Couperin at the Keyboard

In a gallery of Versailles

François Couperin (called ‘Le Grand’)

Is playing the clavecin –

Half-heard. Court Officials

Pace to and fro, whispering

Intrigues, affairs of state –

What city now the king shall lay siege to,

Or to which lady's virtue.

Cicadas, singing in Provençal heat –

The music gently tells

Of harvesters returning with their sheaves,

Of flowering orchards, or of shepherds’ bagpipes;

And now of lovers’ sighs, and lovers’ plaining, –

And the soft swish of women's petticoats –

Mysterious barricades.

Evening draws on. The sun

and the Sun King retire.

Chandeliers are lit, and are extinguished:

Only the single candle

Upon his music-rest burns on.

The bass burrs like a dor, the treble

Like a mosquito whines and stings.

Shadows are dancing now – sour-faced prudes,

Dressed in black silk, with yellow fingers, ancient beauties,

Rouged and with false gold ringlets,

The powder-puffed and painted fop –

All the prisoners of the Cave of Spleen.

A chill wind lifts

The sails of the joyous ship

That is en voyage for Cythera. ‘Haul Down!’

Cries the masked captain. The shroud descends

And, gleaming in the moonlight, for a moment

It seems a blood-fringed blade.

JOHN HEATH-STUBBS