A Century Of - Forgotten Books

A CENTURY OF

FRENCH VERSE

B rief biograpttical and critical

flotices of thirty-tlzree F 7672611

poets qf the nineteenth cefltmy

experimental trans/atiom

from tfzeir poems .

i‘ i'

WILLIAM JOHN ROBERTSON .

L O N D O N

A . D . I N N E S 6' C O.

B E D FORD STRE ET.

1 8 9 5

Co n ten t s.

PAGE

Ballade against such as speak ill of France (511141119015 VILLON)INTRODUCTIONm at cnémmt ( 1762 4 794 )

BacchusThe Young Captive

ALPHONSE DE 14 3111111 111 2 ( 1790-1869)

The Valley

Epistle to Ado lphe DumasTo a Young Girl who begged a lock ofmyhair

VICTOR 111100 ( 1802 -1885)Her Name

New Song to an Old AirIn a ChurchTh is Age is great and strongMixed CommissionsJerichoS te lla

A Hymn of the EarthFrondage

The S treets and the WoodsTo the lmperious BeautyForerunnersChange of Horizon

A C E N TU R Y O F F R E N C H V E R S E

JOSEPH DELORME ( 1804 -1869)To RhymeTo Victor HugoTo the Muse

Lausanne

AUGUSTE BARBIER ( 1805-1882 )Popu larityMichae l-AngeloAl legriShakespeare

GERARD DE NERVAL (1808-1855)AprilNei ther Good Morning nor Good N igh tLost LoversAnterosDelphica

Artemis

PETRUS BOREL (1809-1859)To Iseul t a medal lionOde letThe Old B re ton Minstre l

ALFRED DE MUSSET ( 18 10-1857)The N igh t in MaySong W/zen H ope, Love

’s wild capricious minim:

On One Dead

THEOPH ILE GAUTIER ( 18 1 1-1872 )Unfai thfu lnessA Verse ofWordsworthSecre t AffinitiesOde in the manner ofAnacreonApo l loniaThe Nereids

C O N T E N T SPAGE

LECONTE DE LISLE (18 18-1894 )Pan

The SpringPholoé

D ies I raeNabo th ’s VineyardTh e Black Pan therIn the C lear SkyThe lmperishab le Perfume

CHARLES BAUDE LAIRE ( 182 1-1867)Bened ictionIll LuckBeau tyIdeal Lo veH ymn to BeautyE xo tic Fragrance

The Spiri tual DawnMusicThe Flawed Bell

HENRY MURGER ( 182 2 -1861 )The D iverNear Julie t’s BalconyPygmal ionB lanche-Marie

THEODORE DE BANVILLE ( 182 3-1891 )The Dawn of the Romance

A C E NTU R Y O F F R E N C H V E R S E

The B lacksmi thsThe N igh tingaleA Starry N igh tH erod ias

ANDRETHEURIET ( 1833The Song ofthe Wi llow-Weaver .

The KingfisherOn the Water

ARMAND SILVESTRE ( 1837To One by the Sea

Why should Iweep ?JudithSonnet Flowerage of lilies opening to

(It: Dawn

A Spring Though tNature’s Reflections

LEON DIERK ( 1838LazarusFuneral March

VlLLIERS DE L’lSLE-ADAM ( 1838-1889)

D iscouragementTwi ligh t WitcheryThe GiftsConfession

ALBERT GLATIGNY ( 1839-1873)Wild VinesRoses and W ineIn the ArbourThe N igh t is ComeA WinterWalkResurrect ion

PAGE

CONT E NT S

SULLY PRUDHOMME ( 1839Where ?

The Ligh t ofTru th

CATU LLE MENDES ( 184 0The Curses ofHagarThe MotherThe D isciple

THREE NOVELISTSMyWishes. (EmmaZOLA :

Three Days ofVintage. (ALPHONSE DAUDET : 1840

Passionless Nature . (ALPHONSE DAUDET : 1840

Desires . (GUY DE MAUPASSANT : 1850-1893)

ERANeoxs CORREE ( 184 2

An October MorningPharaohThe Three B irdsPersistencyOn a Tomb in Spring-Time

JOSE-MARIA DE HEREDIA ( 184 2Sunse tThe She llOn a Broken S tatue

STEPHANE MALLARME ( 184 2A Faun’s Afternoon (fragment)F lowersSonnet My tome: ! closed upon Pap/dart name

PAUL VERLAINE ( 184 4ResignationWearinessAngu ish

PAGE

2 52

2 54

2 SS

2 56

2 58

N T U R Y O F F R E N C H V E R S EPAGE

An Au tumn SongThe Lover’s H ourThe N igh tingaleThe Death ofPh i l ip the Second .

A Song at SunriseThe Art ofPoetry

PAUL DEROULEDE ( 1846The Marse il laiseCredo

MAURICE ROLLINAT ( 1846 .

The Poppy RavineThe ChamberThe Song ofthe Speckled Partridge

JEAN R1CHEP1N

The Death of the God sThe WandererThe Hun

Bal lade ofthe Swallow

HERvE NOEL LE ERETON ( 1851Sic itur ad AstraThe Burden ofLost $0015A Poe t ’s GraveHymn to Sleep

ARTHUR RiMBAUD ( 1854 -189 1)Love and LabourWasted YouthThe Vowe ls

JEAN MOREAsThe Leave:from 111: Woodland

Litt le B lue B irdSwee ts to the Swee t

INDEX

Bal lade against su ch as speak i l l

o f F rance .

MAY he be met by monsters spo uting fire,As Jaso n was , i n quest 0 ’

the fleece ofgoldOr to a beast be , l ike Belshaz zar

’s si re ,Seven years transformed , and won in fie ldfold ;

Or dree such dolorous loss and so re despightAs erst the Trojans wreaked for He len ’s fl ightOr swal lowed be , l ike Tantalus of Old

And Prose rpine, i n Pluto's poo l Obscene ;

Be worse than Job i n grievous sufl'

erance,

Or he ld as thral l in Dazdalus’ demesne ,That wisheth evi l to the realm of France

Fou r months may he sit singing in a m i re,As hirtem doth his head i ’ the marish holdOr led i n harness, l ike a beast of hire,Be to the Grand Turk eke for si lver so ld

Or thrice ten years, l ike Magdalen naked qu ite,I n cloth of wool ne l i nen cloth be d ightBe , l ike Narcissus, drenched in wate rs cold ,

L ike Absalom hung by the hair the boughs between ,Fordone as Judas was for mal feasance ,Or in worse case than S imon Magus seen ,That wisheth evi l to the realm of F rance !

x i i i


His wealth, so might Octavian’

s time be n igher,Shou ld molten flow in ’

3 body as a mould ;Or like Saint-V i ctor's were his penance d ire,To be between the moving m illstones ro l led ;

Or by the waves engu l fed in sorer plightThan Jonah lodged in whale ’s maw dayand n ightBanished be he, nor Phoebus' sheen beho ld,

Nor Juno’s boon, nor so lace OfLo ve ’

s queenAnd by great God be doomed to foulmischanee,

As King Sardanapalus was, I ween ;That wisheth evil to the realm ofFrance l

ENVOY.

Prince, may the troop ofEolus s op him cleanWhere Glaucus reigneth i n his forest green,

Forlorn Of peace and hopefu l countenanceFor he deserves no good ly thing to gleanThat wisheth evi l to the realm of France !

Ballade mm Ia ma dd en: dc to From .

FRANCOIS v1LLON .

In tro d u c t io n.

When Ralph Waldo Emerson disposed , i n one summaryand emphatic l ine, Of

France , where poet never grew’

he was apparently convinced that she cou ld claim no

representative singer whose name m ight be fitly placedalong wi th the five starry names ofHomer, Dante, Shakespeare, Swedenborg and Goethe. I t is not unl ike ly thatthe American sage, wi th his puri tan i cal prejud ice against‘amorous poetry

’

and his instinctive d isl ike to‘sad

poetry '

, had preconce ived the existence Of certai n uncongenial elements in French verse, for even in Goethe’sFaust he found some thing that was ‘

too Parisian ’. And

i t is probable, also , that he was better acqua in ted withFrench writers of the sO-cal led classical pe riod than wi ththe lyrical vo ices of the presen t century. His den ialof a poet to France, regarded as the utterance of per

sonal feeling, might therefore be dismissed as unworthyof serious co nsideration were it not l ikewise the lacon icexpression of a widely-d iffused Opinion. Neverthelessthere must be many lovers of verse who think that thename of V i ctor Hugo would have completed the circleof supreme poets more appropriate ly than that of theSwed ish visionary. Tennyso n denoted a truer apprecia

tion ofV i ctor Hugo’

s place in l i terature when he apostrophised the

. Bard whose fame-l i t laurels glance,‘Darkening the wreaths ofall that wou ld advance ,

‘Beyond our strait, their claim to be 1q pee r .

XV

A C E N T U R Y O F F R E N C H V E R S E

And Swinburne may be forgiven some excess of enthusiasm,

i f any excess there be , in that splendid B irthdayOde wh ich proclaims how

The mightiest soul put mortal raiment on‘That came forth singing ever in man ’s earsOf al l souls with us

But, even if Vi ctor Hugo had never ex isted , i t wouldsure ly be a rash thing to assert that ‘ poet neve r grew ’

i n the country which produced V i l lon and Ronsard in herarchaic age, Malherbe and Regnier during the period offormal deve lopment, Andre Chen ier i n the blackest daysof her inte l lectual ecl ipse, and Lamartine, Musset, Banvil le,Baudelai re and Leconte de L isle as representatives of

the modern movement which has been made i l lustriousby so many men of genius. Unless, i ndeed , an appealfrom bl ind prepossession to blazing evidence i s lost uponthose who wil l ingly bel ieve that no good thing can comeout of NazarethThe oracular j udgments Of great men are by no meansleast among the curiosities of l ite ratu re. W ithin hal f acentury of Jean-Jacques Rousseau ’s confident predictionthat such a thing as French music cou ld neve r be, F rancegave bi rth to Hector Berl ioz , the Supreme maste r ofmodern orchestration and pe rhaps the most poetical ofal l composers ; in less than another half-centu ry she hadconquered Europe with her bri ll iant Ope ras . Equal lya want of books and men ’ was the reproach ofWordsworth to a revolution which produced Lazare Carnot andLazare Hoche , and from which has since proceeded themost ample and splend id l iterary movement ever known .

According to Voltaire the dramatic art was in itsinfancy in England in the days of Shakespeare . And yet

xvi

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the pecul iar q ual it ies of F rench poe try, in so far as thesemay have been reflected in a diverse ly consti tu ted tongfie.

O f G 0

‘ Speaking generally, i t is not in respect of form , but‘ i n respect of matter, that our poets are i nfe rior to theEngl ish poets " says Gabrie l Sarraz in i n his admirableseries of stud ies entitled la Renaissance de la F aerie

anglazlre : 1798-1889. In this d istinction between spiri tual

substance and artistic shape the F rench wri te r has se izedat least one characterist ic which gives Engl ish poe try thesupreme place i n modern l iteratu re . Other French criticshave observed it, for example , Taine , who confesses i n hisN otes snr l

’

Angleterre z—‘To my mind there i s no poetry

eq ual to E ngl ish poe try, and none which speaks sostrongly and so clearly to the soul ’. Theoph i le Gautie rwas l ikewise able to apprec iate , i f not to emulate

,those

i nherent qual ities which give to Engl ish verse i ts enviablesupremacy, for he has somewhere vague ly defined themas the Scottish e lement in song.

I t would , of course, be false to assume that the higherfacul ties of imagination and moral force have exercised noinfluence on French poetry. Yet i t i s certai n that thepecul iar pathos of the E legy written in a Country C/mrc/g

yard , the wild fantastic charm of The Ancient blariner,

and the subtle emotion that breathes through T/ze S olitaryReaper or the Ode to a N zgntingale have found no suchpe rfect expression in the French language, rich as it is inpoetical ideas and images, and possessed of such artisticresources. And i f, i n a general sense , refrain ing fromfuti le i nd ividual comparisons, we take Keats for Andre

Chen ier ; Wordsworth, She l ley, Coleridge and Landor for

Ce n’

est po int en général par la forme, mais par le fond , que nossont inférieurs aux poetes anglais. ’

xvi i i

I N T R OD U CT I O N

Lamart ine, Barbier, Sainte-Beuve and Gerard de Nerval(forgetting V ictor Hugo) ; Byron for A l fred de Mussetand B rowning, Rossetti , Tennyson , Swinburne , MatthewA rnold

,Wil l iam Morris and George Me redith for Theo

ph i le Gautie r,Theodore d e Banvi l le

,L econte de L isle,

Charles Baude lai re and the whole school of contemporaryF rench singers

,such a paral le l i s on the whole unfavour

able to F rance , espec ial ly when those things which seemto be the essence and soul of po et ry are divested of the i routward l imbs and flourishes. But, i n making thiscomparison

,i t must be remembered that although the

combination of moral force with ideal vision wh ich i sconspicuous in Wordsworth , B rowning and Tennyson isnot so manifest in Keats

, She l ley and Swinburne, thesepoets have neverthe le ss achieved great things and takena place with al l but the highest name s i n E ngl ish song.

Perhaps i t i s unfortunate for F rench verse that so much ofi t has been inspi red by Pari sian expe rience , and that i toften reflects the artific i al emotions of a highly-corruptedc ivi l isation

,in stead of seeking fresh colour and l ife from

the healthy influences of natural beauty and spiritualsol itude . For th i s i s the secret of the powe r which l ies i nthe best E ngl ish poetry . I ts spe l l has been woven fromthe deepest and widest experiences of human l ife . Thosee lements of reflect ion and fo rce

,kindled by imagination and

feel ing,with wh ich i t i s so large ly suffused are drawn from

the remote and complex characte rist ics of a race i n whichthe robust Saxon , the calculat ing Norman , the audaciousDane and the dreamy Ce l t have for ages blended the i ractivities

,the i r thoughts and the i r ideals .

in 11» e s s s

The poetry of any people nece ssari ly derives itsexternal characteri stics from the pecul iar attributes of thenational tongue

,for the mould in which the poet’s thought

XIX


i s cast must be determined by the nature of the rhymeand the l im itat ions of the rhythm which are ind igenous tohis own language . Let the emotion be ever so fe rvid andthe imagination ever so lofty, the i r rough-cast creationswil l have to be chise l led , when they cool down , i n the

material wh ich the craftsman ’s native speech has placedat his service . Hence the

‘mechanic exercise ’ to wh ichTennyson al ludes in o ne Of the most spontaneous and atthe same t ime one of the most high ly e laborated Of hisworks. The critic of poe try, i n his pursu it of ‘ conceptions

’ and ‘ atmospheres and pe riod s of evolution isperhaps prone to ove rlook the importance of this purelyartistic e lement in verse . And yet the accidents ofrhyme, the faci l i ties of al l i teration and the fe l icit ies ofassonance are i nseparable aid s to song. They have Oftengiven birth to a beautifu l thought, suggested a bri l l iantimage and contributed to the force of an antithesis . Theyhelp the poet to express himse l f i n a more me lod ious andcaptivating fashion . F rench poets have natu rally d isplayed a no le ss ingenious art than the i r Engl ish brethrenin avai l ing themse lves of the ready-made ideas involved inrhyme and in d iversi fying these ideas a thousand-fold .

But the re i s one almost vi tal d ifference i n the i r method,

aris ing chiefly from those l im itations which the moreprecise characte r of the French language has imposed onpoetical expression . An example taken from two write rsof English verse wil l se rve as a simple i l lustration . Longfe l low, who, w ith al l his learn ing and lyrical capabil ity,Often fai led to ach ieve that perfect harmony be tween wordand idea which is the glory of imaginative poe try, has thefol lowing couplet i n Flowers :

‘Others, the i r blue eyes with tears o ’

erflowing,Stand , l ike Ruth, amid the golden corn

XX

I N TR O D U CT I O N

Keats,the greatest master of his art since Shakespeare

and Milton,sings in his Ode to a N ightingale of

the sad heart of Ruth, when , sick for home,She stood in tears amid the alien corn

The conception in each case i s high ly poe tical and thei l lustration is almost the same , but how the poetry seemsto evaporate when an ord inary de scriptive adjective i ssubstituted for the spi ritual one i n which Keats, with hi sunerring instinct, has summed up the true pathos of Ruth ’slonel iness !I t i s preci se ly in the lack of this power to transfigure

common words by the l ight of imagination that Frenchpoets have often fai led to reach the he ight to whichEngl ish poetry has so easi ly attained , owing to the vagueand fluctuant largeness Ofour E ngl ish speech . Hence , also,the abuse of such adject ives as sombre, sacre‘, divin andsuprtme by French poe ts to whom Milton

’s ‘bl ind mouths ’ orShakespeare ’s daring metaphor to take arms against a seaof troubles ’ would seem monstrous, because of the exactness into which the logical French mind has fashioned thenational id iom .

G 1.

There are some essential characte rist ics of the F renchlanguage which contribute to give to F rench poetry anartificial form . I ts de rivation and structure

,which are

scholastic rather than vernacu lar,

‘ have endowed it with a

Since so much is made Of the Ce l tic elements in the French nation (andproperly so as regards its ethno logical origin) i t is significant that modernFrench has about 2 000 Lat in and 1000 Greek rad icals and only 700 from the

Germanic and Ce l tic languages ; indeed the purely Celt ic contribu tion isrepresen ted by less than 100 roo ts, and many of the words derived from theseare ofpurely local appl ication. (See Henri Stappers Dictionnairc synoptigued’

tomolop'

efranfairr: Bruxel les :


l imited capacity for the express ion of homely sentiment,such as is congenial to th e rich root-so i l of Ge rmanspeech . For th i s reason the F rench chanson and lyrichave so often a cold and conventional air, when comparedwith the lied . I n l ike manner, the de l ibe rateness ofFrench poetical d iction , contrasting as it doe s with thequick incisiveness of the col loquial language ,“ tends todeprive i t of that force and fe rvour which the fine frenzyof the singe r would othe r wise infuse i nto i t.To these natural l imitat ions of the F rench languagemust be added the academical res trictions to rhyme , thelack of rhythmica l accents , and the use of the symmetricalcae sura which custom has imposed on poe tical speech.

He ine l ikened the F rench metri cal system to ‘ a strai twaistcoat ’ and Zola describes it as a stee l corse le t ’ . Suchimped iments to rhythmical movement and emotionalexpression have forced F rench poe ts to seek re l ie f frommonotony in rich ly-coloured imagery, in variety of rhyme

and in devices of me lody ; often to such a degree thatthe reade r i s tempted to exclaim , l ike Ge rt rude , ‘More‘ matter, wi th less art ! ’ ‘ F rench poet ry ’

, says Gabrie lSarraz in , ‘ has been striving for a century to reach by‘ powe rful effects of music and colour that wh ich the

A nglo-Saxon instinct has unconsc iously achieved ’

.

(Poe‘

tes madame: de I’

A ngleterre. ) Moreove r, the i r inheritance of artistic t rad itions and the i r culture of thesensuous arts

’r has exaggerated in many of the bes t

French poe ts a natural devotion to form . Hence the

cunning conveyance of subtle ties embe l l ished by fancyLa lenteur de no tre chant , qui fait uh étrange contraste avec la vivaci té

de notre nation.

’

(Vo l taire : Supple-tact an Siede dc Louis XIV. )

1“ VictorH ugo , Barb ier, Gau tier, Ge’n rd de Nerval, Baude laire , Villiers.

Diem , Mendés and many o ther French poe ts have ei ther been draughtsmen.painters and musicians themse lves or accompl ished conno isseurs and cri tics ofthe fine arts.

xx i i

I N TR OD U CT I O N

and se ntiment ; and hence a striving afte r unfamil i arrhymes and images which has usu rped in many of themthe p lace of strong emotion seeking utte rance i n song.

Often the French poet seems to choo se a landscape sceneor a phase of human expe rience for the express pu rposeof paint ing a picture , instead of weaving external naturein to the mood and emotion of the moment

,as in Tlze

E xcursion or In Memoriam. But i n the i r own sphere ofart the F rench poets are supreme . They may c laim aplace by themse lves as masters of pure ly inte l lectual expression . I n no other l iterature have there be en suchexpe rt artificers i n verse as Gautie r

,Baudelai re

,Mendes ;

Mallarme and Ve rlaine,men whose ve rbal work at i ts best

i s unrival led in visible beauty . By di l igently cultivatingand deve loping the i r poe tical langu age on i ts own l ines,such artists have carried to pe rfection in verse al l thoseq ualities which d istingu ish F rench art in general fromEngl ish or German or I tal ian art

,and which have given

to F rench music,F rench sculpture and F rench painting

a pecul iar grace and ind ividual ity . De l icacy of outl ine,

beauty of form ,fre shness and bri l l iancy of colour every

thing that be tokens dexterity of touch and absolutelucid i ty of vision ; declamatory force , harmon ious modulation and dramatic movement—al l are there ! And i fi n F rench verse there i s more of the supe rfic ial play offancy than th e transfiguring glow of imagination ; asensuous worsh ip of palpable love l iness rather than areve lation of the inne r pathos of natural things ; let i tnot be supposed that French poetry is by any mean sdevoid of the higher att ributes of impassioned spe ech.The fiery particle has never been extinguished in a poe tbecause he had to contend with the difficulties of an ex

treme ly comp lex metrical system . Who wil l venture to

assert that the observance of the dramatic unities in Greek

xx i i i


tragedy fettered the passion of E uripides , the pathos ofSophocles and the subl imity of E schylus ? Not one ofthese essential q ual ities of pure poetry is whol ly lackingin the F rench verse of the n ineteenth centu ry, and , i f incertain schools the artistic attributes are paramount, manyof the higher imaginative and emotional e lements are tobe found abundantly in Lamartine and Musset, while therei s ample measure of eve ry one of them in V ictor Hugo,

i 0 C Q i C

The me lody of the F rench language has been loudlydenied by E ngl ish writers and especial ly by those whoseknowledge of French verse was l imited to the alexand rines of Comeille , Racine and Voltaire . The nasal‘ n ’ i s natu ral ly the head and front of offence . I t i sd iffi cult for a fore igner to judge impartial ly of these things,for he almost inevitably ignores simi lar cacophonies withwh ich custom has made him famil iar in his native speech.

The Engl ish h issing plural and many of our harsh consonantal combinations (rnt rbd sht) must seem unmusicalto an Ital ian

,particularly when they occur as verse termi

nals. Take for example a stanza from In Memoriam

Ihe ld it truth, with him who singsTo one c lear harp in d ivers tones,That men may rise on stepping-stones

Of the i r dead se lves to higher th ings! .

Not only has the poe t ended al l his rhymes with the

sibi lant, but he has placed them all on the same consonant, and some of them in uneuphon ious combinations.And yet Tennyson

’s supremacy among the mode rn mastersof verbal harmony is indisputable. I t would be worsethan hypercritical to insist on the point. The Ge rmanshave the i r tilt and (bit and the Russians the i r 111 (shtch)

xx iv


consecutive nasal sounds in the second l ine , is one of themost majestic in the whole range of F rench verse

E t toi,divine Mort, o il tout rentre et s

’

efface ,‘A ccue i l le tes enfants dans ton se in étoi lé,

‘Affranch is-nous du temps, du nombre et de l’

espace,

E t rends-nous le repos que la vie a troublé(Leconte de L isle.)

No nobler and deeper music has ever be en moulded bythe l ips of man .

i

Those who wish to study the structure of F rench verseand the rules which gove rn its rhyme and measure wil lfind an exhaustive h istorical analysis in Adolf Tobler’sVom franeb

'

sise/zen Versbau alter and neuer Z eit (Be rl inTh is author is more thorough ly scientific than any

French write r on the subject,and his work is admittedly

superior in respect of l ingual and archaic learn ing to thoseof Louis Quicherat and Becq de Fouquiéresnr An

exce l lent i f in no sense profound d iscourse on Frenchversification i s Théodore de Banville

’

s P etit Traitt'

de

P oe’

sie franeaise. Two othe r poets—Sul ly Prudhomme inRefi exions sar l

’

A rt des Vers and Stéphane Mallarme inRelativement an Vers—have vouchsafed on the same subject some pure ly ph i losoph ical obse rvations, but these donot cope with the problems of metrical construction ,although they give evidence of the predi lection for formwhich i s so characterist ic of French versifiers.

Any attempt to app ly a theory of accent or quantity tothe metre of F rench verse would be lost labour. Theodorede Banville

’

s dictum is at once simple and conclusiveF rench verse has no rhythm

,l ike that of other languages,

Trait! de Versifieation . (Paris :

xxvi

I N TR OD U C T I O N

formed by a certain interlacement of long and shortsyllables. I t IS s imply the group ing of a certain regularnumbe r of syl lables

,divided in certain kinds of verse by

a pause or rest which is cal led the caesura, and alwaysterminated by a sound wh ich cannot ex ist at the end ofone l ine without be ing repeated at the end of another, or

‘ of several,

other l ines,and the return of which i s cal led

Rhyme ’

. I f this definition be accepted (and there i sno doubt of i ts accuracy) i t fol lows that French verse hasnot a woven harmony of accents

,with a regular beat and

rhythm—tempera certa modosgue—but i s rather an even

flow of vocal utte rance,saved from endless monotony by

the hiatus,and endowed with me lody by the devices of

assonance,all i teration

,e l is ion and rhyme . The fol lowing

examp le ofmonosyl labic ve rse from the A rtpoe’

tique of PaulVerlaine wil l se rve as an i llustration to Banville ’s thesis

o l d A J r'

J o'J J .

’

‘Car nous voulons Il a Nuance encor,

‘ Pas 1a Couleur, rien q ue la nuance !‘Oh ! l a nuan ce seul . e fiance

‘Le reve au reve et l a flute au cor !’

On no other metrical system can these l ines be scanned .

The almost exaggerated importance attached by Frenchpoets in gene ral and by Theodore de Banvi l le i n particular to the function of rhyme may be measured byhis bold assertion that ‘

the imagination of Rhyme i s,

above al l,the facu lty which constitutes the poe t

’

; andfurther that ‘

the only word which you hear in a verse i s‘the word which is in the rhyme

,and this word is the

only one which Operates i n producing the effect aimedat by the poe t

’

. The prope r sign ificance of Banville’

s

paradox i s only observed when he goes on to,explain

that i t i s necessary to think in verse because a poet

Xxvll


cannot have the right rhyme unti l he has the vision inhis brain wh ich gives bi rth to the rhyme . I t fol lowsfrom the F rench metrical method , with i ts compulsoryhemistich in l ines of n ine or more syl lables, that, unlessthe language is handled with consummate art, there i s atendency to tameness and un iformity in the movementof the verse , a d isadvantage of which certai n critics, andamong them Jules Jan in , have been express ly conscious.But the great masters of F rench ve rse have contrived byvarious devices to give to i t a wonderful richness anddiversity. I f in a l ine of equal syl lables we miss theanapae stic t rip of She l ley or Swinburne , we have at al levents a release from monotony in the alte rnation of

mascul ine and feminine rhymes, i n the harmony of

sonorous consonants and assimilated vowe l s,and in the

ve rbal resources which d istingu i sh the d iction of poe tryfrom that of prose in eve ry language . Much of V ictorHugo’s verse i s so flex ible and so forcible that i t i s almostimpossible to .read it without such emphasis as almostendows it with a rhythmical accent. H e revolution ised thealexandrine by his maste rly art in phrasing so as to shiftthe caesu ra from syl lable to syllable accord ing to the

demands of his imperious poe tical inst inct. In vigour andgrandeu r

,i n resonance and splendour

,he i s immeasurably

superior to every other F rench poe t. None ,save now and

then Baude lai re,has such sonorous l ines as

F leu r de bronze éclatée en pétales de flamme

(L’

Anne‘e terrible.)‘Toi , derriere Lagide, 6 re ine au cou de cygne ’

(Les CMtiments .)‘Tourbi l lonnaient dans l ’ombre au vent de leurs épées

(La Legende des S ie’

cles.)

xxvii i

I N T R O D U CT I O N

l ines i n which the supreme resources of F rench poeticald iction have been demonstrated . The e lasticity of hisvowe l e l is ion is admirably i l lustrated by the fol lowingcouplet, i n which the rough force of the fi rst l ine contrastswith the exquisite tenderness of the second

‘

Je te proclame, toi que ronge le vautou r,Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amou r !

(L’

Annt'

e terrible.)

Some of the rigid ru les of F rench versification are

obviously inte l l igible. Thus a s ingu lar (such as lieu)must not be rhymed with a plural (such as eieux),al though there is no d iffe rence i n the terminal pronunciat ion . Nor should two similar sounds

,one ending with a

consonant and the othe r end ing with a vowe l, to wit, amascul ine and a femin ine word like noir and gloire, berhymed . Both these prohibitions have been bold ly contravened by one or two poets of the advanced school

,

notably by the late Jules Laforgue and by Jean Moreas,

but a defin itive adoption of such heresies would d iscred itthe system on which the whole volume of F rench versefrom V i l lon to Ve rlaine i s composed . The alte rnationof mascul ine and femin ine rhymes, which custom hadrende red almost obl igatory i n French verse , has beend isregarded by one or two l iving poe ts who are by nomeans revolutionary in the i r rhythmical methods

,e special ly

by Paul Verlaine i n the Sapph ic ce lebrations of Parallelement and by j ean Richepin i n his C/zanson da Sang.

The forme r poe t has aimed at the expression of a voluptuons languor in the sole emp loyment of feminine rhymes ,and the latter at a viri le and barbaric robustness in hisexclus ive use of mascul ine rhymes . I n both cases thesuccess of the abnormal experiment is vindicated by itsspecific purpose.


The so-cal led mute e’ seems to have derived its value

i n F rench ve rse from the I tal ian and P rovencal mode l sof the early French poets. Engl ish poet ry had a narrowescape from the same i nfluence , for Chaucer invari ablygave the feminine termination its ful l rhythmical effect,both in the singular and in the plural , and if i t be d isregarded the me lody and rhythm of his verse is enti re lyspoi led . The precise value of the feminine

‘e

’ i n the

declamation of French verse i s a controversial point, and ,as the poetical language owes much of its plasticity andmost of its me lody to the prope r employment of thisvowe l

,the vocal sign ificance the reof is worthy of some

attention . There i s,indeed , l i ttle or no d ifference of

op in ion as to its syllabic value i n versification, but the

currency which should be given to it in the recitation ofverse has been a fe rti le subject of d iscuss ion amongauthors

,cri tics

,actors and musicians. When the vowe l

occurs at the end of a l ine i ts utterance seems by commonconsent to have become so attenuated as to be almosti naud ible. Theodore de Banvil le de l iberately ave rs thatthe final ‘ e ’ of the feminine l ine i s not pronounced , anddoes not count in the enume rat ion of the syllables ofwhich a ve rse i s composed . Sul ly Prudhomme says thatin words which are terminated by the vowe l e (e mute)the latter has gradual ly grown weaker to such a degreethat it is scarcely pronounced at al l and is no longerreckoned a sound at the conclusion of a l ine ’

. Againstsuch authorities there i s noth ing to be u rged

,but it is

evident that the terminal ‘ e ’ had a distinct declamatoryvalue when the F rench language was i n process of formation

,and when a fu lle r and larger fashion of pronunciation

prevai led . This value has always been recognised bymusical composers, so that in a song of V ictor Hugo

’s setto music by Gounod the terminal e

’ at once resumes i ts

XXX

I N T RO D U C T I O N

full syl labic significancefi‘ But even here the i nstinct of

the consummate art ist i s exh ibited in his treatment ofthe vowe l . Songs l ike the Marseillazse and Une damenoble et sage ( i n Meyerbee r’ s ope ra of les H ugu enots) offe rrepeated examples of a coarse and c l umsy man ipulationof the final e

’

. On the othe r hand , in the N uits d’

e’

te’ of

B e rl ioz,i n such an ai r as P lus grand dans son obseurite

’

(Gounod’s Reine de Saba) and in any me lody composed

by Massenet or Saint-Saens the d iscree t and de l icatetreatment of th i s terminal vowe l gives a charm to the

music which i s pecul iar to the F rench lyrical language.

I n a witty lette r written by the last-named compose r toF rancisque Sarcey on this subject, he declares that ‘

the

prolonged e mu te,that i s to say en, en, en, i s due to

our singe rs,who love to dwe l l on al l fi nales, whether

mascul ine or femin ineThe function of the feminine ‘

e’ i n the body of the

verse i s a much more important problem . Some Ge rmansavants have enunciated a hete rodox theory to the effectthat this ‘

e mute ’ has no rhythmical value i n poe try,

that it plays only a trivial part in dramatic d ict ion , andthat i t tends to d isappe ar altoge ther from French ve rse.

A fierce controversy recently arose i n Pari s owing to theadoption of the i r opin ion by Jean Psichari

,a F ranco

Greek contributor to the Revue bleue, who bo ld ly declaredthat ‘

the e mute i s not pronounced in F rench verse, um‘ less in the single case where i ts d isappearance wouldbring about the encounte r of three consonants ’ The

practical acceptance of such a theory would,of course

,

e l iminate from F rench verse eve ry e lement of me lody andrhythm ,

and necessitate the entire reconstruction of its

This e, wh ich is not pronounced in ord inary declamation , is pronouncedin no ted declamat ion, and that in a uniform manner.

’

(Vo l taire Suppl!ment on Slide de Louis XIV. )


metrical system . No better refutation of this fal lacy canbe adduced than the i nvariable recognition which the

femin ine ‘e

’

has obtained in the ve rse of eve ry notablepoet of pure ly F rench national ity. Omitting this vowe lin the declamation of the ir l ines , the cadence would bedestroyed, the harmony emasculated and the measurefalsified . F rench verse, as we know it, would become achaotic assemblage of harsh sounds, and the vauntedalexandrine would be converted into i rregularly alternatedl ines of e ight, n ine, ten,

e leven and twe lve syl lables .Fore ign critics have too read ily be l ieved —says an actorand teache r who speaks with some authority that ou rverse , devoid of the quantities which form the basis ofother prosodies , l ives only by its rhyme . Fail ing to findin i t the cadences due to long and short syl lables

,they

have accused it of dragging itsel f along in the un iformity‘ of restricted rhythms, of stretching itse l f out to a fatalmonotony by the repet it ion of an unvarying numbe r ofequal syllables, and , in fine , of ach ieving only an art ific ialex istence and a conventional harmony in the pueri leplay of rhymes . They have bee n unable to fee l that

these long and short syl lables wh ich they deny tous are often created de l icate ly and de l ic iously by th isso much m isunde rstood e mu te

’

. (L B remont le Tit/titreet la Poe

'

sz'

e :

Any one who i s famil iar with F rench verse , and whocannot enunc iate the ‘mute e

’

w i th that ‘de l icate and‘ de l ic ious ’ ease wh ich is the privi lege of tongues to themanner born , w i l l prefer to give i t a fulle r rather than afainte r emphasis i f he wishes to real ise i ts value i n the

euphony of French verse . The prec ise s ignificance ofthe vowe l is determined more by instinct

,taste and sense

of me lody than by any recogn ised standard . Some F renchactors care lessly slur it over and others ignore i t in a most

XXX"


since a master in the art of moulding difficu lt measureshas often fai led to give the desi red flex ibi l i ty to that longand heavy l ine with i ts monotonous cre sura.

S ince the metrical regularity of French verse is re

deemed by the el ision of vowel s and the employment ofthe femin ine terminal , it becomes necessary, i n an Engl ishtranslation

,to rel ieve the comparative monotony of the

trochaic and iambic measures with dactyl ic and anapmsticrhythms, or by some variety of rhyme . Having regard tothe fact that simple metres i n Engl i sh are more congen ialto the F rench rhythmical method , those have beengeneral ly employed in the translations which fol low , butdiversity has been sought in the occasional use of mixedmascul ine and feminine rhymes, as giving at least anapprox imate idea of the difference which once appealedto the ear and sti l l appeals to the eye in the alte rnatingrhymes of French ve rse . The d ifficulty might have beenmet by an alternate employment of long-vowe l and shortvowe l monosyl labic rhymes

,but this device would hardly

have been acceptable . The mechan ical labour of translation has been considerably increased by the adoptionof trochaic rhymes . I t may be observed that Rosse ttiemployed this me thod of rhyme i n his beautifu l ve rsionof V i l lon ’s Ballade des Dames des temps j ad is, and the

practice will probably commend itself to those who havean intimate acquaintance with French versification. Indoing th is

,some rhymes have been used which would not

pass muste r in the original,for in F rench verse ‘ there are

no l icences as Theodore de Banvi l le says in his decidedfashion . No apology, howeve r, should be necessary forthe j uxtaposit ion in rhyme of ‘ blossom and ‘ bo som ’ or‘ meadow ’ and ‘ shadow

,

’ which are sanctioned by the

genial freedom of English verse and the custom of themasters . Had such vocables as ‘ blossom ’

,

‘ meadow ’

,

xxx iv

I N T R O D U C T I O N

murmur ’ and splendour ’ had a hundred metrical s isters,i nstead of ex i sting in single blessedness, there would havebeen no excuse for imperfect rhymes . But su re ly the

l imits al lowed by Keats and She l ley and Swinbu rne may beregarded as permissible to any writer of verse who refuses tofol low E l izabeth Barrett B rowning in her wanton freedomwith dissyllabic rhymes or to repeat the present part iciplead nauseam after the fashion of Fe l ic ia Dorothea Hemans.The variety of rhymes at the d isposal of French poetsrenders i t d iffi cult to translate i nto E nglish with anyapproach to accuracy some of the i r highly artific ial ande laborate forms of verse , such as the Bal lade and the

Ronde l ; i ndeed ,i f feminine rhymes are considered

essential,the task of giving an Engl ish version of F rench

poems in reverbe rant verse i s an impossible one . Manyof these poems seem to have been written chiefly asexerc ises in rhyme or to d isplay the composer

’s craftsmanship and resource . I t i s an ind isputable fact thatthe French language has a greater abundance of rhymesthan any of the European languages which are cognate toi t. The numbe r of rhymes is increased by the rule whichpe rm its words having the same sound and spe l l ing to beused as rhymes

,and

,indeed , regards the rhymes as riche r

in proport ion to the i r identity. R ich rhyme i s composedof such consonances as rose morose ; avide

livide ; and poor rhyme of such consonances as brumeplume ; aeurs douleurs fiére poussz

'

ére whilst a leoninerhyme i s one i n which the consonance i s carried throughtwo or more syllables

,such as e

'

cumante fumante ;saillir :j aillir ; violet triolet. There are also numerousvarieties of recurrent and mimicking rhyme wh ich properly be long to the museum of poetical curiosities .I n Engl ish poe t ry there are only a few examples of

the French form of ‘ rich rhyme ’

,which is not congenial

XXXV


to our prosody. The poet, i n such cases, appears to havepe rmitted a solecism rather than distu rb the mould intowh ich he had already cast his thought, as in Tennyson

’s

And strive to make an inch of roomFor the i r sweet selves, and cannot lzear

The sullen Lethe rol l ing doomOn them and the i rs and al l things here ’

.

Some i l lustrations of French rhyme may al so be found inSwinburne , who has thoroughly and lovingly stud ied theF rench poets .The rule laid down by Robert B rowning in his supe rb

preface to Tlee Agamemnon of fl a ky/us, that atranslation should be ‘ l i teral at every cost save that of‘ absolute violence to our language ’

, i s too sound to bed isputed . This rule

,however, can be observed in its

strictest sense only in a prose or a blank-verse rende ringsome latitude must be allowed to a transcription inrhyme. Now rhyme plays such an important part inFrench verse that translation into Engl ish prose or eveninto unrhymed verse would be eminently inappropriate .

Absolute fidel ity al ike to word and thought is the ideal ,but it i s evident that in i nterchanging the rhymes of two

The glaring unfitness of blank-verse for the transcription of rhyme iswi tnessed in the Engl ish translations of the Diw

’

na Commed ia. The fine

Miltonic verse of Cary gives neither the rhyme and the rhythm nor the

cadence and the accent of the term rim , and Longfellow’s unrhymed triplets

approach so closely to prose that they se ldom suggest ei ther the supplemovement or the subtle harmony of the original. In bri ll iant contrast tothese is Rossetti ’s version ofVil lon’

s bal lade before ment ioned . In form and

matter i t is as perfect a transcription of the charming original as handicraftand artistic cunning could achieve ; and a single glance at the prosaic versionssigned byWalterThornbury and John Payne is sufi cient to demonstrate itsabso lute supremacy as a poet ical translation. But only a poet can transcribew i th such success, and poets natural ly prefer indigenous cul tivation to the

transplanting ofexotics.xxxvi

I N T RO D U C T I O N

languages which are so d iverse i n structure and syntaxthe sound must now and then be sacrificed to sense andthe sense occasional ly subord inated to sound . And '

although the substance, the shape and the harmonyought to be al l preserved as far as i s attainable, the ve rbalefl

'

ect rather than the l iteral s ignification has sometimesto be sought

‘

E special ly is th is the case with transla

t ions from the F rench , a language i n which the chenille,

or interpolated turn to comply with the demands ofrhyme, i s a recogn ised poetical device. But the trueprinciples of translation , though easy to enunciate

, are

hard to carry into execution . In the fol lowing experi

ments an attempt has been made to convey the sense ofthe original , whi lst imitating the harmony, the cadenceand the characteristics thereof, with some attention to thealte rnations of mascu l ine and feminine rhyme which are inseparably associated with F rench verse. They wil l give atbest but a faint reflection of those rich efl'ects of colou r andmel ody which have been achieved by the French singers ofthis spacious century

,and must the refore be regarded rather

as an unworthy tribute to the poe tical l iterature on whichCatulle Mcndés bestows so magn ificent an encomiumOur admirable French verse , gl impsed by Ronsard, desiredby Comeille and dreamed by Chenier ; that verse whichis perhaps so li t tle unders tood by alien ears and has been

‘ inconsiderately decried, bu t wh ich, diverse and supple,endowed wi th harmonious numbers, and as wel l fi t ted tobe fi l led wi th th ings as the metrical verse of Homer andLucan, bears like a flapping banner on the summi t i tsresounding rhyme, multiform and inexhaust ible , the eflectof which, peculiar to our language, is lacking in all poesysave our own’

.

(La Le’

gende da Parnasse contemporain.)G fi

A C E NT U R Y O F F R E N C H V E R S E

Thy name, imperial poe t, I invokeHugo

,whose genius fi rst on fie ry wings

Plunged into measureless space subl ime and brokeThe speechless bounds. With trumpet thunde rings,Tempest and pale ecl ipse of mortal thingsThy clamorous l ips the empyreal echoe s wokeA non in cloudless blue thy spirit sings,

Lul ls the world ’s c ry, l ightens the human yoke ,And with sweet pi ty thri l ls love ’s tremulous strings.

And thine, O hapless Chénier ! with the fairWhite blossom blighted when the chi l l frost fel l

Lamartine , Musset, whose melod ious airPlayed whispe ring pre lude to the wilder swe l lOf Hugo’s clan . Gautie r, thy pu issant spe l l

Gerard and M’

urger, sou l s of beauty rare .

F lamboyant Barbie r,fugitive Bore],

Pale Glatigny and sombre Baude lai reWhose song-fire glows with sul len flames of He l l

Yours, too, sweet acolytes in the courts of song ,Prudhomme and COppée that with hymns adore

In faultless rhyme no gods of shame and wrong :Subti le Verlaine, quaint Mallarme whose lore ,Sphinx-l ike, with symbols d im is sculptured o ’

er,

And yours, last of the proud Hugonian throng,Leconte and Banvi l le, bards that evermore

With pmans loud triumphantly prolongThe timbre l-clash and clarion-cal ls of yore

xxxvi i i

A N D RE C H E N I E R

A few years later André became attae/ze’ to the F renchEmbassy in London , and he complained bitterly of isolation and weariness during his soj ourn in England . L ikeCamille Desmoul ins, and along with his own brother MarieJoseph, André Chenier began early to dabble i n l iteratu re.

H e had been nourished on Greek poetry, and is creditedwith a translation of Sappho's fragments and Anacreon’

s

odes, executed at the age of fou rteen . Unti l the popularmovement became pronounced , al l the Chenier fam i ly were‘ aristocrats ’. Andre signed himse l f Chen ie r de SaintAndre ; Marie -Joseph posed as the Cheval ier de Chen ier.The i r d iscontent with the slow progress of the i r fortunesunder the monarchy led them to throw in the i r lot wi ththe leaders of the democrat ic agitation . Marie -Josephbecame an advanced demagogue. Andre publ ished in1791 an Avis aux Franfais, i n which he counse l ledmoderat ion and respect for the l aws, i n opposition to thefu rious spiri ts of the revolution . Marie -Joseph voted forthe death of Louis XVI. Andre not only d isapproved thisact of injustice , but expressed his opin ion so openly thathe became a ‘ suspect ’ to the extreme party. H e wasarrested during the Terror

,and gu i l lotined at the bam ’

ére

de Vincennes on 7Mem idor,only two days be fore the fall

of Robespierre. Save the d ivine and he roic CharlotteCorday, no more i nteresting figu re than that of the youngpoe t was ecl ipsed with al l the beauty and brave ry whichperished in that piti less Revolut ion .

I t is an almost accepted legend that Andre Chen ier wasthe protagonist of F rench poetry in the n ineteenthcentu ry.

‘All the poets of the n ineteenth centu ry,save

Lamartine ’ says A rsene Houssaye,

‘se t out in the

golden argosy of André Chenie r, to sai l across the I oniansea

, and l isten to the si rens of Home r and Sappho Hisverse was ‘ a fresh breath from Greece ’

,says Theophile

A N D R E C H EN I E R

Gautier, with less exaggeration . Sainte-Beuve , i n hisP ense

’

es de j osep/z D elorme,seems to have been large ly

responsible for the promulgation of this legend . B aude lai rebe l ieved that Andre Chenie r had no influence whatever onthe poe tical deve lopment of the n ineteenth century ; andindeed it was Lamart ine who gave the first fresh impulseto the lyrical movement of his age . Chen ier‘s poe t ry wasentire ly neglected by his own contemporaries, and it wasonly in 18 19 that a very impe rfect col lection of his ve rses ,with an inaccurate memoir by Henri de Latouche

,was

given to the world The Revolutionary and Napoleonicepochs had not been favourable to lyric art , but therecan be no doubt that when Chen ier’s poems were publishedthey did contribute a l ittle to the efllorescence of 1 830 ,

which was chiefly the work of Chateaubriand , Lamartine ,Musse t

, A lfred de V igny, Sainte-Beuve and V ictor Hugo .

