Paul and Suzanne

For lit class, thought I would share. Inspired by Renoir's Dance at Bougival and W.H. Auden's poems In Praise of Limestone and The Shield of Achilles. The painting is attached.

**

She couldn’t remember how they met

Or how they had lived together for so long,

But he had every moment etched into his memory—permanent, like it was chiseled—and

His brain was the only record of their love’s genesis.

The tangible proof shared hair ribbons and a bedroom,

Huddling together beneath holy, well-worn quilts, wondering where their mother had gone.

He told them not to fret, stroked their hair and hummed soothing, nervous little nothings:

“Don’t cry, ma petit, mon cheri, Mama will only be gone for a little while.”

The girls snacked on the sugar-coated lies—he wanted to believe them too—but falsehoods left them hungry;

They needed their mother’s milk and Hail Mary’s and bedtime songs, not the halfhearted reassurances of the rejected husband, a faithful lover scorned.

She was too young and too fair to stay, for he was dark-bearded, solid, and serious,

And even the heady nights of whirling, whooshing, wonderful dances at Bougival were not enough to hold her.

“Au revoir, Paul,” she called over her shoulder one morning, gay and filled with light,

And suddenly he was a widower,

And the little girls—poor, abandoned darlings—fought for possession of the red bonnet their pretty young mother had left behind.

Hey Ari,

Wow, I haven't read anything of yours in a while. How are you? Well anyways, I loved this. I'm not good at critiquing grammatical things but I will review the content. I thought this was great the way you told the story was wonderful. Though I can't help but feel sorry for the children who lost their mother. The bit about fighting over the red bonnet was a nice touch to the end. Sorry I couldn't have been of more help or anything.

Great Job,
~Angel

Well-written and executed. I applaud the side note notifying readers of your inspiration and including a visual. I thought the two paralleled quite beautifully. The French blended nicely and it wasn't awkward. I have very little to critique except that I felt the message is slightly blurred. There are instances where I'd be on track and then a sentence or wording would blur things. Try editing it some more and making sure that you are conveying everything.

Adrian

What I liked about this was how much you managed to convey in so few lines. You tell us a love story and the story of a family, and the information was never forced or squashed in or too sparse.

Areida wrote:But he had every incident etched into his memory—permanent, like it was chiseled—and

The word 'incident' doesn't quite work here.

The tangible proof shared hair ribbons and a bedroom,

I liked that line.

Huddling together beneath holey, well-worn quilts, wondering where their mother had gone.

He told them not to fret, stroked their hair and hummed soothing, nervous little nothings:

“Don’t cry, ma petit, mon cheri, Mama will only be gone for a little while.”

I'm not certain, but should the French not be 'ma petite, ma cherie'?

The girls snacked on the sugar-coated lies—he wanted to believe them too—but falsehoods left them hungry;

I liked that too.

And the little girls—poor, abandoned darlings—fought for possession of the red bonnet their pretty young mother had left behind.

Loved the end.

So not many suggestions at all!

Hi y'all! Thank you all very much for your comments.

Angel of Death - Thanks! I tried to draw some visuals from the painting. It made it seem more vivid to me.

adriangarcia - High praise! Thanks. Are there any specific examples of the blurred message that you can think of?

Sapphire - Hi! Thanks for pointing out those specifics. I've changed 'incident'... That hadn't stood to me before, but reading over it now, I agree with you; it sounds icky. As for the French, I'll just be honest: I have absolutely no idea. I don't speak French. At all. So you're probably right.

Again, thanks for reading; I appreciate your time.

I promised something, and something you shall get!

First off, I think you enjoy making my life difficult. Your writing's as lovely as ever, and thus making me not want to pick at it, and just appreciate it. But oh well.


She couldn’t remember how they met
Or how they had lived together for so long,
But he had every moment etched into his memory—permanent, like it was chiseled—and
His brain was the only record of their love’s genesis.
The tangible proof shared hair ribbons and a bedroom, I wasn't sure about this line the first time I read it; I kept getting this image of ribbons in a bed and it got all tangled in my mind. Now, I like it much more, and have figured out it was a metaphor and will chalk up my confusion to my cold-addled brain, and tell you about it. yeah /tangent
Huddling together beneath holy, well-worn quilts, wondering where their mother had gone.
He told them not to fret, stroked their hair and hummed soothing, nervous little nothings:
“Don’t cry, ma petit, mon cheri, Mama will only be gone for a little while.”
The girls snacked on the sugar-coated lies—he wanted to believe them too—but falsehoods left them hungry;
They needed their mother’s milk and Hail Mary’s and bedtime songs, not the halfhearted reassurances of the rejected husband, a faithful lover scorned.
She was too young and too fair to stay, for he was dark-bearded, solid, and serious,
And even the heady nights of whirling, whooshing, wonderful dances at Bougival were not enough to hold her.
“Au revoir, Paul,” she called over her shoulder one morning, gay and filled with light,
And suddenly he was a widower,
And the little girls—poor, abandoned darlings—fought for possession of the red bonnet their pretty young mother had left behind.