Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SEVEN HOUSES OF JEAN RACINE, by PAUL FORT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SEVEN HOUSES OF JEAN RACINE, by                    
First Line: Homer was born in cities seven. Seven houses saw thy birth, racine
Last Line: Away at crepy, that small town nearby, in which racine was born, they say.
Subject(s): Birth; Child Birth; Midwifery


Homer was born in cities seven. Seven houses saw thy birth, Racine. Thus claim,
devoid of reason's leaven but in the most polite of styles -- vantage from
mighty names to glean -- proud Hellas with its storied isles and my Ferte-Milon
serene.

The seven houses of Racine are not all dowered with gabled eaves save for the
Hotel Dieu, no doubt, in rue Pomparde, set close about with huts like onion-
patches mean. The rue Pomparde, your scribe believes, pompous in naught but name
has been.

But see this house in rue Jules-Girbe, number 4; the hold inhabited by this old
buffer blanched of beard (Racine "old greybeard" would have said), in his
courtyard tinkering away at a lamp, though a lamp-man proud in skill (and indeed
I'd wish him artist), still a lamp won't make the light of day.

Next the house in rue Saint-Vaast approach. Like the last 'tis number 4, but
pooh! Numbers are naught in such a coil. The number 4 I now espy, poor hut all
piteous to view, crushed by its roof so wretchedly, flat as a roach doth pierce
the soil.

But this gives no aid to my affair. Let us quickly search rue Jean-Racine.
Twenty-five? Where is it? In the air? Seventeen? Alack I'm in despair. They're
not in ruins, but I wis, of owners rich the villas fair or profitable factories.

So be it. rue Saint-Vaast again -- at 3 -- I know a bas-relief, cheeks of a
hundred nuns to stain, thy grandsire Sconin held in fief. -- Think, Racine, of
what mischief 'twas the sign, that thy dam to destinies divine bore thee above
that bas-relief.

In rue le Meau we may conclude our quest, and 21 inspect. What beasts superb
with naught to fleck their state! Ox, ass, those neighbours good, beside a
smoking dunghill triced. But, though perhaps of his elect, Racine could scarcely
pose as Christ.

Racine in seven houses saw the light of day. (So Rumour runs.) Since when seven
over-reaching ones, the new possessors or the old, have never ceased to quarrel
and scold, or frantically invoke the law, to prove the roof where now they cling
received the Poet of the King!

To think what strife these owners wage, while thunderous eyes proclaim their
hate, would drive one to the cellarage, forcing the Mayor, in times of fete, by
threes their numbers to engage . . . or twos, but ne'er, forbid it, Heaven!
together all the squabbling seven!

No. But their hate at last appeased, when channeling time had set its flaw
there, to end their bickering they were pleased, each keeping for his own the
author of but a single tragedy of the seven Voltaire could quote by rote from
Andromaque to Athalie.

These arrant thieves, these rascals bold, when sightseers on the past would
ponder-----"Milord, 'tis ours you should behold!" -- The truth is clear though
errors swarm. Now where's the house in which was born the author of Athalie
-- "'Tis here!" -- that of Iphigenie -- "'Tis yonder!"

'Twas so for the author of Ester and for the scribe of Mithridate, and
that of Phedre, O rebus rare! no less for that of Andromaque and he who
wrote Britannicus. "Milord, you need no omnibus . . . With clear-cut date,
see there's the plaque."

I dare not think what strident yellings rose when the tourist, silly ass! was
cursory with the seven dwellings and saw but two or three. Alas! Homeric taunts
the vandal shames mixed with the fairest tragic names such as Plaideurs
could scarce surpass.

Backers of Phedre and of Ester must hoot derisively whene'er from the
dwelling of Iphigenie (I synthesize) they chance to see that parasite on
genius rare emerge. With erring club, alack, Mithridate lays prostrate
Andromaque,

while valiantly Britannicus with Athalie, no longer proud, joins in the
internecine fuss, urging each other, all the crowding seven to the supreme melee
of bonnets and perruques. -- But pray why seven? And what of Bajazet?

Let me a moment scratch my ear. I swear I had forgotten clean that brute! If La
Ferte will hear my plan, I'd have it straight begin choosing an eighth abode
wherein to stage the birth of Jean Racine.

A sudden thought; since here I stay two days with fortunes most forlorn, might
he not, the scribe of Bajazet, in my Hotel du Sauvage be born? In that case,
I wish (my shock immense stamps me a painter, so they say) to paint a plaque,
and I commence:

"Homer was born in cities seven. Eight houses claim thy birth, Racine. So drew,
devoid of reason's leaven, but versed in all civilities, their profit from a
mighty name, industrious and clever Greece and sly Ferte-Milon serene."

The date, then, and the reason why I think the great tragedian, Thomas, within
thy house was born, born in thy house especially! . . . (For Thomas is the name,
you know, of mine host of the inn where most I go. Gay, rosy, and rotund is he.)

-- When I have made him famous thus, straightway in envy's gulf I sink. I buy
him out. 'Tis ruinous. For all my friends I ask to drink where Racine his birth
would fain have willed, and where, in straits calamitous, Paul Fort soon dies,
all pale and chilled.

ENVOI.

FOR ATTENTIVE WITS.

My ditty Berenice doth wrong? A queen in exile doomed to sigh, she has no
portion in my song. Hardly -- and yet perhaps one may grant her a house not far
away at Crepy, that small town nearby, in which Racine was born, they say.





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