Chen ier ’s poetical style and me trical treatment do notd iffe r fundamental ly from those of the French versifiers

of the e ighteenth century, to which era he be longed bybirth and trad ition . But he gave a freshe r and freer playand a ful le r harmony and rhythm to the classical mythology which underl ies al l the writ ings of that pe riod . H e

restored suppleness to the stiff old alexand rine , and hisideas and images had a much more vivid ind ividual itythan those of his predecessors. H e had vigour and grace ,along with which he ach ieved at times the t rue lyricalswing and gai t. On this ground

,i f on no other

,he claims

a place among the poets of the present century,to whom

he i s akin also in the d ign ity and forthright earnestnessof his utte rance . His po l itical poems have an accent ofs incerity which makes them mode l s of the i r k ind . Perhapshe fe l t

,when face to face with death

,that he had not done

al l he might have done with better opportun ities and amore encouraging publ ic. But i t does not appear that he

3

A N D R E C H EN IE R

would have become the leader of a new movement i nletters, i f h is measure may be taken from the plan ofH ermes, which was discove red among his posthumouspapers . Specimens of this work were fi rst publ ished bySainte-Beuve, along with other rel iques of Chenier

’ spoetry . H ermes was to have been a descriptive andphi losophical poem in three books, contain ing imitationsof Vergil ’s Georgies, and of Lucretius, Lucil ius , Ovid andother Latin writers, with whom Chenier had a largeacquaintance . The formation of the earth

,the creation of

an imals and man, the deve lopment of the human mind ,

the growth of re l igions , the organisation of society andthe evolution of customs, morals, pol i ty and science werecomprised in the scheme of H ermis. F rom the fragmentswhich have come down to posteri ty, th is poem wouldseem to have been admi rably fitted to close the work ofLea and De l i l le in the e ighteenth centu ry, instead ofpre lud ing the melod ious bursts of 1830. But the fame ofChen ier must natural ly rest on what he did , rathe r thanwhat he might have done . His viri le ,

sonorous andoften beautiful verse ,

his tragic caree r, and the prematureextinction of his ambitious genius

,wi l l give him an eve r

lasting place in French l iteratu re , and leave not unfulfi l led ,i n a wider sense than he conce ived i t, the fate foreshadowed in the last l ines which he wrote whi lst awai tinghis turn in the prison of Saint-Lazare

Le messager de mortRempl ira de mon nom ces longs corridors sombres

(fambe 1 V: unfinished .)

A N D R E C H EN I E R

Bac c h u s .

Come Bacchus, come Thyoneus ever young,As Dionysus or as Leneus sung !O come

,as when in Naxos lone and wi ld

Thy voice d id soothe the fears of Minos’

childThe towered e lephant

,slain i n glori ous war,

Had fashioned with his spoils th ine ivory car ;

V ine-leaves and tendri ls l i nked in flowing chainsThe broad-flanked tige r

,furrowed w i th dark stains

,

A nd dusky pard,fierce panther and starred lynx

That led thee with thy court iers to these brinks.On whee l s and ax les gold shone everywhe reThe Matnads ran with loose and streaming hair

,

And Io Bacche ! Evohe Bacche ! sung ,Leucus , Evan , Thyoneus eve r young,And al l thy splend id names in Greece renowned ,Ti l l rock and vale echoed the jovial sound .

Lo,now with wreathe'd horns and flutes they come ,

Crotal s and c l amorous cymbals and hoarse drumWaved on thy noisy path w ith song and dance !Satyr and Faun and sylvan gods advanceTrooping at random round S i lenus hoar,Who

,cup in hand

,from the far I nd ian shore

,

Drunken and drive l l ing as of old,wil l pass

With slow pace tottering on his lazy ass.

A N D R E C HEN I E R

The Yo u ng Cap t i ve .

The green car ripens whi le the sickle stays,The ungathered grape , clustering in summer days,

Drinks the dawn ’s dewy boonL ike the irs my beauty is

,my youth l ike the i rs,

And though the present hour has griefs and caresI would not die so soon .

Let tearless Stoics seek the arms of Death !I weep and hope ; be fore the black wind

’s breathI bend , then rai se my head .

Among my bitter days some swee t I find 1What honey leaves no satiate taste behind

What seas no tempest dread ?

L i fe ’s fresh i l l usion dwe l l s within my breast.My l imbs in vain these prison-wall s invest ;

Hope ever gives me wings.As when , escaped the crue l fowler

’s snare ,More l ight, more joyfu l i n the fie ld s of air

Phi lome l soars and sings.’

Why should I wish to die ? F rom peacefu l sleepPeaceful I wake ; not with remorse I weep,

Nor crimes my rest destroy.

My welcome to the dawn in al l things smilesOn sombre brows my look almost begu ile s

A reawaken ing j oy.

The young capt ive saysPl u’loméIe, but perhaps she is thinking ofthe larlt.6

A N D R E C H E N I E R

I seem so far from the bright journey’s end !These e lms that fringe the path on which I wend

Stretch forth i n endless row s.F resh at the feast of l i fe , l ike a new guest,One moment on ly my fond l ips have pressed

Th e cup that overflows .

’

T is spri ng the harvest i s not yet begu nF rom season to new season

,l ike the sun

,

I would fulfi l my year.F lowe r of l i fe ’s garden

,shin ing on the bright

Spray, scarce have I behe ld the morn ing l ight,And noon is not yet near.

Death,come not n igh me now depart

,depart !

Console the sons of fear and shame whose heartS inks in despai r’ s pale swoon

To me green Pales“

with her flock be longs,The Loves give kisses, and the Muses songs

I would not die so soon .

Laj eune Captive.

(Ode X1.)

A l phonse d e Lamart ine .

Born in Macon, 1790 . Died in Paris, 1869.

A lphonse -Marie -Louis de Lamartine ' i s the masterof F rench reflective ve rse , and his influence on modernpoet ry has been real and lasting. His early you th waspassed in the country-house of Saint-Po int, under the wingof a fond mothe r and with refined sisters ; his educationwas superintended by a romantic priest and completedat the Jesu i t seminary of Be l ley. His youthful facu l tieswe re fed on the B ible , on Bemard in de Saint-Pie rre , onRousseau and on Chateaubriand , with some of the olderEngl ish and I tal ian poets

,and he began early to express

his emotions in verse . Afte r a visit to I taly he enteredthe mil itary household of Lou i s xvnr i n 18 14 , and soonbecame a famil iar figu re i n the best royal ist salons i nPari s. His health had always been somewhat fragi le ,and his sentimental melancho ly led him i nto manystrange expe riences of the tender passion in his youth.The publ icat ion of the first volume of M/ditah '

ons i n182 0 caused an unwonted commotion in l ite rary c ircles.

I t was the most bri l l iant success,said Sainte-Beuve , since

Chateaubriand ’s Ge‘nie da C/mstianisme. Lamartineleaped into fame with one bound , and yet, i f the ci rcumstances be conside red

,it i s easy to understand the sudden

The repeated assert ion that Lamartine ’s real name was Prat is inaccurate.The family name was Lamartine , but the poet ’s father, a younger 000. bore

the courtesy-ti tle ofCheval ier de Prat. The fimilywas an old but obscure

terri torial one.

8

A L P H O N S E D E L A MA RT I N E

ments poe’

tigues, and in 1 84 7 the H istoire des Girondins.

But his fame had already been ove rshadowed by that ofV ictor Hugo and the bri ll iant men of 1 830- 184 0 ,

and hehimse l f had lost the touch which made his earl ier poemsso fascinating. Moreover, he could not be compared asan artist with the writers of that pe riod . His facil ity ofimprovisation was fatal to the seve re discipl ine whichforms a poe t of the highest order. H e had always been aloose and care less write r, and so disl iked the labour ofrevision that when Hachettes were about to

“

publ ish a newedition ofj ocelyn he could not make up his mind to correctthe faulty verses, and final ly proposed that a l i terary hackshould finish them . And yet this was the poem in whichBerange r

,so debonair in his judgments, found flaws,

negligences and longueurs wh ich , even to his i ndulgenteyes, we re only redeemed by its numbe rless beauties.Lamartine

’

s active inte rvention in politi cs , his partic ipation in the ove rthrow of Louis-Phil ippe i n 184 8 , and hiscourageous and successful re sistance

,as a membe r of the

Provisional Gove rnment,to an armed multitude i n the

streets of Paris, are famil iar to readers of French history.

He was almost the absolute maste r of F rance for threemonths . His decl ine was rapid and i rre trievable . A yearlater he could not find a department in F rance wil l ing toe lect him as its parl iamentary representative. H e soonretired into private l ife , disappointed and impove rished .

His resources had been badly admin iste red in the day ofhis prosperity. Prince ly expenditure and unhappy specu

lations, trave l l ing, e lections, charities, and a hundred othe r

things, had exhausted his fortune . I n 1860 he had toleave Milly, the family domain in the Maconnais

,afte r

se ll ing his furn itu re and he irlooms. Thenceforth he l ivedin an obscure lodging in Paris with hi s devoted wife , whi leVictor Hugo, ex i led

,was writing les Miserables in his

IO

A L P H O N S E D E L A M A R T I N E

island sol itude. Lamartine’

s efforts to free himse l f fromdebt

,says E rnest Legouvé, a friend of his late r days, were

supe rhuman . The author whose H istory of the Girondins

had been sold to a publ ishe r for francs before hehad written a single l ine , now slaved for journals andmagazines

,furn ishing pol it ical and historical cri t icism

,

confidences, memoirs and occasional ve rse for the wherewithal to face d ishonoured bil l s, accumulated interest,and the demands of urgent creditors . This proud manhad to sacrifice his pride

,his ambition

,his heal th and

his happines s in the despe rate struggle . The F renchChambers voted him a substantial al lowance i n 1 867, butthis we lcome re l ief came too late. And so Lamartine,who might easi ly have had al l that should accompany oldage , died in poverty and lonel iness, a shadow of his formerse l f, i n the midst of new pol itical and l iterary movementsto which he was a strange r. More than once he had fai ledto take at the flood that tide i n the affairs of men whichleads on to fortune.

Lamartine’

s characte r was in many respects a great one .

H e was tolerant i n his Opinions, l iberal i n hi s ideas andjust i n his actions. When the events of 1 84 8 placedpower in his hands he not only governed with moderationand d ignity but he showed himse l f absolute ly disinterested . H e had the gi ft of se iz ing quickly the superficials ign ificance of things

, yet he lacked pe rseverance, andrare ly followed up his first en thusiasm with energy andgoodwi l l . Had he discipl ined his l i terary faculties andtu rned aside from pol itical popularity he might have beenone of the fi rst poe ts of the century. As i t i s , he hasexerci sed a larger influence on F rench poetry than e i therAndré Chen ier or A lfred de Musset, and no lover of versecan be in sensible to the me lod ious charm ,

the contemplative beauty and the tender me lancholy of his Muse, so

I I

A L P HO N S E D E L A M A RT I N E

free from every d isposition to revolt and violence . Hisideals of the poe tic vocation d ifl

’

ered widely from those ofhis ch ief contemporaries in F rance , and were rathe r akin toWordsworth ’s. ‘You ask me

’

,he says in the beautifu l

preface to his Recueillements poe'

tiques, how, in the midstof my agricultural labours

,my ph i losoph ical stud ies, my

trave ls,and the pol itical movement which carries me

occasional ly into its tumultuous and impassioned sphere ,I can keep some freedom of mind and some hours ofaudience for that poesy of the soul wh ich speaks only ina low voice

,in si lence and in sol itude . I t is as i f you

should ask the sold ier or the sai lor if he has a moment tothink on those he loves

,and to pray to God

,i n the noise

of the camp or amidst the agitations of the sea

A l though the fitful reaction from time to time i n favou rof Lamartine has not restored his populari ty, the re i sl ittle doubt that he wil l occupy in F rench l ite ratu re thatplace which the rapid i ty of h istorical evolution and thebewildering changes in l iterary taste have so long deniedto him. Lamartine says Theodore de Banvi l le

,was to

V ictor Hugo what the dawn is to the sun ’

. With hisgenerosity

,h is human ity

,his noble ideals

,and his pure

poe tical talent, so simple and so emotional, the fame of

L amartine has deserved a better fate .

‘The re i s ’,wrote

Jules Claretie i n 188 1,

‘ and I say it to the shame of thenew generations , a want of taste, and also a want of fee ling, in the d iscred i t into wh ich Lamartine has fal len .

In him the poet was a great poet and the man a goodc i ti zen ’

. S i nce th is was written other powe rfu l voicesthose Of Jules Lemaitre and Gaston Deschamps not theleast—have pleaded for the rehabi l i tation of Lamartine

,

and it wil l be passing strange if they have always toplead in vain .

A L P H O N S E D E L AM A R T I N E

Th e Lak e .

Thus ever d riven , as one that aimless steers,And borne towards n ight eternal d ri fts away,

Shall we not once , on the swift tide of years ,Cast anchor for a day ?

0 lake ! one flee ting year hath scarce ly flownYet, by the cherished waves she loved to greet,

See , where she watched thee ,seated on th i s stone

,

A lone I take my seat !

Thus we rt thou moan ing on those rocks profoundThus broke thy bi l lows on the i r riven flanks

Thus at her worsh ipped feet the w i ld wind crownedWith foam thy wave-kissed banks.

One n ight—hast thou forgotten —we did floatI n s i lence hushed were sky and stream and cave

Only the sound of oars in cadence smoteOn thy harmon ious wave

When,suddenly

,strange speech , as from above ,

Woke the charmed echoes of thy l isten ing shoreThe waves grew sti l l , and , from the l ips I love

,

These words the breezes bore

0 Time , suspend thy wing ! A nd you,blest hours

,

Suspend your rap id fl ightLe ave us awhi le to taste the bl iss that dowers

Our days with brief de l ight !

1 3

A L P H O N S E D E L AM A R T I N E‘Too many wretches groan in you sad world

O Speed for them the suns‘ Let the i r slow sorrows on your wings be whirled

Forge t the happier ones.

Yet vainly I implore a brief de l ay ;Time flies, swift as a dream

I pray for n ight to l inger, and the dayEven now begins to gleam.

Haste, then , to love ! Se ize happiness beforeThe flee ting moments fly !

Man has no haven here , and Time no shoreL ife flows

,and we gl ide by l

O envious Time , must the hour when raptu res spring,When love pours out long draughts of happiness,

Sweep far beyond us, borne on swifter wingThan days of sore distress ?

What l wi l t thou leave us not at least a trace ?What ! wholly flown what ! lost for evermore ?

The bl iss that Time bestowed shal l Time efface ,Nor once i ts boon restore ?

Space and obl ivion , sombre gulfs of t ime ,Whe re are the days ye swal low and destroy ?

Speak shal l ye not bring back those hours sublimeYe ravished from our joy ?

O lake ! 0 voiceless caves ! Woods dark and deep lYou that Time spares, or freshens in his fl ight ;Keep thou at least , be loved Nature , keep

Remembrance of that n ight !

Let i t be in thy storms and in thy rest,0 lake , and in the shores thy ripple laves,

14

A L P H O N S E D E L A M A R T I N E

And i n those gloomy pines, and rocks whose crestF rowns on thy laughing waves

Let i t be i n the breeze that shivers past,And i n the murmur of thy tribute stream ,

And in the wh i teness of thy surface , glassedF rom the Star’s si lve ry beam

And may the wind that wails , the reed that sighs ,The l ight-winged fragrance of thy breath d ivine ,

And all that soothes the soul and charms the eyesWhi spe r : The i r love was mine !

Le Lat .

(Premzeres zlfe’

ditationspoe'

tigues.)

T he Val l ey .

My heart,i n which even hOpe has ceased to l ive,

Shal l weary fate no more with idle breathGive me

,O valley of my childhood

,give

Me she lte r for a day to wait on death !

Here the strait pathway leaves the Open gladeA long its devious l pe s hang the dense boughs

That,bending ove r me the i r mingled shade ,

With bli ssful calm and silence crown my brows.

Two rivu lets the re through verdant arche s gleam,

Thence down the val ley wind with serpe nt courseA moment blend the i r murmur and the i r stream

,

And,lost in one , forge t the i r name less source.

L ike the i rs the current of my youth did rol lBeyond recal l

,noise less and name less passed

The i r wave i s clear,but in my troubled soul

The morn ing beam no bright reflection cast.

A L P H ON S E D E L AMA RT I N E

The freshness of these beds, with shadow crowned ,Chains me al l day on banks the streamlet laves

L ike a chi ld soothed by song’s monotonous sound ,My soul grows drowsy with the murmuring waves.

Ah he re,girdled by ramparts eve r green

Whose narrow bound my vision satisfiesI love to l inger, and alone , unseen ,Hear the stream only, only see the sk ies.

Too much my soul has l ived and loved and strivenL iving I come to seek Le thean calmMay blest obl ivion by these shades be given ,For save obl ivion naught can bring me balm .

My soul finds si lence he re,my heart repose

The turmoi l of the world comes muffled here,

Even as a d istant sound that feebler grows,

Borne on the wind to the unce rtain ear.

Hence over l i fe a cloudy ve i l is thrown ,The past through shadow casts a fading gleam

Love alone dwe l ls , as some vast shape aloneSurvives the awaken ing from a van ished dream .

L inger, my soul , i n this last resting-place ,Even as a travel le r, in the dwindl ing l ight,

Before the gates of refuge rests a space ,And breathes refreshed the balmy air of n ight.

Let us, l ike him, shake from our fee t the dust ;The path of l i fe once trod our journeyings cease

Let us, l ike him , o’

erwearied , breathe i n tru stThis calm , precursor of the e te rnal peace .

Thy days, sombre and brief l ike autumn days,Decl ine, as on those slope s the night-shades gloom

16

A L P H O N S E D E L AMA R T I N E

And half the world was darkened , and the breezeB reathless and voice less sh rank within the ve i l

And shadows gathe red round, and skies and seasBeneath the i r dusky wing grew sudden pale .

And in my soul , that l ikewise waned and d reamed ,All sounds, al l splendou rs dwind led with the day,

And , as in Nature, something in me seemedBy tu rn s to grieve and bless, to weep and pray.

And towards the West alone, with splendour ren t,The wave ri ng flame blazed as a golden pyre,

And , wrapt in pu rple clouds, was l ike a tentThat ve i l s, bu t quenches not, a bu rn ing fire.

And clouds and winds and waves wi th hurryingwings

Rushed towards that flam ing vault in rapid fl ight,As though wide Nature and all l iving thi ngsWere doomed to death i f they shou ld lose the light.

The dust of twi light floated from the ground,Upwards the whi te foam from the black waves flew ,

And i n m i ne eyes. that wandered sad ly roundTo watch the i r fl ight, tears gathered l ike the dew.

Then the l ight van ished , and my sou l OppressedGrew vo id . sw athed l ike the sky with cloudy hands

And one so le thought rose in my troubled breast,Sole as the pyram id on desert sands.

0 l ight ! where goest thou ? Orb fo rlorn offlame,And clouds and winds and waves, and thousoul ,

Foam , dust and darkness, i f we know,proclaim

What course is yours, and where your final goal !

18

A L P H O N S E D E L AMA RT I N E

I n thee, vast All, whose star is the pale l ightWhere n ight and day

,and soul and substance blend l

L i fe ’s un iversal tide i n flux and fl ightWide sea of Be ing in whom all things end !

L’

Om’

dent.

(Harmor:itspoe'

tx'

queret relzgw'

eures.)

E p i st l e to Ad o l p h e D umas.

18 September, 1838.

S till the true poe t’ s sou l soars h igh and higher !50 , friend , for thee the sum of my des irels freedom , and obl ivion of the wo rld ,And prose and ve rse i n to the black gu l f hurledBut i n thy heart of hearts a plenteous spring,Where i n spiration daily d ips her wing,And whose swee t murmu r, whi le i t soo thes the m indFlows in that si lent verse no hand hath signedA soul that sti l l with quenchless rapture glows,Whence adm iration brims and ove rflows ;Those sacred transpo rts in the work ofGodThat make a temple spri ng on eve ry sod ;

That commune of the sou l's myste ri ous deepsHe ld wi th the wave that s i ngs, the w i nd that weeps,And bird , and bush , and starry flrmament,And all that thri l l s, with thought and fee l ing blentA sunny nook o '

the tre l l ised wall where comesThe bee, afloat in the bright beam ,

and burnsBeneath green sun shade of the noonday pines,A meadow on whose slope the warm sky shines,

l9

A L P H ON S E D E L AMART I N E

While through the haze , far as th ine eye can reach ,The blue sea fl ings i ts white foam on the beach

,

And the white sai l , remote on bi l lowy seas ,Bends l ike a wave-borne tree beneath the breeze,And whence the thunde rous sound of floods d istraught,B reaking amain upon thine aery thought,Reveals in dreams that mirror vast and clear,Reflex of the i nfinite , that brings God near !A heaven that sheds its beams above thy sou lThy heart in tune with l i fe ’s harmonious whole !A peaceful conscience slumbe ring in thy breast,As in its bed the untroubled pool doth rest ;On the h i l l slope , outstretching many a mile ,Thy realm a roof of thatch , or slate , or t i le ,Whose shadow is thy world , whose threshold savesI ts lord a hundred years from the cold grave ’sThere

,slumbe rs l ight

,that waken with the lark,

The chee rful furrow, ploughed from dawn to darkA frugal board , where , be tween leaf and flower

,

Sm i le fru its to which thy graft gave double dowe r ;On walnut, sh i n ing with thy woven flax

,

A wine whose fragrance of thy vineyard smacksA summer shade a winte r hearth aglow,

Where oft thy hand the ol ive-stone shall throwCandles of bees-wax pe rfumed in thy hives,Whose flame on many a we l l-read book revivesConsol ing lamps that, for our souls ’ re l ief,The storms of time have left on the bare reef,And

, though our fickle winds fan not the i r flame ,High in the spiri t-sphe re sh ine sti l l the same !Then , lest the dregs of age no sweetness leave ,A mother’s , siste r

’s love to chee r l ife ’s eve ,A friend of old

,whose sol itude l ies near

,

True as the need le and to custom dear,

2 0

A L P H ON S E D E L AM A R T I N E

Who comes each n ight, w ith his famil iar smile ,The hearth with friendly converse to begui le .

With these,dear friend

,let the keen critic ’s claw

Mark on our tuneful page each fatal flaw,

Let Paris hiss us , while our suns entice ;I long for fame to se l l i t at this price !

Epftre d M. Adolf/M D umas .

(Recueillements

To a Yo u ng G i rl w ho begged a lo ck

o f my ha i r.

My hai r ! that Time turns white , and withering mocks !My hai r ! that falls be fore the winter’s frown

Why should your finge rs p leach these fad ing locks ?Green bo ughs are be st i f you would weave a crown .

Th ink you the brows of manhood,fai r young girl ,

That forty seasons load with joys and fears,

Wear the blond ringle ts in the i r si lken curlWherewith Hope plays

,as with your seventeen years ?

Think you the lyre,attuned to the sou l ’s rhyme ,

S ings from our heart of hearts in the ful l throat,W i th neve r a string that snaps from time to t ime ,And leaves beneath the touch a si lent note ?

Poor simple child ! What would the swallow sing,When winte r winds beat round her ru ined towe r,I f thou shouldst crave those feathe rs from her wingThe ruth less vultu re strips and tempests shower ?

fl unej eunefi lle quz’

me demandaz'

t de me: ckeveux.

(Recuez'

llemmts

2 !

V i c to r H ugo .

Born in Besangon, 1802 D ied in Paris, 1885.

lze above t/ze rest

In slzape and gertureproudly eminent.

I t is needless to recap i tulate the chief incidents of a l i fewhich has fi l led so large and luminous a space i n the

l i terature of the nineteenth century as that of V ictorHugo.

‘ No poe t eve r l ived so much in the ful l l ight of day.

Eve ry reader is more or le ss famil iar with the legend ofhis glory as the chief of the Romantic Movement of1830 ; his wonderful ferti l ity from 1830 to 184 0 i n poetry,drama and romance ; h is ex i le of nearly twenty yearsafte r the Napoleon ic coup d

’

e’

tat i n 1 852 ,and the subl ime

visions which he gave to the world from his island refugehis retu rn to Paris afte r the fal l of the second Empire ;his popular triumph in 1 88 1

,when Paris was covered with

flags and flowers,wh i l st a procession of two hundred

thousand persons passed before his dwe l l ing ; and , four

H is fatherwasGenera! Joseph oLéopold-SigisbertHugo , afterwardsCount

de Cifuentes and de S iguenza, in the Spanish peerage of King Joseph Bonaparte . The Hugo family was of very humb le origin. Victor Hugo ’

s grandfatherwas a carpenter, and three ofhis aunt: supported themse lves by dressmaking. In spite ofhis democratic professions the poet took no end of painsto graft his ancestry upon that of the Franco -German se igneurial fami ly ofHugo von Spitz emberg, and even assumed the ir armorial bearings, but thereis not a part icle of evidence to substantiate th is ped igree . The authenticgenealogy ofVictor H ugo is estab lished beyond a doub t by the documentsci ted in Edmond Biré’s Victor H ugo avant 1880 (Perrin : Paris) ofwhich anew ed ition was pub lished in 1894 .

V I C TO R H U GO

years late r, his publ ic funeral , wh ich cal led forth a demonstration of sorrow and enthusiasm such as had neveraccompan ied the remains of a mortal man to the i r lastresting-place .

A study of the vast work of V ictor Hugo would alsobe futi le unle ss a whole volume could be devoted tothe purpose. The me re enume ration of a l i st of l ite raryachievements wh ich i ncludes H cruou z

'

,Marion do L ormc

,

lo Roi r’amusc

,Ruy Blur

,and [or B urgraves i n tragedy,

N acre-Dame dc Paris, lesMz'

sc’

rables,[cs Tmoo d/curs de la

Mar,l’

H ommc qu z’

rz'

t,and Quatrevz

’

ugt-trezee i n romance

,

and that marve l lous serie s of lyrical creations in whichwelllnigh eve ry note of human emotion is sounded andeve ry phase of human contemplation represented

,would

be enough to recal l to those who are in touch with F renchl ite rature the i ncomparable powe r and versati l ity ofV ictorHugo ’s genius. Those who are not at home i n F renchl ite rature may refe r to A lge rnon Charles Swinburne ’sS tudy of Victor H ugo (London : Chatto and Windus1 886) i n wh ich the only blemish is perhaps a too enraptured strain of exube rant eulogy.

The glory of V ictor Hugo has not lacked d isparagement

,and an impart ial adm iration w i l l hardly be bl ind

to the faults wh ich are inseparable from such a phenomenon of genius . When the flux of images and metaphorsat the poet

’s command pours in almost ludicrous d isproportion to the magn itude of the thought ; when grotesqueantithesis and superfluous analogy are p i led up to d isguisethe occasional lack of intense passion or sustained imagination ; when an apparently egregious conce i t finds ex

pression in fami l iar col loq uy with the majest ic forces ofNature unti l it verges on the burlesque -what can thej ud ic ious do but grieve ? And yet al l the trivial it ies,and al l the platitudes

,and al l the tumid disfigurements

2 3

V I CTO R H U GO

that may be d iscovered in a critical analysis of V ictorHugo’s work

, are smal l i n comparison with the grandeurand vastness of the whole . The h istorical anachron ismsand verbal blunders of which so much has been made maybe ind ividual ly absurd , but they count for l i ttle i n the

splendid sum ,and such inaccurac ies are not to be found

in anything of Hugo’s which is the record of d i rect personal obse rvation . The beauty of a wide landscape isnone the less refreshing to the senses and inspiring tothe sou l because the beholder knows that if he d issectsthe material of wh ich i t i s composed he may d iscove rmany things on which he would fain close his eyes andst0p his nostri ls. Milton leads us somet imes i nto the

arid wilderness whe re insipid pe rsonages d iscourse , notalways with the tongues of ange ls ; nor are Dante

’ s dryd isse rtations invariably rad ian t with the triple i nfluenceof the stars ; even Shakespeare has occasional lapsesinto persiflage not unworthy of a farce at the fai r. And

V ictor Hugo, subl ime as these i n his supreme moments,must be judged by the gene ral sweep and powe r of h isgen ius, regard less of spots that appear and d i sappear inthe solar rad iance.

I t was inevi table,al so , that the acts and opin ions of a

man whose evolution led him from Roman Cathol ici sm to

absolute i ndependence of creed , from the worship of

impe rial ism and fai th in royalty to the glorificat ion ofthe ideal republ ic , and from l ite rary trad ition to the ind ividual expression of his own genius, should have arousedanimosity in many re l igious

,conse rvative and conventional

minds. This poe t who at n ineteen adored De l i l le andat twenty-one revealed himse l f as the creator of a new

form of French lyrical art ; this leade r of a revolut ionarymovement in le tters and po l i t ics who became a membe rof the Academy and accepted a seat in the Senate ; this

2 4

V I CTO R H U GO

ing vividness with wh ich he could depict and presentnatural objects was due to his natu ral ly q uick and careful ly cultivated faculty of obse rvation. While he walkedhe dreamed and created ; hence the appropriateness ofBaude lai re ’s characteri sation of him as ‘Mc

'

dr'

tation qu i

I ndeed one of the secrets of V ictor Hugo ’sinexhaustible ene rgy and l ife long capacity for indefatigable labour—equal to that of Balzac or L ittré—was hishealthy love of exercise. A lthough he was fond of soci alpleasures he eschewed those voluptuous indulgences whi chhave been the moral and material ru in of so many Frenchpoets. H e kept his vigour fresh and unimpai red longafter the time when the average man is worn out : i n oldage his eye was not d im nor his natural force abated.And there was always i n his natu re that real simpl ic i tywhich finds its sustenance i n the love of flowe rs andchi ldren and in the swee tness of household affections.These fee l ings, expressed in his poe try, have left a t rai lof exquisite tende rness even on the fierce i nvective of 1c:

Clzdtimcuts and ove r the blood and deso lation of I’Anm

Looked at in large , the characte r of V ictor Hugo, l ikethat of eve ry truly great man , was good and noble. H is

voice, no less than Voltai re ’s , was continually l i fted upagainst crue lty, ignorance and oppression . H e pleadedfor clemency and although his pe rsonal l ikes and d islikeswere eq ual ly pronounced , and sometimes indulged toexce ss ,’ he was a fai thfu l be l ieve r in tole rance and l ibe rty.

His charities we re as ample as they were unostentatious.To pol itical refugees and l ite rary aspi rants he was often aprudent counse l lor and always a generous friend . I t i s a

A no tab le instance is the savage animosi ty of his poem on the death of

Marshal Saint-Amand , pub lished by Paul Meurice and Auguste Vacqueriein the last vo lume of Term 14 Lyra (mm: inédim).

26

V I CTOR H U GO

notable fact that al l the younge r men of letters whoenjoyed th e i ntimacy of V ictor Hugo retained througheve ry change

,and to the last, the i r affection and admi ra

tion for the master. For many years he rese rved in hisParisian residence a chambe r wh ich poor authors, fed athi s table and cheered by his discourse, could occupy fora few months at a time, and so work in freedom on somecherished volume . Gérard de Ne rval, Edouard Ourliacand A lbe rt Glatigny we re among the temporary recipientsof th is bounty .

I t i s not l iteral ly t rue, as some admirer has asserted ,that in the n ineteenth century al l French poet ry worthyof the name is de rived from V ictor Hugo . Lamartineand Musse t must claim a share i n the impulse given tolyric art. But the supremacy of V ictor Hugo has beenrecogn ised by every poe t of importance s ince 1830, and ,l ike Voltaire i n the e ighteenth centu ry

,V ictor Hugo is by

general consent the great representat ive genius of F rancei n the n ine teenth centu ry. No write r has exce l led him inweaving the e lements e i the r of human passion or of naturalforce i nto a vast ‘ tragic landscape ’

. His colossal architectu re has a beauty of outl ine and a majestic un ity ofstructu re which justifies the ep ithe t of Affagz

'

rtcr dc lapz'

di‘ bus His ve rse

,which has been the envy and

admiration of three gene rations of French singe rs , i sd istingu ished by its extraordinary vigour and vehemencethe rhythmical sweep is supe rb and the i nwoven me lodyin im itable ; the fe rti l ity and fe l i ci ty of i l lustration are

bound less . Even a supe rficial comparison of his workwith that of the older French poets must man ifest hisimmense supe riority, both as singer and artist . The i r colddeclamation is charged with passion ; the note of tenderness is true r and deeper the harmony i s rich and sonorous ; the image ry glowing and original ; the dramatic

27

V I C TO R H U GO

intensity at times almost overpowe ri ng. His fine r versei s most de l i cate and fancifu l, and in the man ipulation ofnarrow rhythms and diflicult rhymes he d isplays theabsolute ease of a maste r. ‘No poe t was ever more profoundly and d iverse ly human

than V i ctor Hugo, and none, with the single exceptio n ofShakespeare, has so d ivine ly interpreted

the pr0phetic sou lOf the wide world , d reaming on things to come ’

The short rhythms which Victor Hugo hand led with such consummateart canno t be adequately translated into English. Some wonderful achievements in similar compass have been performed byShelleyand Swinburne and

Beddoes, but in translating i t is impossib le to turn the necessary rhymesround in so limi ted a space wi thou t excessive vio lence to the thought. VictorHugo ’

s ample slexandrines also lose much of their effect in the Englishrhymed heroic verse, because the latter runs naturally into couple ts, whereasthe long French l ine reso lves i tse lf into two hemistiches, and thus lends i tselfto the completion ofa comparison or antithesis 1n the space of a single l ine .

The decasyllabic verse is too abrupt when treated in th is fashion, and if thetwo alexandrines are fused into one hero ic couplet there is often a mixture of

metaphors and a redundancy of images which becomes confusing. It must notbe imagined that the ensu ing translations are intended otherw ise than as mere

specimens ofVictorHugo ’s verse. They wi l l give but a glimmering of the

splendour and scope of his genius as a lyrical and declamatory poet. A

copious select ion from each of his twenty vo lumes ofverse wou ld be needed

to represent the manifo ld and mul t iform incarnations of his poet ical spirit .The only living Englishman capab le ofdoing just ice to the rush and splendourofthe rhythm and the beauty and variety of the rhyme is A lgernon CharlesSwinburne .

2 8

V I CTO R H U GO

H er Name.

N omen aut N umm .

A lily’ s fragrance rare, an aureole’s pale splendour

,

The whispe r of the waning dayLove ’s passionate pure ki ss of vi rginal su rrende rThe hour that breathes farewe l l , mysterious and tende r

The grief by comfort charmed away ;

The sevenfold scarf by storm emblazed and braiden,

A trophy to the victor sunThe sudden cadence of a voice with memories ladenThe soft and simple vow won from a shamefast maiden

The dream of a new l i fe begu n

The mu rmur that with orient Dawn , rising to greet her,F rom l ips of fabled Memnon came ;

The undulant hum remote of some me lod ious met reAll the sou l d reams most sweet, i f aught than these be

sweete r,O Lyre, is less sweet than her name !

Even as a muttered praye r pronounce it, breathinglowly,But let i t sound through al l our songs !

Be i n the darkened shrine the one l ight d im and ho ly !Be as the word d ivine the same voice, chaunting slowly

F rom the deep altar-place prolongs !

2 9

V I C T O R H U GO

O world ere yet my Muse , upbome i n ample azure,

H er wings for wandering fl ight unfolds,

And with those clamorous names, profaned of pride orp leasure ,

Dares blend that chaster one that, l ike a sacred treasure ,Love h idden in my heart sti l l holds,

Needs must my song , wh i le yet of si lence unforsaken ,Be l ike those hymns we knee]to hear,

And with its solemn strains the tremulous ai r awaken ,As though , with view less plumes and unseen censersshaken ,A fl ight of ange ls hovered near !

N am.

(Oder et Ballad es.)

To a Woman .

Chi ld ! i f Iwere a king, my throne Iwould surrender,My sceptre , and my car, and knee l ing vavassours,

My golden crown , and porphyry baths , and consortstenden

And fleets that fi l l the seas, and regal pomp and splendour,All for one look of yours !

I f Iwere God, the earth and luminous deeps that span it,

A nge l s and demons bowed beneath my word divine ,Chaos profound , with flanks of flaming gold and gran ite,E tern ity

,and space , and sky and sun and planet,

All for one kiss of thine

A une Fe mme.

(L es Feuz'

lles d’

automne.)8 May, 182 9.

30

V I C TO R H U GO

N ew S o ng to an Old A irfi“

I f there be a fair demesne ,F resher than the rose i s,

Where each season ’s showe r and sheenSome new bloom uncloses ;

Whe re one gathers , hour by hour,Jasmine

,l i ly

,honey-flower

,

Would that such might be the bowerWhe re thy foot reposes !

I f there be a loving breast,

Honour so d isposes,That of al l her gifts the bestLove the re in encloses ;I f this noble bosom yie ldHigh desi res to love revealed ,Would that such might be the shie ldWhere thy head reposes !

I f the re be a d ream of love,

Odorous with roses,

Whence each day that dawns aboveSome swee t th ing disclosesDream that God himse l f hath blessed

,

Where i n soul with sou l may rest,

Would that such might be the nestWhere thy heart reposes

N ouvelle Chanson sur zm v z'

ez'

lA ir.

(Les C/zcmts da Cre’

puscule. XXII.)18 February, 1834 .

See Note on page 50.

V I C TOR H U G O

In a C h u rc h .

i Q Q C

O woman ! why these tears that d im your sight,These brows with sorrow drawn ?

You,whose pure heart is sombre as the n ight,

And tender as the dawn ?

What though the unequal lot,to some made swee t,

To some deals bitter doleThough l ife give s way and sinks beneath your fee t,Should that d ismay the soul ?

The soul , that seeks ere long a purer realm ,

Where beyond storm is peace ,Where

,beyond grie fs that surge and overwhe lm ,

This world ’s low murmurings cease !

Be l ike the bird that , on the branch at restFor a brief moment, sings

For though the frai l bough be nds beneath her breastShe knows that she has w ings !

Dans l'Eg/z

’

se dz

(Le: Grant: a'

u Cnflpurcu/e.)2 5October, 1834 .

Th i s Age is g reat and st ro ng .

This age is great and strong. Her chains are riven .

Thought on the march of man her mission sendsToi l ’s c lamour mounts on human speech to heaven ,And with the sound d ivine of Nature blends.

In cities and in sol itary stat ionsMan loves the milk whe rewith we nourish him

32

V I C TO R H U GO

Yea, al l things move and grow. The flee t hours flyingL eave each the i r track . The age has ri sen up great.

And now between its luminous banks, far-lying,Man l ike a broadened rive r sees h is fate .

But in th is boasted march from wrong and e rror,Mid the vast splendour of an age that glows,

One th ing, 0 Jesus, fi l ls my soul with terror :The echo of thy voice sti l l feebler grows !

Ce S z'

o‘

ole estgrand oifort.IS 4 15777. 1337. (Les Vaz

'

r

M ixed Comm i ss i o ns .

They s it in the shadow wh i le ‘ Justice prevai lsThey peop le with heroes the i r dungeons and gaols,

And the hulks,a detestable C loister

That floats l ike the blackness of n ight on the tidesWh i le the sun on the sea gilds its gl ittering sides

L ike scales on the she l l of an oyste r.

For harbouring an outlaw beneath his poor roofAn old man is crushed by the law ’s iron hoof

,

His cries w ith the i r curses they stifle :To the gal leys for branding these rogues of our Vote

,

These th ieves that se ized Popular R ights by the throat,

His pockets the bette r to rifle !

They sentence the son that defended his sire,

The wife that took bread to her husband through fire,

The friendsh ip by F reedom begottenHonour ? they banish and Truth ? they ex i leF rom judges l ike these issues J ustice as vile

As a graveworm from flesh that is rotten .

Les Commissions mz‘

xtes.

BRUSSELS :j u ly, 1852 . (Les

34

V I CTO R H U GO

Jeri ch o .

Sound ! trumpe ts of the soul , for eve r sound

When Joshua,vexed at heart, went march ing round

The wal ls,with h igh head , dreaming when the clang

Louder and louder of sh ri l l trumpets rang,

A t the first blast the king laughed in his sleeveThe next he laughed to scorn Dost thou bel ieveWith wind my c ity-walls to ove rthrowThe third time

,as the ark, solemn and slow,

With clarions went be fore the march ing ranks,A troop of ch i ldren mimicked in the i r pranksThe trumpet-blare , and spat upon the ark.

A t the fourth blast,by Levi ’s sons blown stark ,

Dusk women,seated at the distafl

’

,spun

B etween the crennelled towe rs,moss-grown and dun

,

And fl inging stones on the pale Hebrews,jeered .

The fifth time,on those gloomy walls appeared ,

With cries, the halt and maimed and bl ind in crowds

,

And mocked the clarion blown beneath the c louds.The sixth , beneath that rampire ’s gran ite crest

,

So high'

that there the eagle bui lds his nest,

So hard that the re the l ightning bursts in vain ,The king, with full -gorged laughte r, came againC rying : These Hebrews make rare minstre lsyRound the i r gay king the e lde rs laughed with glee

,

Though wont to ponde r grave i n judgment-hal ls .

But with the seventh blast crumbled the proud walls !

(Les d tz'

ments.)JERSEY : 19Maren, 1853.

35

V I C TOR H U GO

S tella.

One night I slumbered on the salt sea shore .

A fresh wind woke me, and I dreamed no more ,But watched with rapturous eyes the morning-starSupreme, that rose i n skies profound and far,Swathed in wh ite Splendour

,wonderful and soft.

The north wind, flying, wh i rled the storm aloft.The bright star smote the clouds in vapours wreathed ,I t was a l ight that thought

,and l ived , and breathed

I t calmed the rock whe reon the waves unfurlAnd shone even as the soul shines through a pearl.Though n ight was there , in vain the shadow gloomedI ’ the we lkin , by a heavenly smi le i l lumed .

The top of the slant mast caught si lve ry l ightB lack was the vesse l , but the sai l was white :The seamews, poised upon the ragged scar,With brooding looks gazed grave ly on the star,Seen l ike some heavenly fowl with plumes of flame.

The sea, whose swe l l i s l ike the people , cameAnd with hoarse murmurings low looked on the l ightTrembling, lest backward it should turn in flight.All space with love inefl

'

able was fi l led .

The green grass at my feet shivered and thri l ledB i rds in the i r nests he ld converse the new bi rthOf flowers sang sweetly : We are stars of earth !And , as the darkness her long ve i ls unwove ,I heard a voice fal l from the star, that cloveThe heavens and said

‘ I am the star of doom ,

She that seemed dead and ri ses from the tomb .

On Sinai, on the Spartan rock I shone ;A golden pebble winged with fire and thrown ,

36

V I C TOR H U GO

As from God ’s sl ing, at the black brows of night.F rom ru ined worlds I rise reborn and bright,0 Nations, as the burn ing sun of song !The fire on Moses’ brow and Dante ’s tongueWas mine. With love of me the ocean sighs.Icome

Faith, V i rtue , Courage, rise !

Mount to the towers, ye souls that watch below !

B l ind eye l ids Open,darkened eyebal ls glow ;

Earth,thri l l thy furrows speech

,i nspire the dumb

Up, ye that slumbe r, for behold I come,Vaunt-courie r of the i r march that sunders night,The giant L ibe rty

,the ange l L ight !

(Les Chatz'

ments.)JERSEY : 31 August, 1853.

D u sk .

The pool gl imme rs white,l ike a mystical shroud

I n the depths of the woodland are gl impses of glade s ;The boles are a shadow,

the branches a cloudIs it Venus that shimmers through leafy arcades ?

I s i t Venus that si lvers the S lopes with her l ight ?And you, are you lovers that pass in the gloom ?

With a sheen of soft lawn the dusk pathways are wh1teThe meadow awakens and cal ls to the tomb.

What song from the grass and what voice from the grave ?Night comes they are cold that S leep under the yews .

Let l ip cl ing to l ip ! Seek love, hearts that crave !Let the l iving be glad whi le we slumber and muse.

37

V I CTO R H U GO

God smi les on the lovers. L ive,envied and blest ,

0 coup les that pass on your leaf-cove red way !The love we bore with us to earth ’s ch i l ly breast ,F rom the land of the l iving, is left us to pray.

The thatch looming black hides a hearth that is bright ;The tread of the reaper is heard in the fie ld

A star from the blue,l ike a blossom of l ight,

B ursts forth in the freshness of sp lendour revealed .

’Tis the month of ripe berries , the month of sweet things.Night’s ange l floats dreaming on winds overhead ,

And blends,borne aloft on his shadowy wings,

The kiss of the l iving, the prayer of the dead .

Cre’puseule.

(Les Contemplatz'

ons.)CHELLES : August, 18 .

A H ymn o f the E arth .

H er throne is the meadow, the fie ld and the p lain ,She is dear to the sowe rs and reapers of grain

,

To the shepherds that sleep on the heatherShe warms her ch i l l breast in the fires of the sunsAnd laughs, when with stars in the i r c i rcle she runs,

A s with s isters rejoicing toge ther.

She loves the bright beam that caresses the wheat,And the c leansing of winds in her ae ther is sweet,

And the lyre of the tempest that thundersAnd the l ightn ing whose brow

,when it shines and takes

fl ightIn a flash that appals and appeases the night,

I s a smi le from the we lkin it sunde rs.

38

V I C TO R H U GO

Glory to E arth ! To the dawn of God ’s gaze !To the swarming of eyes in the woodland ablaze

,

To nests by the sunrise made splendidHail to the wh i ten ing of moon -smitten he ights !Hai l to the azure that squande rs her l ights

F rom treasuries neve r expended !

