Le Princesse et le Président - recension

The Princess and the President
by Valéry Giscard d’Estaing

Review by Dr John Olsson

 

translated from the French by Jane Lee. CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform;  (6 September 2014)	Dr John Olsson, the world's first full time forensic linguist, is the author of Forensic Linguistics:  An Introduction To Language, Crime and the Law, and Word Crime : Solving Crime through Forensic Linguistics. He was chosen  by our sister blog, Le-mot-juste-en-anglais.com, as Linguist of the Month for August 2014.

 

 

If La Princesse et le President had been written by anyone other than a former President of France (now aged 93) nobody would have given it a moment's credibility: as it is, the international press from august broadsheets to tawdry tabloids went all a-flutter upon its publication and it became un veritable coup de foudre.

So engaging was the idea of Valéry, a distant cousin of mine as it happens, having a clandestine love affaire with the late Princess of Wales (so regrettable that the mandarins of the palace deprived her of her HRH title), that at one point while contemplating this review I considered visiting him, but then I realised that at this remove of time, dear Valéry would probably rather forget the whole thing. Besides, who needs a nosy younger cousin (distant, as I have previously noted) turning up at the door poking into the cobweb of one's amorous past. I kissed her hand and she gave me a questioning look, her slate-grey eyes widening as she tilted her head gently forward. I do hope that not every person who kisses the hand of another would focus on that person's slate-grey eyes widening, would prefer not to notice the questioning look, but might be charmed as such a person tilted their head gently forward. I stood up and pushed back my chair to allow the Princess of Cardiff to sit down. She thanked me with one of those oblique looks that revealed all her charm. Non, non, cher Valéry, ce n'est pas vrai. You see – must I a beef‑eating Saxon/Viking/Norman – must I educate a suave international statesman on this point? – non, non: all one's charm is never revealed and it is indistinguishable from one of those oblique looks. Rather, charm, like the fresh scent of jasmine at dawn, gives a certain promise of the day, and then retreats imperceptibly so that one is left with a lingering sense of what is possible, not what actually is, a sense of hope and despair at the same time, at the fragility of life, at the powerlessness of expression. That is the whole point of charm: it teases, it entices, it lures, but it is never fully revealed and it often betrays. Alas, when we are attracted to someone, the last thing we notice is all their charm. At that moment, we are tongue-tied, glued to the floor, unable to feel or notice anything other than the overwhelming desperation of hopeless love, the magnet of attraction that sucks us in. Sound purple to you? I want to give you a flavour of my dear (distant) cousin's ramblings, his fantasie.

Let me tell you what happened to me... A few days before my wedding, my future husband came to tell me that he had a mistress and that he had decided to continue his relationship with her after our wedding. Well, no, actually, that I do not believe. Prince Charles (who is a - not so distant – cousin of a – not so distant – cousin, but that's another matter) may have erred in his youth (and who has not?), but I find such deliberate cruelty difficult to credit. In fact, though it grieves me to say so to my actual distant cousin, cher Valéry, that was a cruel thing to put in a book simply to indulge your fantasie. Prenez en compte les sensibilités of the family, cher cousin.

Non, ca ne marche pas. Je suis rentré à l'Elysée et j'ai monté les marches du perron, la tête en feu et le coeur étincelant de bonheur. That I can believe. We may have all wished, dreamed, fantasised that this most glamorous of women had loved us and many who met her did so believe. Who is to blame them? Perhaps Valéry also felt that when meeting her. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I'm convinced that must be the case. He met her at some grand function or other. She swept into the room, a dozen lacqueys trailing, the baritone of a resplendent butler booming out her arrival. The President, at the other side of the room, catches the reflection of her argentate gown in the aureate mirrors, turns and inwardly gasps, watching her tall, elegant frame, her stunningly sensual walk, cat-like, silent, aware of everything and everyone, truly a woman in a million.

It goes without saying that she had that ability to capture the hearts of the lonely and the vulnerable, and of course she stole his. After all, what is a politician’s heart, cousin (distant) or no? As he stood there sipping his champagne he must have thought to himself, in all the terrible isolation of his elevated public position, Ma foie! what if such a woman loved me. Such a thought. Je lui ai baisé la main, et elle m'a interrogé, ses yeux, maintenant ardoise, agrandis dans son visage, qu'elle tient incliné en avant. Who would have thought a president could have such an imagination? Yes, but la glaive de l’amour absolu ? Non, non, je proteste.

In the end, however, cousin Valéry did the right thing: he confessed that it was all a fantasie. That was the right thing to do, but what if.……?

Final word of advice: For French readers, read it in that language. In this guise it occasionally rises to the engaging.