft voice.

“I first read that passage to you, Jakob. Remember? Venezia?” It was the first time anyone in our household had spoken the Baron’s name.

The Baron had recovered himself. He never liked displays of public affection and ignored Uncle Memed’s question.

“Well, Salman?”

My brother looked at the Prussian with a raised eyebrow.

“Dear Baron, surely you will agree that it would be impertinent for either of us to compare these two poets. Each wrote in his own time and, as a result, each has his own special qualities. Would you compare Machiavelli to Hegel?”

“Ridiculous idea.”

“Exactly. It serves no function. Likewise Dante and Verlaine.”

“I disagree.” The Baron was beginning to show signs of irritation. “The Florentine was a genius. The Frenchman was a poet of a high quality.”

Salman was now getting annoyed. He shrugged his shoulders, but remained silent. We were beginning to wonder whether the discussion was over when Salman spoke.

“One thing puzzles me Baron. I am familiar with the extract you read from Canto V. What always puzzled me was why Dante had to spoil the effect of the passage in which the depth of emotion is truly profound by insisting that the book they were reading was the story of Lancelot, a legend which usually appeals to the soft-headed. Do you think this was deliberate on this poet’s part? A way of warning the reader, perhaps, that love can make one undiscriminating?”

The Baron was livid. “The question you pose is so profound that I will think it over tonight and give you a reply tomorrow.”

Salman and I began to giggle and my father intervened.

“That is enough poetry for one day. Orhan asked me a question today for which I had no answer. I told him to ask Selim and Halil to their faces. Come here, Orhan.”

Orhan moved to where Iskander Pasha was seated.

“I asked Grandfather: when the Sultan is gone and my Uncle Halil and Selim and the men who visited our house take over the Empire, will the ruffians who killed my father be punished?”

Selim covered his face with his hands. Halil looked pensive and simply nodded at the question. Salman was the one who replied.

“Both of them would like to say ‘yes’ to you, Orhan, because they love you dearly, but because they love you they do not wish to lie. Some of the men who killed your father because he was Greek are the people who want to topple the Sultan. So the answer is ‘no’, Orhan. They will probably never be punished.”

Orhan’s eyes filled with tears and Emineh looked out of the window. My parents took them out of the room without another word. Memed, too, rose as if to depart.

“We must make sure everything we need is packed, Baron. We leave early tomorrow morning.”

I had no idea their departure was so imminent. “You are deserting us in our hour of need, Baron.”

“Old empires fall and new ones take their place, Nilofer. You are lucky. You will have friends in both.”

Memed sat down again. “Berlin as the heart of a new Empire, Baron? I don’t think the British, French and Russians are going to permit the birth of this empire.”

“They are not invincible, Memed.”

“We shall see.”

“Let me put it to you another way, Memed. Any power which is strong enough to defeat Germany will one day rule the world.”