E arth loves the blue heaven that shines equal on al l,

Whose rad iance sheds calm on the throne and the thral l,

Who blends with our wrongs and remorses,

With our sorrows,that burst into laughte r too bold

,

With our sins,w i th our fevers of glory and gold

,

The song of the stars in the i r courses.

Earth is calm when the sea groans beneath hergrieves.

E arth is beautiful se e how she hides under leave sThe maidenly Shame of her blushes !

Spring comes,l ike a lover

,to kiss her i n May

She sends up the smoke of the vi llage to stayThe wrath of the thunde r that rushes .

Smite not, 0 thunde r ! the humble lie here

E arth i s bountiful yet i s she grave and severe ;And pure as her rose s in blossom

Man pleases her best when he labours and thinksAnd her Lo ve i s the we l l-spring that al l the world drinks,

And Truth is the milk of her bosom .

E arth hoards up her gold , but her harvest she wearsI n the flank of dead seasons that sleep i n her lai rs,

The germs of new seasons assemble ;She has birds in the azure that whisper of love,Springs that gush in the vales, and on mountains above

V ast forests of pine-trees that tremble .

39

V I C TO R H U G O

Wide weaver of harmon ies under the skies,She bids the salute of the slender reed rise

With joy to the he ight of the cedarFor her law is the lowly that loves the subl ime ,And she bases the right of the cedar to cl imb

On the wil l of the grasses that feed her.

She leve l s mankind in the grave at the end

A lexander’s and Cae sar’s proud ashes descendWith the dust of the cowherd to crumble ;

The soul she sends heavenward , the carcase She keeps,And disdains, i n the doom of obl ivious deeps,

To distinguish the h igh from the humble .

Each debt she d ischarges the branch to the root,The night to the day, and the flowe r to the fru i t ;

She nourishes al l she engendersThe plant that has faith when the man is in doubt ;O blasphemy, shame against Nature to flout

With his shadow the soul of her splendours !

H er breast was the cradle,her breast is the tomb,

Of Adam and Japheth she wrought out the doomOf the ci ties of I sis and Horus ;

Where Sparta l ies mourn ing, whe re Memphis l iesc rushed

,

Wheresoeve r the voice of man spake and is hushed ,The grasshopper’s song is sonorous.

For why ? That her joy may give comfort to graves.For why ? That the ravin and wreck of Time ’s waves

May be gue rdoned with glorification,

The voice that says No with the voice that says Aye,And the passing of peoples that vanish and d ie

With the mystical chaunt of creation .

4 0

V I C TO R H U GO

A lma Ceres was E arth , and E arth’s goddess of old,

She beamed with blue eyes over meadow and wold ,And sti l l the world rings with her paean

Sons, I am Demeter, d ivine of divine ,‘Ye shal l bui ld me a temple of splendour to shine

On the slopes of the Callichorean

La Terre : Hymne.

(La Légena’e a

’

es S zeeles.

F ro ndage .

Orpheus heard , as star rose afterStar and touched the woods with l ight ,

The obscure and ominous laughterOf the worsh ippers of n ight.

Phtah,the Theban priestess holy,

Gazing from her dusky shrine ,Saw the ebon shadows slowlyDance along the starred Sky

-l ine .

E schylus, after sunset, l ingeredIn the dun S ic i l ian shades

,

Charmed by flutes that deftly fingeredF lung sweet echoes through the glades.

Pliny, couched among the myrtles,D eemed the nymphs of Me l ita fai r

,

When the wind neath wh i rl ing k irtlesKissed the i r rosy l imbs blown bare .

Plautus wande red through the glowingOrchards, sometimes tu rn ing o

’

er

Tasted fru its i ’ the herbage , showingWhere some god had gone before.

V I C TOR H U G O

In Ve rsai l les, with beauty haunted ,Comes the faun

,where fountains flow,

Proffering to Moliere the enchantedRhymes that so amazed Boi leau .

Dante,when his glass grew d immer,

B lurred with dark-souled images,Watched athwart the twi l ight-gl immerWomen gl ide between the trees.

Chen ier, peering through the slende rWi llow-boughs

,bewi ldered hung

On those flying breasts whose splendourV e rgil

,l ike a love r

,sung.

Shakespeare,ambushed in the shadows

Of the drowsy-branched oak,

Caught faint tripp ings from the meadowsWhen the l ight-foot fairies woke.

Thus, 0 fol iage , are my fanc iesLured with i n the bosky bourne !Pan dwe l ls the re

,and there i n dances

Sti l l the dizzy Satyrs turn .

(Les Chansons a'

er Rner et des B oz'

s.)

Rea l i ty .

Nature i s everywhere the same ,At Timbuctoo as on the Tagus

Chlamys is pe tticoat,save in name

And Douglas Home i s S imon Magus.

V I C TOR H U GO

Lavall1ere in her coach, aquestOf Louis or Mars to q uench her pass ion ,

Was just as fierce ly love-possessedAs in her she l l the bright Thalassian .

0 sons, 0 brothers in poesy,I f the thing is

,let the word be spoken

Nothing is low when the soul soars highB e pure in sp irit and pass the token

You hear in Pa stum’

s rose-demesneThe hiccuping of old S i lenus !

IS Bottom amiss on Shakespeare ’s sceneWhen Horace stales the son of Venus ?

Truth laughs at l imits, the ve i l she scorns,

And , thanks to beast-god Pan , earth’s Real

Sprouts unashamed,and shows his horns

On the blue brows of the Ideal !

Rea/inf: Les Co mplications de l’

lde‘al.

(L es C/zansons a'

es Rue: et des Boz'

r.)

Th e S tree t s and the Wo o d s.

Beware , my friend , of pretty girlsShun the bow e r of the fal len goddess

Fear the charm of the ski rt that wh i rls,

The shape ly bust and the we l l-laced bod ice.

Look to your wings,bird

,when you fly !

Look to your threads,O doll that dances

Turn from the l ight of Calypso’s eye ,

And flee from the fire of Jenny’s glances !

4 4

V I CTO R H U GO

When they grow tender, then be sureThat slavery lurks with in the i r rapture

Love ’s A B C i s Art to al lure ,Beauty that bl inds and a Charm to capture

The sun-l ight gi lds a prison-ce l lA fragrant rose the gaol refreshes

And j ust l ike these, you see, i s the Spe l lOf a girl that lures you into her meshes .

Once caught, your soul i s a sombre lyre ,And i n your thought are storms that thunder !

And weep ing fol lows dead desi reE re you have time to smile and wonde r !

Come to the fie lds ! Spring’s gladsome voiceThri l ls the vast oaks and wakes the mountains

,

The meadows smile, the woods rejoice,

S ing O the charm of crystal fountains

P our d’

antrer : IX .

(Les Chansons a’es Rae: et des B oz

'

s. )

T o th e Imp eri

L’amour, paniqueDe l a raison

,

Se communiquePar le frisson .

L aissez-moi dire , Let me beseech you,N

’

accorde z rien . Turn and refuse ;Si je soupire , When my sighs reach you

,

Chantez, c’

est bien . S ing, i f you choose .

4 5

o u s B eau ty .

Love , l ike a panicSe iz ing the wil l

,

Leaps to tyrann icSway with a thri l l .

V I C TO R

Si je demeure ,Triste

,avos pieds,

E t si je pleure,C

’

est bien,riez .

Un homme semble Man may dissembleSouvent trompeur. So to ensnare :Mais s i je tremble, But i f I tremble ,Be l le

,ayez peur. Beauty, beware !

2 la belle z'

mpe’

riense L’

e’

ternelpetz'

t roman.

(Chansons des R ue: et des B oz'

s.)

F o re ru nners .

On Be ing and the Thing that isMan in all ages broods forlorn

,

And eve r asks of the abyss‘

0 Nature ! Whe refore was I bom ?’

Be l ievers now,athe i sts betimes

,

We,to the he ight Prometheus c l imbs

,

The E ucl ids and the Keplers sendOur doubts l ike clouds funereal rise

,

And,fi l led with darkness

,seek the skies

,

Whence,fi l led with l ightn ings

,they descend .

O brow s whereon the Ideal beams lF rom the gul f’s edge

,i n depths of space,

What faces peer with luminous gleams !What looks are on each mystic face !

See where the starry eyebal ls glowOf Milton and Gali leo !Dim-visaged Dantes

,sombre-hued

,

Your hee ls are worthy of the stars !

46

H U GO

If I come knee l ing,

Near you to dwe l l,

See my tears steal ing,

Laugh , i t i s wel l .

V I CTOR H U GO

Your spirits,on the i r fiery cars

,

Are coursers of Infinitude !

R i se and descend , for al l is there ;B e bold to seek and se ize , for sti l l

Jason procl aims himse l f ‘To dare ! ’

A nd Gama’s blazon is I wi l l ! ’

And when the searcher, Sh rinking yet,With eyes on dawn and darkness set,Backward before the mystery springs,

Trembl ing to read the h ieroglyph ;Lo ! Will

,a rearing hippogrifl

'

,

Above the sunrise Spreads his wings !

This terrible steed was his to urgeWhen human Gen ius durst aspire

To pass beyond the i nviolate verge,

A rmed only with his torch and lyre .

Then on his springing soul from far,Reason the sun and Love the starRose rad iant in the yawning blue

,

Whe re darkness spins her sombre snaresAnd these two planets were God ’s pharesSh in ing to guide the giant through .

The hearts where i n God kindles fire,Though al l around them fleet l ike fume

,

Keep sacred stil l the i r wild desi reTo explore the gulf and p ierce the gloomDeep in the gulf al l knowledge l ies .They look, they p lunge , they agoniseL i fe lags too long i n aimless ease.

Madness is sire to the subl ime ;And down the same abyss in timeColumbus seeks Empedocles !

V I C T OR H U GO

O seas to sound ! 0 skies to scale !E ach dauntless seeker of the True

U nfurls to the infinite his sai l ,Fulton the green , Hersche l]the blue .

Mage l lan launches , Fourier fl iesThe frivolous crowd , with scornful eyes,Too ignorant the i r dreams to sound

,

Watches them vanish from the coastAnd cries Behold a soul is lost ’

Nay, scoffing crowd , a world is found

Les P re’

cursenrs.

(L’

Anne'

e terrible.)

Change o f H o ri z o n .

The bard of the old days was Homer ; warWas law age grew beneath a vulgar star.The l iving flew, with strenuous blood and breath,To meet the sin iste r embrace of death.

A glorious shroud for l iberated Rome,

For Sparta and her laws some holy tomb,Were the best gifts the Gods could give to manThe haggard youth rushed frantic in the vanH e that leaped fi rst into the Open grave ,And ran his proud career

,was counted brave .

Seek death with glory, O subl ime behest !Ach i l les ’ wrath the sage U lysses guessedA strumpet tore her robe from top to toe ,And al l exclaimed : ‘Behold our lord l ies low ! ’

And the fierce virgin of the Scyrian isleMasked heroes with august and fatal wi le .

Man was the faithful bridegroom of the sword .

Above the Muse hovered a vul ture horde

4 8

V I CTO R H U GO

H er dreams are woven of dawn with l ips of loveShe sings and laughs , c lear as the heavens above .

Vainly, with clenched fists,i n thy sul len wrath

Thou threatenest sti l l , black past there leads thy pathThy day is done . Henceforth the l iving know,

I f they but wil l,thy h ideous towers of woe

Shal l crumble , that the l igh t at last sh ines throughThat what they shal l be springs from what they doThat men must succour men

,that man ’s fate feeds

On his own treacherous dreams and coward deeds.I , ex i led , travai l towards the sacred timeWhen from man ’s fears Shall i ssue hope s subl imeTo pluck, watch ing dawn out of darkness rise ,He l l from his heart, w ith heaven before his eyes.

Changement d’

H orison .

(La Le‘

gende a'

es S tealer. IV :XL V.)

Note onN ew Song to an Old A ir.

The‘old air ’ to which th is song was wri t ten is La bonne aventure,

we l l known to generations of Engl ish ch i ldren as‘In my co t tage by

a wood ’or

‘H o ly B ib le

,book d ivine ’

. The rhythm of the Englishversion has been vu lgarised by the subst i tu t ion of two d ist inctsyllab les for the gracefu l feminine cadence of the French original .La bonne aventure is simply a nursery song

, but the genius of two

great poets has matched the me lod y w i th words wh ich are worthyof its exqu isi te beauty. Mo l iere touched i t w i th tenderness in leMisanthrope, for there Alceste sings

Si le roym’

avoit donnéParis, sa grand ’ville

,

Et qu’ i l me fallfit qui tter

L’

amour de ma mic,

SO

V I C TOR H U GO

Je dirois au royH enryReprenez vostre Paris,J ’aime mieux ma mie, au gué,J ’aime mieux ma mie.

And Victor H ugo gave a grander no te to i t in lesMiserables, whenCombeferre sang in the staircase

Si Césarm’avait donné

La glo ire et la guerre,Et qu

’ il me fallfit qu it terL

’

amour de ma mere ,

Je d irais au grand CésarReprends ton sceptre et ton char,

J ’aime mieux ma mére, 6guéJ ’aime mieux mamére .

Beranger and o ther chansonniers have also paid their tribute to th ischarming me lody, more b eau t ifu l in its simp l icity than all the

cavat inas and arias ofMozart and Rossin i . But i t wou ld be vain toseek in French verse, from Malherbe to Musset, for anyth ing so l igh tand del icate asVictor H ugo ’s se t t ing . It w i l l be observed that D ean

Carrington’s version of th is N ew Song to an Old Tune, wh ich is givenbe low

,doe s not reproduce the feminine rhyme and is in some o ther

respects unfaithfu l to the l yrical symme try of the original

Ifsome fragrant lawn be found ,By dews ofheaven b lest ,Where are seen, the who le year round ,F lowers in beauty dressed

Where rose , pink , and l i l ies rare,All in rich profu sion are

I wou ld make a pathway thereFor your foo t to rest .

If there be that wel l can love,Some devoted breast,Wh ich all virtue do th approve,All th ings base detest

If that bosom always beatTo perform hero ic featThere I find a pil low meetFor thy brow to rest .

SI

V I CTO R H U GOIfa dream of love there be ,Byall sweets possest,Where each fleeting hour we seeWhatsoe ’er is best

Dream, God-hal lowed , bright andWhere the sou l to sou l is jo inedThere a shelter would I findFor your heart to rest .

(Tranrlationsfrom the Poems of

Jo seph D elorme .

Born in Boulogne-sur-Mer, 1804 D ied in Paris, 1869.

Charles -Augu stin Sainte -Beuve began his l iterary l ifeas a disciple of the Romantic school and assisted inthe Renaissance of F rench poetry i n 1 830. I f not sofervent in his later days as in the flush of youth

,he always

j udged the movement and the men with critical impartiality ; and praise from him was praise i ndeed .

Sainte-Beuve ’s father d ied before the boy was born .

The child ’s education was supe rvised by his mother, awoman of good-sense and strong characte r. H e completedhis course at the college Charlemagne i n Paris and re

luctantly sacrificed his taste for letters to the study ofanatomy and surge ry. A t twenty-two years of age hele ft the hosp ital to wh ich he was attached and publ ishedsome l ite rary criticisms in the Globe. I n 1 82 8 he i ssuedhis Tablean historique et critique de la faerie franeaise of

d ie theatre frangais an seiz ieme sibele,the fi rst important

essay in mode rn historical and phi losophical analysisappl ied to lette rs.Sainte-Beuve ’

s admiration for V ictor Hugo gave birthto the imaginary young poet whose productions ( Vie,P oe

’

sier et P ense’

es a’e j oseph D elorme) appeared in 1 8 2 9.

The volume was generously appreciated . I t was fol lowedin 1830 by les Consolations and i n 1 837by P ense

’

es d’

aohi‘.

I n al l these poems there i s evidence of a healthy andwe l l-nourished mind

,refreshed in the contemplation of

nature and expressing itse lf i n noble and harmonious

S3

J O S E P H D E L O R M E

numbers. The influence of E ngl ish l iterature was acknowledged in translations and imitations of Byron , Wordsworth

, Charles Lamb, Cole ridge , Bowles and Kirke White ;i ndeed the F rench poetry of the period immediate ly preceding 1 830 i s more nearly akin to E nglish poetry inS impl ici ty and pathos than that of any othe r period .

Joseph De lorme died on the threshold of manhood , andin answer to the remonstrances of a friend al l that SainteBeuve could say was that he had no longer any love i nhis heart or any song in his voice .

’ The disappearanceof Joseph De lorme was a great loss to French poet ry, forhe combined someth ing of Wordsworth ’s Sp iritual insightwith the simple emotion of Lamart ine

,and brought a

calm and meditative note i nto the transports of V ictorHugo and the complaints of A l fred de Musset. H e wasa poet of observation and sentiment rathe r than passion ,and altogether lacked the lyrical buoyancy.

I t is unnecessary to say much of Sainte-Beuve ’

s criticalworks

,wh ich are a pe rmanent portrait-gallery of French

l iterature i n his own and al l preceding epochs . His visionwas wide i n i ts sweep and keen in its scrutiny. Whenhe took up the study of a man of letters he contrived notonly to reconstitute the atmosphere of his time

,but to

asce rtain ‘the central point of his work and the dominant

feature of his character Sainte-Beuve ’s sympath ies weremany-S ided, and he never aflected that de l ibe rate att itudeof contradiction and superiority which vitiates so muchcontemporary cri tic ism nor did he disdain to study smallmen. His kindly and appreciative notices of such minorpoets as Hégésippe Moreau and Louis Bertrand are an

Mon coeur n’a plus rien de l ’amour,

Ma vo ix n’a rien de cc qui chanteRiponre dM Edouard Tu rou ety.

(Polrier completes de Samte-B eu oe. )

S4

J O S E P H D E L O RM E

eve rlasting memorial of the greatness of his intel lect anda perpetual lesson to the l ite rary Pharisee .

Sainte-Beuve was a consc ientious and unwearied worker,with an immense range of general knowledge and a mostprec ise memory. H e assimi lated everyth ing—the beautyof a landscape, the sou l of a book, the characte r of avisitor

,the structure of an epoch—with the same unerring

faculty . His prose,i f not of the highest d istinction

,i s

neve r trivial : i t is clear, sobe r, convinc ing,careful ly

fash ioned,i nst inct with thought and finely analytical . A

ce rtain Engl ish austerity in re lation to l i terary morals isvisible i n his crit ical j udgments. His mothe r had E ngl ishblood in her ve i ns, and to her, more than to his father,Sainte-Beuve attributed the healthy robustness of hisnature . That inte l l igent sympathy with which he divinedthe E ngl ish characte r i s admirably man i fested in hisarticles on Will iam Cowper in the Causeries a’n lana

’

i.

I t i s scarce ly an exaggeration to say that Sainte-Beuve’sl ife was wholly dedicated to le tters . H e was a senator

,

but not a pol itician , i n his late r days ; and a member ofthe F rench A cademy. A fter having passed throughseveral phase s of phi losophical be l ief, he d ied unfurn ishedw ith the sacraments, and , by his own wish , was buriedwithout re l igious ceremony.

This exce l lent poet,ph i losopher and critic was an earnest

seeke r of the truth and a robust and independent thinker.

55

J O S E P H D E L ORM E

T o Rhyme .

Rhyme,to whom the sounds of song

Sole be long,Rhyme, in whose harmonious numbersVerse

,that rings with accents true

Thril l ing through,

Wakes the soul from voiceless slumbe rs

Rhyme,now echoing as when flute

S igh s to lute ,Now with burst of trumpe t splendourLast farewe l l

,i n wh ispe red wordFaintly heard

,

Wafted back with cadence tende r ;

Rhyme, whose measured sweep and chime ,Keeping time

,

Oar-l ike c leaves the foaming surgesGolden bridle

,Spur of stee l ,When the hee l

Onward the swift courser urges

Buckle that on naked breast,

Close ly p ressed ,C lasps the girdle of Love ’s charmerBaldrick by the warrior bound

F i rmly round,

Gird ing on his l inked armour

56

J O SE P H D E LO RM E

Fly not when I court the Muse ,Nor re fuse

He lp to him whose song adores theeTurn

, 0 turn thy kind regardOn the bard

,

On the bard when he implores thee

I f a verse deflowered and bare,

In ch i l l ai r,

L ies beneath thy stern look blighted,Let no sol itary tone

S igh and moan ,L ike a lone ly voice benighted .

E rst, when on my trembling lyreYoung desi re

Dall ied with unski lfu l finge r,I n her fl ight a soft wh i te dove ,

Poised above,

N ear the lute seemed fain to l inger

But ere yet my chords could ring,

V ibrating,Plaintive ly the bird d id hove r,Sad as one whose lone ly fate

Mourns her mate,

Mourns her mate the ex i led love r.

Ah ! sweet songste rs, two by two,Lovers true

,

Henceforth shal l ye wed tw i n-voices,Let your kisses , let your wings,

Thri l l the strings,

When my tremulous lyre rejoices

58

J O S E P H D E L OR M E

E lse,with golden thread for re in ,

Let your wainOn the l ight clouds, w reathed in roses,Draw me

,cherished steeds of love ,

To the groveWhere the Cyprian q ueen reposes !

A la R ime.

(P oe’

sies)

To V i c to r H ugo .

Great is your gen ius , F riend, your thoughts upborneAs on E l ij ah ’s l iving car ascendBefore your breath we are l ike reeds that bend

Beneath the fie ry blast men ’s souls lie shorn .

And yet how fearful lest you wound us, F riend !Noble and tende r

,i n your heart you scorn

The thoughtless word that pie rces l ike a thorn ,And sti l l with kind embrace your arms extend .

As the i ron warrior,he that laughs at fears

,

L i fts from the fie ld a nursl ing bathed in tears,And bears him safe ly through the armed band ,

Gauntletted,sooth ing him with fond caress

No nurse could shew more Ski l l i n tenderness,Nor could the mother have a softe r hand .

A V. H .

(Les Consolations.)

59

J O S E P H D E L O RM E

T o th e M u se .

F lorem bene olem’z'

s anetkz'

.

Poor Muse , driven homeward , crushed , abused , betrayedInnocent child that erst in pilgrim guiseFared forth for me, with songs to charm deaf skies,

Thy drooping brow shal l on this breast be laid .

They heard thee not, 0 dear de luded maid ,

Now more than eve r dear ; yet cease these criesSweeter thy fragrance i s when storm-winds ri se

The bee sti l l loves thy blossoms d isarrayed .

A heavenly smile on earth strewed he l iotrope ,L i ly and hyac inth

,windflower and the rest

That Homer rained on the Idal ian mpe .

Even fie lds and hedges shine i n beauty drest,

And the bold may-bloom laughs,but I love best

The soft blue eye that humble violets ope .

(N otes et S onnets.)

Augu st e Barb i e r.

Born in Paris, 1805 D ied in Paris, 1882 .

from tko book of /zonour razed quite,

And all t/ze restforgotfor wid e!: lze toiled .

Henri-Auguste Barbier was bred for the law by the

decree of his parents , and betook himse l f to letters ofhis own free will . H e i s one of the forgotten glories ofthe F rench Romantic Movement. A true republ ican , l ikeShe l ley and L andor, he threw a trumpet-note i nto theme l ley of 1 830. Balzac adored him , and Berl ioz , who hada keen sense of poetical beauty, went to ‘

the terrible poe tof the famoes ’ as the nearest to V ictor Hugo

,for the

l ibretto of B enoenu to Cellzm'

.

These fambes, collected in 1832 from the gazettes forwhich they had been written , are a sati re on the worshipof glory and the lust of pol iti cal powe r, composed in thecouplet form first employed by André Chen ier in his latestpoems. The same measure had been used in stanza formby othe r poets of the e ighteenth century

,but Auguste

Barbier gave this verse a freedom ,a vigour and a reson

ance wh ich no previous poet had eve r attained in it The

alternate twe lve-and-e ight-syllable l ines,with crossed

rhymes, give no idea of the c lassical iambic,but we re

intended to recal l i t by the i r free and rap id gait’

.

Barbier’s verse i s bold and bri l l iant, and has much pompand ampl itude of movement. H e i s

"

usual ly robust andseldom del icate . The author of the [amber had not that

62

AU GU ST E B A R B I E R

passion for finely-ch i se l led handiwork wh ich has'

d istin

gu ished so many F rench poets of th i s century. But he

had a wonde rful way of throwing Offa large l ine when heloved his subject. To him I taly was the

Divine Jul iette , au ce rcue i l étendue

and he ce lebrated I re land as

La verdoyante Erin et ses be l les col l ines ’.

The poet had visited Italy in the company of AugusteBriz eux

,the B reton bard , and in [l P z

’

anto ( 1 832 ) he sungher departed glories and late r degradation in some superbsonnets and stanzas . I n L az are ( 1 833) he recorded hisimpressions of a vis it to E ngland

,sati rising in powerfu l

verse the mingled Sp lendour and mise ry which he witnessed i n her cap ital , and the doom of her labourersbound beneath the tyranny of wealth .

Barbier ’s poetical triumph was brief, his fal l suddenand dec isive . H e withdrew i nto lasting obscurity, andalthough he issued volumes of verse from time to timesuch as Cnants civils et religieux ( 1 84 1 ) Rimes ne

’

rozgnes

( 1 84 3) S ilves et R imes le’

geres ( 1864 ) these not wantingin freshness and grace and Satires et Cnants ( 1 865)he seemed gradual ly to lose vigour as he left behind himthe enthusiasm and fervour of 1 830 . H e was a man Of

high culture and learn ing. Among his miscel laneousworks we re a metrical translation Of Shakespeare

’s j ulinsCe sar i n 1 84 8 ; some Etna’es dramatiques ; C/tez les P oetes

,

a col lection of translations and imitations of ancient andmode rn ve rse ; and Contes a

’

n Soir and Trois P assions,

prose tales .The late r days of Auguste Barbier were passed in sol itude and penury. A shabby l ittle old man

, who shrankin conscious se l f-effacement and to whose presence the

63

A U G U ST E B AR B I E R

unwe lcome visitor could obtain access on ly after muchknocking and unlocking of doors , was al l that remainedof the once ‘ te rrible poet of the famoes ’

. His time wasspent in conjuring up ghosts of his old poems and in drawing sketches to i l lustrate histories of trave l and adventurewh ich he compiled to earn his poor l ive l ihood . Once ortwice only he emerged from his obscurity—th e lastoccasion was in 1 870, when he de l ivered his receptionspeech at the Academy and amazed everybody by the

artificial feebleness of his antiquated d iction . The

author of the bri l l iant [ambes, SO ce lebrated at twentyseven years of age , died almost unnoticed at seventy-seven ;al l his triumphs forgotten and al l his glory extinctnominis nmbra.

AU G U ST E B A R B I E R

And, l ike the Maenad, worn at last with anger,Crawls wearied to her bed,

Sti l l tossing on the beach, in powerless languor,Torn l imb and bleeding head

La Popularit{ V.

(Les lamées.)

M i chae l-Ange l o .

H ow wan thy brow ,how sad thy looks and wild ,

O Michae l-Ange lo, proud marble-bender !No soft tear ever made those eye l ids tender ;Nor once thy l ips, l ike Dante

’s,may have sm i led .

The Muse with milk too strong suckled her chi ldArt alone claimed thy love and l ife ’s surrenderThrough sixty years

,aureoled with threefold splendour

,

No heart with tenderness thy heart begui led .

Poor Buonarotti ! thine was one sole gladness,

To carve in stone subl imity and sadnessPuissant as God and girt l ike him with fears

So , when the dwindl ing sunset of thy gloryLeft thee a wearied l ion grim and hoary

,

Death l ingering took thee, ful l of fame and years .

(11 P ianto.)

A U G U ST E B AR B I E R

A l l egri .

Though in my heart Christ’s antique faith may perish ,Art, towering l ike a marble tomb, shal l shine,A s when, from heaven

’s high vault, suns in decl ineI ts gloom with gl impses of lone l ight reflourish .

So thou, austere A l legri, wont to nourishThe seed of sacred song in days d ivine,Leadst me where faith and love, i n hal lowed shrine ,

The dead l imbs of the World ’s Redeemer'

cherish .

Then my vain soul,where i n no reverence dwe l ls,

My sou l,bo rne on the song thy rapture swel l s,

Soars to the blest abode of bright archangel s

Whence,swathed i n mystery from heaven ’s depths that glow

,

I hear the holy ones,in robe s of snow,

Chaunt on the i r golden lutes divine evange l s.

(ll P ianto.)

S hakesp eare .

A las ! shal l the pure brows that glory kindledBe blasted by the winter’s icy breath ,

And must the gods of genius, sadly dwindled ,Go

,like the other gods, to dusty death ?

67

A U G U ST E B A R B I E R

To these dul l days great Shakespeare’s tragic wondersUnfurl the enchantment of the i r scenes in vainMen have no ears for the proud B riton ’s thundersVoiceless and lone ly l ies his echoing fane.

A lbion no longer loves his sacred symbolsOutwearied with the i r truth the wandering throngHarks back to barbarism , whi le tinkl ing cymbalsSpeak louder to the heart than loftiest song.

And yet what Titan , heavenly splendours bearing ,L ightened l ike him the pools of human sl ime ?Plunged in the salt sea’s breast

,more greatly daring,

And deeper d ived into the gulfs of Time ?

What wizard woke l ike him the sombre passions,

E normous repti les swarming in man ’s heartDragons obscu re that in a thousand fashionsCurl writh ing in the ir nest ? What hand with art

L ike his could in the i r dark recesses take themAnd , with d iscovered face in the pure l ight,

L ike Hercules before the dazed world shake them ,

Shrieking in chorus the i r funereal fright ?

Must we behold base Matter boldly plantedWith brutal feet firm on her heavy car ;

Must England choose false l ights for ever flauntedBefore the beams of that imperial star ?

On this dul l earth shal l Beauty cease to hover,

Lost utterly in the wide realm of Night ?Nay ! Night with sombre clouds the sky may cover

,

She shal l not quench the lamps of heavenly l ight !

68

Gerard d e N erval .

Born in Paris, 1808 D ied in Paris, 1855.

77113 lunatic, t/te lover and tilepoet

Are of imagination all compact.

Gerard La B runie or Labrunie (by anagram changed toNerval) was the son of a Picardese surgeon-major in thearmy of Napoleon . He lost his mother in early ch i ldhood ; she died Of feve r at Glogau during the disastrousRussian campaign . The boy had a curious educationunder his father’s care. The e lements of Latin andGreek , I tal ian and German , and A rabic and Persian , witha course of Oriental call igraphy, were i ncluded in hiscurriculum . H e was afterwards sent to the college C/zarle

magne, and , whi le yet a schoolboy, his Elegies nationales,

composed under the influence of Casimir Delavigne ’s oncefamous Messeniennes, attracted the attention of l iteraryobse rvers . Before he was twenty years old he had translated Faust,"i an achievement which drew from Goethethe precious compl iment that he had never understoodhis

‘

own poetry better than in reading this F rench transcription . Here eve rything l ives and moves anew withfreshness and vivacity ’

, said Goethe to E ckermann and‘ th is young man ’

, he added , ‘wil l become one of thepurest wri ters of F rance ’

. Goethe ’s eulogium'was we l l

deserved, for although the Frenchman ’s knowledge of

Issued in 182 8 : second ed i tion 1835 republ ished, wi th the second Faustand translat ions from several German poets, in 184 0.

70

GER AR D D E N E RVA L

German must have been imperfect he had the ind ispensablepoetic insight and sympathy

,to which he joined the rare

art of preserving the depth and fe rvour of the originalwhi lst endowing it with the natural luc idity of his own

language. This i s abundantly demonstrated by his ex

periments i n translating from Schil ler, Klopstock, Burger,Korner

, Uhland , Hoffmann , R ichter and He ine.

Gérard de Nerval’

s native dreaminess led him intomany other unfamil iar and fascinating paths of humanideal ism. I f he had not the marve l lous instinct ofOriental things which is attributed to Mery (who col laborated with him in several dramas) he was neverthe lessconversant with the secular myths and re l igions ofhumanity

,and ‘

even invented some himse l f ’ i f Gautier isto be be l ieved . He had absorbed the mystical e lementsof Bouddhism and Cathol icism ,

and the spiritual essenceof the legends of Greece and Israel , as we l l as the influences Of the modern vis ionaries down to Swedenborg.

‘ But you have no rel igion ’ said some sceptical friend .

No re l igion ? —answered Gérard—‘Why,I have seventeen

at least ! ’

This rare genius was a man of most sweet and gentlenature he was unassuming even to humil i ty, and yet of aproud and sensitive disposition . His clear complex ion ,golden hai r, grey eyes and finely-moulded features gavehim i n the freshness of youth that appearance of physicalfrai lty al l ied to inte l lectual beauty which was the charmof She l ley. But as Gérard

,short in stature and near

sighted,grew premature ly bald

,he lost in early manhood

the attractiveness of his youthHis characteristic cond ition of mind was a mixture of

extreme simpl icity and subtle mysticism . H e fi rmlybe l ieved in the efficacy of tal ismans and exorcisms, drewhoroscopes wi th touching faith

, and had withal a cunning

G E R A R D D E N E R V A L

gift of observation , which is evinced in his writings byexcessive del icacy and vividness of descriptionThe first years of Gerard ’s l iterary l ife were spent in

that miserable lodging in the impasse a’

u D oyenne’ which

he shared with nine other Bohemians, among whom wereTheophi le Gautier

,A rsene Houssaye , Edouard Ourliac ,

Roger de B eauvoir and A lphonse E squ iros . The i r lotwas occasional ly enl ivened by the visi t of girls from the

Opera , presided over by the Cya’

alise whose charms Gérardhas so tenderly sung. Gerard ’s habits of l ife were ah

normal . He rare ly slept in his bed-chamber, but wanderedabout the streets of Paris n ight after n ight, and dozedanywhere during the day. H e was famil iar with everynook and corner of the city, and a friend of his nocturnalwanderings tel ls how he took a ch i ld ish pride i n knowingwhere to find the best brandy or blanquette or tea-punchwhere a de l icious cup of chocolate could be had at twoo’clock in the morning ; and where the only good beeri n Paris was se rved by two red -haired damse ls

,on whom

Gerard would gaze with ‘calm and ecstatic admiration ’ .

F rom time to time he had an access of insan ity,and was

taken to an asylum at Passy. More than once he passeda few months in this friendly retreat.Gerard ’s l iterary work was intermittent, and yet he had

the essential vi rtue of an'

artist, for, although he neve r developed and completed any long poem or romance , heturned and re-turned his thoughts until he had given themthe i r ful lest expression . His wavering reason could notface severe and sol id work. H e had planned a greatdrama on the Queen of Sheba, that sphinx-l ike Balkisor Belkiss whose fascinations seem to have fixed themselves ou the imagination of so many French men ofletters during the Romantic era

,and to whose inspira

tion we owe the most pathetic and most entrancing Of

72

G E R ARD D E N E R VAL

and the Holy Land . His records of trave l denote therare faculty of observation and sympathy which was inherent to him,

but he was i n a state of hal lucination al lthe time and ideal ised everything. At Cai ro and Constantinople he s lept in the common khans and l ived by theway

,lounging in the bazars and fol lowing no regular plan

of perambulation . I n the bazar at Cairo he bought adark-skinned damse l—Abyssin ian say some

, Cinghalese

accord ing to others—and married her ; but he desertedher when he turned his face homewards. After his retu rnto Paris he had a long spel l of mental tranquil l ity ( 1846to 1 850) and did more active and healthy work than atany period during his l ife . To this lucid interval be longAurelia

,ou le Rene et la Vie, one of his strangest and

most characterist ic creations his Scenes a’c la Vie orientate,contributed to the Revue a

’

es Deux Mona'

cs and afterwards publ ished as the Voyage en Orient ; and a numbe rof misce l laneous articles which have neve r been collectedfrom the magazines and journals in which they appeared .

His productions for the theatre were also of some importance . H e furnished the l ibretto for Armand L imh ander’s Ope ra of les Montenegrins, which had a briefpopularity. I n conj unction with Mery, he produced at theOa

’

e'

on an adaptation of one of the oldest Hindu dramas,

T/ze Terracotta C/tariot, fol lowed by l’

lmagier dc H arlem,

a fantastic piece written in mixed verse and prose .

These,and several other plays to which he contributed ,

had e ither a transient success or fai led altogether.All the prose work of Gerard which has been preserved

is of exceeding beauty, and everywhere impregnated withthe vague and vaporous poetical charm which was pecul iarto his subtle genius. His claim to rank among the

masters of French prose i s beyond dispute.

To his later period belong also the best of the C/ziméres,

74

G E R A R D D E N E R VA L

a series of sonnets which vie with the finest examples ofrime ricice i n the French language. I n these poems thespiritual essence of d iverse mythologies is fused with afel icity which shews how thoroughly this d reamer ofdreams had deciphered the symbols of human worship.

Though often obscure i n the i r intense mystic ism ,the

woven me lody and luminous depth of some of his l inesare matchless. L ike Cowpe r in Tue Castaway and Gi lbertin the Ode imite’e a

’

e plusieurs Psaumes, he found in theshadow of imminent madness and death an efflorescence

of pathos which is not vis ible i n his earl ier poems . Muchof Gerard ’s poetry, however, instead of be ing crystal l isedinto verse

,was diffused throughout his prose writings, as

in les Illumirue’s and les F it/es a’u Feu .

Gerard had a terrible relapse of lunacy about the end

of 1 854 , and vainly sought re l ief in a visit to the countriesbeyond the Rhine. His dreaminess had degenerated intome lancholy, his me lancholy into madness, and his madness became a settled despair. For two or three years hisex istence had been a hope less struggle with the blackestdestitution , and in the mise ry of his unfulfi l led hopes andfai l ing inte l lectu al powers he had recourse to stimulants .One chil l grey dawn in January witnessed the last scene Ofthis dreadfu l tragedy. Gerard ’s body was found by a raggatherer hanging in the gutter near the foot of a narrowstaircase which led up from the squal id l ittle rue de la

Vieille-Lanterne,one of the filthiest courts of old Paris.

The stones were sprinkled with snow,and on the steps a

tame raven was hopping about. From the grating of avent-hole above the staircase Gérard had hanged himsel fwith one of his antiquarian treasures

,a cook ’s apron-cord

which he had bought for the girdle of Madame de

Maintenon , and which his delusion converted into the

Queen of Sheba’s garter.

75

G E R A R D D E N E RVA L

Gérard de Ne rval was the most beautiful of all the lostsouls of the French Romance. With spiritual inte l l igenceat once lucid and visionary, he had a frai l hold on thematerial conditions of l i fe . His kingdom was not of thisworld

,for he floated in a loft ier atmosphere, wh ich was

composed of the dreams and ideals of the human soul inal l ages. ‘The best part of man he said , ‘ i s that wh ichthri ll s and vibrates i n him N0 one who i s responsiveto the sorrows of genius can refuse an emotion and atear to the fate of th i s creature so exquisite ly gifted ,a victim to that sense of the supernatural wh ich to finersp i ri ts is at once the charm , the mystery and the scourgeof ex istence .

G E RARD D E N E RVAL

Lo st Love'

rs.

O death ! where are our lovers ?

They slumber in the bomb.

Theirhappier dream discoversA dawn beyond this gloom.

The ir converse is with angels.I n heaven's blue depths serene

Th

§sing the sweet evangelsMary.V irgin Queen !

0 pure and sinless maidenWhi te spouse who se bloom was brie f !

Forsaken sou l , love-laden,That wi thered , worn with grief !

The l ight ofheavenly morrowsSm i led in your rad iant eyes :Quenched lamps ofthis world ’s sorrowsRelumed in love l ier skies !

‘The ode entided hs CM w eme to mefi a q i te ol nysdfi in the form

oh m . H ound at onee the ven emd the n d ody—end the wter, which

l bsn had noted dom ha been reeo‘nised u myn itnble to the v otds.N i m r ui w r is oompmed oo a creek air. Im pam ded that

every poet eould ea ilyfumiah tbe mnfic fa his m vm a if he hed m e

(a rrow-( M um )

78

GERAR D D E N E R VA L

lintero s.

Why do l bear a breast so swollen with ire,

And on lithe neck a head indom itable ?Against the conquering god , as ancien ts fable ,

Iturned his darts Antz us was my sire !

Ya l am he the Avenging Ones inspire ;They branded on my brows their angry label,And on the pale blood

-sprinkled lips ofAbel

Burns the red rage ofCain’

s relentless fire !

Jeho vah, vanqu ished by his foe s that fe ll,Cursing their tyrant from the depths of he ll

,

Was Baalmy grandsire and my father Dago

Though thrioe they plunged me in Cocytus wave,The Amaleld tc, my dam, Ishield and save,

Sowing again the teeth ofthe old dragon.

Antlros.

(Les 611m m.)

G E RA R D D E N E R VA L

D elph ica.

Ultima Cumaei venitj am carminis aetas.

O Daphne ! knowest thou that old -world chorus,

B eneath green ol ive or pale laure l sung,

Or myrtle, or where trembl ing wil lows hung,That song of love with echoes stil l sonorous ?

Knowest thou this lofty temple towering o ’

er us,These cloven c itrons bitter to thy tongue,That cave

,where in the old dragon ’s seed once flung

L ies slain , now sleeping cold and void before us ?

The Gods shall come again to stanch thy tears !Time shal l rol l back the tide of ancient yearsE arth thri l ls even now with breath of th ings immortal .

Though yet the S ibyl of the Latin shrineS lumbers beneath the arch of Constantine,And not a tremor sti rs the rigid portal

T1VOL1 184 3.

80

Pe tru s Bo re l . !

Born in Lyons, 1809 D ied in Algeria, 1859.

Petrus Borel—the Lycanthrope and BasileOphagus (ashe loved to cal l himselD—represents the most extravagantphase of the French Romance of 1 830 to 184 0 . WhenV ictor Hugo was boldly preparing to fol low up the

triumph of H ernani with Marion a'

e Lorme and le Rois’

amuse,to endow dead ages with l ife i n N otre-Dame de

Paris and to give his lyrical wings a wider sweep in lesFeuilles d

’

azctomne ; when Honoré de Balzac was workingsixteen hours a day in his sol i tary chambe r in rue de

Tournon and shap ing in his d reams the phantasmagori aof the Come'a'ie lzumaine ; when Hector Berl ioz was re

fashiomng his Symp/zonie fantastique in Rome and foreshadowing in his overtures to Rob Roy and K ing Learthe wonders of a new world of orchestration when EugeneDe lacroix was looked upon as a madman in art, whilePaul Delaroche was gazing within the friendly gates ofthe I nsti tute —Petrus Borel was engaged in a melodramatic attempt to give Bohemian ism a local habitationand a name on the he ights of Montmartre.

I n 1 831 the tribesmen of‘The Tartars ’ Camp ’ pitched

the i r tents beneath the blue sky on an

'

open space i n rue

Often and perhaps correctly written Petrus Borel . H is full name wasJoseph-Petrus Borel d ’Hauterive, and he be longed to a noble family of

Dauphiny, wh ich was reduced to poverty and driven into exi le by its te

sistance to the Republican army during the Revo lution.

82

P E T R U S B O R E L

Rocnecnouart. The i r laws were summed up on a placardin the precincts

They had no pol itical opin ions,other than a ferocious

Republ icanism ; no'

social ideals and no defined aims inl iterature or l i fe. . The only sentiments that bound the

Tartars together were the vanity of solecism and a bl indfrenzy against the bourgeoisie with its pern icious influenceon art and letters . The members of the camp cursedsociety and l ived ; they flourished daggers

,danced and

gesticul ated wild ly, sneered at convention, and paraded apessimistic d iscontent with eve rybody and everything inthe worst of possible worlds. Expe l led by the i r landlord for riotous conduct, they transferred the i r camp to abui lding in rue d ’

E nfer, and celebrated the occasion by acolossal feast. There are sin ister legends of drink ingcream from a skul l , and of a masked bal l i n which thedomino was the sole appare l . I t i s ce rtain that when theTartars sal l ied into the streets

,clothed but scarcely in

the i r right mind,they fe l l fou l of the pol ice and were

now and again locked up for d isorderly conduct.The misfortune of the Romantic Movement was thatmost of the men thrown into its whirlpool belonged tothat morbid

,nervous and demoral ised generation which

was produced in France during and immediate ly after theRevolutionary period . They were the children of frenzyand enthusiasm begotten by the Revolt of the People , bythe sanguinary excesses of the Te rror, by the transportsof Republ ican conq uest and by the glories and despairsof Napoleon

’s campaigns. The horrors of battle andmurder and sudden death brooded over the i r b i rth the i rgenius was the diseased efllorescence of that terrible epoch .

83

P E T R U S B OR E L

Many of them lived a feverish ex i stence on the borderland of insan ity

,and the i r moral and inte l lectual d isarray

too Often ended in violence and suicide. Charles Dovalle ,author of le Syt

'

pite ( 18 was ki l led in a due l at twentytwo years of age . Louis Bertrand ( 1807 whoseexquisite prose poems w ere publ ished under the s inistername of Gaspard de la Nuit, l ived in abjectmisery, diedin a charity hospital , and after dissection was flung nakedinto a coffin and buried without consecration or ceremony.

Charles Lassailly, the phenomenally lean author of ahaggard romance entitled les Roueries a

’o Trialp/z, notre

contemporain avant son suicia’

e,perished in a madhouse at

the age of thirty-one , a victim to Balzac and black coffee .

‘

Edouard Ourliac,another of Balzac’s hapless secretaries,

afte r a youth of l ive ly gaiety and a discouraging struggle ofsix years against i l l-health and exhausted energies

,ended

his miserable ex i stence in the hospital of the freres deSaint j ean a

'

eD ieu , at the age of thi rty-five . Louis-CharlesB arbara ( 18 2 2 -1866) threw himse lf out of the window ofan asylum , after losing wife and child and reason in aplague . Gustave Drouineau, prol ific writer of romancesand p lays, who saluted the Revolution of 1830 with hisS oleil de la Liberte

’

,was consigned to a madhouse at

thirty-five,and l ingered there for forty-three years . And

these were but a few of the obscure and il l-starred victimsof the t ime—the very names of many others have longS ince gone down to dust and damned obl ivion .

