Wordy Eloquence

A scene from Cyrano de Bergerac

At their most eloquent, languages are amongst the most beautiful of creations.

There are many examples, surely, and amongst the gems would undoubtedly be Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac in its many interpretations. (Steve Martin’s Roxanne might be the odd one out, though, but that’s only my opinion.)

I saw the 1990 movie version by Jean-Paul Rappeneau and starring Gérard Depardieu and Anne Brochet, and it left an indelible mark in me as to how something so utterly unintelligible can yet be so beautiful.

The movie was entirely in French and since the only words I know are Merci, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, I had to depend on the English subtitles throughout the two hour and 15 minutes' duration.

In truth, it mattered little, as the triple transition of hearing, reading and translating the poetic renditions didn’t jar.

French flowed smoothly to English and on to comprehension. In fact, the only other time I experienced a similar repeat was in Japan .

Cyrano de Bergerac is a tragicomedy about a Parisian poet/swordsman/soldier who fell in love with his beautiful cousin but held back by his grotesquely exaggerated big nose.

He found a way to express his feelings after becoming an inadvertent intermediary between a dashing soldier in Christian de Neuvillette and Roxane.

Of course the story does not end in typical fairy tale endings which the Americans are so fond of churning.

The movie depicted Cyrano as very adept in using his eloquence and rapier sharp wit in battles as well as romance. The scene where he sparred – using words and a sword - with an aristrocrat who challenged him by insulting his large nose was an early highlight in the level of poetry that would follow.

Don’t take my word for it. Try to get a copy and judge it yourselves.

In the meantime, I leave you snippets of what you could expect. They are either said by Monsieur Cryano or Mademoiselle Roxane. (Quotes courtesy of Bookrags.com with thanks.)

~~~
Cyrano: And what is a kiss, specifically? A pledge properly sealed, a promise seasoned to taste, a vow stamped with the immediacy of a lip, a rosy circle drawn around the verb "to love."
A kiss is a message too intimate for the ear, infinity captured in the bee's brief visit to a flower, secular communication with an aftertaste of heaven, the pulse rising from the heart to utter its name on a lover's lip: 'Forever.'

~~~
Roxane: Why else would you concoct such a delicious revenge? It must be a gesture of love.

~~~
Cyrano (Speaking in the shadows on behalf of Christian)
Your white gown swathed in the blue-black mantle of night. I am only a voice, and you are a point of light. I may have spoken Beautifully to you in the past-
Roxane (thinking its Christian who is speaking): You know you have-
Cyrano: Because I have been forced to speak through-
Roxane: Through what?
Cyrano: Through the whirlwind which your eyes stir up inside me. But now, in this blessed darkness, I feel I am speaking to you for the first time.
(This is a particularly heart rending scene as at the end of the “session” Christian is welcomed into the lady’s chamber leaving Cyrano behind.)

~~~
Cyrano (in a battlefield): There. There is our soul. The same reed, the same fingers which have piped us into combat, call us softly home, in our thoughts. This is no longer the shrill call to attack, it is every shepherd who ever inhabited our land, whispering his sheep to fold. Listen. It is your hillside, your earth, your forest - your younger brother, suntanned under his red woolen cap. It is the green solitude of nights you spent beside the Sordogne. Listen my countrymen. It is our country calling.

~~~
Roxane: Every woman needs a little madness in her life..

~~~
Cyrano to Roxane: You're as casual about death as if it were the theatre.

All quotes are from the original play as translated by English novelist John Anthony Burgess Wilson who managed to brilliantly maintain its symphonic and lyrical rhythm.

Note: Rostand based his playwright on Parisian poet Hector Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac (1619 to 1655) and the play also introduced the word panache to the English language.

Profumo di Donna

A Pashmina Model

The early 90’s Norfolk’s Norwich was a pensioner’s town that's dull with a capital D.

Dull could however still be enchanting as a night out with a beautiful course mate convinced me that romantic evenings are not the sole domain of perennial favorites Paris or Venice.

Pegs - her nick - was my senior at Law then although we were virtually the same age.

Sporting a boyish haircut and the sweetest smile owing to clearly define dimples in her rosy white cheeks, she was a picture of elegance that day in her knee length skirt, high boots and a muted maroon Pashmina draped around her shoulders.

Amongst the Asian students at the University we were both in, Pegs was right up there in the top tier for sheer attractiveness.

Her looks alone would literally floor anyone; a look that is both demure and confident at the same time, and, of equal measure.

Introduced to each other only a few days before during a Malaysian society courtesy call, the initial attraction I felt led for a very pleasant feeling when she said yes to a "Movies?" suggestion made much later.

We were supposed to catch a trilogy of now-long-forgotten movie, but found ourselves fidgeting after the first installment ended that a decision was made to forgo the other two parts and go on an evening walkabout around town.

There were hardly any pollutant in the chilly Norfolk air as such that, even at an appropriate distance, the young woman from Johor smelt fresh (and divine) without any hint of perfume being used.

There were others – couples, singles, families, etc – then, most minding their own businesses; some familiar faces, most complete strangers. We traded smiles with those we knew amidst curious glances.

There were some pubs around, though most are concentrated in the inner town area, yet there were little of the famed rowdiness that is an important British contribution to the world.

Hour passed the walkabout without us realizing it until we spotted a Turkish Kebab pushcart near one of the many medieval churches dotting Norwich.

Pegs cheerily suggested that we have a bite then and there so as to be spared from having to wander around town looking for a halal restaurant.

It was a good helping of hot shish kebab in full pitta bread for both of us, and Pegs was right in how good it tasted. The Turk – we thought and assumed that he’s one anyway - managed a good blend of fresh salad and meaty mutton and a balanced measure of sweetness and sourness.

We stood around at the pushcart finishing our kebabs, and later stopped at a small roadside café often frequented by our professors for its purported splendid coffees (latte was not much a buzzword yet at the time!)

The evening was fast deepening into night and I ended up – for the second time that week – at her place, where we spend the rest of the night looking at pictures and continuing with our small talks.

Honest.

We parted company as soon as the sun came up, and it was back to the daily grind of lectures, tutorials and the likes.

Sadly (but somewhat realistically) for me, it would also be the one and only (albeit a much cherished) evening of relative intimacy with her.

Pegs was all champagne and candlelight dinner. I, on the other hand, was home cooked meals and plain water.

And, although I didn't realised it then, my heart was already taken by another.

Someone close and yet so far away.

....

And yet, memories of Pegs sweet scent lingered until today.

Fate playing its role? Perhaps. I will never know.