Petrus Bore l was in many respects a remarkable man .

Balzac had several young men of exceptional talent as secretaries.Theophi le Gautier and Jules Sandeau are said to have served him in th iscapaci ty in the ir early days. Balzac’ s laborious system of revision necessi

tated l i terary assistance in his novels and plays, and his service was a form

of slavery, recompensed by poor pay, d isturbed slumbers, copious libationsof b lack coffee, and a nove l system of cheap feeding, in which spinach and

apuree ofonions played the principal part .

84


Nanteuil,a neglected artist of d istinct abi l ity Achi l le

Deveria,engrave r, a brother of the better-known painter

and Louis (al ias Ludovic, A loysius or Alotsius) Bertrand—these were a few among the many who gathered roundBore l , and l istened to the impassioned expression of hisrevolutionary opin ions on art, or gravitated towards thece

’

nacle of les j eunes-France, over which Theophile Gautierand Gérard de Nerval he ld undivided sway. All weresteeped in poverty to the l ips, and many a time theyturned from the i r dreams of fame to wish that the moonwere a si lver crown and the sun a golden pound Pet rusBore l was the bright particular star of that sombre sky.

Bohemia was not the bl ind-al ley to Bore l which i t wasto so many of his associates. H e tried hard , but withoutsuccess

,to make a name in l iterature and a l iving by jour

nalism. I n 184 6he obtained , by the influence of Theophi leGautier

, the appointment of Inspector of Colon isation atMostaganem in A lgeria—for which his experience in ‘The

Tartars ’ Camp ’ was perhaps his chief qualification—buthe was cashie red in 1 84 8. Thanks to the i nte rvention ofMarshal Bugeaud , he soon rece ived a simi lar appointmentat Constantine

,where he married . Again he was deprived

of his position,this time because he had frankly denounced

some malversations, although the ostensible cause of d ismissal was his practice of writing the official reports inrhyme. A fter a hopeless effort to l ive by agricultural labouron his al lotment of land

,he died of cerebral congestion

from sunstroke,a disappointed and disappointing man .

I t was his own fate which he had foreshadowed in hisfinest piece ofverse, the prologue toMadame Putip/zar

Quand finira la lutte, et qu i m ’aura pou r proieDieu le sait —du Désert, du Monde, ou du NéantLa lune écu d ’argent, le so leil louis d ’or. ’—Alphonse Esquiros.

86

P E TR U S B OR E L

The mediocrity of Bore l ’s poet ry has cast a shade overhi s reputation . H e had -no great lyrical gift, he lackedimagination , he was incoherent in expression and penuriouS of ideas ; and yet one or two of his pieces provethat he could have done better things. His Rnapsoa

’ies

(Levavasseur :‘Pari s : 1 832—second edition

,Bouquet

Pari s : 1 833—reprinted as Rapsoa’

ies'

at’

Brussels in 1868)are not rhapsodical in any sense which imp l ies dithyrambicinspiration , although there are a few fine verses in the

volume . But those who say, with Catulle Mend ‘

es, that theman was destitute '

of talent are strangely‘

deceived,for he

was a prose-writer of singular genius .Madame Pu tipltar (Ollivie r : Paris : 1 839) dese rves to

be ranked with the most real and l iving historicalromances now extant. Why it has fallen upon neglect isone of the wonders of l iterary inj ustice. There i s no morepoignant and pathetic story i n human fiction than the

adventures of those two young I rish lovers,crue l ly

separated and persecuted because the husband shewedhimse l f insensible to the seductions of Madame de

Pompadour . The plot,taken from a chapter i n the

misce l lan ies of Camil le Desmoulins, i s worked out with amaster-hand . Maa

’

ame P u tzjo/zar is not a tale of lewdnessswathed in sentiment ’ , as the title m ight intimate , but asecular reconstruction of heroic proport ions

,handled with

powerful reserve, ful l of vivid descript ion and al ive withincident and character. The court of Pharaoh (Louis XV)serves as a background to the picture of Patrick andDebo rah, faithful to One another through the scandals andintrigues of the t ime ; the husband buried al ive i n anunknown dungeon , the wife left a prey to l ibertineassaults. Then comes the tragic death of the i r son , whosel ife had been devoted to revenge for the fate of hi s father ;fol lowed by the ghastly meeting of man and wife—he

87

P E T R U S B OR E L

mad from suffering, and she dying in agony at the sightof him

,after long years of hope and anx iety—when at last

he i s l iberated from his prison . A ltogether,in spite of

occasional extravagances and affectations, one of the

great dramatic creations of the n ineteenth century. The

closing chapter'

on the capture of the Basti l le i s a triumphof vigorous description, worthy of Carlyle, and the fittingcrown to a work of gen ius.Madame Putip/zar was written in Champagne, during a

period of sane reso lution and laborious energy, but in themidst of such black misery that Borel had from time totime ‘ to issue forth from his den and glean his nouri shment in the country-side ’

. H e was paid 2 00 francs forthis masterpiece of true romantic art L ike Milton andLandor

,he had his own ideas about orthography, and

Madame P utipfzar was written thereafter. A fine reprintof the work was publ ished in 1 877 by Léon Wil lem ofParis, with a preface by Jules Claretie , but the two originalvolumes are scarce

,and were so l ittle known that when

the editor visited the National L ibrary in Paris to consu ltthem he found that they had been lying there for morethan a q uarter of a centu ry, unopened and uncut.Among the misce l laneous l iterary works of Petrus

Bore l are Cbampavert : Contes immoraux a translation Of Robinson Crusoe ( 1836) with a l ife of Danie lDefoe by Philarete Chasles and i l lustrations by Nanteuil ,Devéria

,Boulanger and Napoleon Thomas ; and a grand

romantic drama,entitled le comte Alarcos, which has never

been published . I n most of his writ ings there i s evidenceof a powerful satirical talent and of the capacity to createl iving character. H e had al l the gifts of a successfu l manof letters

,save one .

U nstable as water, thou shalt not excel ’.


No more, with thee, is sol itude propitiousF igure divine , thy visage sweet and youngIs l ike to one beloved

,whose nectared tongue

Is in my heart a serenade de l icious,

By soft and fragrant breezes sung

Au Me'

daillon d’

lseult.

(Les R/zapsodies.)

Od e l e t .

Would that I had l ived i ’ the Middle AgesDays that bards and troubadours desire.

Then the singe r served wi th love for wages,Sung as l innets sing in golden cages,S lave of love and of the lyre !

Song and sword to him were wine and wassai lAll his wealth beneath his cloak he wore

Song that we lcomed him in bower and castle ,Sword that was his lady’s loyal vassal ,B randished at herword he bore .

Odelette.

(Les Rizapsodies.)

The O l d B re ton M in stre l .

Come, children , come, the maple-branches tremble,Dance, B retons, to the sound of the binew ;

To hear my plaintive song with smiles assembleOnce, i n l ife

’s spring,I danced and sang l ike you .

The last verse, omitted in this translation,is in praise of Jehan Duseigneur, the scu lptor ofIseult.

90

P E TR U S B OR E L

Cold death to-morrow may benumb my fingers,

For now, grown frai l , I totter towards the grave .

Come then and learn , while yet your minstre l l ingers,The old refrains that to your youth I gave .

Remember ! every son of hers remembersHow B reton soi l was once ‘

the field Of restHow Gaul sent forth

,as fire from smouldering embe rs

,

A thousand heroes from her magic breast.Freedom

,whose stripl ing tree these shores once

nourished ,Over your youth her branches doth expand

Let bold Duguesclin’

s heritage be cherished ,V i rgin of tyrants is our native land !

Dolmen and menhi r, ru ins of your glory,Scattered along those granite ridges lie.

Within these forests hard and druid hoaryRevealed to your proud si res the i r destiny !W i ld days ! when fierce ly against Caesar’s ravage

,

The Roman saw her warriors issue forth ;Wi ld speech with these same Ce lt ic accents savageHis clansmen chee red the Chieftain of the North !

But now the l ight fl ies.’

Darker on the frondageThe night-shades fall, the mist cl ings round your

eaves ;Soon the black wizards, waking from day

’s bondage,

Shal l wind the unholy spe l l that darkness weaves.Fly ! fly ! for I d iscern on the far mountainsThe elves that dance round the wi ld peulvan-ring

The kelpies shout and plunge i n the cold fountains :Fly, Breton folk, ere m idn ight spreads herwing !

Le vieux Me’

ne’

trier breton : Villanelles.

(Les R/zapsodies.)

91

A lfred d e M u sse t .

Born in Paris, 18 10 D ied in Paris, 1857.The ease and sprightl iness of Musset’s lyrical talent, theversati l i ty of his character and the personal emotionwhich breathes through his verse have contributed togive him a large place i n French poetical l iterature, butperhaps scarce ly so large a place as he deserves.Lamartine hardly de igned to notice him . V ictor Hugoaffected to treat him as one of those ephemeral artistswho owe the i r notorie ty to the caprices of fash ion , andyet He ine held in 1 84 0 that Musse t was as far aboveV ictor Hugo in poetry as was George Sand in prose .

Jules Janin classed him with l iving poets of the thirdrank, and Sainte-Beuve valued him l ikewise ; althoughafter Musset’s death the author of the Causeries du lundiassigned to him a much higher l iterary rank that he waswil l ing to al low him when al ive . L ike Byron and Men

delssohn, A lfred de Musset seems to possess an individualfascination which is proof aga i nst the vicissi tudes of tasteand the glamour of great names ; and many admirers ofF rench poetry wil l be disposed to agree with Theophi leGautier and Max ime Du Camp in placing him among thethree masters of his art in the n ineteenth centu ry.

Lou is-Charles-A lfred de Musset was descended froman old but decayed aristocratic family of Vendome. Hisfather, V ictor de Musset (sometimes designated Musset deFathay), he ld a lucrative appointment in the offi ces of theMin istry of War and was known in letters as an editor of

92

A L F R E D D E MU S S E T

in the i r kind the best things ever written . I t was onlyin 1847, when he was already exhausted and disheartened,that his fame began to extend . The tardy performanceof Un Caprice at the Come

’

dic-Frangaise disclosed a bri l l iantand accomplished playwright, and one whose works havenever since been entire ly banished from the nationalstage .

The popularity of the poet did not gain much by histheatrical success ; i ndeed it had been steadily decl ining,and the vapid prose and feeble verse which he doled outduring the last fifteen years of his l i fe shewed that thespring of his genius was already drained dry. His capricious disposition , rap id ly passing from one extreme toanother, rebe l led against patient labour ; his excesses ofpassion and the reckless dissipation of his energieshurried him on to untime ly old age S ince the death ofhis father had thrown him too early on his own resourceshis l ife had been an incessant struggle with ways andmeans. He never learned to work for a l ivel ihood

,and

the small revenue which be derived from his writings andfrom a government appointment as l ibrarian was miserably d ispropo rtionate to his extravagant scale of l iving .

A long period of physical prostration and intel lectualmelancholy ended in premature death from disease of theheart, an affection from which he had suffered for manyyears .He ine’s maundering sentiment on the liaison Of A l fred

de Musset and George Sand has cast over this ep isode ofthe poet ’s l i fe a halo which fades away in the fierce l ightof friendly indiscretion and hostile criticism . Much maybe forgiven to the first love of two beaut iful young souls,however l i ttle the ir union owes to the blessing of thechurch and the sanction of the community, but it wouldbe diffi cult to find anything idyll ic in this amour of the

94

A L F R E D DE MU S S E T

experienced woman of th i rty years with the precociousl ibertine of twenty-three. I t i s only too certain that al lthe morbid violence of Musset’s emotional character wasaggravated by that visit to I taly in the winter of 1833-34from which

.

he returned to his.

mother’ s house with ‘ adiseased body

,a dejected soul , and a bleeding heart

’

.

His Confession a’

un E nfant da S ie‘

cle ( 1836) i s an incoherent record of the transports and disi l lusions of thissuffering soul ; and the painfu l self-analysis of the confession i s not redeemed by its l iterary style, which can byno means claim to be a mode l i n the language whichboasts so many masterpieces of autobiographical prose.

And no worse service was ever rendered to Musset’smemory than the vainglorious and saddening notice ofthe poet’s l i fe publ ished by his elder brother Pau l , authorof Lui et E lle.

Musset ’s legacy of l iterary work is a considerable one,

for he was a feverishly rapid if at no time a steadyworker. H e had the gift of inspiration , and would throwoff his verses beneath the chestnut-trees of the Tuileriesgardens or in his bed-chamber after a noisy supperparty. His mobi le and impressionable temperament i sreflected in these verses, which have al l the fervour ofyouth and the effervescence of precocious passion . Mussethas left no immortal poem of singular beauty

,l i ke The

Ancient Mariner or Hyperion ; but i f h is verse lacksoriginal ity in structure and rhyme, and seldom reveals thedevotion of an art ist to perfection of form ,

there i s often afreshness of conception

,a spontaneous ease i n expression

,

and withal a l ight fantastic grace which has i ts ownpecul iar charm . H e had no firmly-defined ideals andl ittle spiritual force . His verse

,so ful l of sensibi l ity

,i s

Often tinged with the melancholy of a Spirit whichwas out of tune with the world and d isappointed

95

A L F R E D D E MU S S ET

of aims which might easi ly have been fulfi l led had hiscapacity for assiduous toi l been equal to his insp iration .

Th i s careless singer has nevertheless left more fine l inesthan any F rench poet of his generation

,and by pure

genius has carved out verses far beyond the subtleand laboured art of Theophi le Gautier. Th is tormentedpoet has thri l led strings which even the proud handof V ictor Hugo essayed in vain to sweep , and with atouch has drawn tears from deeps that to the dark soulof Baude laire were as a hidden spring and as a fountai n sealed . I t is by th is personal note of true emotion ,in the midst of much that is frivolous and superficial ,that his poetry l ives

,and with its blended grace and

fee l ing j ustifies the fe l ici tous phrase of He ine :‘The

Muse of comedy has kissed him on the l ips, and theMuse of tragedy on the heart ’.


THE POET.

Why leaps my heart with sudden throbs ?What in my bosom swel ls and sobsWith fears that on my senses brood ?Did not a hand strike on my door ?Why does my dwindl ing lamp-l ight pourIts splendour in a sudden flood ?God through my l imbs what tremors runWho comes ? Who knocks ? Who cal ls me ? None !The hour-bel l sounds ; I am alone0 poverty ! O sol itude !

THE MUSE .

Take thy lute , poet , for the wine of youthFerments even now as with a God ’s desire .

My troubled breast is torn with joy and ru th,

And parchESd winds have set my lips on fire .

See, wayward chi ld , my beauty shines unve i led !Has our fi rst kiss no memory that charms,As when

,touched by my wing, with checks that paled

And tearful eyes, thou swoonédst i n these arms ?Then I consoled thee for a bitter grief !A las ! so young

, yet dying for love’s sake .

Console me now,I die of hopes too brief ;

I can but pray to l ive t i l l morn ing break .

THE POET.

I s thine the voice that calls my name,And art thou come , 0 my poor Muse ?O my flower ! my immortal flame !Sole be ing faithful even in shame ,Whose love Ofme my love renews

98


We lcome again , my blonde del ight,Mistress and sister sweet thou artI fee l thee near, through deepest night ,Bathed in thy golden garments brightW ith beams that steal into my heart.

THE MUSE .

Take thy lute, poet. I , the immortal lov e,Have watched this n ight thy si lence and thy tears,And now

,as when her nestl ings cal l the dove,

Descend , to weep with thee , from highest spheres.Thou sufl’erest, dear friend . Though lone ly griefConsume thee, though despai r thy sou l destroyThough love

,such as earth wears

,was al l too brief,

A shadow of del ight, a spectral joy :Come, sing to God sing in thy thoughts again ,S ing thy lost pleasure, sing thy vanished painSoar, in a kiss, towards the unknown world .

Awake at wi l l the echoes of thy lyre,Te l l us of glory and gl adness and desi re

,

And let thy fancies float in dreams unfurled .

Discover realms that give our woes surceaseFly hence , we are alone , the world i s ours ;Green Caledon , dusk I taly, fai r GreeceMy mother

,with her honied crown of flowers,

A rgos,red Pte leon of the hecatombs,

And Pe l ion ’s naked brow that glows and gloomsAnd Messa the divine, de l ight of doves,And blue Eurotas, and , l ike silve ry l ightGlassed in the gul f whose wave the pale swan loves,White OloOsone and Camyra white.

Te l l me what songs shal l l ul l our golden dream !F rom what mysterious sou rce our tears shal l stream

99


When th i s day’s sunrise smote thy l ids with dawn ,What seraph , bending pensive from above ,Shook l i lac-blossoms from his robe of lawnAnd

,whispering low

,breathed on thy couch his love ?

Shal l we sing songs of joy, or grief, or hope ?Drench in the i r blood the stee l-embattled ranks ?Suspend the lover on his si lken rope ?F l ing on the winds the foam 0

’

the courser’s flanks ?Say from what hand unnumbered lamps aboveL ighten by n ight and day in heavenly domesThe holy oi l of l i fe and deathless love ?Cry

‘Tarquin ,’tis th ine hour

, the shadow comesPlunge and p luck up the pearl from deepest seas ?Watch the kid browse on bitter ebony-trees ?L ead Me lancholy to the skiey shores ?Follow on scarped hi l ls the hunter ’s hornThe hind beseeches him

,looks and implores

H er heath-bed waits her fawns are newly bornH e stoops, he slays her, and the quarry throws,Sti l l q uivering, to his hounds that pant and reek.

Or Shal l we paint the V i rgin ’s crimsoned cheekWhen

,fol lowed by her page

,to mass she goes,

And, by the matron ’s side, with absent air,

Forgets on half-closed l ips her pious prayer ?Trembl ing she hears

,hard-echoing on the ground ,

The spurs of a bold caval ier resound .

Shal l we command the heroes of old FranceTo mount, ful l-armed , the i r many-crene l led towers,And from obl ivion wake the rude romanceThe ir glory taught to antique troubadours ?Swathe the soft e legy in white ? Or wooWild war, and bid the man of WaterlooBoast how his scythe mowed down the mortal bands,Before the herald of eternal n ight

IOO

A L F R E D D E M U S S E T

What pain soeve r youth nursed in his core ,Let i t find issue sacred is the soreB lack angels Opened in thy heart’s profoundWith greatest sorrow greatest souls are crowned .

Yet stricken as thou art, 0 poet ! knowThat not for silence l ives thy voice be low.

The noblest song with grief and anguish throbs,And some I made immortal with pure sobs .When the slow pe l ican

,wearied of long fl ight

,

Regains the shore and seeks his reedy home,His hunge red brood, lost in the haze of night,Watching him from afar

,Swoop on the foam .

With beaks that on the i r h ideous gorge agapeA l ready se ize and share the prey, they shapeThe i r course to the parent bird , with joyful cries .He , towards a high cl iff slowly labouring,Shel ters the brood beneath his trai l ing wingAnd , desperate, gazes sadly on the Skies.A stream of blood flows from his plumage tornIn vain he scoured the depths of the salt floodThe sea was vacant and the shore forlorn

,

And for sole nourishment he brings his blood .

Sombre and si lent, stretched on the bare rock,Succouring with father’s flesh his l ittle flock

,

By love subl ime sustained he soothes his woundAnd , while the bleeding breast his offspring drinks,Beneath the feast of death he reels and sinks,As one with tenderness and horror swooned .

But sometimes, midst the sacred sacrifice,Wearied in death so long to agonise

,

He trembles lest they drain the l iving springThen

,ri sing, opens on the wind his wing,

And flaps his bosom with funereal wai l,

Sending through n ight such wild farewe l l abroad

10 2

A L F R E D D E M U S S E T

That on the lone ly be ach the sea-mews quail,

And the belated trave l ler,turning pale,

Fee ls death in the air and gives his soul to God .

0 poet ! such is the great singer’s fateH e feeds awhile the j oy of them that l iveBut the world ’s feasts on which his soul doth waitSeem most l ike those the pe l ican ’s l ife-springs give .

When hopes begui led at last th ri l l al l h is chordsWith sadness and despair

,with love and pam,

Such concert swe l l s the hearts of men in vain .

His declamations are l ike flaming swordsThough in the air they trace a dazzl ing ringSti l l to thei r blade some drops of blood wi l l cl ing.

THE POET.

O voice from the abysmal deeps,

Lay not on me th is last command !Man leaves no writing on the sandWhen at its hour the north-wind sweeps .There was a time when love

,i n sooth

,

Rose ceaseless on my l ips,and youth

Was ready,l ike a bird

,to sing

But I have suffe red,as through fire

,

And should my silent griefs desireTo speak the i r anguish on my lyreThe i r l ightest breath wou ld break the string.

La N uit de mac.

(P oe’

sies nouvelles.)

103


S o ng.

When Hope, Love’s wi ld capric ious minion

,

B rushes our e lbow in her fl ight,

Then sweeps aloft, on aery pinion ,And smiles and beckons from the he ight ;

Whither fl ies man ? His dream he follows,L ight as the breeze the swal lows sk im

And l ighter-winged than wavering swal lowsI s man when love allureth him .

Ah ! frai l and fugitive begu i ler,

Thine i s the song the sirens sung !Why should old Fate , the ruthless spo i ler,House with a paramour so young ?

On One D ead .

She too was fair, i f sombre Night,Laid in the chapel cold and bareTo moveless slumbe r by the mightOf Michae l-Ange lo, i s fair.

She too was kind , i f kind they beThat passing drop from open palms

A gift God does not de ign to see ;I f, without pity, gold is alms.

She thought, i f swee t and si lve ry tonesOf a voice softly murmuring naught

L ike a brook babbl ing o ’

er the stones,

May seem the utte rance of thought.

IO4

Theo ph i l e Gau t i er.

Born in Tarbes (Hautes-Pyrénées) 18 1 1 D ied in Paris, 1872 .

A lthough Pierre -Jules -Theophile Gautier happened tobe born in Gascony

,he was of Provencal origin , but he

had none of the restless garrul i ty and superficial vehemencewhich are characteristic of his race. H e came to Pariswhen very young

,and had made some progress in his

studies as a painter before letters claimed his ambition .

Gérard de Nerval and he were old school-fe l lows, andalong with A rsene Houssaye, Camil le Rogier, and one ortwo other Bohemians of the Romantic troop

,these two

poets founded the i r ce'nacle in a squal id lodging in rue da

D oyenne’

, i n the quartier latin. There Theophile Gautierpassed his first youth ,with ‘ i ts joyful miseries, i ts generousfol l ies

,its tende r escapades and its charming faults, which

are better than al l the virtues of riper age There , too,with hard study of the early French poe ts and unweariedpatience in imitating the Romantic masters

,he wrote

his Comedic de la Mort (publ ished 1838) in the midst ofpoverty, wretchedness and obscurity, not unvisited betimes by the bright presence of that graceful Cydalisewhose form and features the genius of Camil le Rogier hasimmortal ised .

The sane balance of Gautie r’s inte l lectual faculties savedhim from the fate of Gerard and Bertrand ; his capacityfor continuous work prese rved him from the misfortunesof Bore l and Baude lai re ; and yet no poet of the Romanticperiod has written of these children of genius and disaster

106

TH E O P H I L E GAUT I E R

with so much sympathy and with such d iscernment asTheophi le Gautier. Nor did any man of le tters of histime remain so faithfu l to grand ideals of art and duty ashe

,long after the advent of Baude laire and F laubert had

brought new aims and new forces into French l iterature .

The Romantic Movement, as represented by the dramasof V ictor Hugo, found its foremost and one of i ts mostvigorous champions i n ThéOphile Gautier. H e be longsto the legend of the Romance, with his grave sal low countenance and long black hair, as he witnessed the firstperformance Of H ernani, wearing the famous crimsonplush waistcoat which was regarded as the oriflamme ofthe fight for freedom of l iterary speech . But Gautierhimse l f was not much given to sentimental extravagance .

His l iterary style evinces a more scrupulous regard formeasure and restraint than that of the most part of hismi l itant contemporaries. Perhaps his cold control andhis culture of the plastic arts saved him from the excessof zeal which inevitably accompan ies a revolutionarymovement in letters.Gautier’s l ife was one of cease less and indefatigable

labour, broken only by excursions to Spain ( 1 84 0) A lgeria( 184 5) I taly and the Levant ( 1 850-52 ) and RussiaSo l i ttle of adventure and i ncident re l ieved his ex istencethat Baude laire was j ustified in denoting i t as ‘ an immense‘ spiritual i ty ’

. His own simple needs,and the family

obl igations which he fulfi l led with heroi c effort, doomedhim to the slow martyrdom of jou rnal ism . His work forthe newspaper press

,that modern monster which, as

Beranger laments, has ‘devoured so many young talentswas remunerated by a pittance which would be scornedby a contributor of the same calibre to one of the greatFrench or Engl ish journals Of the present time. There i sa world of sati re i n the placard which was posted in his

107

TH E O P H I L E GA UT I E R

room Daily newspapers appear every day ’

. The

energies thrown into this exacting and exhausting toi labsorbed much of the thought and feel ing which mighthave been devoted to the creation of great and durableworks of art , such as the Greek dramas which he dreamedand never achieved, and a long-cherished translation of theMahabharata into F rench verse. And yet he could haveescaped from this drudgery but for his consc ientious loveof art and l i terary independence. H e threw up his appointment on the P resse

,and incurred the scorn of Emile de

Girard in , rathe r than prostitute his pen by becoming thepaid attache of certain theatres , and so enriching himse l fby partial crit ic ism . The sacrifice of this rare artist tothe daily needs of ex istence i s one of the most unfortunateexamples of the difficulty of l iving on the wages of l i terature i n days when any kind of meretric ious talent may command a fortune i f i t fal ls i n with the fashion or the fancyof the hour. Time brought no re l ief to Theophile Gautie r.The Revolution of 184 8, on wh ich so many l iteraryfortunes rose, was a disaster for him . I t plunged him intoeven deepe r poverty than he had known before , and hisl i fe thenceforth was one of constant anx iety, harassed tothe day of his death by the demands of creditors andre lations .An unauthorised col lection of Gautier’s dramatic

art icles was publ ished by Hetze l of Le ipz ig between 1 858

and 1860, under the appropriate title of H istoire de l’Art

dramatique en France depuis vingt-cing ans. These eri ti

cisms cover an immense range of subjects, and show thatin his epheme ral work the author’s conscientious spiri t, aswel l as his instinct of style

,never fai led him . Even when

deal ing with music,of which he had absolute ly none i n his

soul, and which he once paradox ical ly described as ‘the

least d isagreeable and most expensive of noises his

108

T H EO P H I L E GA U TIE R

ideas, but his adm i rers are perhaps consoled by the recol

lection that in l iterature ideas are plentiful and artists few.

H e was not a member of the French Academy.

Theophile Gautier’s work , when the conditions of hisl ife are discounted, i s of considerable volume and value.

H e never wrote a careless and rarely an uninteresting l ine.

L e Roman de laMomie and lo Capitaine Fracasse (plannedbetween 1 830 and 1 84 0, but not publ ished unti l 1 863) arenove l s fu l l of vivid description and romantic incident. I nla Morte amoureuse and other short stories he displaysthat subtle and beautiful charm of style which has itsmasterpiece i n Mademoiselle d eMaupin one of theglories of French prose

the golden book of spirit and sense,The holy writ of beauty ’

I t was in this book , idol ised by Swinbu rne and admiredby such diverse men of letters as Balzac and Baudelai re

,

that Gautier’s incomparable prose first assumed defin iteshape . Written in the ful l flood of the Romance, i t camel ike a plea for the severest and purest beauty amid the

violent excesses of that movement.Gautier’s records of trave l (Tra los Montes : 184 1

]talia : 1 850) share with those of Gérard de Nerval thehonour of having fi rst impressed upon French prose thatOriental touch which is visible i n the colouring of EugeneDe lacroix and Prosper Marilhat ; i n the music of Fel icienDavid and Cami lle Saint-Saens and , with a more accen

tuated note of exotic splendour in the verse of Baudelaire,

Leconte de L isle and Heredia. The keen observation ofGautier revealed to him the pecul iar beauty and charm ofeach new country and people , and his consummate artenabled him to create that proper atmosphere which iseverything in a book of travel .

1 10

T H EO P H I L E G AU T I E R

Theophile Gautier’s early poems date from 1830. Theydenote a great inherent gift of versification and deal witha wide variety of themes. Some of them were inspiredby the enthusiasm of Byron , whose fervent influence spreadl ike an epidemic al l over Europe, and found even in Russiaa congenial response i n the songs of that strange ly originalgen ius Pouschkin and in the gloomy imagination ofLermontoff. Albertus : ou l

’

dme et lepe’

che’

( 1833) was thechief outcome

!

of this mania in Gaut ier, and , l ike A lfredde Musset in Rolla, the F rench fol lower out-H eroded

Herod without ever reaching that subl ime he ight to whichByron occasional ly rose with a S ingle sweep from the

wastes of persiflage and the depths of cyn icism . I n 184 5Gautie r publ ished al l the poems which he had composedduring the romantic fever of 1830-1 84 0, and thenceforthdevoted himsel f to the cultivation of his individual style .

I n Emaux et Came’

es ( 1852 -1 856) he revealed himsel f asthe supreme artificer of his time i n verse . No singlevolume of French poetry contains so many flawless pieces, ,

excepting, perhaps, the Fleurs du Mal,and Baude laire ’s

are more uniform in tone and temperament. A l ike i nthe i r perfection of form and in the i r verbal beauty the

Emaux et Came’

es are unrival led as works of art. Theyrecal l the most finished achievements of Tennyson andRossett i i n the i r absolute shapel iness . But

,admirable as

they are i n artist ic structure , there i s no grandeur of conception or depth of passion in them . They are wel lnamed enamel s and cameos, for they possess a luminousbeauty of colour and a crisp del icacy of outl ine which belong to the l apidary ’s art, and are the work of a carverand jewel ler of words rather than that of a spontaneouspoet. There are no long l ines pregnant with powerfulthought

,but within the i r l imited range they are wonder

ful ly rich and fanciful,and often attain in the octosyl labic

I I I

T H E O P H I L E G A UT I E R

l ine a fi rmness and dign ity not to be found even in thefavourite alexandrine of other French poets.Theophi le Gautier, worn out with l ife-long labour and

partly paralysed , died not long after the horrors of theS iege of Paris had been aggravated by the slaughtersof the Commune. His death was commemorated bythe publ icat ion of an album of verse (Le Tambeau de

The’

ophile Gautier—A lphonse Lemerre : Paris : 1 873)model led on the fashion of the sixteenth century.

This poetical tribute from no fewe r than e ighty menof letters was headed by the venerable name of V ictorHugo. A lgernon Charles Swinburne sung the praisesof Gautier in French , Engl ish, Latin and Greek ; JohnPayne i n F rench and Engl ish ; and there were contribu

t ions by Swiss, Hungari an , I tal ian and Provencal poe tsin the i r accustomed speech . The fine medal l ion onGautier ’s tomb, an etching of which serves as frontispieceto this memorial volume

,gives an exce l lent presentment

of his Olympian head and calm countenance,so expres

sive of serene reflection .

1 1 2

TH EO P H I L E G A UT I E R

Here, as of old , the flutte ring swallowsSkim by the donjon ’s gloom ,

The swan a se lf-same circle fol lowsAnd smoo ths her pure white plume

Soft sward below,blue sky above

,

And nothing changed save you , my love !

(Poe'

sies : 1830- 183

A Verse o fWo rd sw o rth .

No verse I know,save one

, ofWordsworth ’s art,That rankled so in Byron ’s bitter leaven ,

One verse that echoes ever in my heartOf spires whose si lent finger points to heaven

I t served as epigraph (how strange a place !)Heading a chapter from the loves impure

Of some frai l girl the book a foul d isgraceDrawn from the Dead Ass by a hand obscure .

This fresh and pious verse, among the lovesOf a lewd volume lost

,refreshed my sight

L ike a wild blossom shed , or l ike a dove’s

White plume on the black puddle dropped in fl ight .

Now,when the Muse rebel s, when to no sign

Of Prospero’s wand wi l l A rie l ’s wing be given

,

I fringe my margins with a quaint designOf spires whose si lent finge r points to heaven .

Un Vers de Wordsworth.

Fantaisies.)

1 14

T H E O P H I L E G AU T I E R

S ecre t Affin i t i es.

A Panthe istic Madrigal .

Bui l t in an antique temple high,Two blocks of marble

,l i t with beams

In the blue depths of A tti c sky,For ages blended thei r white dreams.

Twin drops congealed in the same She l l ,Tears of the foam whence Venus sprung

,

Two pearls,plunged in the deep sea-swel l ,

He ld converse i n an unknown tongue.

What time the Moorish kings he ld swayIn bright A lhambra

,blown beneath

The ever-weeping fountain -sprayTwo roses mixed the i r fragrant breath.

I n Venice, on the rad iant dome ,Two rose-t ipped doves of snowy whiteOrdained love ’s immemorial home

,

And nestled there a summe r n ight .

Marble,and pearl

,and rose, and dove ,

Decay and die. Time me lts the stone ,The pearl d issolves, the flower of loveFall s withered

,and the bird is flown .

The i r dust,through changes manifold

Dispe rsed , earth’s deep alembic brings

To enrich the universal mouldWhence Nature shapes al l beauteous things .

1 1 5

TH E O P H I L E GAU T I E R

By transmutation slow and strange,I n d iverse forms they recompose

White marbles into white l imbs change ,On rosy l ips reblooms the rose .

Once more the dove with amorous cooThe fresh young heart of love beguiles,

And pearls i n clustered teeth renewThe i r whiteness wreathed in rad iant smiles.

Thence hidden sympathies have bi rthI n throbs imperious and sweet ,

That teach the secret of the earthTo souls when sister souls they greet.

Responsive to the spel l that l iesI n perfume , colour, gleam or grace,

A tom to kindred atom fl ies,

L ike bee that seeks the flower’s embrace.

Remembering thus the i r anc ient dreamsOn temple or in sea beheld ,

And flowery converse near the streamsThat from the i r crystal sources we l led

And tremulous kiss and thri l l of wingOn domes grown golden in the sun ,

The faithful atoms,vibrating

,

Desi re and strive to blend in one .

Forgotten love from long ecl ipseComes forth in vague new birth at last

The blossom breathes on verme i l l ipsA fre sh the fragrance of the past .

TH EO P H I L E GAU T I E R

To breathe on temp les flushed with brightness,And fanned with fresh warm whisperings,In one tumultuous whirl of wh i tenessA palpitation of soft wings ;

When the dove , nestl ing on thy shoulder,Loses her shame in amorous bl iss,Pouts her rose-pointed beak

,grown bolder,

And swoons bewildered with thy kiss .

Odelette anacre’

ontigue.

(Emaux et Camées.)

Apo llo n ia.

I love thy name that l ike a chorusFar-echoing from the sacred shrineHails thee

,i n harmonies sonorous ,

Apollo ’s daughter and divine .

When with that name supreme and splendidAn ivory plectron thri l ls the strings,

Sweeter than love and glory blended ,L ike bronze the resonant music rings.

Lo Greek ! the e lves, from forests lone ly,Plunge wail ing in the i r lake forlornName by the Pythian priestess on lyI n Delphos fitly to be worn ,

When,gird ing round her antique vestu re ,

Poised on the golden tripod highShe waits, with rapt prophetic gesture ,The god whose tarrying steps are nigh .

et Camées. )

1 18

T H E O P H I L E G A U T I E R

T he N ere i d s.

My chamber holds no canvas quainterAnd love l ier than this stretch of sea

Though rhyme and rhythm disown the painterTheophilus Kniatowski.

Where the l ight foam ’s white fringes flash onThe woven waters blue and gray,

Cluster three nymphs in sweet flower-fashion ,Strange blossom of the bitter spray ;

Swung l ike drenched l i l ies on the surgesWith every si lver whorl that swims

,

And now sustains and now submergesThe undulant dance of del icate l imbs.

On tresses crowned with spoi l o ’ the shingle ,And reeds impleached with rushy plume

,

Coyly these witching sirens mingleThe bright sea’s blazonry and bloom .

The shel l , its lucent drops dispearling,Stars with a rare and precious chain

Each bosom,which the flood

,unfurl ing,

Sprinkles with purer pearls again .

And downwards,where the sinewy Tritons

Those fine and shapely flanks uphold,The i r splendour

,washed with azure, l ightens

Long trai l ing hai r of dusky gold .

Below, with the blue bi llow blended ,The i r whiteness thri l ls the oozy sheen

And by a tai l the torso endedHalf woman and half fish i s seen .

1 19

T H EO P H 1 L E GAU T I E R

But what eye seeks that scaly swimmer,Whose folds the tremulous ripple laves,

Seeing those ivory busts that shimmer,Smoothed by the kisses of the waves

On the sky-l ine—q uaint appari tionThat blends the fabulous and true

A vesse l veers athwart the vision ,Startl ing these naiads of the blue

Far off its flag tricoloured flashesIts funnels belch forth smoke and steam

Its whee l the sounding water lashesAnd the scared nymphs plunge in the stream .

E rewhi le in fearless flock they fol lowedThe triremes of the gu lf athrong

,

While dolphins frisked , with arches hollowed ,As e rst to hear A rion ’s song.

But now the steamer’s paddles speed ingSoon would d isperse them through the surge

With naked bodies bruised and bleeding,

L ike Venus under Vulcan ’s scourge .

Farewe l l , fresh myth, to al l thy fanciesThe packet, passing out of sight,

Leaves only on the d im expansesA shoal of porpoises in flight.

maux et Came’

es. )

1 2 0

T H E O P H I L E GAUT I E R

A rt.

A rt ’s noblest work from thingsRebe l l ious to the tramme l

She wringsRhyme, marble, gem, ename l .

N0 false constrainments use !

But SO thy tread be state ly,O Muse,

B ind on the buskin straitly !

A rhythm too easy Spurn ;Sandals so wide of measure ,

I n turn ,Each doffs or dons at pleasure !

Sculptor, since clay is vile ,Moulded with careless finge r

,

The whi leThy spiri t e lsewhere doth l inger,

Bend thou on marbles hardAnd rare thy soul ’s endeavour ;

They guardThe i r beauty pure for ever !

Seek Syracusan bronzeThat, firmly graven thorough,

DisownsNo proud and graceful fu rrow ;

Or, with a del icate hand ,I n ve in s of agate fol low

The grandGrave profi le of Apollo .

1 2 2

TH E O P H I L E G A UT I E R

L imner, lest mildew ShameThy tints too evanescent,

Let flameFast fix them incandescent.

Make S i rens blue that combGold t

'resses trail ing underThe foam

Emblazon ! beasts of wonder

Jesus, with cross and globe,The triple-haloed V i rgi n

Whose robeBears l i ly-bloom and burgeon.

Time brings al l things to dustArt i s Time ’s on ly rival .

A bustThe city ’s sole survival .

The r1g1d disk some hindE arthed in i ts urn funereal

Doth findReveals a form imperial .

The gods them se lves must passBut sovran rhyme rings louder

When brassAnd i ron are ground to powder.

Against the hard stone set

Thy hand hew,chisel, plan ish,

Ere yet

The dream dissolve and vanish

(Emaux et Came'

es.)

Leco nte d e Li s l e.

Born in Saint-Paul (Reunion) 1818 D ied in Louveciennes, 1894 .

The great Creole poet Charles-Marie-René Leconte ,known as Leconte de L i sle

,was the ch i ld of a B reton

father and a Gascon mother. H e had the Ce l tic clearnessof vision and love of beauty, and the vigour and courageof the Pyrenean race . I n his youth he trave l led throughthe E ast Indies

,and the vivid impressions of tropical

colour and warmth which are visible i n his poetry derivethe i r value from the personal observation of nature inthose regions .Leconte de L is le came to Paris in 1 847, and as his fi rst

ambition was to become a power in pol itics he threw himse lf with ardour into the Revolutionary Movement of 184 8.

H e was also an active disciple of the school of Fourier.His social passion soon cooled down , but he had broughtsome verses with him from the East, and he studiedhis art assiduously

,giving lessons in languages and

l iterature to provide for his daily subsistence. The

appearance of his first volume establ ished his re lationswith A l fred cle V igny

,V ictor de Laprade , Baude laire and

Banvi l le, and gained for him a place among the foremostpoets of the t ime .

No poet ever gave himse l f up to his art more thoroughlythan Leconte de L isle. H e had no desi re for weal th orluxury,and the smal l income which he earned by his l i terarylabours, Supplemented in later days by his emoluments as

1 2 4

L E C O N T E D E L I S L E

cal authors. L ike Robert B rowning he introduced i n histranslations the proper spel l ing of Greek names

,and ih

curred thereby much undeserved ridicule . His own ex

periment in classical tragedy, les Erinnyes, with music byJules Massenet, was produced at the Ode

'

on i n 1872 andhad as favourable a reception as could have been expected .

But the poet was so conscious of his inabi l ity to ach ievesuccess in drama that he burned the manuscript of Fred/gonde, a tragedy of which he had comp leted one act .Leconte d e L isle ’s poetical renown is firmly establ ished

on the great tri logy : Poénzes antiques Poemes

barbares ( 1 862 ) and P oemes tragiques These havehad a considerable influence on contemporary F renchand Ital ian poetry. His opin ions on the poetical art areuncompromisingly and somewhat wi ldly expressed in thepreface to the Antique Poems

Since the days ofHomer, [Eschylusand Sophocles, who repte‘ sent poetry in i ts vitali ty, i ts pleni tude and i ts harmonious‘ uni ty, decadence and barbarism have invaded the human‘mind . In point of original art the Roman world is on‘ a level wi th the Dacians and the Sarmatians the ent ire‘Christ ian cycle is barbarous. Dan te, Shakespeare and‘Mil ton have only the force and grandeur of their in‘ d ividual genius ; their speech and their conceptions are

‘barbarous. Modern poetry, a confused reflection of‘the fiery personali ty of Byron, the art ific ial and sensuous

‘ rel igiosi ty of Chateaubriand, the dreamy myst icism of‘Over-Rhine and the realism of the Lakists, is the poetryof d is turbance and dissolution

With such exorbitant assurance did this great poeta soul from which eve ry modern idea is absolutely ban

‘ ished’

, said Theophi le Gautier—sweep away eve rythingbetween Athens and h imself. And i n so far he i s thefather of the F rench decadence

,which holds the opin ion

1 2 6

L E C O N T E D E L I S L E

that poe try shou ld not be the expression of ind ividualemotion and thought, but the pursuit of an ideal beautyand seren ity in transfigured nature and Spiritual i sedlegend . A Romantic poet by his rich colouring, hisSplendid imagery and his choice of exotic subjects

,

Leconte de L isle nevertheless be longs essential ly to thePagan group of n ineteenth-centu ry poets and i s perhapsthe greatest of them all . H e renewed and widened thework of André Chenier, with a larger sense of beauty anda deepe r range of sympathy, with a breadth and wealthof colouring which .Chénier could never have attained , andsometimes with the bitter tinge of pessimism which belongs rather to the disi l lu sioned end than to the ardentinception of a great movement in art.L econte de L i sle has been described as cold and un

lyrical . Th is is less than half true . His work is chise l ledand pol ished as if to last. H e had a rare eye for perfection of form

,and in variety of theme and plenitude of

treatment he i s unapproachable . H e scorned every con

cession to popularity, and fol lowed his own way withdecis ion and consistency. I f there i s not much personalpassion in his work, there i s an inte l lectual emotion whichrises at times to the highest degree of intensity. Sometimes he has the lyrical sweep of She l ley and Swinburne

,

with the same disposit ion to heap up images and dazzlewith colour. H e gives the noblest expression to humanrevolt and desi re , to ideal dreams, and to the pure andsometimes pathetic love of external nature. H e i s alwaystru ly F rench in the lucid ity and d irectness of his speech .

His tropical landscapes, his reconstructions of savagescenes, his studies of trad itional epochs, are triumphs oflearned imagination and splendid in the i r conception andclothing. N O poet so richly endowed with the gifts ofrhythm and declamation and melody has i l lustrated the

1 2 7

L E CO N T E D E L I S L E

latter hal f of the nineteenth century, save perhaps GiosueCarducci or A lgernon Charles Swinburne.

At the time of his death Leconte de L is le had a newvolume of poems in preparation . H e also left unfin ishedles Etats du D iable

,a vehement satire on the condit ion of

Rome i n the days of the Borgias. These re l iques wi l lprobably be published by his widow, with the assistanceof José-Maria de Heredia and the vicomte de Guerne, twointimate friends of the poet. Leconte de L i sle was mostfastidious i n we ighing his own work

,and destroyed every

thing which be j udged unworthy of publ ication .

1 2 8

L E CO N T E D E L I S L E

The Spring .

A l ive stream sparkles in the bosky gloom,

Hidden from the noonday glare ;The green reeds bend above its banks and there

B lue-be l ls and violets bloom .

No kids that batten on the bitter herb,On slopes of the near hil l,

Nor shepherd ’s song, nor flute-note sweet and shri l l,I ts crystal source distu rb.

Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screen

Whose shade the wild-bee loves,And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring doves

The i r ruffled plumage preen.

The lazy stags in mossy thickets browseAnd sn iff the l ingering dew

Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunl ight through,The languorous Sylvans drowse.

White Nats, near the sacred spring that drips,Closing her l ids awhile,

Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smileF loats on her purple l ips.

No eye , kindl ing with love’s desi re, has scanned

Beneath those lucent ve i lsThe Nymph whose snowy l imbs and hair that trai ls

G leam on the s i lve ry sand .

None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth ,The splendid bosom ’s swe rve

,

The ivory neck , the Shoulder’s de l icate curve,

White arms and innocent mouth .

1 30

L E CO NT E D E L I S LE

But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,Spies from his leafy trench

Those supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drenchAs with a kiss of love

Then laughs,as when the Satyr’s wanton imps

A wood-nymph’s bower assail ,And waking with the sound the virgin pale

F l ies l ike the l ightning-gl impse.

Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream ,

S lumbers in woods obscure,Fly from the impious look and laugh impure

0 Beauty, the sou l ’s dream !La Source.

(Poe’

mes antiques.)

Pho lo e .

Forget,O Pholoe

, the lyre and the feasts d ivine,The j ovial gods and the nights too swift and the wine,And des ires i n swarm on the l ips that love uncloses

For Time, as he skims thee with wings that gl ide l ike adream

,

B lends in those tresses , j ust touched by a si lve ry gleam ,

The asphode l pale with thy roses .

Pholoe. Etudes latines.

(Poemes antiques. )

D ie s I rae .

On life ’s rough road a day,an hour wil l come

When,bowed beneath i ts we ight of woes and fears

,

The soul of man halts wearied and with dumbDesi re looks back to immemorial years .

1 3 1

L E C ONT E D E L I S L E

His l ife with fruitless expectation worn ,Dece ived of God, who does not hear or see

H e fee ls earth ’s ch i ldhood in his heart reborn,H e hears thy voice, O sacred memory !

The stars he loved of yore with gl impses paleS i lver the night’s mysterious dusk abodes,

And shine on hal lowed slope and antique valeWhere beneath black palms sleep his early Gods .

H e sees earth free , and her green aureoleF loat l ike fresh incense on the river’s verge ,

And, s inging on the i r shores, blue seas that rollTo unknown deeps the immeasurable surge.

On mountain-tops,that nurse a generous race,

R ise murmuring floods, with whisper of green domes ,Hail ing the vigorous growth in vi rgin graceOf young Humanity in old-world Homes .

B lessed were they For them the eternal globeHe ld commune with the imperishable spheres

No soi lure smirched man ’s stil l unblemished robe ,The new world ’s beauty blest his forceful years .

Then Love,that in the soul of man doth shine

,

Through ages burned with undimin ished rayAnd simple faith and innocence divineWatched in the tabe rnacle night and day.

Why then has pleasure’s spring

,once quaffed

,run dry ?

Why these vain toi ls,these doubts that peer and

gropeThe winds have heaped dense clouds in the c lear skyOne hour of storm has swept away man

’s hope .

1 32

L E CONT E D E L I S L E

N0 more the l ive coal burns on prophet-l ips !Adona‘

i ! on the winds thy voice i s wh i rledAnd the bowed Nazarene,

‘

in pale ecl ipse,Wails his last agony to a heedless world

Thou whose fire-haloed brows are ve i led in gloom ,

Whose wandering feet the lone lake-margin trod,All hai l ! The sou l of man in thy sealed tomb,O young E ssene, keeps watch on his last God !

The barbarous West grows faint and fain woulddrowse .

Our souls in heavy slumber crouch fordone,

L ike shrubs,with cankered root and mildewed boughs

,

Green for a day, and withering with the sun .

Only the wise, that keep an even soul ,Couched in the shade of secret thresholds lie ,

While stormy years and peaceful seasons rol lThe stream of man to vast eternity.

But we , whose soul unfed desi re devours,A prey to faith begu iled and love i n vain

Answer,new days ! Shall l i fe again be ours ?

Speak, days of old Shal l love be ours again ?

Where are the golden lyres,with hyacinth wreathed ,

The hymns to happy gods,the virgin choirs

,

E leusis, Delos, hopes that burned and breathed ,And holy songs that sprang from pure desires ?

Where are the prom ised Gods, the ideal forms,The rites i n purple and in glory clad

,

And cloven skies that hailed in winged swarmsThe Ascension of white souls, serene and glad ?

1 34

L E C ONT E D E L I SL E

Sadly the Muses, scourged with bitter scorns,L ike heavenly outcasts through our cities flee,

Too long they bleed beneath the i r crown of thorns,

And sob with cease less sorrow l ike the sea !

The E ternal Evi l on our heads i s hurled .

Round ulcered souls the vi le age weaves her charms .Hail

,blest obl ivion of this crowded world

Fold us,O Nature , in thy sacred arms

In golden chlamys clothed , mysterious Dawn ,Waken a song of love i n woodlands dank !

Sun, be thy glorious ve i l again withdrawnCalm mountain , Open wide thy perfumed flank !

Majestic murmur of waves appeased and sti l led,

Deep in our careworn hearts exhale your sighs !O forests, shed your dews from urns fulfi l ledStream through us, sparkl ing si lence of the skies !

Console us for vain hopes and vanished joysOur naked feet are bru ised on barren roads.

F rom headland summits, pure of human noise,Waft us, O winds, towards the unknown Gods !

But i f no answer wakes the vast expanse,Save the everlasting echo of des i re

,

Farewel l , void wastes, i n which the soul’s wings glance,

Farewe l l , wild visions, fringed with fading fire !

And thou, d ivine Death , womb and tomb of al l ,We lcome thy chi ldren to thy starry breast,Of time and space and number d isenthralOur sou ls, and from l ife ’s fever give us rest !

Dies lrw.

(Poémes antiques.)

I3S

L E CONT E D E L I SL E

Nabo th ’

s V i neyard .

I n his dark chamber, on the cedarn couch ,With cold hard eyes and pale l ips quivering,His face turned to the wall, Ahab doth crouch.

Not tasting bread or wine Samar1a S kingB roods

,as in noonday heat the trave l ler doth ,

Wearily bending o ’

er a thirsty spring.

Ahab, whose heart ferments with hate ’s foul froth,A thirst the wine of wickedness to drain ,

Conj ures the Golden Calf and A shtaroth.

Am I a king ’

,he asks

,whose wrath is vain ?

By Baal ! thrice I chased thy horsemen proud ,Benhadad, swift athwart the Tyrian plain .

Those of Damascus k issed the dust in crowd ,With sackcloth on the i r loins and ash-strown hair

,

‘L ike camels low be fore the i r keepers bowed .

‘On the i r parched l ips my S ign struck dumb the prayer,

The i r blood in the high-place reddened the sods,And on the i r warl ike flesh my dogs did fare .

My prophets are most wise ; I have three Gods‘Most mighty, of my kingdom the strong staff ;They scourge my people with the i r scourging-rods.

And now my glory is l ike worthless chaff,

My sceptre as a reed that bends and breaksBefore the servi le crowd ’s insulting laugh

1 36

L E CONT E D E L I S L E

She nears the couch, with port superb and slow,

And speaks What ai ls my Lord ? What unblest thingBends the proud cedar with the herbs below ?

Hath Baal sent some spiri t on evi l wing ?‘The n ight fal l s. Let my Lord ri se and break breadWhat sorrow stirs thy troubled soul , 0 King ?

’

Woman,I must have vengeance Ahab said

,

For sleep I shal l not taste , nor bread nor wine,‘Ti l l Naboth’

s reeking blood in dust be shed .

Hard by mine orchard grows his fe rti le vine ,Now to this man the King his master saithI t pleaseth me

,exchange , or se l l me thine

Quoth he My father’s fie ld is mine t i l l death ,‘ Shouldst thou against its grapes gold Sheke ls measure

‘ I would not se l l, even wi th my latest breath !

‘Though thou , with Phogor’

s plain for land of pleasure,‘And Ramoth-Gilead , Se i r, and Edom

’

s shore ,‘Gav

’

st me thine ivory house and hoarded treasure,

O King, I should but love my vineyard more !‘Thus Naboth spake to Ahab, Omri

’s son,

Calm on the smoking threshold of his door

Then Jezebe l By the Gods of AkkaronSure ly this people, swollen with arrogance ,

‘ Doth boast a gentle king, to patience prone.

When wilt thou smite the land with sword and lance ?The wild ass

,ti l l his flanks be curbed , wil l rear ;

Yield to the dromedary and he doth prance ’.

138


Because the Rock of I srae l I fear ’,

Said Ahab Naboth and E l ij ah trust‘ In Him . The nations fal l beneath His spear.

‘My pride , by Him brought low,would kiss the dust,

As the bound he i fer,towards the altar drawn

,

‘Moans wh i le the knife i s sharpened for the thrust.

Nay wait ! The Gods of Beth-El and of DanTo him that worships

,hearkening the i r behest

,

Wi l l surely grant the Slaying of this man

Rise then,O chief ! eat bread and take thy rest ’ ,

Said the Zidonian,laughing bitterly

What my Lord dares not do shal l whet my zest .

‘To-morrow,when the sun S lopes towards the sea,

E re yet thy royal hand hath touched this slave,H e dieth on Mount Shomer, slain by me .

‘Then may the Tishbite spit his spume and raveFrom Carme l unto Horeb

,l ike a hound

That hungering fl ies before the brandished stave .

‘My Lord shal l say to him Where hast thou foundMy handwork in this murder

,or my Sign

Then Ahab smiled O woman , fitly crowned ,

‘ I shal l spil l this man ’s blood and drink his wine

La Vigne de N aboth : I.

(P oemes barbares.)

139


The B lack Pan ther.

A long the rosy cloud l ight steals and twinklesThe East is flecked with golden fi l igreeNight from her loosened necklace slowly sprinkles

Pearl-clusters on the sea.

Clasped on the bosom of the sparkl ing azureSoft ski rts of flame trai l l ike a flowing train

,

And cast on emerald blades a bright emblaz ure ,L ike drops of fiery rain .

The dew shines, l ike a sheaf of splendour shaken ,On cinnamon leaves and lychee ’s purple flesh

Among the drowsed bamboos the wind ’s wings wakenA myriad whispe rings fresh .

F rom mounds and woods,from mossy tufts and flowers

,

I n the warm ai r, with sudden tremors thri l led ,Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,

With feveri sh rapture fi l led .

By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,

Where i n the morning sun smoke tangled weeds,

And where l ive streams the i r winding channel s fol lowThrough arches of green reeds

,

1 4 0

L E CO NT E D E L I S L E

In the C l ear S ky.

I n the clear sky,cloven by the l i ssome swal low,

Heaven ’s dawn,that blossoms l ike a blushing rose,

Sheds fragrance on green glade and leafy hol lowWhence nests of love send ful l-voiced songs to fol lowWings quivering where the woody he ights discloseHeaven’s dawn that blossoms l ike a blushing roseI n the clear sky, cloven by the l issome swal low.

Drop answering drop, i n golden notes rained shril l,L ive streams on the smooth grave l glance and gl isten ,With showers of fleecy spray that kissing thril lHeath-flower and thyme , i r is and daffodilThe while young kids that wake with sunrise l isten ,L ive streams on the smooth gravel glance and gl isten

,

Drop answering drop,in golden notes rained shri l l .

Through thickets where the l ight wind laughs and rushes,By paths that into dreamy distance wind,Beneath blue ve i ls of haze dissolved in blushesThese two, while dewy dawn the soft air flushes,Pass slowly

,with l inked hands and arms entwined ,

By paths that into dreamy distance windThrough thickets where the l ight wind laughs and rushes .

A swoon with love ’s de l ight that fi lls the i r eyes,

They heed not how the moments swiftly vanishThe charm of earth , the beauty of the skies,For them the enraptured hour immortal i se ,

And bl issful d reams all dreams Of sorrow ban ish.

They heed not how the moments sw iftly van ishAswoon with love ’s de l ight that fi l ls the ir eyes .

14 2

L E C ON T E D E L I S L E

I n the clear sky, cloven by the l issome swallow,

Heaven ’s dawn sti l l blossoms l ike a blushing rose,But they, athwart green glade and leafy hol low,

Shal l thri l l no more to songs of love that fol lowWings q uivering where the woody he ights discloseHeaven ’s dawn that blossoms l ike a blushing roseI n the clear sky, cloven by the l issome swal low.

Dans le Ciel clair.

(Poimes tragiques.)

The Imperi shab le Perfume .

When the rare I ndian rose, soul of the sun ,I n crystal cup or golden urn disti l led ,

Hath shed its fragrant tear-drops,one by one ,

On burning sands the essence may be spi lled .

Enclosed thus, over the narrow shrineR ivers shal l rol l i n vain and oceans sweep .

The sands insphere each Odorous drop d ivine,And even in dust dispersed its perfume keep .

S i nce through this Open wound no craft can cureThou pourest from my heart i n effluence pure,O Love i neffable

,drawn by her spel l s !

H er sin be shriven,my sorrow sanctified

For, beyond mortal hours and the infinite t ide ,Even in my dust a death less fragrance dwe l ls .

L’

impe‘

rissable P arfum.

(P oemes tragiques.)

14 3

Charl es Bau d e lai re .

Born in Paris, 182 1 D ied near Paris, 1867.

The l ife and death of Charles Baude lai re i s one of themost awful tragedies in the annals of l i terature. The

fate of Chatterton and Coll ins, of Gilbert and Bertrand ,and of so many other chi ldren of despondency and madness is pale i n pathos beside the spectacle of Baude laire ,after his strange ly lurid ex istence in Paris and B russe ls

,

l ingering in a madhouse, paralysed and speechless, unti ldeath re leased his suffering soul .Charles-Pierre Baude lai re-Dufats belonged to a familyof some soc ial d istinction . His father was a professor inthe U niversity of Paris , an accompl ished scholar, andthe friend of Condorcet and Caban is . Charles Baude lai rewas but a boy when his father’s widow married GeneralAupick, afterwards French ambassador to the Porte ( 1 8At home he was a spoiled chi ld, i n school a rebe l l ioussubject. His precocious love Of letters and his capricioustemper were a source of anx iety to the family, and thesefaults were aggravated by his i rreconcilable attitude towards the discipl inarian step-father. A violent outburstOf anger at an official d inner given by the General (whowas grossly insulted by the boy before his guests) determined the ‘ parents to send him abroad , after a fortn ightof sol itary confinement in his own room . Baude lai rel ived for a time i n the East Ind ies, trave l led thence toMauritius

,Bourbon and Madagascar

,fai led to find any

attraction in commerce, and squandered his time and the

I4 4

C H A R L E S B A U D E L A I R E

Eugene De lacroix . H e was the first of that enl ightenedband of F rench poets who champ ioned the cause ofR ichard Wagne r. I n 1 861 , when not one F rench com

pose r of music had the least inkl ing of the essentialq ual it ies of Wagner

’ s gen ius, Baude laire dec lared that nomusician exce ls him in painting material and sp i ritualspace and depth

’ Indeed the aesthetic writ ings ofBaude laire are ful l of luc id and discern ing judgments

,at

once subtle and sober in the i r d iscrimination . H e he lduncompromising op in ions on the artist

’s right of choicei n subject and treatment as an essential privi lege ofgenius ; and his scorn for every conce ssion to easypopularity or vulgar consistency was pronounced .

‘The

most sacred right of man said he,

‘ i s the right to contradict h imse l f ’.I t was in les Fleurs du Mal that Charles Baude lai re

threw down the gauntle t by the appl ication of h isaesthetic theories to poetry. Most of them written in1 843- 184 4 , but not publ ished unti l 1 857, these poems causeda tremendous commotion . The criminal p rosecutionwh ich followed the i r appearance embittered the poet ’scharacte r

,for

,although he was legally acq uitted and

could not but rejoice at the vogue given to his verses,

he resented the humil iation of having to defend from the

criminal bar his claim to l iterary freedom . The Sapphicpoems which gave the occasion of legal procedure we rej udiciously e l iminated in the definitive edition of theFleurs du Mal. I t is the refore to be regretted that themoral offence should have been renewed , i f indeed the

e rotic poems surreptitiously publ ished in B russe ls werewritten by Baude laire . But i t ought to be charitablyremembered that he was then unde r an inte l lectual cloud ,

overwhe lmed w i th debt, and riddled with cynical d isgustof l ife . H e was not instigated by any mere greed of gain,

14 6


for,as Banvil le truly says

,the poe t had ‘ a profound and

absolute scorn of moneyThe decay of Baude lai re ’s noble mind was rapid and

ru inous. H e had drained the chal ice of his youth withful l l ips

,and free ly indulged al l the desi res and de l ights

of his restless fancy. I n later years the fiery fre t of his1mag1nation turned inwards and wore him down . H is

gen ius had been large ly recognised afte r the notorioustrial . H e was tempted into journal ism , but his fast id ioustaste and scrupulously slow method of composition un

fi tted him for the kind of toi l which exhausted Theophi leGautie r. For a wh i le he l ived a l i fe of wretched expedients in Paris

,renewing his bil ls, dodging his creditors, and

constantly putting off the day of regular labour. A lthoughhe knew and declared that ‘ i nspiration is work everyday ’

he had the id le d isposition of a luxurious man .

H e revolved in his imagination vast plans of drama andromance which neve r came near to execution . His posthumous notes shew that he bitterly regretted the dissipation of his energies ; his l i fe gives evidence that he hadnot the strength of wi l l to amend the evi l of his ways.H e succumbed at last to the charms of l iterary lecturing

,

i n emulation of some successful authors i n E ngland andAmerica . The expe riment was tried in B russe l s . Disheartened by his reception he became moody and morose

,

and alarmed his friends in Paris by writing insane exe

crations of Be lgium and the Be lgians . His consti tutionhad been ravaged by debauch, by opiates, by stimulants,and by the remorse of faculties unused or fatal ly m isused .

H e lost the power to work at anything, his speech becameslow and faltering

,and the insid ious d isease soon cul

minated i n a shock of paralysis, varied with spasms ofman iacal frenzy. H e was brought back to Paris

,where

after a year of confinement, shut off from the converse and

I4 7


sympathy of mankind , unable to speak or write and witha fixed look of haggard despai r on his face , but apparentlyconscious of his te rrible condition , he d ied . Sad destinyfor a poet who was j ustly described by CharlesAsselineau

as‘one of the most pe rfect, most exq uisite , and best eu

dowed men of genius ’ ever given to F rance . Englishreaders wi l l remember Swinburne ’s magnificent threnodybeginn ing

Shal l I strew rose , or rosemary, or laure l ,B rothe r, on th is that was the ve i l of thee ?

’

one of the finest tributes of many paid to the memory ofth is rare and extraordinary poetThe character of Charles Baude lai re i s an unsolved

psychological problem . A ll that Gautie r and Asselineau

and Banville and Sainte-Beuve and Du Camp have writtenabout him only se rves to bring into rel ief the contradic

t ions and complex it ies of this strange id iosyncrasy. H e

had Bohemian instincts,but was too fastid ious to be a

real Bohemian . His dandyism in dress and demeanouroften took the most fantastic forms. H e was notoriousfor capricious changes in his appare l

,i n his toi let

,i n his

att itudes, and even in his fac ial express ion . His characteristic mannerism was a pecul iarly de l iberate emphasisof gesture and speech .

The acknowledged portraits of Baudelaire are so d issimi lar as to bege t a doubt i f they represent the samepe rson . Gautier describes his appearance as that of ‘ adevi l who had turned monk ’

,and such he ce rtainly seems

to be i n the counte rfe i t presentment by Naugeot ; but inthe tragic l ikeness by Emile De roy ( 184 4 ) he looks sadand dreamy—a Hamlet whose brow is prematurelysickl ied o

’

er with the pale cast of thought ’.Whether Baude laire’s d i lettante experiences in debauch,

14 8

C HA R L E S B A U D E LA I R E

voluptuous and madly amorous of new and strangesensations.B aude laire ’s poetical work is d istingu ished by its rare

p erfection of form . I f i t is insign ificant in volume it i se xquisite and prec ious in q ual ity, and has had a large rinfluence on contemporary poetry in F rance than the

work of any othe r author . The verse of the Fleurs duMal

,with its shape ly l ine and luminous me lody, has

been the glass of fashion and the mould of form forV e rlaine and Mallarme and many other poe ts of thepresent t ime. Baude laire ’s excessively fastid ious tastesaved him from the di rect imitation of model s , althoughhe could appreciate and assimilate fore ign ideas, as h isp rose translations of D e Quincey and E dgar A l lan Poeand his poetical images from Shakespe are and Gray andLongfe l low c learly demonstrate . And although V ictorHugo was in the plen itude of his supremacy in 1 84 0

there i s l ittle or no evidence of his formative i nfluenceo n Baudelai re

,who sedulously app l ied h imse l f to the cul

tivation of that close ly-wrought and deeply-concentrateds tyle which in poetry marks him as a man apart. Therei s se ldom a glimpse of sudden passion in his song

,

but the expression of his love for the beautiful i s soi ntense

,so super-refined and so subtle that his ve rse

glows with a wh ite heat,which fiercely smoulders i f i t

never flames. I n his colde r and more de l iberate moodsthere i s a sculptu resque sol id ity and a se rene beauty thati s not exce l led even by Landor and Rossetti at the i r best.Many of h is l ines have the curved de l icacy of flesh andthe firm smoothness of marble. I f the re i s a fault i nhis woven harmony of words i t i s uniformity of tonehe thri l led a lyre of rich and splendid resonance

,but Of

few strings . Hence the repetit ion of images when,as in

the Hymn to B eau ty,he exceeds his customary range .

150

C HA R L E S B A U D E L A I R E

Baude lai re ’s tropical experience and his responsiveness, toexotic sensations assisted him in giving a new colour . anda new vibration to F rench verse . There i s a match lesscharm and fragrance i n such l ines as

Parfum qui fait rever aux oasis lointaines(L

’

Amour du Mensonge.)

E t trouve umgout suave au vin le plus ame r ’

(La'

Voix.)

and there are hundreds l ike them i n those i n tox icating

That B aude lai re ’s book should have been sometimeswi l ful ly and sometimes ignorantly misunderstood is notsurprising. The poet has been rough ly handled by a fewof the eminently sane critics of the present time, repre

sented by Ferdinand B runetiere and Jules L emaitre . But

Sainte-Beuve and Paul Bourge t and A natole F rancehave been more tende r

,more sympathetic, and therefore

more just i n the i r j udgments on this strange gen ius.Baude lai re ’s curious blending of re l igious mystic i sm withvoluptuous emotion has seemed to many to b e blasphemyand even athe ism ,

and yet his inmost thoughts were alwaysa passionate prayer to God for de l ive rance from the world,the flesh and the devi l . His bold and occasional ly crudeanalysis of d iseased passion has been mistaken for anappeal to fleshly i ndulgence by those whose regard forthe outward and visible forms of moral ity bl inds themto the spiritual e lements of human desire . I t is truethat such a poet as Baude lai re could have been producedonly in an epoch of social corruption and decay, and thathe was in many respects the morbid embodiment of theLower Empire . But he was neverthe less a great and truepoet and if his l i fe was a moral fai lure and his l ife

’s worka moral phenomenon it i s because a mysterious fatal ity

151


has den ied to the chi ldren of l ight the wisdom which 15 soplentiful ly bestowed upon the children of this world . The

Sin ister ecl ipse of genius endowed with such conspicuousgifts and graces i s only the more appal l ing if i t be true that

Was common clay ta ’en from the common earth ,Moulded by God

,and temper

’

d with the tearsOf ange ls to the perfect shape of man

152


H e communes with the c louds,knows the wind ’s voices,

And on his pi lgrimage enchanted singsSee ing how l ike the wild bird he rejoicesThe hovering Spirit weeps and folds his wings.

All those he fain would love shrink back in terror,Or

,boldened by his fearlessness e late ,

Seek to seduce him i nto sin and e rror,And flesh on him the fierceness of the i r hate .

I n bread and wine,wherewith his soul is nourished ,

They mix the i r ashes and foul spume impureLying they cast aside the things he cherished ,And curse the chance that made his steps the i r lure.

His spouse goes crying in the publ ic p lacesS ince he doth choose my beauty to adore,

Aping those anc ient idols Time defacesI would regi ld my glory as of yore.

Nard , balm and myrrh shal l tempt ti l l he desi res me‘With bland ishments, with dainties and with wine ;Laugh i ng i f in a heart that so admires meI may usurp the sovranty d ivine

Unti l aweary of love ’s impious orgies,

Fastening on him my fingers firm and frai l,

These c laws,keen as the harpy

’s when she gorges,Shal l i n the secret of his heart prevail .

‘Then , thri l led and trembl ing l ike a young bird captured

,

‘The bleeding heart shal l from his breast be tornTo glut h is maw my wanton hound

,enraptured

,

Shal l see me fl ing i t to the earth in scorn

1 54


Heavenward,where he beholds a throne resplendent

,

The poe t l i fts his hands, devout and proud,And the vast l ightnings of a soul transcendentVe i l from his gaze awhile the furious crowd

B lessed be thou ,my God , that givest sorrow,

Sole remedy d ivine for th ings unclean ,Whence souls robust a heal ing vi rtue borrow,

That tempers them for sacred joys serene !

I know thou hast ordained in bl issful region sA place , a we lcome i n the festal bowers ,

TO cal l the poe t with thy holy Legions,‘Th rones

,Dominations, Princedoms, V i rtues, Powers.

I know that Sorrow is the strength of Heaven ,Gainst which in vain strive ravenous E arth and Hel l ,

And that his crown must be of mysterie s wovenWhe reof al l worlds and ages hold the spel l .

But not antique Palmyra’s buried treasure,

Pearls of the sea,rare metal

,precious gem,

‘Though set by thine own hand could fi l l the measure‘Of beauty for his radiant d iadem

‘For thi s thy l ight alone,i ntense and tender,

F lows from the primal source of effluence pure,Whereof al l mortal eyes

,though bright the i r splendour,

‘Are but the broken glass and gl impse Obscure ’

B e’

ne’

diction : Spleen et Ideal.

(Les F leurs du Mal.)

1 55

C HA R L E S B AU D E L A I R E

I l l Lu ck .

To hear so vast a load of grie fThy courage

, S isyphus, I craveMy heart against the task is brave ,

But Art i s long and Time i s brief.

Far from Fame ’s proud sepulchral arches,Towards a graveyard lone and dumb,My sad heart, l ike a muffled drum ,

Goes beating S low funereal marches.

Ful l many a shrouded j ewe l sleepsI n dark obl ivion

,lost in deeps

U nknown to pick or plummet ’s sound

Ful l many a weeping blossom fl ingsH er pe rfume, swee t as secret things,I n silent sol itudes profound .

Le Gu zgnon Spleen et Ide'

al.

(L es Fleurs du

B eau ty .

My face i s a marmoreal dream , 0 mortal sAnd on my breast al l men are bru ised in tu rn,SO moulded that the poet ’s love may burnMute and ete rn al as the earth ’s oold po rtals .

Throned l ike a Sphinx unve i led in the blue deep,A heart of snow my swan -white beauty mufi‘les ;I hate the l ine that undulates and ruffles :

And never do I laugh and never weep.

156


Hymn to B eau ty.

Be thou from He l l upsprung or Heaven descended ,Beauty ! thy look demoniac and divine

Pours good and evi l things confusedly blended ,And therefore art thou l ikened unto wine.

Thine eye with dawn is fi l led,with twi l igh t dwindles,

L ike winds of night thou sprinklest perfumes mildThy kiss, that i s a spe l l , the ch i ld ’s heart kindles,Thy mouth, a chal ice , makes the man a child .

Fallen from the stars or risen from gulfs of error,Fate dogs thy glamoured garments l ike a slave

With wanton hands thou scatterest joy and terror,And rulest over al l , cold as the grave .

Thou tramplest on the dead , scornful and cruel,

Horror coils l ike an amulet round th ine arms,Crime on thy superb bosom is a jewe lThat dances amorously among its charms.

The dazzled moth that fl ies to thee, the candle ,Shrive ls and burns

,blessing thy fatal flame

The love r that dies fawning o’

er thy sandalFondles h is tomb and breathes the adored name .

What if from Heaven or He l l thou com’

st,immortal

B eauty ? O Sphinx-l ike monste r,since alone

Th ine eye , thy smi le , thy hand Opens the portalOf the Infinite I love and have not known .

1 58


What if from God or Satan be the evange l ?Thou my sole Queen Witch of the ve lvet eyes !

S i nce with thy fragrance , rhythm and l ight, O A nge l !I n a less hideous world time swiftl ier fl ies .

Hymne d la B eante’

: Spleen et lde’

al.

(Les Fleurs du Mal.)

E xo t i c F ragran ce .

When , with closed eyes i n the warm autumn night,I breathe the fragrance of thy bosom bare

,

My dream unfurls a cl ime of love l iest ai r,

Drenched in the fiery sun ’s unclouded l ight.

An indolent island dowered with heaven ’s del ight,

Trees singu lar and fru its of savour rare,

Men having sinewy frames robust and spare,

And women whose clear eyes are wondrous bright.

Led by thy fragrance to those shores I hai lA charmed harbour thronged with mast and sai l

,

Sti l l wearied with the q uivering sea’s unrest

What time the scent of the green tamarindsThat thri l ls the ai r and fi l ls my swe l l ing breast

B lends with the mariners’ song and the sea-winds.

Parfum exotique : Sph’en et Ideal.

(L es F leurs du Mal.)

I59


S o nn e t

I n undulant robes with nacreous sheen impearledShe walks as in some state ly sarabandOr l ike l ithe snakes by sacred charmers curledIn cadence wreathing on the slender wand .

Calm as blue wastes of sky and dese rt sandThat watch unmoved the sorrows of this worldWith slow regard less sweep as on the strand

The long swel l of the woven sea-waves sw i rled .

H er pol ished orbs are l ike a mystic gem,

A nd,while th is strange and symbolled be ing l inks

The inviolate ange l and the antiq ue Sphinx ,

I nsphered in gold,stee l , l ight and diadem

The splendour of a l i fe less star endowsWith clear cold majesty the barren spouse .

Spleen et Ide’

al: XX VIII.

(Les Fleurs du

Th e Sp i ri tual Daw n .

When on some wallowing soul the roseate E astDawns with the Ideal that awakes arid gnaws

,

By vengeful working of myste rious lawsAn ange l rises in the drowsed beast.

The i naccessible blue of the soul-sphereTo him whose grove l l ing dream remorse doth gal lYawns wide as when the gulfs Of space enthral .

SO, heavenly Goddess, Sp i rit pure and clear,

160


T he F law ed B e l l .

B i tter and sweet it is,i n winter n ight

,

Hard by the fl ickering fire that smokes, to l istWhile far-offmemories rise i n sad slow fl ight,With chimes that echo singing through the mist.

O blessed be the be l l whose vigorous throat,I n spite of age ale rt, with strength unspent,

U tters re l igiously his faithful note ,L ike an old warrior watching near the tent !

My soul alas is flawed,and when despai r

Would people with her songs the chil l n ight-airToo oft they faint in hoarse enfeebled tones,

As when a wounded man forgotten moansBy the red pool

,beneath a heap of dead ,

And dying writhes in frenzy on his bed .

Spleen et Ide’

al.

(Les'

Fleurs du

162

H enry Mu rger.

Born in Paris, 182 2 D ied in Paris, 1861 .

Henry Murger, the son of a poor German tai lor, was bornin one of the slums of Paris . H e had no regular education ,and took the road to Bohemia from necessity rather thanchoice. His first experience of l i fe was as a notary ’s clerkwith a smal l salary. H e wished to become a painter, buthis progress in art was so slow that he resolved to tryle tters . His sole source of inspi ration was his ownnarrow experience of the world ; his greatest gift afaculty for hard work . H e would spend the whole nightover a single page of prose or verse . H e had a

’

l imitedknowledge of l iterature

,

’ and nourished his mind by reading over and ove r again the few books which he possessed—among them the poems of V ictor Hugo and A lfredde Musset, with Letourneur

’

s hazy translation of Shakespeare’s plays. W i th c lassical l iterature and the olderF rench poets he was total ly unacquainted .

Miirger was the acknowledged chief of the lesserBohem ia, i n which Privat d ’

Anglemont, Auguste V i tu ,the witty and refined A l fred D elvau and the nove l istChampfleury

" were his principal sate l l i tes. The i r placesof rendezvous were the cafe

' Momus i n rue des P rétres

S aint Germain-Z’

Aurerrois and the ce’

nacle of the barriere

By cran ing over the window of the i r poor chamber in

Ju les Fleury-Husson, afterwards Curator of the National Museum at

Sevres, a pro lific writer ofnove ls and a recognised authori ty on ceramic art.

163

H E N R Y MU R G E R

rue Vaugirard , Champfleury and Murger could see one ofthe trees in the garden of the Luxembourg. The furnitureat fi rst consisted of six earthenware plates, a superannuated commode, a few volumes of poetry and a Phrygiancap

, the property ofMurger. Champfleury, who was moreluxuriously endowed , contributed to the i r heterogeneousplenishing two mattresses, more than a hundred books, anarmchair

,two common chairs

,a table and a skul l . These

two Bohemians spent the most of the i r time in reading,writing and smoking. Between them they had an incomeof 70 francs a month, out of which they paid 300 francsper annum for the i r lodging. Nearly al l the payments ofthis curious household were made on the fi rst of eachmonth, when the j oint revenue fe l l due, and they kept adiary of disbursements i n order to guard against extravagance . Wel l might Léon Goz lan parody Racine ’s famousVCI

‘

SCS

Aux petits des oiseaux Dieu donne leur pature ,E t sa bonté s’étend sur toute la nature

by substituting for the second l ine of the couplet

Mais sa bonté s’arréte ala l ittérature

And yet the gaiety wh ich these poor wretches ex

pended on the i r ex istence was prod igious They actedon Voltaire ’s principle . F ive or six miseries togethersaid the Geomete r to the Man with Forty Crowns makea very tolerable establ ishment ’

When Miirgerwas writing his Scenes de la Vie de B ohemefor the Corsaire at e ighteen francs the feu illeton he couldafford ne ither the railway-fare to go out to the country andsee nature nor the cost of a black coat to go into soc iety andstudy manners . Hence the close atmosphere in which his

164

H E N R Y MUR G E R

and marvel lous gift of wit ful l of fee l ing his laughtouched On tears ’ . The same critic signal i sed Murger,along with Balzac and Gavami, as perhaps the mosttruly Parisian artist of his epoch . H e had real originali ty

,wh ich owed l ittle to learn ing, for in that squalid strife

of his youth he had wasted the time that might have beengiven to study, to experiment and to assimilation .

S cenes of Bohemian L ife remains the supreme exampleof pure humour in the F rench language, and it i s perhapss ignificant that i t should have been contributed by anauthor of Teuton ic extraction . Humour, indeed , i s hardlya French characteristic Of wit there is enough and tospare, whether in the caustic sarcasm of L e N evcu de

Rameau , the shrewd irony of Candide or the grotesqueexaggeration of Tartarin de Tarascon . The j ovialhumour of Rabe lais

,l ike that of Falstaff

,stands alone .

Beranger’s sprightly style i s essentially satirical,and

Balzac fal ls into gross pleasantry when he essays the

humorous ve in . Even the quaint spiritual humour ofCharles N odier cannot be compared with that of HenryMurger, which is as spontaneous as it is captivating andrare. And i t owes l ittle or nothing to the fescenninefancy which runs so free ly through Gall ic l iterature

Ah ! la muse de Col lé‘C

’

est la gaudrio le , 6 gué l’

as Beranger so genial ly sings.The l ife of Hen ry M‘

urger i s the l ife of the poo r poe t inevery age, and , whatever glamour of romance may havebeen thrown over i t, too often has it been one of ignobleenjoyment and sordid m i se ry. A few

’

of the Bohem iansescaped from the i r dungeon with clean l imbs and un

clouded m inds ; the greater number succumbed in a hopeless struggle with starvation and debauche ry. Miirger

166


might have enfranchised himse l f had he possessed ahealthier body and a more ambitious mind . Sapped byearly privations

,broken by youthful excess and anx ietyand

toi l,he d ied on the threshold of manhood, the most attrae

t ive and th e most patheti c figure of the later Romanticperiod . With him the Bohemia of the n ineteenthcentury disappeared . We know that the poor poet i s everwith us

,but the conditions that gave his ex i stence a local

habitation and a name have changed , and with them the

genial good-fe l lowship and generous emotions whichgraced his forlorn lot. Where i s the feast of reason andthe flow of soul ? Where i s the symposium of choice spiritsbound together by kindred sorrows and kindl ing ideals ?Where i s the sparkl ing Cydalise and the pale grisette,whose charms shed a consoling l ight on l ives that knewtoo l ittle of the joy of l iving ; and

Where are the snows of yester-year

167


The D i ver.

To enrich her circlet, starred with precious th ings,The q ueen said to the diver At my sign,Plunge to the palace where the siren sings,And pluck me the blonde pearl beneath the brine ’

Then into the wi ld wave the diver springsOn golden sands

,where crimsoned corals shine,

Plucks the blonde pearl , and to his sovere ign bringsThe treasure prisoned in its nacreous Shrine .

The poet, l ike this d iver, i s a slave,Lady

,and if your smil ing fancies crave

A verse to voice abroad your beauty’s spe l l ,

Straightway he plunges into depths of thought,Where sleeps the hoarded rhyme with gold inwrought,And brings the wished-for jewe l i n its she l l .

Le Plongeur : F antaisies.

(Les N uits d’

hiver.)

N ear Ju l i e t’

s Bal co ny .

Your balcony, my lady, boasts such artAs the fond sculptor loves to contemp lateOf wondrous shape, each richly-chise l led partA maste rp iece of A rt ’s d ivinest date.

168


B lanch e-Mari e.

The virgin ve i l of B lanche-MarieWas white as mountain-snows

The heavenly robe s no brighter beThat Mary ’s love bestows :

With flowers of silk enwoven thereonShe wrought so cunn ingly

That l ike a saint with garlands shoneThe body of B lanche-Marie.

H er ve i l of white but once she wore,When

,swathed in folds thereof

,

With downcast eyes she knel t beforeThe chal ice of Christ’s love.

The spousal ve i l of B lanche-MarieWas black as raven ’s plume ;Wrought when her mother d ied

, and she

Watched in the si lent roomOf wil low-leaf and yew she madeI ts sombre broidery :

The dew-drops gl istering through its shadeWere tears of B lanche-Marie.

Her vei l of black but once she wore,When, dowered with love unpriced ,

She stood a bride on convent-floorAnd gave herse lf to Christ.

170


The mystic ve i l of B lanche-MarieWas woven of heavenly blue,

SO fine , so c lear, that you might seeH er pure face shin ing through

And on her ve i l were sprinkled stars,A rad iant mysteryW i th l i l ies white and nenuphars,A crown for

'

Blanche-Marie .

The ve i l of mystic blue she woreBy God

’s own love was given ,That day her guardian-ange l boreThe sin less soul to heaven .

L es Trois Vailes de Marie B erthe.

!

.(Les N uits d’

hiver. )

A little liberty has been taken in translating this prose ballaa'c into verseform. B lanche-Marie and the preced ing sonnets present a d ifferent aspectofMurger’s poe tical talent from the Chanson dc Mimi or the Chanson dcMusette, but i t wou ld have been superfluous to translate the latter after thespecimens ofMttrger

’

s Bohemian muse which have been so del icately andso gracefully rendered into Engl ish byAndrew Lang.

171

Theod o re d e Banv i ll e .

Born in Moul ins (All ier) 182 3 D ied in Paris, 1891 .

Few better examples of a peaceful and unpretentious l ife,wholly devoted to letters, could be found than that ofThéodore Faullain de Banvi lle . H e was the son of aretired naval captain

,who be longed to a family of country

gentlemen once possessed of large e states in the departments of the A l l ier and the N iévre. I t was ‘

the land of‘the Loire ’

,i n the midst Of that beautifully-wooded

country which l ies between the ducal domain s of theancient famil ies of Bourbon and Mazarin . The lavishhospital i ty and Quixotic caprices of Banville ’s greatgrandfathe r had ruinously impaired the family patrimony,and thus it was that Theodore de Banvi lle was ‘ reducedto the condition of a lyric poet, so that he might breakfast on a sunbeam and sup on the wandering breeze andmoonl ight ’. His choice of the poe tic call ing needs novind ication , for even his prose gives evidence how spontaneously his thoughts crystal l ised themse lves in lyricalform .

F rom an ancestral race of robust and healthy constitution Theodore de Banvi l le inherited those characteristicsof good sense

,simpl icity and kindl iness which underlay

his lyrical genius and were displayed in his daily l ife.

His philosophy was unaffected and ful l of amiabil ity.

Give children everyth ing they desire and al low them to‘ do anything they wish, but never let them hear falseor fool ish things ’ was one of his ax ioms. Another : I f

172

T H E O DO R E D E B A N V I L L E

deed they are al l i nsti nct with poetic feel ing and ful lof de l icate beauty. His avowed obj ect in writing theseplays was to do for comedy what V ictor Hugo had donefor tragedy ; and those to whom Beerbohm Tree’s actingin the Engl ish version of Gringoire has revealed the possibilities of poetry on the stage ( i f indeed any suchdemonstration should be necessary after The Tempest andA Mid summer N ight

’

s Dream) wil l understand howdiverse from that of the average playwright was Theodorede Banville

’

s ideal of comedy. Banvil le resumed hislyrical work in 1 866 with les Exiles, fol lowed by les

Occidentales in 1 871 , and other col lections of verse i n1 873, 1 874 and 1876. His prose miscel lan ies werenumerous and ful l of vital ity.

As a journal ist Theodore de Banvil le did exce l lent andvaried work

,sometimes in his own name and sometimes

under the disguise of Francis Lambe rt or Francois V i l lon .

H e threw up his appointment as l iterary and theatricalcritic in the N ational rather than keep silence on the

subject of V ictor Hugo ; and afterwards wrote i n the GilBlas a series of del ightful Chroniques which we re al ive withwit and fancy

,if sometimes easy on the score of morals .

These, however, brought him more money than he everearned by his poet ry or plays .Perhaps the most characteristic and striking achievement

of Theodore de Banvi l le was his Odes funambulesques, aseries of satirical poems in which he aimed at the introduction of a new comic e lemen t into F rench l iterature.

I n these odes the tours de force of rhyme, ingenious playson words, parody and witty bad inage are singular andoriginal . They were the first and are the finest examples ofrefined lyrical buffoonery in F rench verse, but many of themcannot be translated owing to the puns, pecu l iar devices ofverbal imitation , and al lusions to contemporary personages ,

174

T H E O D OR E D E B ANV I L L E

places of resort and popular ephemera with which theyabound . So much so, that to many inte l l igent Paris iansof the present time they are almost as obscure as thesati re of A ristophanes.Throughout his long l ife Theodore de Banvi l le remained

faithful to the men and the traditions of the RomanticMovement. H e of al l that survived , i f Theophi le Gautierbe excepted , best understood and sympath ised with thewild passion and faith of 1 830, keeping unchanged his warmadmiration for Louis Bertrand , Theophi le Dondey, EmileCabanon , Theophile de Ferriere , A lphonse E squi ros, andal l the nigh forgotten names “ of that unforgotten time !When Charles Asselineau

,the high-priest of the F rench

Renaissance,publ ished his B ibliographie des Romantiques

i n 1 866,i t was Theodore de Banvi l le who welcomed i t in

a famous ode,i n which he thus summed up the glories

of that great revival

The Daw n o f th e Romance .

To Charles Asselineau .

Hail to thee E IGHTEEN HUNDREDAND TH IRTY ! Dawn that sunderedThe night of things unborn ;

O laughing morn !

Dawn bursting into sunl ight !Whose blended l ights l ike one l ightRenew

,even in my dreams

,

The i r rosy gleams.

Among the poets of 1830-184 0 there was at least one 1who deserved a

kinder destiny. The Roland of Napo léon Peyrat (Napol le Pyrénéen) hasmore ofthe true Romantic co louring and flavour than anypoem ofthe period,VictorHugo ’s alone excepted .

I7S

T H E ODO R E D E B A N V I L L E

With radiance amethystal,Turning the clouds to crystal

,

Thou breakest and the nightTakes sudden fl ight.

Crowned with ambrosial garlands,The ex i led Muse from far landsReturns with subti le art

To touch the heart.

The Drama’s web is wovenR ich-hued the si lence clovenThe Ode harmon ious rings,

The Sonnet sings .

Here Shakespeare shouts sonorous,While Petrarch sighs in chorus ;Gay Horace , clear and strong,

Trolls out his song.

Ronsard repeats his proemIn canzonet and poem

,

Swe l led with the wild refrainOf Balf’s strain .

L e the ’s dul l flood beguil ing,

Old Rabe lais rises smi l ingTo dower -romance with store

Of jovial lore .

Love ’s rosy fire so flushesThe cheek Ofyouth with blushesThat even the journal grows

Ashamed of prose !

176

T H E OD OR E D E B A N V I L L E

George Sand reveals the humanLove-tremulous soul of womanMusset unfolds his wings

And weep ing sings.

The whole World ’s Comedy dancesRound Balzac

,who advances

To strip,with supreme art

,

Man ’s naked heart.

Barbier d isplays his trophiesI n bright and burning strophesSainte-Beuve to lyres that ring

Lends a new string.

Plaintive Valmore s ings sobbingH er heart, with sorrow throbbing,A bitter s igh exhales

,

As the sea wai ls .

Throned on her mountain-summitArt, holding wisdom ’s plummet ,Gives ThéOphile Gautier

A world to sway.

I n days superb and sord idKarr keeps more young love hoardedThan Rothschild ’s coffers hold

Of massive gold .

Marcel ine-Fél icité-Josephe Desbordes-Valmore—I7S6-1859—an actress,singer and poetess whose sad life and lyrical talent excited the sympatheticadmirat ion of Sainte-Beuve, Lamartine and Victor H ugo. H er poems are

fu ll of sensibili ty. According to Michelet she possessed, above all,‘the

‘

gift oftears’

.

178

THEOD OR E D E B A N V I L L E

W ith l ips enthral led and tende r,

Gérard reveals the splendourOf faery dreams and rhymes

From Orient cl imes

Deschamps, twin harps and voicesOne on swift wings rejoices,One groans beneath the we ight

Of Romeo’s fate .

Lemaitre leads the capturedMe lpomene enraptured

,

And grand Dorval stands near,His only peer

B erl ioz, with storm and thunde r,Cleaves the thick clouds asunde r,And cal ls i n l ightn ing-glare

To Meyerbee r ;

Préault’

s fantastic fingerB ids trembling pathos l inger,Pale, with immortal grace ,

On Sorrow ’s face

Johannot’

s brain,o’

erflowingWith fancies warm and glowing,Leads Love i n pilgrimage

Through each new page.

Fond Art i s fainto hoverO

’

er Boulanger her lover,And even on Nanteuil’s brows

A kiss bestows,

TH E OD OR E D E B AN V I L L E

But pours, i n amplest measure,On De lacroix her treasureOf gems and jewe l led things

,

Too rich for kings .

While Daumier wie lds,audacious

,

The penci l l arge and graciousOf Michae l-Ange lo

,

Lost long ago,

Gavarni thrids the tracesOf amorous nymphs and graces,Whose charms Devéria weds

With nobler heads !

A las,de lusive V i sion !

Whe re i s thy light E lysianThe days on which i t shone

Are dead and gone !

Where are they —S ingers, Sages ,That charmed the feast of ages

,

Those heroes noble-souled ,Those hearts of gold ,

B rave hearts of honour zealousThe most lie dead . The i r fe l lows

,

Grown gray in glory ’s q uest,Now long for rest.

The i r great and noble storyI s l ike a legend hoaryThat by the hearth ’s pale l ight

I s told at n ight.

180

T HEOD OR E D E B A N V I L L E

For thou the i r annals gleanestSo c lose that scarce the meanestOf many names obscure

E scapes thy lure.

SO, s ince thy blazon names theeOur herald and proclaims theeGuardian of glorious rhyme

Unto al l time ,

Te l l u s of E IGHTEEN HUNDREDAND TH IRTY, year that thunderedWith storm and stress of fight

And splendours bright,

A glorious reve lationOn wh ich the loud oblationOf hoarse Theresa’s l ips

Now casts ecl ipse !

Thine be the tongue that clamours,

I n days whereon the glamoursOf gilded gauds prevai l

,

‘Ye Vanq uished , Hai l

For though the fortress tumble,

Though stone by stone may crumbleThose moss-grown towers

,no spe l l

Can ever que l l

The good old Rh i ne land giant,

Romantic and defiant,

Whose shattered wal l s environA heart of i ron l

L’Aube romantique.

(N ouvelles Odesfu nambulesques.)

1 8 2

T H E OD O R E D E B A N V I L L E

Banville’

s S ouvenirs and E squisses reflect the freshnessand healthfulness of his i nte l lectual l i fe . His critici smsgive evidence of an appreciative rather than a censoriousattitude towards letters and art. H e considered V i ctorHugo and He inri ch He ine the two best poe ts of thiscentury, and loved bette r to bestow too much praise ona minor bard than to disparage the glory of a great name.

H e was famil iar with the entire range of F rench verse,

but he had l i ttle or no knowledge of contemporary Engl ishl ite rature. His own verses stamp him as the most trulylyrical of al l F rench poets. In h is return to the sources ofclassical inspiration he fol lowed and developed V ictor deLaprade and pre luded Leconte de L isle. H e had a prod igious variety of rhymes and successful ly attemptedalmost every form of verse. His S onnets, his Ballades,and his Rondels afte r the fashion of Charles d ’

Orléans, are

triumphs of fanciful learn ing and lyri cal grace . Hiscolouri ng is warm and luminous . H e displays more esprit

than humour,and in general his imagery is more copious

than his ideas . H e i s never prosy,never pedantic and

never profound but the e lastic i ty and ease of his style, hisfe l ici ty of i l lustration and his fine sense of verbal me lodygive wings to a ve rse which i s always radiant and joyous.Banvi l le saw the sensuous rather than the spiritual sideof things

,and no poet was eve r so l ittle troubled with

the problems of l i fe and the mysteries of death . To himthe world was ful l of beauty and sweetness and l ight. H e

was one of those whom the gods love,for although the

days of his years were nearly three-score-and-ten he d iedyoung.

1 83

TH E ODO R E D E B A N V I L L E

H ome-S i ckness;

When trivial volumes rol l before my sightIn endle ss panorama

,

When tired Thal ia travails every nightWith a new me lodrama

When journal ists d ispense the ir Attic saltIn columns analytic,

And with each dose i n d ivers keys exaltThe function of the critic

When pal l id lecturers to flocks that faintD iscourse on dying n iggers

When tawdry actresses daub al l the i r paintOn lank and bony figures ;

When in the market-place provincials crowd,

Grown greedy with digestionOf fi lthy lucre

,and in conclave l oud

D iscuss the sugar q uestion

When sorry playwrights,with mahogany gaze,

F latte r the i r fl imsy mode l,

Write V ictor Hugo down , sing d’

Ennery’s praise,

And i n vi le farces twaddle

In England , to-day, the silver question.

1 84

T H E ODOR E D E B A N V I L L E

Mourn Daphn is,ravished by a crue l fate,

Or,when the dance dishevels,

L ike bl ithe Alphesiboeus imitateThe satyrs in thei r reve ls !

(Les Cariatides.)February, 184 2 .

I d o latry.

Heavenly rhythm,through the ages victorious,

Whence to new days a new bard is the bringer,Horace of yore was thy champion and glorious

Sappho thy singe r

Bend thou,enamoured

,the nymph for who se beauty

Burns my desire,be love ’s pleader between us,

Though her heart, vowed to Diana’s cold duty,

Scorns me and Venus !

S ince every night the fair s isters, the Graces,Tuning the i r steps to thy heavenly numbers,

Kiss her white bosom , whe re, wooing embraces,Lydia slumbers.

I f in the chace,loose ly clad and with tresses

Streaming, she runs to your reeds from the meadow,Give her, O naiads, your warmest caresses

I n the cool shadow !

He lp, thou that wieldest the lyre , oh insp ire in me,Thou whose fleet chariot the flying winds fol low

,

Songs that are fi l led with the amorous fire i n me,Phoebus Apollo !

186

T H E O D OR E D E B A N V ILL E

Wilt thou,too

, Cypris, to he lp me , ensnare her?Then wil l .I give thee

,with myrtle in blossom,

Turtle-doves white as the snow is, or fairerL i ly’s pure bosom .

j une, 184 2 .

A Love-S o ng.

S ij e l’dis d l

’alou ette,

La violett’se double, double,

La violett’se doublera.

Who,ere dayl ight breaks above

,

S i nce I faint with love and languish,Will to him

,my sou l ’s dear love ,

Bear the secret of my anguish

How,my heart

,when al l i s dark

,

Shal l my secret send him warningIf I breathe it to the l arkShe wi l l te l l i t to the morn ing.

Love,that in my breast doth burn

,

Thri ll s me with what pang he pleasesI f the wave my secret learnShe wi l l te l l i t to the breezes.

Fear my tremulous l ip turns pale,

S leepless pain my l id unclosesI f I te l l the nightingaleShe wil l te l l i t to the roses.

1 87

TH E ODO R E D E B AN V I L L E

How shal l I be seech my loveResp ite from the woes that fol low

If I te l l the tu rtle-doveShe wil l tel l i t to the swal low.

L ike a reed I bend and dream ,

Cold neglect my beauty shadowsI f I tell the azure streamShe wil l te l l i t to the meadows.

You that see my soul ’s despai r,Wings and waves and winds of summer

Ifmy glass the secret ShareShe wi ll te l l each curious comer.

Yet, because I faint with love ,You that see my swooning angu ish

Fly and find,abroad

,above ,

Him for whom my soul doth langu ish !

Chanson d’

Amour.

(Les S talactitcs.)

A B oat-S o ng.

E t vogue la nacelle

Quiporte mes amours.

The waves on the lagoonDrowse and swoon

With breath that balm d iscumbersThe zephyrs softly creep

The ripp le lu l l s our slumbers,Let us S leep

1 88

T HEODOR E D E B A N V I L L E

The B lacksm i th s.

With rhyme and chime of sounding hammerLO

,how the smiths in song rej oice !

R ising towards the dawn the i r clamourR ings loude r than the clarion ’s voice.

JOHN and JAMES.

See the be l lowing flames that lightenOur foreheads by the north-wind tanned

They gl immer through the haze and frightenThe hungry ravens from the land .

Feast-day,fast-day

,one with anothe r,

In fire s of he l l we toi l and sing.

JAMES.

My brothe r J ohn

JOHN.

And you my brother

JAMES.

The be l lows blow

JOHN .

The hammer swing

JAMES.

I ron , rough as earth thy ne ighbour,I n the hearth ’s black shadow thrown

,

Ere the c lose of this day ’s labourOn our anvi l thri l l and groan !

190

T H EOD OR E D E B A N V I L L E

JOHN .

Once obscure,through changes growing

,

Fate shal l snatch thee,bright as Fame,

F rom the fiery furnace glowingI n a shower of golden flame !

JAMES.

Thou shal t be the plough that burrowsDeep in earth,

'

whence smi l ing riseHarvests fai r that c lothe the furrows,Hailed by l ight-winged butterfl ies !

JOHN .

Thou shalt be the fearless courserIn whose flanks of flaming coal

Moves a Sp i ri t that murmurs hoarserThan the d istant thunders rol l

JAMES.

Thou shalt be the sweep ing sickle,Reaper of the ripened wheat

L ike a l iving sea whose fickleWaves the wind doth bend and beat !

JOHN .

As the dawn from darkness rushesI n the sun ’s resplendent flood ,

Thou shalt be the blade that blushesWith the crimson bloom of blood

JAMES.

Now for justice thou descendest !Whether wrapped in gloom or gleam ,

Sword or ploughshare , sti l l thou blendestWith the moving human stream

191

T H EODO R E D E B A N V I L L E

JOHN .

Thou dost wie ld the warrior’s thunder !

JAMES.

Thou dost tear the bosom trueOf thyMother Earth asunder !

JOHN.

F ighter thou

JAMES.

And worker too

(Les Exiles.)October, 1859.

The N igh t ingal e .

See how the violets shimmer,With pearls of night bedewed

,

F resh drops that glance and gl immer !Hark ! i n the sombre wood

That Sh ivers with her wingsThe ,nightingale now sings

O l inger,half-reveal ing

Thy naked charms so nearBeneath thy window knee l ing,Te l l me thou holdest dear

Words whispered once or twiceOf yore i n Parad ise !

192

TH EODOR E D E B A N V I L L E

A thousand roses blossomA round her smi ling bed ,Even as the wild-flowers shed

The i r sweetness on thy bosom .

Thou knowest, O queen of wonder,E nchanted

,holy Night !

With what entranced affrightMy soul is torn asunder.

O sapphire ! ve i l less azure !O calm ! O ecstasy !The sea i s l ike the sky

And sh ines with starred emblaz ure.

Thy flowe ry lips unseal ing,To calm th is wounded soul

,

B reathe i n a word Be whole !And i n a kiss love ’s heal ing.

February, 1861. (Ame’

thystes.)

H ero d ias.

Her eyes are clear as Jordan’s wave serene.

On dainty neck and ear droops pearly lustreShe seems more sweet than the grape ’s tre l l ised cluster

And shames the wild-rose with her dusky mien .

She laughs and wantons l ike a scorn ful queen ,Baring the wondrous beauty of her bosom .

H er luscious l ips are l ike a scarlet blossom ,

And her white tee th outshine the l i ly ’s sheen .

I94

T H EOD OR E IMs B Aa nm:

Lo ! now She comes,with charms voluptuous glowing

A black page holds her robe of draperies flowingThat proudly sweep the floor in ample folds.

Sapphire and topaz flash and rubies ruddyF lame on her hands : her golden charger holds

The head of John the Baptist, pale and bloody.

(Les P rincesses.)[une, 1854 .

hded ea.

Medea, i n whose heart love swel ls at he ight,S ings with the wave obscure and the swift river

,

In which her long look sees the starl ight shiver,

Dimly reflects her naked beauty white .

Her wan charms spel l the Phasis in its fl ight,

And, as she S ings,the wandering winds del iver

H ervoice,blent with the sound of lyres that quiver

,

And spread her tresses l ike a stream of l ight.

F ix ing her gaze on gloomy skies,agl immer

With sanguine flame,she s ings. H er white l imbs

shimmerL ike snowy gleams athwart the dusky swards.

On sombre mountain-slopes she culls the tenderAnd mystic herb whose sap fel l poison hoards,

And on her bosom shines the moon ’s pale splendour.

(Les P rincesses.)September, 1865.

I9S

TH EODOR E D E B A N V I L L E

Remembrance .

O Gautier ! thou a sage among the sagesWith looks subl ime and bland,

Even thou whose spi ri t l ived in al l the agesAnd dwe l t in every land ,

Thou wert a Greek indeed, now haply gazingWith thine immortal eyes

On temples tal l, harmonious profi les raisingIn pure blue gulfs of skies.

Of those soft sword-bearers thou wert the lover(The i rs more than sorrow

’s powe r)For i n thy dreams, whenas the sap boiled over

Of al l thy thought in flowe r,

Thou we rt a hard , and now, to charm the le i sureOf many stranger kings

,

In heaven ’s high dwel l ing thy melod ious measureOf swift Achil les sings .

Naught was unknown to thee. His art unfoldedAntique Polycletes

And forms athletic by thy finger mou ldedThe Dorian sculptor sees.

On the green swards, made glad with laughing daisies,Such as the Gods desire ,

Theocri tus now hears the herdsman ’s praisesH e taught thy chi ld ’s c lear lyre.

Loving, with Pindar , the serene domin ions,L ike fowlers loosing fl ight

Thou sendest forth thine Odes on eagle-pinionsTowards the red sun ’s l ight.

195

A ndre Theu rie t.

Born inMarly-le-Roi (Seine-et-Oise) 1833.

Andre Theuriet rece ived his education in Bar-le -Duc,

to which place his fami ly belonged ; and his youth wasspent among the hi ll s and woods of Western Lorraine.

H e afterwards stud ied for the law in Paris , but on takinghis degree i n 1 857his attention was tu rned to l iterature,and with this vocation in view he became a clerk in theoffi ces of the Ministry of F inance. From that time hisl ife has been almost entire ly and unostentatiously devotedto letters. His long catalogue of work is composed offour volumes of verse, a multitude of nove ls and playsand innumerable contributions to periodical l i terature .

H e seems to have sacrificed poe try to romance,for he i s

better known as a nove l ist than as a poet.Theuriet

’

s first poe tical effusion,InMemoriam,

appearedin the Revue des D eux Mondes i n 1 857. Le Chemin des

B ois was publ ished in 1867and crowned by the F renchAcademy in 1868. Le Bleu et le N oir followed in 1 873 ;then te L ivre de la Payse ; and the j ardin d

’

automne i n1 894 . As may be gathered from the t itles of theseVolumes, André Theuriet i s pre-eminently a poet of thecountry. H e exce ls i n the de l ineation of de l icate lycoloured scenes of rural l ife . His song is full of birds andflowers and the charms of idyl l ic love . To his de l ightin natural beauty he adds a contemplative me lancholywhich enhances the poetry of his simple pictures. The

198

A N D R E T H E U R IE T

wind-swept landes and ruined towers of B rittany seem tohave fascinated his fancy more than the ancestral fieldsand forests of fert i le Lorraine. There i s nothing ofParis ian sensual ity or disappointed cyn icism in his healthylove of rustic enjoyment.The poetical range of this bucol ic hard i s not a wide

one. His latest volume of verse gives only a fuller andricher expression to the sentiment which inspired hisyouthful muse. I n his prose tales, which have a largecircle of readers, he d isplays the same tender andobservant study of human character i n humble l ife anddwel ls on the same exquis ite descriptions of pastoralscenery, without intruding those voluptuous and violentelements which so many F rench novel ists love to handle.

Once or twice only has he al lowed himse l f a l ittle l icence,

but the author of les G illets de K erlaz needs no suchmeretricious accessories to re l ieve the unaffected freshnessof his narrative talent.

I99


The S ong o f the Wi l low-Weaver.

Willow wands, wicker bands,Let you r supple withies bend beneath the weaver’s hands.

You shal l be the cradle where the mother rocks her chi ld ,Soothed by lul labies of love that breathe some oldrefrain

Nestl ing in the frai l couch,by happy dreams begu i led ,

When closing l ips stil l white with milk he goes to sleepagain.

W i l low wands, wicker bands,Let you r supple withies bend beneath the weaver’s hands.

You shal l be the basket brimmed with berries ripe and red ,Gathered by the girls that roam in copses clothed withfern

F ragrant on the fresh air a balmy breath is shed ,When laughing to the homestead in the twi l ight theyreturn .

W i l low wands,w icker bands

,

Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver’s hands.

You shal l be the riddle i n the buxom peasant ’s arms ,Whence the barley beaten from the flai l overflows,While upon the threshing-floor the sparrows pounce i n

swarms,

And sk irmish for the golden grain she sprinkles as shegoes.

2 00


The K ingfi sh er.

When from dewy dawn to n ightF lames the dog-star’s fiery lightI n a heaven of cloudless glow,

Let us haunt those hollow nooksWhere on rock-strown bed the brooksUnder channel led arches flow.

There,i n coverts cool as dusk

,

Honeysuckle , thyme and muskB lossom in the fresh sweet ai r

There,on green and azure wing

,

L ike an arrow from the string,Darts the gl ittering kingfisher.

Swift of fl ight he skims the stream ,

Shines, and l ike a fad ing dreamLures the vision as he fl ies

But his plume of purfled blue,B right with many a changing hue,L ingers in the dazzled eyes .

LeMartin-pe‘

cheur : Chansons d’

oiseaux.

(j ardin d’

automne.)

On the Water.

The wil lows shiver. On the streamThe pale moon spreads her silvery beam ,

B lue gazing from the gu l f of starsB eneath broad branches black as n ightWe glide along the wate rs, white

With nenuphars.

2 02


The fresh cool dews of evening shedAmong the dense leaves overheadMe lt

,drop by drop

,i n mystic tears ;

Showered on the waves that thri l l and throngThey seem to lul l us with a song

F rom heavenly spheres.

O friends, the n ight serene and clear !

Laugh, yet so low we scarce can hearYour laughter trembling lest it rouse

The sad real ity of thingsThat in the shadow fold the i r wings

And fain would drowse !

S ing ! here beneath the weeping sk ies ,Heedless of time

,with half-closed eyes

,

My thought shal l flow whi le flows the stream ,

Even as a nurse,of rest beguiled,

Fondles and soothes her weary chi ldTo sleep and dream .

Promenade sur l’

eau : Paysages d’

autrefois.

(j ardin d’

automne.)

203

Armand S i l vestre .

Born in Paris, 1837.

Paul -A rmand S i lvestre (known also in letters as PaulForestier) was a pupi l of the Ecole polytechnique in Paris,and found emp loyment, l ike André Theuriet, i n the officesof the Ministry of F inance. H e began his l iterary careeras a poet under the wing of the Pamassian group. Hisfi rst poems were publ ished with a commendatory prefaceby George Sand , and he thereupon took a prominent placeamong the lyrical writers of h is day. The verse was richin ideas and imagery

,harmon iously moulded , and furnished

from a wide knowledge of classical, legendary and mythological lore Several col lections of verse followed atintervals ; notably la Chanson desH eures (new and enlargededition in 1 887) lesA zles d

’

or ( 1 880) le Pays desRoses ( 1883)le Chemin des Etoiles ( 1885) Roses d

’

octobre ( 1 890) andl’

Or des Couchants S i lvestre ’s mode ls are Gautier,Banvi l le and Baude laire , but he has a highly-colouredvoluptuous style of his own .

The turning-point in A rmand S i lvestre ’s l iterary l ife washis accession to the Gil Blas i n 1 880 . Without forsakingaltogether the higher walks of l iterature he essayed aresurrection of Rabelais in his coarse r and broade r ve in ,and reve l led in that species of pleasantry which is so wel lcharacterised as gauloiserie. I n lesMalheurs da comman

dant Laripete, les Farces de mon ami j acques, Contes

pantagrue’

liques etgalants, Contesgrassou illets and N ouvelles

gaudrioles he gave free scope to his l ibe rtine fancy and

2 04

A RMAN D S I L V E STR E

T o One by the S ea.

Lo ! the new season on the meadow fl ingsH er robe of purple , hyacinth and blue ,

Pure in her nakedness, with sprouting wingsThat on the air a breath of j asmine strew.

She leaves a joyful furrow where she leapsA sound of kisses springs beneath her tread

Round her the broken bonds of heavy sleepsIn the freed aether float l ike si lken thread .

Endless enchantment, ecstasies of bi rth !On mount, i n meadow,

and on bosky bankOf the blue rivers, eve rywhere the earthFeels l iving germs pierce through her quickened

flank.

Hard by the barren sea, the sea whose breastBears scentless flowers and trees of bitte r leaf

,

Thou dwellst alone, while, with the sea’s unrest

,

My heart rol ls at thy feet an endless grief !

A Celle qui est au bord de la Mer : IV.

(Les A iles d’

ar.)

A RM A ND S I L V E ST R E

Why sh o u l d I w eep ?

Ah ! since thy love l iness brings hitherThe beauties lost in time ’s ecl ipse,Why should I weep if roses withe rThe i r purple laughs upon thy l ips.

S ince al l the splendours shame doth ban ishSole i n thy splendour weave the i r spe l ls,Why should I weep if l i l ies van ishThe i r whiteness on thy forehead dwe l ls.

S ince i n thy be ing love rekindlesThe flame that fades from evening skies

,

Why Should I weep if sunl ight dwindlesI ts beam sheds brightness from thine eyes .

And since thy l iving soul inclosesThe soul of every dead de l ight,Why should I weep for stars or rosesThou art my fragrance and my l ight !

Q’

importe Verspour e‘tre chante

’

s.

(Les A iles d’or.)

Ju d i th .

H er sweet and fatal name of fear and wonderNow l ike warm wine fi l l s me with wi ld desires

,

N ow chil ls me and my echoing heart inspiresWith far-off terrors of the A lmighty’s thunder.

B reathed in vast heaven her name awakes thereunder

Jehovah’s eagle,winged with vengeful fires

,

And i n my troubled soul evokes the choirsOf antique myths Chri st smote and clove asunder.

2 07

A RMA N D S I L V E ST R E

I see her, flushed as if from fierce caresses,

R i se up and shake the darkness of her tressesB eneath the waning starl ight clear and pale .

Grim as a Sheeted ghost the grave de l ivers,I see her stoop and swathe i n the red ve i l

With H olophernes’ head my heart that quivers .

j udith Les Visions.

(Le Chemin des Etoiles.)

S o nne t

F lowerage of l i l ies opening to the DawnOn the pale edge of Heaven ’s great garden-close

,

Ye whom the keen whee l of Aurora mowsBeneath her car by ruddy coursers drawn

Snow,whose clear ermine mantle, cold and wan ,

On granite flank of the vast mountain flows ;Jasmines, sweet s ilvery bel ls aswing when blows

The wind of Apri l brushing the soft lawn

Pearl , whereof Venus from the foamy crestFashioned the milky drop that gemmed her breast,When cruel love forsook the sobbing sea ;

Marble, pure glory of the Parian isle ,Where in the radiant shapes of heroes smileLo ! al l your whiteness is less whi te than She.

S onnets d l’

Amie VI.

(Roses d’

octobre.)

A RMA N D S I L V E ST R E

Natu re’

s Refl ec t i o ns.

Soft on thy dusky tresses dwel lThe shadows of the twil ight sphere

,

A sheen , as of the pearly shel l,Shines in the hol lows Of thine ear.

The l i ly smooths thy ve lvet brow,

And on thy l ips pale roses springSo heaven each beauty cloth endowWith colou r of some love ly thing.

Yet i s there none l ike to thine eyes.They seem to mingle , glad or grave ,

The changing hue of wondrous skiesD ivine ly m i rrored in the wave .

Each charm of th ine its colour wearsAnd weaves for me a spel l Supreme

But O thine eyes, say what is the i rs ?—The colour of my dearest Dream .

Rimes lége’

res. I].

(Roses d’

octobre.)

2 10

Léo n D ierx.

Born in the Island ofRéunion, 1838.Baudelaire has defined the l i terary character of the

Creole .

‘No original i ty, no power of conception or ex‘ pression women ’s sou ls, whose genius i s on a leve l‘ with thei r fragi l ity and graci l ity of form

,the i r velvety

eyes that gaze without scrutin is ing, and the i r singularlynarrow foreheads, unfriendly to labou r and thought ’ .Leconte de L i sle was, as Baudelaire confessed , a bri l l iantexception to this rule ; Léon Dierx i s another, though inconsiderably lesser degree .

Léon Dierx ce lebrated his l iterary apprenticeship bythe publ ication of some l ight verse and threw in his lotwith the Parnassian group of singers . Under the influenceof Leconte de L isle , his poetry thenceforth took a moresol id and sober form . H e has not been a voluminouswriter. His fi rst volume of P oémes et P oe

’

sies ( 1864 ) contains several fine versions of Hebrew,

Egyptian and Ce lt iclegends

,handled after the fashion of his great compatriot.

The same ve in i s worked in les Le’vres closes ( 1868) but inone or two of the poems

,particularly in Laz are

,he sounds

a deepe r and more ind ividual note . This volume c losesw ith the Chorus of the LastMen

,not unl ike one of Camp

be l l ’s poems in conception , but much more e laborate lywrought out . And Dierx has ne i ther the Northe rn poe t

’sfi rm fai th nor the touch of pathos which vibrates i n thesefine verses from The LastMan

2 1 1

L E O N D IE RX

For al l those troph ied artsAnd triumphs that beneath thee sprang,Healed not a passion or a pangEntai led on human hearts

Léon Dierx suppl ies the want of emotion with sonorousrhymes and splendid imagery. A l though his verse i smodel led on that of Leconte de L isle , he fai ls to achievethe firm outl ine and luminous colouring of the master.The pecul iar characteristic which he has best reflected isa mood of me lancholy d iscontent, alike i n the contemplation of mankind and of external nature

,but a certain

voluptuous e lement of his own always we l ls up,and he

often disp lays the capric iousness of a dilettante. H e i sapt to repe at his ideas and surcharge his images whenhe ventures on a longer fl ight than he i s accustomed to.I n lesAmants ( 1879) the tone becomes l ighte r again , but

there i s l i ttle or no lyrical buoyancy. The po et,i n return ing

to his early love, seems to have been conscious of the effortw i th which he sustained the we ight of his more imitativemanner. H e has never paral le led the perfection of Lazare.

I n private l i fe Leon D ierx has the reputation of a soberand restrained talker . He l ives out of the whirl of Parisianl iterary and soci al l ife, is a pronounced republ ican inpol itics, and occupies a post in the Ministry of Publ icEducation . H e i s a great friend Of painters and hash imse l f essayed the ir art with some success. H e has alsotried the drama in his dilettante fashion . La Rencontre

,

a short theatrical scene with two characte rs only—a coupleof Old love rs who mee t again by chance at a nocturnalfestival al fresco and who finally take leave of each otheri n a col loq uy of e legant rhyme—was private ly representedin 1 875. There are some admirable l ines in this play, butne i ther the dialogue nor the cl imax is dramatic .

2 1 2

L EON D IE RX

Then young and old in Bethany feared this manAnd fled from him . H e passed alone and grave.

And in the i r ve ins the blood , even of the brave,Ran cold before his visage vague and wan .

Ah who can te l l thy torment and strange pains,R isen from the grave, where al l the world finds rest

,

To l ive again and trai l on paths unblestThe shroud girded l ike sackcloth on thy re ins

Phantasmal semblance of the man that diedCouldst thou endure anew l ife ’s change and chance ,0 thou, doomed to bring back in speechless trance

The knowledge to a hungering world denied ?

Scarce had Death yielded to the l ight her spoil,

When shadow swathed thee , a mysterious ghostThat calmly moved athwart the human host

,

Knowing no more its joy, i ts grief, i ts toi l .

Thy second l ife, passionless and profound ,Hath left to men a memory

,not a trace

,

Didst thou regain at last,i n Death ’s embrace,

Those azu re deeps that ever wrapt thee round ?

How oft, when shadows fi l led the heavenly space,

With tal l form reared against the golden sky,

With arms towards the E ternal raised on high,

Thou didst implore the l ingering ange l ’s grace ;

How oft, thou , wandering where the rank grass grows,Grave and alone

,i n dwe l l ings of the dead ,

Didst envy those that, on the i r stony bedOnce laid , shou ld wake no more from deep repose !

(Les L ivres closes.)2 14

L EO N D IE RX

F u neral March .

(Chorus of the Last Men.)

The t ime draws n igh,foretold by ancient sages !

The days of un iversal terror come !Grown denser hour by hour the Shades of agesLengthen on fear-crushed brows and l ips struckdumb.

Our days are l ives of agonies and spasms !N0 more with a new dawn the East i s crowned

L ike the black bronze that shuts sepulchral chasmsThe resonant soi l sends forth a mournfu l sound .

Gross darkness round us folds her heavy curtain .

Forlorn of look or word the skies lie furled .

Last sons of Cain the doom of things i s certain ,Death comes for al l time i nto the dead world .

Beneath the quenched stars and the wan sun ’sburden

Funereal n ight winds her shroud wide and deepI n Earth ’s cold bosom l ies the sower’ s guerdon ,H er turn has come to seek the eternal sleep.

Now the l ast gods lie dead and no laws bind us,Our prayers are hushed , our heroes are no more ;No hope before us shines no l ight behind usShal l bring to birth again the dreams of yore .

Wide o ’

er the universe Death spreads his pin ion .

The chil l hard ground rings hol low to our tread .

We vaunt not now the days of pride ’s domin ion ,I n these, as i n ou r ve ins, the sap is dead .

2 15

L E ON D I E R K

Men ! gaze on us, i n hideous ruin coweringO beams that shone clear in our fathers’ sight !

Our cavernous orbs,with grief and horror lowering,

F rom dead to dying things turn the i r dul l l ight.

0 Love, thou charming phantom, earth’s consoler,

Love, whose de l ights de luded ages sung,Thou hauntest not these twil ights pale and polar,Die

,ancient ghost

,inspired with lying tongue !

Our tears are dry,our ve ins are bloodless courses,

Our laughter douts thy fatal torch with spumeI f ever man ’s heart throbbed beneath thy forces,0 Love , our empty souls are now thy tomb !

No praise,no prayer, i n temples swel ls the chorus

A nd , even as Love , Pleasure her slave l ies dead .

No light glows in the heavens,no hope be fore us :

Let our wi ld laughter fi l l the gloom with dread

Where i s the pride of yore , 0 race that slumbers ?E rst on your brows it cast a flaming l ight.Pride struck the Gods down

,reckless of the i r numbers ,

And died in glory,yearning for the fight.

By the last gl immering of our fi res, l ike cattleThat cringe with terror

,huddl ing in vi le herd

,

We crouch our l imbs are shrunk, our d ry bonesrattle

,

And scarce with pulse of l ife our hearts are sti rred .

Does any clutch for gold with shrive l led fingers ?Or shiver in his flesh with shamed desire ?

No, in our wasted souls no longing l ingers,Nor l ightens from our looks one gl impse of fire .

2 16

L E O N D I E R K

Earth, that l ies fated with man’s doom to dwindle ;

Void, voiceless, ghastly as a naked skul l,Turn to thy sun again and haply kindleNew beauty at his fire, waxed cold and dul l

But may thy globe impure on his he shatteredAnd broadcast spil l our countless bones, 0 world

Lest some new earth rece ive the ir-germins scattered ,Crush them,

i n one vast crater’s ru in hurled !

Marchefunebre : Chceur des derniers H ommes.

(Les Levres closes.)

2 18

V i l l i ers d e l’IS le-Adam.

Born in Saint-Brieuc, 1838 D ied in Paris, 1889.

Theglories of our birth and state

A re shadow s,not substantial things.

Max Nordau, i n his notable study of D egenerescence, hasrevived against the author of Axel the charge that he hadno title to the ancient earldom of V i l l iers de l’ISle-Adam ,

the bi rthright of a family whose achievements are i nterwoven with the romance ofFrench history as those of thefamily of Douglas with Scottish history. No reader ofthe admirable biography of the poet publ ished by the latevicomte Robert du Pontavice de H eussey can harboura shadow of doubt that the poet’s claim to this d ign itywas enti rely authentic. Phil ippe-Auguste-Mathias de

V i l l iers de l’Isle-Adam was the son of the marquis Josephde V i l l iers de l’ISle-Adam and his wife Marie-FrangoiseLe Nepveu de Carfort, who represented another oldB reton family.

When the famous grandmaster of the Order of Malta,Phil ippe de V i l l iers de l

’

Isle-Adam,set out to defend

Rhodes against Sultan Sol iman in 152 1 , he left behindhim not only the al legiance of an army of vassals butthe revenues of a vast estate in the Ile-de-France. Veryd ifferent was the inheritance of his poetic descendantin hapless quest of fame and fortune . The marqu isJoseph had ru ined himse lf in searching for the hiddentreasures of a fam i ly tradition

,amongst other fantastic

specu lations . The he i r to this ideal wealth began in early

2 19

V I L L I E R S D E L’ I

'

S L E -ADAM

youth to plan great romances and dramas, and so muchdid his parents bel ieve i n his vocation that they sold atsome sacrifice the i r smal l estate, with its ru ined keep, andremoved to Paris .A t twenty years of age, his pocket bulging with manuscripts and his brain ful l of visions

,the young Count burst

on the circle of the Pamassians in Paris and was welcomedby Catulle Mendes

,Glatigny

, Coppée, A lphonse Daudetand the band

'

of youthful men Of letters who essayed tokeep al ive the l ingering traditions of the Romantic epochduring V ictor Hugo’s ex i le. Though certainly endowedwith genius

, V i l l iers de l’

Isle-Adam was eminently unfittedby tempe rament and train ing for the conditions of civi l i sedl ife. A lmost the only happy pe riod of his l iterary ex istence was the beginning of his career in Paris, when hewas comparative ly free from the cares of dai ly subsistence,encouraged by some of the be st men of the time andsustained by the bl ind faith and affection of his kindred .

H e was an exce l lent singer and pianoforte-player, andenl ivened the ce

'

nacle with his skil l, but i t was not in hi snature to fol low any regu lar employment . I f he had abrief access of activity

,and devoted himse lf to l iterary

toi l, i t was broken by a sudden plunge i nto debaucheryand idleness, followed by remorse and unavail ing revoltagainst the degradation of his genius. Ne ither ambition ,nor sel f-interest, nor a sense of duty, nor the need ofindependence could teach him the value of time andOpportunity. His parents l ived in extreme pove rty, andon the death of an aged aunt who he lped them with herannuity they were reduced to the d irest d istress . F romthat t ime forth to the day of his tragic death the poe t’sl ife was one long sordid struggle with m isery. Not eventhe pride of race in te rposed to save him ,

and he graduallyassumed the very look and gait of a vagabond of the

2 2 0

V I L L I E R S D E L’ I S L E -A D AM

The character Of V i l l iers de l’Isle-Adam was ful l ofcontradictions. His youth overflowed with robust gaietyand cheerfulness. H e had abundant energy without thecapacity for sustained effort. A l though a shrewd observerof human frai lt ies he was credulous to an extraordinarydegree when his enthusiasm was awakened . His manhood was deeply tinged with that cynical bitterness whichso easi ly surges up i n the disappointed Ce lt . Throughout his whole l ife he remained an ardent Cathol ic, buthe was deeply versed in occult lore and metaphysicalphilosophy. V i l l iers was always a most careful writer, hisdisordered l ife notwithstanding. H e we ighed and t e

we ighed his sentences with the scruple of a real artist.H e refused to prostitute his pen for a price , even in thedays of his deepest poverty.

His first volume of poems , publ ished , when he was l ittlemore than twenty years old , by Scheuring of Lyons, i sone Of the most remarkable ever written by so young apoet. There i s q uite a masterly ease in the versification,

and at t imes the true touch of pathos. Had the promiseof these poems been fulfi l led there i s l ittle doubt thatV i l l iers would have taken his place among the foremostFrench poets of th is century.

Much of his prose i s spoiled by a flippant cynicismwhich should perhaps be attributed in some measure to thepern ic ious pe rsonal influence of Baude laire during the

early years of the B reton poe t’s l ife i n Paris. But he has

passages of the h ighest subl imity and beauty, some ofthem not surpassed by the masters of impassioned prose .

His Contes cruels and H istoires insolites are collections ofshort stories, some frivolous and sati rical , others ful l ofpoetical charm ,

with a vague groundswe l l of mystic ism .

I n Tribulat B onhomet he has del ineated o ne of the

type s Of the time, the se lf-seeking and pure ly practical

2 2 2

V I L L I E R S D E L’ I SL E -AD AM

man . L’Fve future i s a pseudo-psychological romance

i nspired by the expe riments of Edison in physical science,

and suffused with a strange and d isquieting i rony.

Morgane and Axel, superb prose poems in dramatic form,

are too discurs ive and too transcendental for successful tepresentation ou the stage . The great name OfShakespearehas been pronounced by some F rench admirers of thesedramas, but, i n spite of the flashes of pure poetry whichl ighten them up

,there i s nothing in the i r artificial

pass ion and e laborate declamation to j ustify such a comparison . Axel

,his finest drama, was produced in Paris

after the poe t’s death

,but i t fai led to impress the Parisian

publ ic, although the l iterary beauty of the dialogue d idnot escape the perception of d iscern ing crit ics. A laterpe rformance of E le’

n—a moral tragedy which may bedescribed as an ideal ised version of George B arnwell—wasgreeted with general ind ifference and occasional laughter .These are but a small port ion of the extensive dramatic,historical and me taphysical writings of V i l l iers. I t i smuch to be regretted that in his effort to accomplishgreat th ings be neglected the ve in of genu i ne lyricalpoe t ry which was in him .

V i l l iers de l’Isle-Adam was ‘ a grandiose mystifier’

,

says Jules Lemaitre , who loves to d ismiss with an epithe tthe writers with whom he i s not i n sympathy. In thiscase the epithet i s just

,but V i l l ie rs was more than that ;

he was a true singe r,he had the supreme gift of imagina

tion,and he was a subtle i f often capr1c1ous and e rratic

thinker.

2 2 3

V I L L I E R S D E L’ I SL E-ADAM

D i sco u ragemen t .

Athwart the unclean ages whirledTo sol itary woods subl ime

,

Oh ! had I fi rst beheld this worldA lone and free in Nature ’s prime !

When on its lovel iness first seenEve cast her pu re blue eyes abroad

When al l the earth was fresh and green ,And simple Man be l ieved in God !

When sacred accents, vibratingBeneath the naked sun and sky,

Rose from each new-created thingTo hai l the Lord of L i fe on high

I wou ld have learned and l ived in hOpeAnd loved ! For

,i n those van ished days ,

Faith wandered on the mountai n-slopeBut now the world has changed herways .

Our feet, less free , le ss fugitive,Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore

A las what is the l ife we l ive ?A dream of days that are no more

Decourage ment Les Preludes.

(Premieres Poe'

sies.)

2 2 4

V I L L I E R S D E L ’ I S L E -A D AM

If,l ike the flower that blooms to brightenThe grave and death’s dark ex i le loves

,

Thy lips my soul’s remorse would lighten

For offering I wil l bring thee doves .

Les P resents.

C o nfess i o n .

S ince I have lost the woods, the flowerOf youth and the fresh Apri l breeze

Give me thy l ips the i r pe rfumed dowerShal l be the whispe r of the trees !

S ince I have lost the deep sea’s sadness,H er sobs

,her restless surge , her graves

B reathe but a word i ts grief or gladnessShal l be the murmur of the waves

S ince i n my soul a sombre blossomB roods

,and the suns of yore take fl ight

0 hide me in thy pall id bosom ,

And i t shal l be the calm of n ight !

L’

Aveu .

2 26

A lb e rt Glat i gny .

Born in Li llebonne (LowerNormandy) 1839 D ied in Sevres, 1873.

apoorplayer.

A lbert Glatigny is one of the i nheritors of unfulfi l ledrenown .

‘ I f you l ike antithesis ’ —says Theodore de

Banvil le here i s one . This poor comedian , prompterat need, who played parts of twenty l ines in vaudevi l les,and because of his lank statu re , l ike a disheve l led reed ,

‘ too k si lent parts such as those of king and giant inmelodrama ; this dreame r, who lodged in a garret and

‘ was clothed in a coat as thin as paper ; this reciter ofnothings be longed to the aristocracy of intel lect and in

‘ a special science of superior kind was in himse l f morelearned and more accompl ished than a whole Academy ’

.

L i l lebonne is a smal l town with Roman remains and aNorman castle . A lbe rt Glatigny

’

s mother was a peasan tgirl . His father had been a carpenter by trade and hecame the vil lage pol iceman . They were married when thehusband was twenty-one and the wife e ighteen years old .

The first-fru it Of this humble union was a poet. Appren

ticed in early youth to a letterpress-printer i n PontAudemer he ran away to join a company of strol l ingplayers which had passed through the place.

The pub lished E xtrait de naissance of Ernest-A lbert Glatigny, born at

Lillebonne in 184 3, must re late to some other person of the same surname.

The letters of invi tat ion to the poe t ’s funeral give his name as AlbertJoseph-Alexandre and his age as thirty-four. The surname Glatigny is a not

uncommon one in Normandy.

2 27

A L B E RT G L AT I G N Y

Glatigny’

s poetical education began with a volume ofRonsard

’

s verse wh ich he found in his father’s house . A

copy of Banville’

s Odesfltnambulesques fe l l into his handsat Alengon and completed the in itiation . His naturalaptitude was such that he blossomed al l at once into alyric artist. H e had no other talent and neve r learned anyother trade . At verse he laboured day and night whetherhe walked or drove or rested his thoughts were alwaysshaping themselves into poetry and weaving romances.Ne ithe r cold nor hunger nor i l lness nor d isappointmentand he knew them all—could freeze the genial cu rrent ofhis soul Hence, as he modestly sang,

These rhymes made in my wanderingsBy chance or choice throughout the land

,

As one drinks wate r from the springsIn the warm hollow of his hand .

Glatigny came to Pari s at seventeen or e ighteen , becameacq uainted with Baude laire , and published les Vign esfolles,a book of exquisite verse. The poet ’s l ife i n Paris was apoor one . H e earned two francs a n ight as Third Senatorin A lfred de V igny’s version of Othello

,and furn ished

impromptu verse on rhymes proposed by the audience atthe Alcazar or some other cafe-chantant on the boulevards .H e was always famished and never sufficiently clad. I tseems ironical to say that this poor comedian was asgenerous as a prince when he had anything

,but i t is true

nevertheless. H e toiled d il igently for his wretchedsubsistence and from time to time trave l led through thepleasant land of France with ambu lant companies of playactors .During the F ranco-German war Glatigny returned to

his native vi l lage . His health was broken and his poverty

2 2 8

A L B E R T G L AT I G N Y

and was influenced also by V ictor Hugo and Leconte deL i s le . F ree from affectation , devoid of pedantry, ful l offresh images and fine touches of feel ing, his verse has abeauty of form and an unforced fel ici ty which i s remarkable in V iew of his opportunities . I t is true that helaboured l ike an artist and that the most pe rfect work isthat wh ich shews the least trace of toi lsome effort.Glatigny had his brief hour of posthumous glory in the

enthusiasm Of some young actors who hired a room inthe faubourg Saint-H onore

’

,hastily fitted it up with poor

scenery and in presence of some of the choicest sp irits ofParis pl ayed l

’

lllustre B rizacier,wh ich had been refused at

the Ode’

on . Such a homage i n his l ifetime would havebeen a godsend to Glatigny

,for he was a man of the

simplest character and his ambition was easi ly satisfied .

The prope r ep i taph for th is most amiable of poets hasbeen provided by the kindl iest of crit ics . ‘Th i s poor‘ devi l —Says Anatole F rance—‘ had a good and greatheart ’

2 30

A L B E R T G L AT I GNY

Wi ld V in es.

Wild vines,cl ing c lose ! Cl imb round the monument !

Ye cannot c l imb too high,for even a chi ld

May pass beneath the porch, with shoulders bent.

Fane bui l t too low to fear the storm-winds wi ld !The p i lgrim scans thy he ight from base to crown ,Nor turns on thee again his glance beguiled .

And yet, ye Vi nes, in wanton tendri ls grown ,Cl imb, and with leaves enwreathe those pi l lars frai lWhose frieze records the names Of starred renown .

Not mine on Parianmarbles to prevai lBut clay disdained of potter’s hand I choseAnd wrought there i n with fingers weak and pale .

I planted near the threshold a wi ld-rose,

And ,where the pathway winds, i ts fragrance shed

I s borne abroad by every bree‘ze that blows

Some j asmines,also

,m ixed wi th amaranths red ,

When the June sun , 0 V i nes, appears at last,The i r radiant colours with your leaves shal l wed

With tears a Naiad sprinkled as she passedYour tendri ls l ight

,that cl imbing seek the sun ,

And pale charms in the crystal streamlet cast.

2 3 1

A L B E RT G L AT I G N Y

Th is is the secret lodge whence my thoughts runIn ode and song, i f supple art arightWith cadenced phrase the imperious web hath spun .

There,in the faint mysterious evening l ight ,

They preen the i r wings, l ike youthful seraphim ,

Soon to unfurl them for victorious fl ight.

And now,with the green dragon-flies that skim

And réz e the restless surface of the streams,They fly

,perchance to dwel l i n regions d im .

O sobs and smi les ! Chi ldren of loves and dreams !Where Shal l the wild winds waft you , O my heart ?

For you what island glooms, what pleasaunce gleams ?

See ! See ! I n swarming myriads they depart ;Che ri sh them , Spring, thou god of woods grown green ,Thou that with singing ri l ls so charmed art !

Lo, the bold pilgrims soar to lands unseen !A las ! how few shal l scape the stormy swel l ,How few behold the heavenly shore serene !

Yet shal l no fears the i r fiery courage que l lFor ever floats before them, even as now,

The i nfinite wonder of the luminous spel l.

Thus flown so far,Muse of the lofty brow,

With passionless face and form offluctuant l ines,Goddess before whose sovran grace I bow

,

Let me regain my roof,clothed with wi ld vines !

2 32

A L B E R T G L AT I G N Y

The dawn , thy love ly petals to bestrew,

Turns into myriad diamond-drops the dew ;

Lymns cal ls us, and the dusky leopardsDance with the sol itudes and l istening Shepherds

0 Rose thou radiant chal ice, the red wineTinges thy leaves de l icious and d ivine

O Wine ! the l ight thy c rystal cup enclosesB looms with the de l icate blush ing of the roses.

Wed your bright hues,your blessed perfumes wed ,

0 Rose and Wine,now pain and grief lie dead

With nuptial song,i n love supreme and splendid ,

O flood ! O foliage ! sense and soul are blended

Les Roses et le Vin .

(Les Vignesfolles.)

In the Arbo u r.

Green is the arbour, clothed with clematis ,That braves the golden arrows of the sun .

Te l l me that on the morrow such a kissShal l yie ld me love again , 0 dearest one

Thine eyes are blue , but in the l ight thereofThere seems a change , the i r look is d im and cold .

Yet, though thou l iest, speak to me of love,My heart is sad and fain would be con soled .

S ous la Tannelle.

(Les F lee/res d’

or.)

2 34

A L B E R T G L AT I G NY

Th e N igh t is C ome.

The n ight is come : l ike moonbeams c lear and blandThose charming eyes beneath long lashes gleamThe air i s de l icate how sweet to dream

A long the sea-shore,on the soft sea-sand .

A song arises,with my heart in tune

,

A song of love thy soul exhales and breathesSad and so sweet, towards the sky where wreathsOf flame would seem to me lt i n languorous swoon .

The sea is there. H er waves,with si lve ry crest

,

L isp,soft and low

,words tender as our own

Here,se ated at thy knees, we two alone ,

Thy two hands he ld in mine lie sweetly pressed .

Speak no more, dream no more , but let the longHours pass

,and every gl immering star shine pale

The wind is cool to-night,d raw down thy ve i l

I fee l thy bosom ’s tremulous pulses throng.

Voici le S oir.

(Les Fleches d’

or.)

A Win ter Wal k .

Her garb of snow not yet doe s winter wearA th in chil l cloud sails shivering overhead .

The d istant summit cleaves, with ridges bare ,A dense Sky looming dul l and gray as lead .

A ye l low leaf floats slowly through the air,L ike a strange butterfly with wings outspread

A S on the lone black pathway forth I fareThe ground rings hard and clear beneath my tread .

2 35

A L B E RT G L AT I GN Y

The church,more d istant, rears its pointed tower,

Crowned with a creaking old i ron weathe rcockThat long has borne the brunt of storm and shower.

By this same footpath, cl imbing on the rockTo the poor be l fry

,once i n summer mood

We w ent to pluck wi ld strawberries i n the wood .

Menneval.

(Les F le?ches d’

or.)

Re su rrec t i o n .

To-day I throw the windows of my prisonWide open to the sun ’s first radiant flood .

Rejoice ! Rej oice ! for now is Spring rerisenFrom the rough bark bursts forth the rosy bud .

Hoar-headed winter dwindles to behold her,H is furry mantle fal ls to the earth, and 10 !

The fresh white bosom and the rosy shoulderAnd laughing virgin ’s eyes that glance and glow

The gray sky turns to blue . Harmonious strophesS ing in my heart and whisper words of loveMy dreams array themselves in bri l l iant trophies,Coloured , l ike hOpe, with hues of heaven above.

No longer on the hearth the high flame dances,Nor on the wal l with shadows flickering

Home-keeping Muse,unve i l thy mutinous glances,

Forth to the fie lds and hail the blue-eyed Spring !

Re’

veil.

(Les Fle’

ches d’

or.)

2 36

S U L L Y P R U D HOMM E

S ingle him out of the group of young poets as one ofexceptional promise .

L e B onheur,the largest and most ambitious of Sully

Prudhomme ’s poems, i s a sort of French Faust, in wh ichthe author’s avowed aim is simply to caress the noblest‘ inspi rat ions with a beneficent dreaminess which maycause us to forget awh i le the si lence and immoralityof nature ’

. Faustus and Ste l la are translated to anothe rworld (ve ry much l ike th i s one) i n which they taste thepure pleasures of earthly love and speculate i n fine philosophical verse , with much de l icacy of moral sentiment, onthe discoveries of science and the eternal problems of l ifeand death . French poetry, that of V ictor Hugo alwaysexcepted, had been runn ing for a long time in somewhatnarrow channe ls, and lo B onheur was one of the longestpoems written since the middle of the centu ry. But Sul lyPrudhomme has not the imaginative sweep to carry himover such a wide area. He i s a thinke r of no great depthor individual ity and a disti l ler of refined emotions. Devoidof epic passion and lacking in lyrical swing, he i s a masterof fragile expression , dainti ly cold and exquisite ly transparent and he handles the thinnest texture of ideas witha femin ine softness of touch . His fee l ings are chastenedby phi losophy

,his timid scepticism is mod ified by faith

and his good taste seldom gives way to excessive transports. One admirable characteristic of his verse is thehealthy note of cheerfulness which runs through i t. H e

i s never rebe l l ious , because he bel ieves in labour and en

durance. H e shuns the pure ly voluptuous ; indeed he i snot ashamed to confess a l ingering regard for the duennaV i rtue whom so many cleve r men have decriedSully Prudhomme i s a man of grave and calm de

meanour, a de l ibe rate speaker and a mode l of discretionin everything. He has written amiably and e legantly on

2 38

S U L L Y P R U D H OMM E

aesthetics i n two volumes of prose : l’Expression dans lesB eaux-A rts and Re

’

flexz'

ons sur l’

A rt des Vers. I t Seemsalmost superfluous to add that he had scarce ly passed hisfortieth year when he was cordial ly we lcomed into theF rench Academy

,which Catulle Mendes and Paul Ver

laine wil l never be permitted to ente r, and which keepsthe foremost F rench writer of to-day in the position ofperpetual candidate .

Let Jules L emaitre, who is ful l of indulgence and evenof admiration for Sul ly Prudhomme, sum him up H e

‘ i s the least sensuous and the most precise of poets ; hethinks and defines instead Of fee l ing and singing ’

2 39

SU L L Y P R U D HOMM E

Where ?

Souls slain by love rise not in heaven to dwel lThere i s no twil ight path

,no leafy screen

No sweetness known in that abode se reneThe swee tness of earth’s kisses can dispel .

Nor do they S ink to everlasting he l lOn earth love burned them with l ips purpurine

,

And i n the breast thri l l demon claw s less keenThan crue l scorn and doubt incurable.

Then where ? What griefs profound , what transportshigh

,

I f in the grave hearts change not, can outvieGriefs once endured and transports erst enjoyed ?

S ince l i fe for them he ld heaven ’s de l ight, he l l’s fire

,

Love ’s infinite fear, love’s infin ite desire ,

They die,even to the soul they are destroyed .

Oz‘

c vo nt-ils ? Amour.

(Les Epreuves.)

2 40

SU L L Y P R U D H OMM E

So the whole earth, a temple with wide porches,Sees l ight sti l l brightening in her ancient shrines,

The flame-bearers whereof are l iving torchesOf thought that trembles, palpitates and shines.

Deep dawn of l ife , soul of things universal ,Reason

,i n cease less quest of broader bourne,

R i ses from form to form through Time ’s rehearsal,

Dark dream, pale image and clear thought in turn .

H er quenchless l ight, fanned by love’s fiery pin ion

F rom age to age athwart dense shadow grows,Sm i les on man ’s mightiest birth and meanest minion ,And beams and burns on ever loftier brows .

Following her lamp , whose l ight is su re and single ,On each new age a brighte r aureole ,I n finer c lay, wherewith more splendours mingle,The whole world travai ls towards the supreme soul .

But i nfinite ly slow, as with deri s ion ,Drops in the hour-glass the old dust of years ,

And sti l l the ete rnal purpose i s a vis ionThat shines awhi le , then fades and disappears.

Ohwhen shal l Thought on Truth touch herdeepplummet,Then scale the he ight of Heaven with wings unfurled,

And sit enthroned for eve r on L i fe ’s summit,

Star of mankind and Consc ience of the world

So many dreamers d ie and leave no tracesOh when, in native shape and true abode ,

Shal l the Prince , springing from the Beast ’s embracesI n man ’s ideal image , be as God

Maj ora canamus.

(Le P risme.)2 4 2

Catu lle M endes.

Born in Bordeaux, 184 0.

This prol ific and versati le writer i s of Hebrew l ineage .

H e has the true Jewish love of bold outl ines and bri l l iantcolours

,with that sensibi l i ty to art isti c impressions which

often takes the place of creative power i n the finer m indsof his race .

A lthough his people were wealthy Catulle Mendes cameto Paris a poor man and had to gain his own l ivel ihoodunti l he could convince his parents that he was fi ttedfor a l i terary caree r. H e i s a man of letters to the fibresand roo ts of his be ing. His nature seems to be entire lyfree from that vain and irritable jealousy which is saidto be the badge of al l the l i terary tribe , and he has beena consistent friend of poe ts , artists and sinne rs.The modern Parnassian group of poe ts, so notable i n

number and talent, began to gathe r round Catulle Mendesabo ut 1860,

when he founded his cenacle i n rue deD ouai andestabl ished the Revuefantaisiste. Among the contributorswere A lphonse Daudet, Philoxéne Boye r, Léon Cladel,Jules Claretie , A lbert Glatigny, Charles Mouse let andJules Noriac (Cairon). Several of them conquered a considerable place i n French l iterature . Accord ing to EmileZola they spent the i r evenings in admiring each othe r.The Revue fantaisiste came to a sudden and violent endby the condemnation of Catulle Mendes to a fine of 500francs and one month ’s imprisonment in Sainte-Pelagiefor the publication of his reckless l ibe rt ine comedy in

2 4 3

C A T U L L E M E N D E S

verse, te Roman d’

une N uit. A few years after hi s retu rnto l iberty Catulle Mendés reorganised his Parnassus underthe aegis of Leconte de L isle . Thenceforth A lbe rt Merat,L éon Valade (the translator of He i ne

’s Intermez z o) andFrangois Coppée, with a new swarm of aspiring poets

,

frequented his poorly-furn ished chamber in the hbtel duD ragon bleu in rue Dauphine

’

(quartier latin). The charmingconversation of Catulle Mendés

, the amiable discourse ofAnatole F rance, the whimsical sal l ies of Paul Verlaineand the impassible philosophy of Louis-Xavier de R icardgave an ever-changing de l ight to the i r symposium . The

men of this interesting set d iffered from those of theBohemia of Ne rval and of Murger inasmuch as most ofthem had some steady employment ( in the governmentoffices or elsewhere) which helped discipl ine, discouragedidleness and debauch, and enabled them to l ive independently unti l they could afford to give the i r und ividedattention to l ite rature .

Catulle Mendes i s the author of several volumes of

verse . His fi rst col lection , entitled Philome‘la,was fol lowed

by les Serenades, i n which there are some dainty lyrics oflove. His Contes epiques have a fine dramatic flavourand are eq ual to anything of the i r k ind in the Frenchlanguage . H e has mastered almost every variety ofronde l , chanson , canzonet and sonnet form and handleshis rhymes with a lyrical ease and de l icacy worthy ofTheodore de Banvi lle . I n his new book of poemsla Grive des Vzgnes : 1895—he exhibits this dexterity oftouch in some of the most graceful and fanciful versesever penned by a F rench poe t.As a writer of short stories Catulle Mendes has few

rivals. His romances, not over rigid on the ground ofmorals

,are always fresh and sprightly. H e has done a

good deal of work for the theatre . His latest play, in

2 4 4

CA T U L L E M E N D E S

The Cu rses o f H agar.

When Abraham ’s days a hundred years had burdened(So falls a r ipe sheaf on the threshing-floor)W ith fru it at last old Sara’s womb was guerdoned ,The E lohim having blessed her barren store.

The word of the Most High, 0 Lord of CamelsN ine months in my enlarged flank d id rest,

But now thy race unnumbered bursts i ts trammelsAnd wai ls i n the child ’s cry that seeks my breast !

‘A man be ing born of me, how canst thou cherishHenceforward the strange woman ’s seed impure ?

She whose foul scorn o ’

erweening pride doth nourish ,Whose green eyes lee ring haunt the shades obscure .

Go ! with her son chase hence the Egyptian mother,As one flings the seared branch with cankered budI l l brooks the fruitful spouse that such another‘Shou ld flaunt the opprobrium of her al ien blood !

‘S ince sti l l thou seest , beneath soft l inen swel l ing,H er youth in ripened orbs of rounded grace

,

Let her go hence,far from the nuptial dwe l l ing,

Nor fi l l th i ne eyes with love,with shame my face !

Su rely my handmaid ’s fawn, the hire l ing creature

Of breasts unwithered and unwrinkled lo ins,Shares not with the man-chi ld , bo rn out of Nature,‘The inheritance reserved by God ’s designs !

2 4 6

C A T U L L E M E N D E S

So spake the Old Mother, moved by crue l anger,And , towards Beersheba

’

s thirsty, treeless land ,Hagar, a hushed cry on her l ips, with languorWent sadly leading Ishmael by the hand .

Driven by the wind , dawn’s shifting clouds discovered

The star of n ight waned in the welkin calm,

As i f o ’

er the wan Orient vaguely hoveredVast undulations of a viewless palm .

I n camp the distant tents shook l ike a vestureOn thresholds gray, with rosy vapours ve i led ,Women drew back the screens with sluggish gestu reI n wh ich the sloth of recent slumber trailed .

L ight tinkl ings rose from flocks in fold assembled,

B lending with song of birds, a shri l l sweet strainThat in the broad-branched cedar l ingering trembledWi th floating fleece of fog risen from the plain .

Then , i n a sudden burst of wakening glory,L ike a fierce l ion from his lai r outrun

,

Wi th golden mane ablaze and flanks al l gory,

On the red sky-l ine rose the splendid sun .

With murmur l ike an ant-hil l ’s marching mil l ions,

The shin ing heavens behe ld , ale rt and strong,Forth from the hoary patriarch ’s blest pavi l ionsContented toi l and prosperous le i su re throng.

Robust beneath the i r load tal l handmaids ambled,Poising

,with pendant sleeves

, the milk-brimmed jarAmong the white kids naked chi ldren gambolledAnd these the ex i led twain watched from afar.

2 47

C A T U L L E M E N DES

Then Hagar Woe to them that chase me ! Sm i l ingIn the fat val leys Safe ly they sojourn ,

‘Wh i lst I , to the arid desert backward toil ing,Fly l ike the beaten hound the i r foot would Spurn .

‘While on fresh swards, where the stream glides anddrowses,

‘They sti l l shal l share the loaves of honey and wheat,I l ike an ox on the void air that browses ,Shall drink my thirst, my hunger eat for meat.

‘And when,on the hard sand sinking aweary,

I bite the wind in one long cry of drouth ,My son

,crawl ing to me

,wan-eyed and dreary,

With ravenous kiss shal l menace my pale mouth .

O centenary chief of tribes that wander !S ince want and woe must feed my ban ishmentI that

,with wealth of beauty and youth to squander,

Curbed my wild shame and to thy pleasure bent

Tremble i n thy twin hopes,si re of twin races !

Twixt Sara’s seed and Hagar’s seed this dayUndying hate i s born of thy embracesS leek beasts ful l-fed to ravening wolves a prey !

They shal l be free,fierce and of bold endeavour

Beneath the sun , these bastards of thy slave‘F rom the antique crater of my flanks for everRevenge shal l rol l

,l ike lava ’s fiery wave.

‘With looks askance thy satiate Isaacs,drooping

,

‘Shal l gaze athwart the vapours of the feast,Lest they discern out ofthe distance swoopingThose famished horsemen ofthe hungry waste.

2 4 8

CATU L L E M E N D E S

Thus to the wind that flyi ng cloud disperses,H er wrongs on desert skies and sands outpou red ,

Tall Hagar prophesied with bitter cursesMother of harlots and the rebe l horde .

And towards the distant sol itudes, where S ionsAnd opulent Tyres and haughty Romes should rise,

The wild gusts fled, sowing in wide defianceThe sombre malediction of her cries .

Les Impre’

cations d’

Agar.

The M o th er.

When the Lord fashioned man, the Lord his God

Took not the human clay from one sole clodBut earth from the four corners of the worldSouth, where on burn ing winds the sand is whirledThe green-leaved East the chil l North, hoar with

frostThe West, where shattered oaks and ships are tossedIn whirlwind and ecl ipse and earthquake gloomLe st anywhere the E arth, that is man

’s tomb,

Should say to him, the weary trave l ler

With drooping head , who fain would rest in herAway ! what man art thou

,I know thee not ! ’

But that his mothe r earth,i n every spot

Where he would lay h is heart, by hope begu i led ,Should say : ‘S leep in my bosom

,O my child

(Contes cpiques )

2 50

C AT U L L E M E N D E S

T he D i sc ip l e.

Withhands that touched his toesthe Bouddhadreamed .

Said Poorna : L ike the winds are sou l s redeemed ,F ree as north winds in sky no clouds bedim ;Therefore

,o’

er rocks I ’l l cl imb, through rivers swimTo furthest tribes beneath the furthest heavenThat souls be comforted and sins forgiven ,Master, thy helpful creed I

’l l bear abroad .

—But i f these tribes, answered the Son of God,In su l t thee

,child beloved , what wi l t thou say ?

—That with a vi rtuous soul endowed are they,

S ince they have bl inded not these l ids with sand,

Nor raised,to smite me, e ithe r stone or hand .

—But i f they smite thee,then , with hand or stone ?

—These folk,I ’ l l say

,to gentleness are prone,

Because the i r hands,thus fi l led with stones to fl ing

Against me, stave nor sword are brandishing.

—But i f the ir stee l doth reach thee ?

I wil l say,How soft the i r blows

,that wound and do not slay.

But i f thou d ie ?

—Happy who cease to l ive 1

Go forth, said Bouddha, comfort and forgive.

Le D isciple.

2 51

Th ree N ove l i st s.

Many exce l lent poe ts have succeeded in romance ; andmost nove l ists have occasional ly dropped into poetry.

Walter Scott, V ictor Hugo, Theophi le Gautier and GeorgeMeredith are among those who have ach ieved greatnessin both. Thackeray, Dickens, Daudet and Zola be longto the order of those who have gone through a period ofpoetry or thrown off verses in the course of the i r l iterarycareer.Emile Zola is amo ng the poets as San! among the

prophets. Large as the place i s which he fi l ls in F renchl ite rature he i s a F renchman only by his mother. Hisfather was an I tal ian Of Venice and his maternal grandmother a Greek. The fami ly had settled in Aix ,

andZola was born in Paris ( 184 0) during a visit of hisparents to the capital . I t was under the Provengal sunthat he composed his poems and sung the vi rginal charmsand chaste love of Nina , a different idea! from the poisonous Nana of his matu re manhood . This is not the placeto discuss Zola’s colossal labours as nove l ist

,dramatist and

critic or as Samson Agonistes of the real istic school . H e

i s a man of overmastering inte l lectual power and a fierceworker. I f any one doubts the poe ti c faculty which hehas subordinated to a crue l analysis of vice and disease,let him read la Fau te de l’abbe'Mouret, une Page d

’

Amour,

and many scattered passages of almost lyrical beauty inthat lurid epic of immoral ity and 1nsan1ty, les Rougon-Mac

quart. Zo l a, l ike Balzac and F laubert before him , holds theforty-first chair in the F rench Academy and seems l ikely

2 52

THR E E N OV E L I ST S

My Wi sh es.

My wish would be where uplands gleamWhen sunny May shines on the meadow,

A l i tt le but that throws its shadowIn the clear mirror of a stream .

A hidden nest among the myrtles ,To which no footpaths wind the ir tracksA nest that al l compan ion lacks

Save only nests of snow-white turtles.

My wish would be where vision endsAnd the gray rock towers up to Heaven

,

A bosk of pines whence breathes at evenA song that with the zephyr blends

Far-widen ing thence, a chain of val leys,Where Sportive rivers wind and strayAnd ,

wande ring with capricious play,Shine white across the green-leaved al leys

Or where dusk ol ive-trees that leanIn d reams the i r hoary heads d iscover,Or wi ld vines, l ike a wanton lover,

Cl imbing along the slopes are seen .

My wish would be for royal palace ,Reached by a pathway from my door,A bower with roses blossomed o

’

er

And closed in l ike a w i ld-flower’s chal ice

2 54

TH R E E NOV E L I ST S

A mossy carpet soft and sweet,With lavender and thyme made gracious,A dainty lordship, scarce so spacious

As garden spanned by ch i ld ren ’s feet.

My wish would be i n that lone shel ter,F i l led with the form s my fancy weaves,To watch

,beneath the clustering leaves,

My dreams around me float and we lter.

But more than allfmy wish would beAnd lacking that I laugh at powerA queen, to share the crown, with dowerOf golden tresses float ing free

A q ueen of love ,whose voice is tender,Whose pensive brow shades l iquid eyes,Fresh from whose tread the soft flowers rise,

Because her foot is l ight and slender.

Ce quej e veux. Vers ine’

dits.)EMILE Z OLA .

Mar. 1859

Three Days o f V i n tage .

I met her one day in the harvest of vines.H er dainty foot peeped neath the kirtle that swung,Unconfined by the fi l let her l oose tresses hung :Eyes pure as an ange l ’s, l ips rosy as wine

’s .

Pressed c lose to the arm of a lover she c lung,And the fie lds of Avignon they wandered among

In the harvest of vines .

2 55

TH R E E NOV E L I ST S

Imet her one day in the harvest of vines.The plains lay aslumber, the Sky shed

‘

no l igh tShe wandei'ed alone, as one trembling w i th frightAnd her look was l ikeWi ldfire that fl ickers and shines .

I thri l l with the vis ionthat rose onmysightWhen I saw thee

,dear phantom

,so frai l and so white ,

I n the harvest of vines.

i l : l :

I met herone day in the harvest of vines.And Sad in my

'dreams i s the memory thereof.

The pal l was of ve lve t l ike plumes of a doveThus an ebony casket the pale pearl enshrines .And the nuns of Avignon bent weeping aboveToo heavily clustered the grapes and so Love

Reaped the harvest of vines.

Troisfours dc Vendanges. (Les Amoureuses.)ALPH ON SE DA UDE T.

Pass io n le ss N atu re .

When man mourned his fi rst vision flown for ever,

Nature,less scornful than She i s,

Fe lt her maternal breast with anguish q uiver,And longed to blend her tears with his.

The world grew dark . No star in skies beclouded,

On earth no flowe r unfurled her leaf.The sun withdrew

,the moon her beauty shrouded

,

The trembling forests wrung th e i r bo ughs with grief.

2 56

T H R E E NOV E L I ST S

Or if,by death bereaved of them that love me

,

I die a thousand deaths, yet l ive,

0 Nature ! change less smile around , above meI seek no pity such as thou canst give !

Colza and wheat along the slopes may blossom,

And barley ripen on the plai nI wi l l not lay my sorrows on the i r bosom

,

But bear in lone l iness my pain .

Earth,thou shalt smile lakes

,shine upon your shingle

And you, ye woods, with murmurs throng

All you may sing, nor fear lest I should mingleMy tears or curses with your sacred song !

N ature impassible. (Les Amoureuses.)ALPHON SE DA UDE T.

I) esires.

The dream of one is to have wings and fol lowThe soaring he ights of space with clamorousWi th lissome fingers se ize the supple swal lowAnd lose himse lf in sombre gulfs of skies.

Another would have strength with circl ing shoulderTo crush the wrestler i n his close embrace

And, not with yie ld ing loins or blood grown colder,Stop, with one stroke, wild steeds in frantic chace.

What I love best i s lovel iness corpo realI would be beautiful as gods of old

SO from my radiant l imbs love immemorialI n hearts ofmen a l iving flame should hold .

2 58

T H R E E NOV E L I ST S

I would have women love me i n wi ld fashionChoose one to-day and with to-morrow changePleased , when I pass, to pluck the flower of passion ,A S fru its are plucked when forth the fingers range.

Each leaves upon the l ips a different flavourThese diverse savours bid the i r sweetness grow.

My fond caress would fly with wandering favourF rom dusky locks to locks of golden glow.

But most of al l I love the unlooked-for meeting,Those ardours in the blood loosed by a glance

,

The conque sts of an hou r, as swiftly fleeting,Kisses exchanged at the sole wil l of chance.

At daybreak I would dote on the dark charmer,Whose clasping arms cl ing close i n amorous swoon

And, lu l led at eve by the blonde si ren’s murmur

,

Gaz e on her pale brow si lvered by the moon .

Then my calm heart, that holds no haunting spectre,Would l ightly towards a fresh chimae ra haste

Enough in these de l ights to sip the nectar,For i n the dregs there lurks a bitter taste.

De’

sirs. (Des Vers.)GUY DE MA UPA SSAN T.

2 59

F rango is Coppée .

Born in Paris, 184 2 .

Frangois COppée (more properly Francis and in ful lF rancis-Edouard-Joachim Coppée) is the most gracefuland genial of l iving F rench poets. His simp l ici ty, hispurity

,his exquisite sense of verbal beauty and his idyll ic

charm are such as must be appreciated by the lovers Of

fine verse i n any language. H e resembles Sully Prudhomme inasmuch as there i s a notable absence of thevoluptuous e lement in his poe try ; and he does not disdain to sing the short and simple annals of the poor.Coppée i s a typical F renchman in aspect, i n characterand in culture. The name i s said to be Belgian

,but his

parents were Parisians of humble position . Frangois wasonly fifteen years of age when his fathe r was struck downby paralysis

,after wh i ch the family had a struggle for

ex istence . H e was nowise a robust chi ld . His poeticalapprenticeship began in imitating V ictor Hugo, Lamartine and Baudelai re . His first verses were publ ished whenhe was a clerk in the Offices of the Ministry of War and l ivedquietly with his mother and sister at Montmartre . For

his encouragement in l iterature he was indebted to CatulleMendes, the kind genius of so many l iving F rench poets .By the good graces of the Princess Mathi lde he had theappointment of assistant-l ibrarian to the Senate, a postwh ich he he ld for two years unti l he became l ibrarian in theHouse ofMoliére. With such assistance to his labours in

260

F R A N cO IS C O F F E E

i n French l iterature. His prose writings are exqu isitelytender and ful l of pathos.As a poet COppée i s never pedanti c and se ldom in

volved . Any occasional lapse into trivial ity is pal l iatedby the freshness and clearness of his harmonious style.

Some of his poet ry has the characteristics of so-cal ledvers-de-société

' but he i s more at home when he touches atruer and deeper note. I n his more ambitious verse hisgenius seems to be assimi lative rather than profoundlyoriginal. His idyl ls are supe rior to anything of the kindever written in French. A good example of his talent inpoetical narration is le Liseron, a mediaeval legend whichce lebrates the miracu lous growth of a convolvulus roundthe sword of a warrior who had struck the blade into theground and sworn to destroy a certain convent unless theweapon flowered before next day. I t i s charmingly andde l icate ly unfolded and is qu i te different in flavour fromanything e lse i n French poetry. Coppée excel s i n suchthings, for he knows how to ach ieve art istic simpl icity withabsolute ease and fel ici ty ofexpression .

F ranco is Coppée has not the genius of. a great singerwho sums up and expresses the profoundest emotions ofhis age, but he is a pure and beautifu l sou l.

262

F R A N cO IS C OP PEE

A n Oc to b er M o rn i ng .

I t is the dim de l icious hourThat blushes with a sudden dawn

A thwart the autumnal haze i n showerThe leaves fal l wi thered on the l awn .

S low dropping, one by one , they pass,

D istinct to the discern ing eye ,The oak-leaf

,bright as bu rn ished brass,

The maple-leaf of sangu ine dye .

Anon, the serest leaves of al lLast from the naked branches fal l,Though yet no win te r winds do blow.

A white l ight, sprinkled everywhere,Swathes the earth

, and the rosy ai rls tremulous with a golden snow.

Matin d’

octobre.

(Le Cahier rouge.)

Pharao h .

Thothmes the fou rth is dead the guardians keepHis mummy

,swathed for everlast ing sleep :

Thothmes i s with the Gods and on the throneOf Egypt a new Pharaoh si ts, h is sonAmenophis, on whose dusk brow is boundThe golden pshent that mystic snake wreathes round .

With rigid flanks,stark hands

,vague eyes that seem

Lost in the wonder of some distant dream

2 63

F R A NCO I S C O P PEE

And fleshy l ips that wear a dul l cold smileH e suffers, in the long close-columned aisle0

’

the palace hieroglyphed with bird and beast,Homage from warrior lord and Theban priest.On brazen tripods incense smokes, and chantAnd prayer arise, as the chief hierophant,Knee l ing

,descants on things behind the ve i l .

Hail,thrice-pure Pharaoh ! King of Chemith, hai l !

O thou,of l ife and l ight the al l-kindl ing sun !

Speak and forthwith thy holy wil l be done .

For thee Phrah,Neph and Phtah, the guardians three ,

B less the Nile ’s ferti le stream from source to seaFor thee the Sph i nx and Cynocephalus raiseI n triumph to the dawn the i r clamorous praise !What wouldst thou

,Pharaoh ? B id and be obeyed

Thine are our harvests to the slende rest blade.

Speak and the multitude i s plunged in dearth .

Beasts of the field are th ine,fru its of the earth ,

Man, woman and the wide Egyptian land .

Wilt thou have glory ? O puissant King, commandAnd armies huge Shal l rise and flee ts shal l swarmAnd slaughtered nations sink beneath thine arm ,

And behind thee the i r mightiest men of warShal l run , l ike greyhounds captive at thy carThou shalt enlarge thy borders far and wideAnd on a thousand obel i sks carve thy pride.

I f battle and its spoi ls thou dost disdain,

Thine amorous soul of art and pleasure fain ,O sovere ign whisper but the boon it cravesWi th perfumed l imbs a hundred Asian slavesWhose dusky nakedness pale pearls adornShall , l ike the radiance of a summer morn ,With tambourines and cymbals, wreathed in flowers,And Orient dances charm thy weary hours.

2 64

F R A N cO IS C OP PEE

Devour then —I said to the vulture that tare itTh is heart that is ful l of her love

,but if fate

Hath left but one atom untouched thou shalt spareThe vulture said only Too late ! ’

Les Trois Oiseaux.

P ers i ste n cy .

Say what you wil l , do what you may,Forgetfulness would be a he l l

H er smile sheds ever on l i fe ’s wayLove ’s farewe l l .

Do what you may,say what you will ,

I can but love her, though in vainI f love be penance I would sti l l

Bear the pain .

Say what you wil l , do what you may,Though gui ltless of my tears she s leep,

For her, true martyr, night and dayMust I weep.

Do what you may,say what you wil l,

My l ife l ives only in her breath ,Yet would I , wearied of l ife

’s i l l ,We lcome death .

266

F R A N cO IS C O P PEE

On a Tomb in S pring-T ime .

The lone cross moulders in the graveyard hoary,But Apri l weaves again her leafy bower ;The redwing nestles there

,and with sweet flower

A rosebush hides the S ign of grief in glory.

No tear,no prayer

,breathes such memento mori

As sobbing n ightingale and dewy showe r.These scents, these songs, these splendours are the dowerOf Earth that thri l ls with Love ’s immortal story.

Dead and forgotten one ! whose human prideDreamed, doubtless, dreams of l ife

’s eternal tideI n Paradise, where the freed spi rit reposes

Hast thou not here to-day a love l ier doomIf now thy soul

,d iffused about thi s tomb

,

S ings with the birds, and blossoms i n the roses ?

Sur une Tombe au printemps.

(Contes en Vers et Poe’

sies diverses.)

2 67

Jo se-Maria d e H ered ia.

!

Born near Santiago-de-Cuba, 184 2 .

This Spanish poet,whose mother was of F rench extrac

tion , belongs to a family which derived i ts wealth fromsugar -plantations in Cuba. F rench by education ande lection he has brought into F rench l iterature a reflexof the ideal splendours of Span ish achievement in the

New World . A lthough he had the advantages of fortune,and was somewhat fastidious in manners and dress

,

Heredia became a famil iar member of the new Parnassiancircle i n which such d iverse characters as Verlaine,Coppée , V i l l iers and Mendés were gathe red together i ncommon poverty and in a common love of letters andart. His earl iest verses appeared in the Revu e de Parisand he has since contributed to the Temps, the j ournaldes De

'

bats and the Revue des Dcux Mondes.

Les Trap/tees, the volume i n which Heredia’s poems

were fi rst col lected, owed i ts publ ication to the encou ragement of Frangois COppée and was ded icated to Lecontede L is le . I t was issued by A lphonse Lemerre in 1 893

and soon reached twe lve ed itions. Th i s sudden conquestof fame preluded the Spanish poe t’s election to the FrenchAcademy. H e i s now a prominent figure i n F renchl iterary l ife and an acceptable spokesman at officialce lebrations.Heredia’s sonnets are the admiration and de l ight of

connoisseurs. They depend on none of the i nner q ual it iesThe poet’s surname, sometimes written Hére’dia, should have no accents.

268

J O S E -M A R I A D E H E R E D I A

S u nse t .

The gl ittering furze that crowns the i r granite crestGilds rugged summits that in twil ight loomRemote, though shin ing sti l l with fleecy plume ,

Where the land ends heaves endless the sea’s breast.

Beneath me night and si lence lie. The nestI s hushed , on thatches curls a thin blue fume ;Only the Ange lus, shivering through the gloom ,

B lends with the murmuring Ocean ’s vast unrest.

Then faint, as from a deep ravine, ariseOn waste and wold and down the distant criesOf shepherds mustering the i r belated clan .

Dense shadow swathes the welkin l ike a shroudAnd the sun , sinking in empurpled cloud ,Furls up the splendours of his golden fan .

S oleil Couchant : La N ature et le Rive.

(Les Trophe'

es.)

The S h e l l .

Through what cold seas,what wilderness of waves

U nknown to man , 0 frai l and pearly she l lHave tidal surges and deep underswe l l

Rol led thee i n hol low gul fs of the i r green graves ?

270

J O S E -M A R I A D E H E R E D I A

Now,i n the sun

,no bitter refluence laves

The golden-sanded bed where thou dost dwel l .Yet from thy hollows

,l ike a hopeless spe l l

,

The vast voice of the sea moans in her caves .

L ike thee,my soul is a sonorous prison

And ever weeps and wails in dirges risenWith echoing clamours of old griefs profound

So from its depths this heart, too ful l of H er,

S low,sul len

,as the sea’s eternal sti r

,

Groans with a thunderous and d istant sound .

La Conqu e : La N ature et le Rive.

(Les Trophe’

es.)

On a B ro ken S tatu e.

’Twas pious moss that closed those eyes forlorn .

For vainly would they seek in this bare shrineThe V i rgin pouring forth pure milk and wineOn the famed earth with in its sacred bourne.

Now tangled ivy and hops and trai l ing thornImpleaching round this ru ined form divine

,

Heedless if Pan or Faun or He rmes, twineTo weave on battered brows a wreath ‘

e’d horn .

See l the slant beam those hollow l ids absorbRe lumes on the flat face each golden orbThere laughs the wi ld vine as with ruddy l ips

And,wondrous S ign

,the wind that sti rs abroad

,

Leaves thri l led, and fl ickering shade o’ the sun that dips,

Shape 1n the crumbled stone a l iving godS ur nu Marbre brise

’

. La N ature et lo Reve.

(Les Trophe’

es.)

271

S téphane Mal larme.

Born in Paris, 184 2 .

H e o’

er-refines, the schola/ sfault.

The master of the modern school of symbol ist poets i nF rance be longs to a family which has he ld since the

Revolution an unbroken succession of important postsi n the National Registration Oflice. Several of his moreimmediate ancestors had dabbled in letters . StéphaneMal larmewas destined to the traditional caree r, but hispredi lection for Engl ish l iterature brought him over to thiscountry at the age of twen ty. H e learned our languagethoroughly, witness his translation of Poe ’s Raven andother poems into perfect French prose bold and beautiful in its l iteralness —says Jules Lemaitre

,who is not too

tender to the decadents of F rench poetry.

On his return to Pari s, Stéphane Mallarme qual ified for

a preceptor ’s post i n the provinces , and in thus acceptingthe dai ly d rudgery which is necessary to a healthydevelopment of the i nd ividual l ite rary character he gavehimse lf the one thing lacking in the l ives of such menof genius as V i l l iers and Verlaine. From his obscureretreat the poet contributed to the Parnasse contemporain

some of those exquisite ly-wrought pieces which havegiven him a place of his own in F rench l iterature andwhich are acknowledged as mode l s by the new generationof French artists in verse. S ince he resumed his residencein the capital Stéphane Mallarme has continued to lead a

272

ST E P H A N E MA L L A RM E

abroad ‘ i n unfam i l iar reviews and periodicals. H e hased ited a reprint of Beckford ’s Caliph Vatheh i n the originalF rench , with an admirable preface. H e i s said to beassiduously engaged on a vast scheme of poetry whichhas occupied his attention for fifteen years and of whichsome considerable fragmen ts have already been publ ished .

Other specimens of his verse have been given to theworld by Paul Verlaine and Catulle Mendes . I n Vcrs etProse there are seve ral so nnets of exqu isite workmanshipand of abstruse metaphysical sign ificance. When thepoet l im its himse l f to ‘ rich rhyme ’

,for which he has an

art i st ’s love, the result approaches pe rfect ion . L’

apres-midi

d’

un Faune and H trodiade are superb specimens of hispecul iar style. A Faun

’

s Afternoon opens thus

The Fau n .

I would perpetuate those nymphs.So clear

The i r flesh-t int that it floats i ’ the atmosphereDrowsy with tangled sleeps.

Were they a dream ?My doubt, night

’s ancient hoard,exhausts i ts stream

In many a subti le branch,which

,left the true

Woods themse lves , proves , alas, I lent my viewFor t riumph the ideal fault of roses !

Now thinkor i f the nymphs thy fancy gl ozes

Body to fabulou s sense a wish that lies !Faun , thi s i l lusion bursts from the blue eyesAnd cold , a spring in tears , of the most chasteBut one al l s ighs

,now say

,doth she contrast

2 74

STEP H A N E M ALL ARME

As day-breeze blowing in my fleece warm boon !N0 ! Through the immovable and languorous swoon

,

Choking wi th heats the fresh morn in her throes,Murmurs no stream more than my flute bestowsOn the tune-sprinkled bo sk and the sole windPrompt to exhale i tsel f from reed-pipes twinned ,Ere sound disperses in an and rain ,I s

,i n the smooth unwrinkled air-domain ,

A vis ible breath serene, shaped by the sighsOf inspi ration , that regains the skies

and so forth through a labyri nth of symbols bewilde ringto the unaccustomed eye .

I t i s a notable fact that not one of the critics of this socalled obscuri ty seems to have remembered that thesymbol ic language of Mal larme i s nearly akin to the

metaphor of common-place speech , albe i t endowed withnew and unfami l iar images. The manufacturer i s forsoo tha symbol ist when he ‘

engages a hand’ and the me rchant

when he ‘ventures on a new branch of business ’

. Whetherthe effect of language thus tormented out of its convemtional forms is eq ual to the labo ur bestowed upon it mayneverthe less be reasonably doubted . I t i s pe rhaps a pitythat any great art ist should d ive rge so far from that d i rectsimpl icity of speech which i s the mark of the masterminds of humani ty

,bu t i f he prefers fi t aud ience though

few to the admiration of the general he may sure lyexerci se the right to choose his own way.

ST E P H AN E MA L LARM E

F low ers.

From golden avalanches of heaven ’s blueAnd primal snows of everl asting starsThou didst shape splendid chal ices to strewThis fresh young earth , virgin of woes and wars.

The tawny iri s, by the rank pool’s rim ,

And laure l,dear to souls on al ien lawns,

Ruddy as the pure hee l of se raphimSti l l blushing with the shame of trampled dawns.

Myrtle and hyacinth, glory’

of love ’s bower,A nd

,fai r as woman ’s flesh , the crue l rose ,

Herod ias of the garden-bed with dowerOf bloody dew, that fierce and rad iant glows.

Thine i s the sobbing l i ly’ s splendour pale,Afloat on seas of sorrows, thence i n swoon

A thwart the waning ai r blue vapours ve i lD ream i ly wafted towards the weeping moon !

Hosannah ! censers smoke and ci therns s ing !Prai se

, 0 our Father, from these dim pu rl ieu s !The i r echo, i n heaven ly twil ights vanishing,Let looks entranced and sh in ing aureoles lose !

Thou d idst create, wi th just and subti le breath ,These cups that charm the vial s of our fate,

0 Father ! F lowers inwoven with balmy DeathForweary souls by l ife made desolate.

(Vers et Prose.)

Pau l Verlaine .

Born in Metz, 184 4 .

Tlzepoet Verlaz'

ne lzas taken up Iris winter-quarters in the

B ic/tat H ospital (DailyN ewspaper : December, I894 )

Pau l Verlaine, the only son of a mil itary officer andthe spo i led darl ing of an indulgent mother, was left anorphan when very young. Brought Up at Batignol les bya poor widow of highly-renned character he rece ived hiseducation at the {wee B onaparte i n Paris, associated himsel f with the Parnassian group, and wrote his fi rst verseswhi le engaged at work in some municipal offi ce. On thepubl ication of Poéme: saturm

’

em, as l i ttle noticed at thet ime as COppée

’

s Relz'

guaire, which was i ssued on the sameday

, he made himse l f known to the d iscern ing few as anew poet of strange ly origi nal genius. Sainte-Beuve andNestor Roqueplan gave him some good counsel, but therei s no evidence that he ever took i t to heartVerlaine had always a nomad ic d ispo sition . When hel ived in Pari s his le i sure was spent in Sunday excu rsionsalong the Se ine and in the country round . After hebroke loo se from the restraints of civi l ised society hetrave l led a good deal in England , Be lgium and F rance ;and perhaps no l iving poet has had a more intimateacquaintance with the seamy side of l ife. I n his naturethe e lements are unkindly m ixed . Too capricious

,too

excessive and too rebe l l ious to be schooled into the

ordered ways of men,he i s a creature of impu lse and

imagination one who throws himsel f into the mood of the

278

P A U L V E R L A I N E

moment and follows no fixed purpo se . W i th the countenance of a satyr and the i nstincts of a savage he hasl ived a vagabond l ife from his youth upwards

,oscillat

ing between the brothel and the cabaret and tossedfrom pri son to hospital . And yet, with al l h is faults,Verlaine is one of the most fascinating figu res in contemporary l iteratu re. He i s the V i l lon of the n ineteenthcentu ry.

Verlaine vaunts Lamartine and Baudel aire as the

greatest poe ts of this age, and , d iverse i n character asthese two singers were, he has an arti sti c affin i ty witheach . Lamartine

’

s love of natu re and large melod iou sline

,Baude lai re ’s lucid vision and closely-woven harmony,

have bo th had an influence on his poet ical style, but hebrings into F rench verse a profound and powerful note ofhis own . Sometimes his work is d isfigured by conceitsand subtleties which are due to the wilfu l appl ication of avic ious theory of art ; too often he has stooped to singthe pe rversi ties of passion and to disc lose the morbidimaginations of a mind d iseased ; but, at his best, nol iving singer can touch him in fe rvour and sincerity of

accent and at t imes he has a tone of pathos, as rare asi t is exqu is ite , to which there i s no paral le l in contemporaneous F rench poe try. H e i s a master of modulation and rhyme and he handles al l the musical elementsof verse with co nsummate craft.The theory of the art ist’s impassibi l i ty, which was

promulgated by Gustave F laubert and his friend LouisBouilhet and eloquently preached to the Parnassians byLou i s-Xavier de Ri card

,i s appl icable to poetry only in

the sense that it is appl icable to every other form of art.I t i s simp ly Diderot

’s Paradoxe ear le Come’

dz’

en i n a newguise. Let the poet be eve r so cool and de l iberate i n thecarving of verse his ideas, l ike those of the painter or the

279

PA U L V E R L A I N E

composer, must have been conce ived in the very heat andfever of the brain . Verlaine seems to imagine that theproblem has been solved when he tri umphantly exclaims :‘ Est-e l le en marbre on non

,la Vénus de Milo ? ’—as if

such cold and hard material cou ld be endowed with beautyunless the artist possessed the vision and the facultyd ivine. And i n spite of theory the verse of Paul Verlaine ,more often than that of any French poet of his t ime ,thri l ls with t rue emotion and records the experience andpassion of the man himse l f. Verlaine i s also in the rightsense a symbol ist and impression ist, that is, he se izesqu ickly the essential spirit and the characteristic outl ineof things ; and he exce l s i n that vague appeal to the

fee l ings which is the function of music rather than poetry.

Observation and reflection have taught him more thanindividual study

,for his classical and romantic lore seems

to be derived chiefly from the works of other F rench poets.Yet he has used his hospital and prison le isure to extendhis l i terary acquaintance and he te l ls us how he read thewhole of Shakespeare ’s plays in the original , with Engl ishand Ge rman notes and commentaries , during an imprisonment in B russe ls. H e professes bo undless love and ad

miration for Shakespeare , but in his heart of hearts heprefers Racine .

P oémes satum iem was the first as i t i s the freshest andin some respects the finest of Verl ai ne ’s volumes of verse.

He now affects to regard it with some d isdain , as d isplaying too conspicuously the influence of two greatmode ls, Baude laire and Leconte de L isle . I t appeared in1866 and was fol lowed two years later by Fete: galantes,an entirely nove l col lection of tender and sensuous idyllsswathed in the sentiment of the seventeenth centu ry.

La bow ie Clamson ( 1870) i s a pure and joyous song of theone calm period in Verlaine’s l ife, when love led him into

2 80

PAU L V E R L A I N E

i nvi tation to sympathy in his brief testament, so ful l ofbitter i ronyMy will. I leave not/ting to thepoor, because I ammyself

one of tbepoor. I believe in God.

PA UL VERLAINE .

Nothing is more cu rious than the attitude of the‘ sensible and lucid Latin ’ criti c towards the poetry ofPaul Verlaine. Where an Engl ish reader sees beauty andhears melody, he avers that he can find only a vexatiousmedley and uncouth d issonances ’. Even the verbalexamples which he gives of these faults seem to be j ustthe things of which the boldness

, the vividness and thefel icity would be most admired in a northe rn poe t. Muchof the contemporary cri tic ism of France i s strange ly bl indto the beauty of fresh forms of art. Whether the criticismproceeds from formu las establ ished on the methods of theearl ier masters of F rench verse or from the ae s theti c idealsdeve loped by the i nd ividual i ts practical result i s alwaysthe same . Even when captivated by the genius of such apoet as Pau l Verlaine the cri tic is strangely mystified bysometh ing nove l or abnormal in the mode of expression .

Anatole France has faced the problem with characteristi csympathy and pronounces Pau l Verlaine the creator ofa new art. Ju les Lemai tre

,after a severe and sarcastic

censure of the syntax , the sentiments, the symbolism andthe spiritual expression of the poet’ s style i s constrainedto say that Paul Verlaine i s ‘ a barbarian

,a savage , a

child only this sick child has music i n his sou l,and

on certa in days he hears voices which none ever heardbefore him The tru th is that i n respect of those essentialqual ities which are among the highest in poet ry PaulVerlaine i s i ncomparably the greatest l iving master ofFrench verse and perhaps one of the greatest in thiscentu ry. He has given a new co lour to the language of

2 82

PAU L V E R LAI N E

emotion and a new tu rn to the subtleties of ideal thought.I n striving to enfranchise himse lf from certain narrowmoulds of poetical expression he has achieved by sheerinstinct the supreme triumph of the art of the n ineteenthcentu ry—that subord ination of conventional forms to thei nd ividual vi s ion and voice which was the work of Turnerin painting

,of Wagner in music and of Carlyle in letters.

So far from init iating the decadence of F rench verse, i t i snot unlikely that the impassioned and Spi ritual poetry ofPaul Verlaine will usher in a new era and vindicate afreshthe i ndefeasible p rivilege of genius.

Non —A translation of B eat]: of Pbilip tbe Second is given amongthe se lect ions from Poémes saturniens as a single specimen ofmodern French

realistic verse. I t must not be imagined , however, that such bo ld and nakedrealism is anywise characteristic of Verlaine’s style. Unl ike Richepin andRollinat, he employs i t on ly as an occasional device. H e never heaps up foulimages or revels in loathsome de tai ls, and if he employs a repu lsive naturalfact for purposes of poe tical contrast or i l lustration no excuse should benecessary. For as Ruskin says in (for him) an amazingly uneuphonioussentence ofModern Painters Unideal works of art (the stud ious produc tion ofwhich is termed Realism) represent ac tual existing things, and aregood or bad in proportion to the perfection of tbe representation

2 83

PAU L V E R LA IN E

Res i gnat ion.

Even as a child I dreamed of thee, L ight-blender,Kohinoorl Of Persian pomp and Papal splendour,Hel iogabalus and Sardanapél

Beneath the golden domes my fancy hauntedWere perfumes rare and melod ies enchantedIn harems bu i lt for pleasures sensual.

And now, more calm , though not with colder heart ,But knowing l ife and prone to melancholy,Late have I learned to curb my youthful fol ly,

Yet not too much resigned to play this part.

My soul,since the subl ime wil l not unbend ,

Spu rn e legance,the lees of al l things human !

S til l, as erewhi le , I hate the pretty woman ,The faci le rhyme and eke the prudent friend.

(Poemes saturniens.)

Weari ness.

For battles of love afield of down .

Soft, soft, I pray, sweet heart that pants and presses !Oh calm awhile those feverish ecstas ies !Even at the he ight of transpo rt she i s wise

Whose warm th a sister’s tranqu i l love confesses.

2 84

PAU L VE R L A I N E

An Au tumn S o ng.

The long-drawn sighs,L ike viol in-cries,Of autumn wai l ing,

Lu l l i n my soulThe languorous shoalOf thoughts assai l ing.

Wan,as whom knel ls

Of funeral be l l sBemoan and ban ish

,

I weep uponDays dead and go neWith dreams that vanish

Then helpless swingOn the wind ’s wingTossed hither and thither

As winter sweepsF rom swirl ing heapsWorn leaves that withe r.

C/zanson d’

arelomne Paysages tristes.

(Poémes saturniens.)

The Lover’

s H o u r.

The red moon moves along the m i sty hil lSwathed in a tremu lous haze the dream ing meadowDrowses the frog croaks hoarsely in the shadow

Of green reeds , sti rred when the faint zephyrs th ri l l

The marsh-flowers furl thei r heads, hidden in rushesI n dwi ndl ing l ine tal l poplars cleave the gloom ,

Se rried and straight, and gaunt as vague ghosts loomSlowly the glow-worms wander towards the bushes.

2 86


The screech-owl wakens and in noiseless fl ightWinnows the swarthy ai r with lazy pin ionD im gl immerings fi l l the dusky c loud-dominion

Venus emerges pale, and lo ! the Night.

L’

H ezere a’u B erger Paysages tristes.

(P oémes saturniens.)

The N igh t i ngal e .

W i th noisy fl ight of bi rds that seek the treeAll my stirred memories swoop down on me

,

Swoop down on my se re heart ’s once leafy pi l lowWhose withered boughs, glassed l ike a bendingwil low,

Gloom in the violet waters of RegretThat flow beneath in sul len rivulet ;Swoop down , ere yet the breath of vapo rous breezesR isen in the dusk the i r clamorous sound appeases,And i n the tree i t d ies away, unti lThe moment comes when all i s hushed and sti l l

,

All save thy voice, hymn ing the Absent Lover,All save thy voice—O tremulous sighs that hoverSwee t bird , soul of my F i rst Love, ever young,And s inging as on the fi rst day she sung ;And now beneath a moon whose sorrowing splendourWaxes in solemn sadness, wan and tender,The mourn fu l n ight, heavy with summer heat,Ful l of d im shadows, ful l of silence swee t,Lulls in blue air

,wherethrough a soft wind shivers

,

The bird that weeps and the worn tree that qu ivers.

L e Rossignol: Paysages tristes.

(Poémes saturniens.)

2 87

PAU L V E R L A I N E

The Death of Ph i l i p the Second .

The red Septembe r sunset bathes in bloodThe su l len plain, the sharp sierra-rims

And drowsy mists that in the distance brood .

On smooth sands the Guadarrama o ’

erbrims

H er restless wave, reflecting here and thereDwarf ol ive-trees that writhe thei r shrive l led l imbs.

The ravenous hawks, i n high flight angu lar,

Cleave the dun sky and from the dusky westThe ir hoarse cry grates athwart the spacious air.

Uprising to the stars, w i th gran ite breastAnd brutal pi le of towers octagonal ,The proud E scorial rears her lordly crest

Pierced with funereal windows the square wal lStands shee r and white , with no device endowed

Save gri l le and crown carved at l ike interval .‘l

With clamours , rude as uncouth howl ings loudWhen , armed with axe and spade , the shepherd fel lsA bear whose cries of anguish echoing crowd ,

Rol l ing as on the rocks a torrent swe l l sH er waves, then sinks in murmurings long and deep,

Dreari ly on the n ight ai r clang the be l l s.

In the original grils sculptés qu’alternent des couronnes’—apparently

theportcuflis and crown of heraldic b lazon, as borne byJohn of Gaunt andhis dwcendants the Nevills ofAbergavenny.

2 88


A black-stoled leech, with viperine countenance,Bends o ’

er a bed his hands caress his thighs,As one that on a volume pores in trance.

Cloth-of-gold curtains drape in rigid gu iseAn ebon dais, studded with the shine,F rom point to point

,of cold hard diamond eyes.

A gaunt old man,on the bed stretched supine,

Kisses and counts the beads be tween his frai lLong fingers

,curled l ike tendri l s of the vine .

His throat sends forth a shri l l and hol low wai l ,F i rst of death ’s agonies on l ife impinged ,And his foul l ips a fearfu l stench exhale .

I n his beard,as with bl ighted amaranth tinged ,

Through his white hair,streaked with a ruddier glow,

Beneath his ye l lowing lawn,with rich lace fringed ,

Quick, cruel , hungry, swarming to and froTo suck the i r sal low victim ’s blood unclean ,The l ice i n serried squadrons come and go .

This is the King, writhing in pangs obscene.

Phil ip the Second , King of Spain—All HailThe Austrian eagle cowering seeks her screen

And mighty shie lds,on panel s gl immering pale ,

Shine , and on many a flag once borne i n fightThe black bird ’s wings

,thri l led vaguely, droop

q uai l .

The doors unfold A flood of dazzl ing l ightBursts suddenly

,unfurls

,and soon is spread

A long the ample chamber broad and bright.

2 9°


With looks subl ime, beneath the torch-fires red ,Ten monks march in

,then halt and pause i n prayer.

One walks apart and stalks with stony tread

Towards the King‘s couch. H e i s tal l

,young and spare,

And the fierce transports of rel igion burnIn his dark orbs that through long lashes glare .

His foo tstep, we ighty as the law and stem,

Upon the tapestried floor imperious rings .Now to the King his eyes, cast downward , turn .

And each , i n passing, an awed gesture fl ings,Knee l s, and thrice smites the bosom with clenchedhand ;

For he i t is that Holy Unction brings.

With grave respect the leech aloof doth stand ;The body’s doctor, sooth, i n such a case,Must to the soul ’s physician yield command .

And , as the fray draws n igh , the King’s shrunk face ,

Furrowed with pain,reflects a calmer mood

So comes Rel igion , big with hopes of grace

The monk,i n whose now l i fted looks a broad

L ight of reproach and pardon blended dwe l ls,S tands

,herald of the j ust decrees of God .

Dreari ly on the night ai r clang the be l ls .

Confession follows . On his flank half turnedThe King

,with muffled voice i n low appeal ,

Whispers of blood and flames,Jews racked and burned .


Wouldst thou , perchance, repent thee of thy zeal ?To burn the Jews was love and charity.

So doing thou didst thy very faith reveal

And with arms crossed , head raised in ecstasy,The Father seems, i n proud petrific force ,

The sculptured soul of Papal crue lty.

Then gathering breath , in broken accents hoarse,Painful ly

,as though his thoughts from deepest glooms

Plucked shred by shred a dolorous remorse,

The King, while ghastly in the torchl ight loomsHis haggard face and wan and faded brow

,

Gasps F landers ’ A lba torments deaths andtombs

The F lemings, to the church rebe l l ious, thouDidst j ustly pun ish and that glory won

,

0 King,now vainly wouldst thou disavow.

Bursue’—and the King murmured of his son

,

Don Carlos , and two tears ran down his cheekThat quivered , cl inging grimly to the bone .

Thou dost deplore this deed l—i ts praise I speakDoubtless the Infanta

,tai nted with the schism

Of E ngl ish birth,was gui ltier far than weak ,

That would have dragged Spain down to the abysm,

Scrupl ing not to conspi re—O craft accursedAgainst his S i re , hal lowed with Crown and Chrism

Soon as the monk those sacred words rehearsedWhereby is given remission of our sin ,H e took the host, with hands that trembled first,

2 92


A S o ng at S u nri se .

Before the flood of day prevai ls,O pale star of morn ing prime !—A thousand quails

Are singing,singing in the thyme .

Turn on me thy l ingering spark,Me whose eyes are fi l led with love ;—Lo ! the lark

Flutters i n the heavens above.

Tu rn thy look, bathed in the brightB lue splendour of the shimmering morn

What de l ightDwel ls in fie lds of yel low corn

Ti l l my thought shines through and throughSweetest dreams so far

,so far !

—O the dew

On every blade of grass a star !

Sweetest dreams that dower the chasteS lumbers of my dearest one—Haste

,oh haste

,

For yonder comes the golden sun !

(La bonne C/zanson : V.)

2 94


The A rt o f Po e try .

Oh music above everythingAnd therefore take for choice the UnevenNothing that clogs or chains the wingIn vague and vaporous fl ight to Heaven

Yet choose your words from the vocal throngNot too easi ly apprehended :

Nothing more dear than the gray songIn which the Cloudy and Clear lie blended .

Such is the tremulous flush of noon ,So through the ve i l bright eyes shoot lustre,

Such is the autumn sky aswoonWith stars that swim i n a hazy cluster !

Tone we must have and al l else scornOnly shade, no colou r, no splendour0 tone ! the tende r sole love-blenderOf dream with dream and flute with horn

Far from the murderous Epigram fly,

F rom crue l Wit and unclean Laughter,That bring the tears to Heaven ’s blue eye

Stale garl ic from the kitchen-rafter !

Take E loquence and wring his neck !R ight i t i s

,when the Muses revel,

To keep these frol icsome jades in check,

Lest unawares they run to the devi l

2 95

P AU L V E RL A I N E

Oh who can tel l the wrongs of Rhyme ?What deaf child was the first to chink it

,

Tinse l that rings, to the true-gold-chime,Hollow and false as a twopenny trinket ?

Oh music ever and evermo re !So let your verse take wings and fol low

The soul that seeks, on a sunnie r shore,F resh cl imes

,fresh loves, l ike the flying swallow.

So let your Muse, i n the morning prime ,Fl ing to the coo l cri sp wind her fetters,

F lowered with the fragrance of mint and thymeAnd al l the rest i s on ly Letters !

Artpoétique,

PA U L D ER OU L ED E

means a great s inger, yet he has a note of his own and

touches a chord which i s perhaps not so dormant inFrench l ife as some superficial observers wou ld l ike tobe l ieve. His books of songs are cal led Cbants a’ze Soldat(two col lections 1 872 and C/zants a

’

ze Paysan,

Marcites et Sonneries and Refrains militaires. They areexceedingly popu lar, especial ly the earl ier ones. I n 1 894the F rench Academy awarded theprix j ean Reynaud of

francs to the singer of these patriotic songs,al

though he had announced his ‘ resolute refusal ’ of the

proposed honour.

2 98

PA U'

L D EROU LED E

The Marse i l la i se .

Have pity on yourselves and cease that songIn si lence

,when the hour comes

,march along

L ike vanquished heroes whose undaunted breathWhispers one word : Revenge —or haply Death

Yet hear the accursed story and be stirredOr if your ears in bygone days have heardOn many a trembl ing tongue the twice-told tale’Tis wel l no need drive home the hammered nai l !

You love, no doubt you love, ou r people ’s hymn ?You love i ts sacred rage

,i ts transports grim :

And, l ike proud sons , you fee l i n its song-firesThe quenchless spirit of your puissant sires .I ts rousing voice recal ls our flag unfurled ,F loating to the four corners of the world

,

Nations struck dumb and kings that looked askanceYou think of that ? Our great and glorious France !Think of this too, the day of our defeat,Sedan—a name that with bowed heads you greetF renchmen

,remembe r in that surge of woes,

When conquered F rance surrendered to her foes,When in crushed souls our sold iers bore unmannedThé mangled ghost of the poor fatherland ,When al l was lost and leaving the fought fieldOur tr00ps, disarmed , were forced at last to yield0 unforgotten blow ! 0 worst of evi l days !Loud from the Prussian trumpets shri lled the Marsel l

laise !La Marseillazse.

(Cbants a’

ze Soldat.)

2 99

PAU L DEROU LED E

Credo .

I trust in God . The t ime is vi le and troubled .

A breath of blasphemy blows souls aflame ;When wealth with honou r plays the stakes are doubledSin knows no punishment and vice no shame.

I trust in God . Faith has gone out of fashion .

The priest is hounded down , the cross undone.

A Christ ian is the butt of scornful passionEvery man claims his rights, his duties none.

I t rust in God . Nor fai ls my fervent prayer,Though evi l-doe rs boast the i r triumphs bl ind

Let Dante ’s he l l hold circles of despai r,My heart, that enters, leaves not hope behind

I trust in God . F rance, sunk in degradation ,I s sick at heart and bears the Oppressor’s rod

But though in deadly sleep l ies the Great NationThe wakening hour wil l come . I trust in God .

(Chants a’u Paysan.)

300

M A U R I C E R O L L IN A T

to the range of his earl ier works. They m ight, indeed , beregarded as exercises and variations on the themes alreadyemployed in his verse.

Maurice Rollinat has a fine eye for nature, a rich fancyand a large vocabulary. Even in les N e’uroses there are

episodes of idyl l ic beauty and lyric grace. A lthough hei s not endowed with the imagination that assim i lates theexternal to human moods and aspirations, he has given adistinctly new chord to the F rench lyre, and along withVerlaine , Richepin and Moreas he must be acknowledgedas one of the notable poets of these later days.L ike so many other French art ists, musicians and men

of letters, Maurice Rollinat is a lawyer’s son . H e formerly

he ld an appointment in the Prefectu re of the Se i ne. For

the l ast two years he has l ived the l i fe of a he rmit atFressel ines (Greuze) and his appearances in publ ic havebeen few and far between .

302

MAU R I C E R OL L IN A T

The Poppy Rav i ne .

Deep in a wi ld lone hol low hid ,Where never comes the l ight-foot kid

,

Nor cornflower Opens her blue l idI n dusky coppice

Far from the track the mule ’s hoof makes,

Far from the noise that echo wakes,I n desert si lence dreams and shakes

A bloom of poppies.

But there the sleepy l i zards crawlRound loathsome pools funerealI n which heaven ’s shadows when they

The i r darkness su l lyBetween stark sprays of heather grimAnd boxwood bushes cold and dimThat crowding creep along the rim

Of the red gully.

The sky,l ike coloured w indows dight,

Sheds only he re a crene l led l ightAbove the i r clustered coral bright

That so bewitchesYet on the rocks and marsh belowThey cast a fresh and ruddy glow

,

L ike those that in the val leys blowAnd woodland d itches .

303

MA U R I C E ROL L IN AT

They rustle in the th in l ight ai rWhen signs of change the seasons wearAnd forth the wandering breezes fare ,

The i r temples brushingAnd fl ing about in furious mood

,

Beneath the north-wind wild and rude,

As one m ight see a stream of bloodR ippl ing and rushing.

I n vain the sul len cloud that lowersF rom upland slopes and ridgy towersThe splendour of these flaunting flowers

I n shade would smother ;The dragon-flies, on n imble wing,Above the i r beauty vibrat ing,Turn two by two in ceaseless ring

One round another.

Razed by the birds in warbl ing fl ightAnd touched by starry gl immerings whiteThey flou rish in the cool of night

And noonday swe lterAnd , crowned with radiant d iadem ,

L ike fi refl ies tremble on the i r stem ,

As though the fu rrow fostered themAnd gave them she l te r.

The i r brightness , l ike a furnace-fire ,Makes glad the wil low and the briar,The snake that coi l s i ts drowsy spire ,

The shrub ’s bare bosomThe sombre crags, though shorn of sun ,Loom not so dark, look not so dun ,Because the i r shadow leans upon

That blaze of blossom .

304

MA U R I C E R O L L IN A T

I n heavy folds the ancient curtainCl ings round my bedstead l ike a pal !

Fantasti c creeping things uncertainAthwart the ce i l ing dance and crawl .

When on my clock the hour comes knel l ingIt fi l l s me with a wild d ismay

Each loud pulsation , strange ly swe l l ing,L ingers and slowly dies away.

The ange l ofmy buried passionComes n ightly, swathed in sable cloke,

And wails a d i rge in ghostly fashion ,With tears that bl ind and sobs that choke.

Books , pictures, flowers seem phantoms risenWith poisonous ai rs from deepest he l l ,

And , l ike a shroud that wraps this prison ,Horror, that loves me, comes to dwel l.

Sad chambe r where, with mocking curses,Care keeps her vigi l day and n ight

,

A long thy wall I write these versesAnd love thee for thy black de l ight

For as the gu l f the torrent pleases,

And clear is darkness to the owl,

So thou dost charm my soul ’s d iseasesBecause thou art so l ike my sou l !

La C/zambre Les Spectres.

(Les N évroses.)

M A U R I C E R O L L IN A T

S o ng o f the S peck l ed Partridge .

The song the speckled partridge sings,Or shri l l cicala sad and sweet

,

F rom furrows ri sing comes to greetMy sou l that loves melodious th ings.

Through the blue air i t thri l l s and rings,

B lended with whirr of winglets fleetThe song the speckled partridge sings,Or shri l l cicala

’

sad and sweet.

I n vain wou ld weary thought with stingsA ssail me i n this fresh retreatWhere

,shie lded from the noonday heat

,

Comes wafted on the wind ’s soft wingsThe song the speckled partridge s ings.

La C/zanson de la P erdrixgrise.

(Dans les B randes.)

307

Jean Richepin .

Born inMedeah (Algeria) 1849.

Jean Richepin i s the son of a mil itary surgeon and waseducated at the Normal Col lege (Eco/e normale supen

'

eure)i n Paris . He had a hard struggle to gain his place i nl i terature and publ ished several works before a l ittle play—l’Etoile—brought him into notice . I t was written incol laboration with Andre Gil l and produced ( 1873) in asmal l theatre which has since been demol ished , the Eco/eLyrique i n rue de la Tour-d

’Auvergne, a street haunted with

memories of Chateaubriand , Beranger and V ictor Hugoand inhabited in later days by F rancisque Sarcey, critic-inchief of the great school of common-sense .

Richepin’

s first real renown was due to the Chanson desGueux i n 1876. This volume of bold and violent verse i npraise of vagabondage revealed a new poet, and broughthim also before the bench of criminal law. He was fined500 francs and costs and sent to prison for thi rty days .Some of the pieces to wh ich Justice took exception havebeen suppressed in the definitive edition of his work . I nthe new i ssue of 1891 Richepin claims for this volume ofverse a superb and healthy immoral ity ’ and declares thatthe popu lar indecency of prope r terms and the designation of things by the i r actual names never corruptedanybody.

The S ong of tire B eggars was followed by a series ofnotable nove ls and plays, al l giving evidence of a franklyoriginal if sometimes riotous and uncontrol led genius.

308

J E A N R IC H E P IN

of the fever-heat in his later works. La Mer ( 1886) i s asuperb song of the sea i n al l i ts changes and caprices.Mes Paradis ( 1893) i s a volume of comparatively calmand reflective verse , and here agai n the poet vind icates h isc laim to be regarded as a vi rtuoso in harmony and rhyme.

He confesses that this work is very different in executionfrom what he conce ived it when he was ‘ burned wi th thefever of pride and drunk with the wine of youth ’

. I t hasnot t he rough sweep and dazzl ing colour of his earl ierverse, yet he shows by an occas ional coarse phrase thathe retains his love of startl ing effects .I t is a strange paradox that Richepin, with his con

summatemastery of the ve rnacu lar and his love for bri l l iantand bru tal images

,should of all contempo rary poets be

the one who is most akin to the F rench classics in precision of sense and distinctness of form.

‘He i s one ofthose rare writers —says Jules Lemaitre to whom youcan l isten always with a fee l ing of enti re secu ri ty ; youare sure, at least, that he wil l not sin against grammarnor against syntax nor against the genius of the language ’

.

This Opinion is pe rfectly true i n re lation to the fact thatmany of Richepin

’

s l ines are as bald as anything Vol taireever wrote, but it is al so beyond a doubt that his finestverse is model led more on Vi ctor Hugo’s than on that ofany Older poe t. What other than the Romantic influencecould have inspired such a l ine as

L’

ululant hal lal i que clangorent les cors’

Whether Richepin i n his sober period wil l send forthany new verse equal to les Blasp/zemes i s doubtful . Thesefiery poets, when they cool down, are apt to becomeextinct volcanoes.

310


The D eath o f the Go d s.

See ! brothers, weak and weary have I strivenAgainst the A lm ighty Ones clothed round withGlorying in impious pride my pledge was given

,

And , having ransacked Heaven , 10, I am here !

When I snuffed out the Gods, as one erasesA word

,they thundered not nor reasoned why

You , therefore, shal l l ift up you r prostrate facesAnd gaze on these great corpses where they lie.

You , searching Heaven , void as a paupe r’ s fingers,Shal l scorn the phantoms that no more bewitch,

And , free to pluck from hope the flower that l ingers,Shal l cast your terrors in the wayside ditch.

You shal l tear down the VCllS of fraud and wonder,

F ind ing no Lo rd beyond L i fe ’s utmost bars,

And watch in brooding space, now cloven asunder,Beneath the wing of Chance burst forth the Stars .

For you the Force of Things in wide dispersalStreams, as a shore less, soundless ocean flows,I n endless Whirlpools of l ife universal

,

The whence and why whereof no mortal knows.

You , knowing your own souls lost in infin ite numbers,Even as a dewdrop plunged in the deep stream,

Shal l j udge the Gods,those nightmares of man ’s slumbers,

I n l ife ’s vast All as shadows of a dream .

3 1 1

J E AN R IC H E P IN

Tranqui l, as with a conqueror’s calm e lation ,

Dece ived no more by priests ’ and preachers ’ arts,In th is warm coign o’ the world ’s blest habitationYou shal l repose i n peace your ransomed hearts.

Good shal l be yours,though mixed with evi l measure,

E ven as the nursl ing, the poor vagrant’s chi ld

That sucks her breast, closes his eyes in pleasure,Heedless of wrinkled teats and skin defiled.

Cleansing your souls of every vague desire ,Your love

,on wives’ and mothers’ flowe ry l ips ,

Shal l soon forget youth’s kiss of frenzied fireOn shadowy bosoms lost in d im ecl ipse.

By simp le craving that l ike comfort pleases ,Renewed at ease and with each morn ing fresh

By hope drawn nigh, that smal l endeavour se izes,Your spiri ts shal l l ive free i n the freed flesh .

Longings fulfi l led and solace for all sadnessShal l be your bl issful lot

,your wonted fare ,

So shall ye drink the wine of hol iest gladnessI n boundless Beauty and Love that al l may share.

No longer shall your hearts d read pale-eyed Sorrow,

Misshapen Wil l,Remorse with choking curse ;

L iving l ike children careless of the morrow,

Cradled on Nature ’s knees, your loving nurse.

Faith ’s agonies, the barren vows of ages,Fantastic superstitions

, crue l deeds,Gospel s, Korans, Vedas

,those lying pages,

The time-worn wreckage of Be l iefs and Creeds,

3 1 2


The Wanderer.

When wandering on my waggon through the earthI halted first and gazed on these abodes,

A city he ld within its antique girthTowers, temples, workshops, palaces and gods.

And when,curious as one that homeless plods,

I cried Whence rose this c i ty ’s golden prime ? ’

An answer came,i n measured periods

Our city stands establ ished from al l time

Ful l five thousand years had flownEre I wandered there alone.

Towers, temples, palaces, gods, al l were gone .

No vestige there . W i th sunl it jewe ls redThe hard green blades of grass l ike jave l ins shone .

A poor old shepherd , grossly garmented ,Sole on the plain stood munching his brown breadNow, when I sought to know how many daysOn this new pasture flocks had strayed and fed ,Wi th scornfu l look the shepherd spake A lways


The plain was changed into a gloomy wood .

Through broad arcades l ithe creepers in the breezeSwung, l ike wreathed serpents in the i r knotty brood ,And

, tal l as masts, above those sombre seas

314


Of foliage towered the trunks of giant trees.Then to the huntsman through the green leaves whirledI cal led When did these woods first clothe the leasYon oaks —quoth he are older than the world


The sea, the vast sea, i n herwinding-sheet

Had shrouded“

the fresh sward and woodland wide.

A bark, on whose frai l bulwarks the waves beat,Swayed in the twi l ight winds from side to side .

I hai led the boatman Te l l me when the tideF i rst swal lowed thus earth ’s fields and forests greenYou jest —said he

,and then more grave repl ied

S i nce the sea was the sea, here hath it been

Ful l five thousand years had flownEre I wandered there alone .

Where once l ight bi l lows tossed the i r si lvery plume,Before me stretched a golden-furrowed strandThe desert Not a tree rose through the gloomSand here, sand there, and nothing e lse save sand .

And while I looked askance on that bare land,The A rab, as he checked his camel

’s pace,Spoke S ince l ife sprang on earth by Heaven ’s com

mandThis waste has lain , eternal as our race ’

.


315


And 10 ! once more a city’s state ly form,

With walls, towers, temples, palaces and godsRose , boi l ing l ike a spring with l ife aswarm .

Then with loud voice I asked those i nsolent crowdsWhere are the golden sands, green swards, blue floods ,And haughty walls of yore ? Thus —said a wightWere, are and ever shal l be, these abodesAnd i n that A rya’s face I laughed outright.

Years shal l flow as years have flownEre I wander there alone.

Le Boltemien La Cleanson da Sang.

(Les

The H u n .

Fly swift, my furious courser lGerman and Goth and FrankAnd Gaul and Roman rankRol l back beneath thy flank.

Before my fiery courser,Ha ! Ha !

The old world ree ls and quiversL ike mist the tempest shivers.

A tt ila !A tti la !

316


Bal lad e o f the Sw al low .

The swal low,bird of stale romances

And trivial tag of tinkling rhyme,I s regent of heaven ’s vast expanses.But though she skims

,i n fl ight subl ime,

A thousand worlds of Space and Time,With sweep of wandering wings that fol lowThe far track of the season ’s prime,

She owns one only nest, the swal low.

Here, there and everywhere she glances‘She tumbles l ike a madcap mimeHow light-o ’-love she darts and dancesF rom Eden-bower to N iebelheimSo worms and snails say, in the i r sl ime .

Be l ike her, l ibertines that wal lowIn coverts of connubial crime ;


No doubt,when the chil l t ide advances

And soft fleece fal ls in snow and rimeOr hai l that stings l ike l ittle lances,The swal low fl ies our wintry cl ime.

But,back from lands of flowering thyme

,

Faithful she seeks the same Old hollowBeneath bare eaves of straw and l ime

She owns one only nest, the swallow.

ENVOY.

Prince,leave your loves of d iverse chime

And choose one lodge, l ike bright Apollo,For rest from the day’s weary cl imb.


Ballade de l’

H irondelle.

(Mes Paraa’is.)

318

H erve-N o e l L e B re to n .

Born in Nantes, 1851 .

L eis ar balon ag arob.

The name of this B reton poet i s almost if not altogetherunknown in Parisian l iterary circles. H e i s descendedfrom a purely Ce l t ic fam ily ; not one of those , l ikeV i l l iers de l’Isle-Adam , which became B reton by earlyterritorial acqu isit ion or matrimonial al l iance

,but one

of the ancient and authentic A rmorican race . The L e

B retons we re i rretrievably ru ined in the Vendean strugglefor Cathol icism and Royalty. S i nce fighting was the i ronly vocation and the ranks of the Republ ican armieswere closed against them they fe l l i nto the deepest poverty.

The present representative of the family had a closeacquaintance with chi l l penu ry in his youth. To adefective education he wil l ingly attributes his ‘profoundand deplorable ignorance ’ of classical l iterature and theexact sciences. L ike most modern F renchmen he was

The o ther Breton poets of th is cen tury, among whom may be named

Auguste Brizeux, H ippolyte Lucas, Tristan Corbiere and Charles Le Goflic,have not found a place in this co llection. Nor has space been provided forthe Provencal group of poe ts, no tab ly Frédéric Mistral , Teodor Aubanel ,and FélisGras the Parisian chansonniers Beranger, Dupont and Désaugiers ;Marce l ine Desbordes-Valmore , De lphine Gay-Girard in, Amab le Tastu , LouisaSiefert and the singing-women of the nineteenth century ; Auguste Lacaussade (who belonged , like Leconte de Lisle and Léon Dierx, to the island of

Bourbon or laReunion) also Alfred de Vigny, Emile and AntonyDeschamps,Victor de Laprade, Joseph Antran, Auguste Vacquerie, Joséphin Soulary,Albert Merat, Léon Valade and many o ther remarkable poe ts.

319

H E R V E -NO E L L E B R E TO N

nourished on Voltairean and Revolutionary ideas, to wh ichhis traditional bel iefs have so far succumbed that his pol it ical predi lection is ‘

a Republ ic governed by an absolutearistocrat ’ and his rel igious creed an unaggressiveAthe ism ,

tempered by a profound be l ief in the DivineLe B reton ’s natural incl ination to l i terature was frus

trated in youth by the premature death of his father andthe claims of a resource less household, aggravated by hisown early marriage. H e was compe l led to tu rn hisattention to commerce and is now engaged in somebranch of the cotton-trade i n Rouen . I t is understoodthat he seeks consolation in the unobtrusive cu lture ofbelles-lettres. The poet for whom he professes mostadmiration is Leconte de L isle. Whether his own finalrenunciation of the l i terary caree r i s due to a preferencefor the flesh-pots of Egypt, to a lack of ambition or to aj ustifiable d istrust of his equ ipment and power cannotbe determined . His only answer to the remonstrance ofan indiscreet correspondent was the rejoinder of NaamanAre not Ahanah and Pharpar

,rivers of Damascus

,better

than al l the waters of Israel ?A few of Le Breton's prose compo sitions

,and those of

l ittle importance, have appeared in the leading journal ofthe province in which he l ives. Raves et Symboles i s anunpubl ished volume of expe riments in verse , mostly writtenduring that space of ex istence be tween boyhood and manhood , which has been described by Keats, when the soulis in a ferment, the character undecided , the way of l i feuncertain , the ambition thick-s ighted ’

. The specimenswhich have been translated for this collection were procured with some difficulty, but Le B re ton

’s note i s a l ittled ifferent from that of other French writers of the presentperiod

,and for that reason

,i f for no other

,one or two of

his poems may not be out of place here .

32 0

H E R VE-N O E L L E B R E TO N

Work, therefore i f no dawn shou ld comeTo break against these prison-bars ;

Though Tru th be dark and Fate be dumbFor so they cl imb that reach the stars !

(Rh /es et Symboles.)

The B u rd en o f Lo st S o u l s.

I .

This was our sin . When Hope , with wings enchantedAnd shin ing au reo le,

Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and hauntedThe chance l of the soul

When we whose l ips haply had blown the bugleThat cheers the waveri ng l ine,

And so laced those to whom the wo rld was frugalOf Love, the food d ivi ne ;

Whose hands had strength to sm ite men's chains asunderAnd heal the poorman

's wrong,Whose breath was blended with the cho rds that thunder

A long the aisles ofsong

Whose eyes had seen and hailed the L ight ofAges,In cloud iest heavens a star,

Whose ears had heard , on ringing whee l s, the stagesOf Freedom’

s trophied car

We turned , rebe l l ious child ren , to the clamourAnd tumul t of the world

We gave our souls in fee for Circe's glamou rAnd white l imbs l ightly whirled

32 2

H E R VE-N O E L L E B R ETO N

We drank deep draughts of Moloch ’s uncleanEven to the dregs of shame

,

And bl inded by the golden l ights that fl ickerF rom Mammon ’s altar-flame

We burned strange i ncense, bowed be fore his idolWhose eucharist i s fire

,

And on the neck of passion loosed the brid leOf fierce and wi ld des ire :

Till now in our own hearts the ashy embersOf Love lie smouldering

,

And scarce ou r Au tumn chi l l and bare remembersThe glo ry of the Spring ;

While faith , that i n the mire was fain to wal low,

Retu rn s at l ast to findThe co ld fanes desolate, the n iches hol low,

The windows d im and bl ind ,

And, strown with ru ins round , the shattered rel icOf unregardful youth,

Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angel ic,Whispe red the runes of Truth .

This is our doom . To walk for ever and everThe wi lde rness unblest,

To weary soul and se nse i n vain endeavourAnd find no coign Of rest ;

To fee l the pul se of speech and pass ion throngingOn l ips for ever dumb,

To gaz e on parched skies re lentless, longingFor clouds that wi l l not come

32 3

H E R V E -N O E L L E B R E TON

Thirsty,to drink of loathsome waters crawl ingWith name less things obscene,

To feel the dews from heaven l ike fire-drops fall ing,And ne ithe r shade nor screen

To fi l l from springs i ll usive riddled vessels,L ike the Danardes

,

To grapple with the wind that whi rls and wrestles,Knowing no lapse of ease ;

To weave fantastic webs that shrink and crumbleBefore they leave the loom ,

To build with travai l aery towers that tumbleAnd temples l ike the tomb

To watch the state ly pomp and proud processionOf splendid shapes and things,

And pine in si lent sol ita ry sess ionBecause we have no wings

To woo from confused sleep forlorn the dismalObl ivion of despair

To seek in sudden gl impse of dreams abysmalS ights beautiful and rare

,

And waking, w i ld with te rror, see the visionCance l led in swi ft ec l ipse

,

Mocked by the pal l id phantoms of de rision,

With spectral eyes and l ips

To turn in endless circles round these purl ieusWith troops of spi ri ts pale ,

Whose eve rlasting song is l ike the curlew ’s,

One cease less, change less wai l .


Or if indeed our sin-hath been too grievousFor pardon , even of Thee ,

Plunge us in Le the ’s poo l profound . There leave us,And let us cease to be.

La Plainte des Damne’

s.

(Rives et Symboles.)

A Po e t’

s Grave .

This humble grave i s holy ground,

For here a poet l ies,Far from the turmoiled city’s soundBeneath the unruffled skies .

Across the stil l campagna comesThe murmu r of the sea,

And round the crimson clover humsThe golden-girdled bee .

Fit place of rest for one whose sou lFed most on si lent things,

And let the world ’s vext surges rol lI n t idal thunderings.

Cold are the pulses once fulfi l ledWith l iving blood and breath ;

The heart that all men ’s sorrows thri l ledMoulde rs in dusty death.

What is earth ’s fame or blame to himWho l ies in dreamless sleep

He heeds not if love ’s l ight grow dimAnd m idn ight shades are deep .

32 6


Yet, ere I take my lone ly wayAthwart the thickening gloom ,

Sadly my reverent thoughts shal l layThis tribute on the tomb ;

For I , too, hear behind me treadThe i nexorable years

That soon shal l l ay me where the deadL ie voice less—Hence these tears !

Le Tombeau a’u P oe

‘

te.

(Raves et Svmboles.)

Hymn to S l eep .

Sommeil consolateur du monde.

Keepe r of the keys of Heaven ,L ingering near the starry SevenGuardian of the gates of He l l ,Hushed beneath thy drowsy spe l l !

Fold thy wings and come to me,S leep ! thou soul ’s euthanasy.

When the pilgrim of strange loreHaunts thy pale phantasmal shore,Dreams and absolution grant,Priestess thou and hierophant !


327

H E R V E -N O E L L E B R E TO N

Bu i lder of eternal towers !Weaver of enchanted bowers !Thou dost forge the fighter

’

s arms,Thee the lover woos for charms :

Fold thy wings and come to meS leep ! thou soul ’s euthanasy.

Thou dost soothe the vi rgin ’s fears,Thou dost stanch the widow’ s tears,Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,Sti l l the cries of wild Despair

Fold thy wings and come to me,S leep ! thou sou l ’s euthanasy.

Healer of the sores of shame !C leanser of the unholy flame !Thou dost breathe beatitudeOn the evi l and the good


When the cup that Pleasure sipsTurn s to wo rmwood on the l ipsWhen Remorse , with venomed mesh ,F rets and tears the writhing flesh


Que l ler of the storms ofFate !Quencher of the fi res of HateIn thy peacefu l bosom furledL ies the turmoi l of the world

Fold thy wings and come to me,

S leep ! thou soul ’s eu thanasy.

32 8

Arth u r R imbau d .

Born in Charleville (Ardennes) 1854 Died inMarse i lles, 1891 .

Fantastic beauty such as lurks

In some w ild Poet, wlzen lee works

Witlzout a conscience or an aim.

The ind iscrim inating eulogy of a few i nd iscreet admirersneed not blind anyone to the real merits of this re

markable poet. A rthu r Rimbaud was of respectableparentage and rece ived a good midd le-class education .

H e developed a precoc ious facul ty for making verse, alongwith a certain bizarre fashion of looking at men andmorals . Thrown too early into the whirlpool of Paris ianexcitement he led a d issipated l ife i n the company of

Paul Verlaine , and in his visi ts to Belgium , England andGermany gave the re in to his wandering d isposition.

When he was in B russels with Paul Verlaine i n 1873 adrunken quarre l between the two vagabond poe ts had awel l-n igh tragical cl imax. There was a pistol-shot and awild pu rsui t through the streets, followed by the arrest ofPau l Verlaine, who was sent to prison for two years.There i s a characteri stic and incoherent record of thisepisode i n the e lder poe t’s pe rsonal remin iscences.Rimbaud ’s Saison en Enfer appeared at B russel s in

1873 and attracted scant attention . Les Illuminations,another volume of obscure prose i nterlarded with capric ions verse (with a brief preface by Paul Verlaine) waspubl ished in 1886. These pieces were composed between

33°

A R T H U R R I M B A U D

1 873 and 1 875. They may be read as a psychical autobiography burdened with the regret of a wasted youth .

Other poems by R imbaud,giving gl impses of real genius

and singularly original in thei r eccentrici ty,have been

publ ished here and there, eg. in the P oetes maua’its ofPaul Verlaine . They shew a fine sense of me lody, whichis sometimes squandered on fantastic and grotesque themes .Now and then the verse i s moulded by a master-hand.

A rthur R imbaud seems to have continued his aimlesscaree r

,but the history of his peregrinations is somewhat

obscure. After vis iting Russia,he t rave l led towards Asia

Minor to assist in some official excavations or explorations. I t was rumoured that he had taken refuge in oneof the monasteries of Lebanon and his death was premature ly announced from time to t ime. On his return toFrance he died in the publ ic hospital of Marse i l les, wherehe had submitted to a surgical operation for tumou r onthe knee.

I t i s doubtful i f A rthur Rimbaud could have conqueredan important place i n F rench l iterature, although withsevere labour and discipl ine he might have produced somedurable work. H e had a vast command of uncommonimagery and a strange powe r of associating al ien ideas.His phrases are Often extreme ly fe l ici tous, but he lovesto spoi l the harmony of his picture by the de l iberateviolence of a ,monstrous cl imax . H e blends flashes ofspi ritual imagination with the crudest strokes of real i sm .

Sometimes he reminds the reader of Robert B rowning orWalt Whitman ; again he paints with the fidel i ty of aF lemish master. His gen ius bordered on madness, andso far as can be judged from his fugitive fragments herepresents a sort of anarchism in the poetic art.

33I

ARTH U R R I M B AU D

Love and Labou r.

Four on the clock ofa summer morn .

The sleep of Love sti l l overpowers .An odour, of festal evenings born ,Evaporates from the bowers.

In the world ’s vast workshop, ere the sunHesperidean islands leaves,

The Carpenter, to work begun ,I s asti r—in his shi rt-sleeves

I n vi rgin Wastes, with moss o’

ergrown,

His craft he calmly pl iesOn prec ious panels, which the townWil l dabble with fal se skies.

O charm of the Labourers led i n fileWhen a king in Babylon rose supreme !

Venus ! leave thy Lovers awhi leWith souls i n a crowned dream !

Queen of the Shepherds, bringTo the husbandmen barley-bree,

The i r strength in peace replenishingBefore the bath in the noonday sea !

(Une Saison en

332

A RT H UR R I M B A U D

The Vow e l s.

!

B lack A , white E ,red I , green U ,

blue 0 ,

Vowe l s that echo l ike remote carillionsA , sheen ofblack-haired corse let on winged m i l l ions

Round cruel stenches buzzing to and fro ;

Gu lfs ofgloom . E ,clear vapours and pavi l ions,

White kings, thri l led blossoms, spears of frozen snowI , purples, blood-dews , crimson l ips aglowW i th shame of rosy l imbs on languorous pil l ions

U ,Spheres, d ivine vibrat ions ofgreen surges,

Calm Ofmeads sown with beeves,ze thereal verges,

Calm wreathed on furrowed foreheads of the wise ;

O , supreme clarion shri l l ing forth strange clamours,S i lences cloven of worlds and angels, glamou rsOmega, 0 the beam ofHer blue eyes !

Les Voyelles.

(Poémes ine‘dits.)

Those who wish to understand the occu l t significance of this sonnet mayinterpret for themselves the fo l lowing sentence from René Ghil

’s luminous

Trait! da Verbe (Brnxelles : Edmond Deman : 1888)

dv ifs/immentation plus has“ gu’

idiome que inn/{que quepeinture

que, laminae/ e ct l'

onnante 6’ iii/ante, elle ( f! 3 lafois, 6 ’ infimmentation z

'

dlale , authen tique ! en lammment bars da bet/21rd refuel des

glof/aires [Ii/ant les mots oi: le plus ye multrplie la voyelle Id in/lru

mentalement dlfi rce, en rai/on qu’

elle s’autnentique de la loi mime qui

divulgue que va d k [avoir en [e pen/ant , la matiere quand , en ej et,‘

fatalement et efl’

mh’

ellemm , é r

quant d/es/onoritls la parole q? lile d

l’

idefe, gu’

ainfi , logiques é’

fans Ila/ards, Gr 6 ( lire, font les mots

/eu lement, don! ant mime valeur idea/e le fen: vulgaire Cr lafonoritl—O Vo ltaire

334

Jean M o reas.

Born in Athens, 1856.

The rol l of French poets in this centu ry,as in the last,

ends wi th a Greek . But André Chenier was only half aGreek and Jean Moreas i s pure ly Hel len ic. And i fChenie r he lped to give a new impulse to true and naturalpoe try Moreas has also the ambition to be a reforme r,more, pe rchance , i n material than in spiri tual things. H e

has adopted most of the modern innovations in F renchverse and introduced several of his own . Among themare a de l ibe rate d isregard of the regu lar cae sura and l ikewise ofthe enlacement of mascul ine and fem in ine rhymesa violat ion of the rules which forbid rhyme betweensingu lar and plural and mascu l ine and fem i n ine words ofsimilar sound ; a frequent use of assonances instead ofpure consonances and the bold e l ision of the vowel beforea consonant . Moreas is also addicted to the employmentof l ines of i rregu lar length and verse of mixed rhythms.Whatever the pe rmanent influence of such experimentsmay be

,they have at least demonstrated that F rench verse

can be successfully freed from the verbal l im itations whichcustom has imposed upon it . Zola, who sympath ises withthese efforts to give ‘more freedom and more music ’ toF rench verse

,th inks that the new movement may give

birth to a Malherbe who wi l l thence i n itiate ‘ a truepoetical Renaissance

’

Jean Moreas i s a scrupulous and accompl ished artist .

335

J E A N MOR E A S

He differs from Jules Laforgue “ i n asmuch as he has

always something to say and does not depend for hisefl

'

ects on the violence of incongruous symbols and startl ing neologisms. Much of his verse i s nove l , romanti cand picturesque. Many of his forms are singularlyfe l i citous. A l though the leaders of the new school havehel ped to mould him , he i s thoroughly impregnated witharchaism and has bo rrowed from V i l lon, Ronsard andother old poets many charming and expressive wordswhich should never have been al lowed to become Obsoletei ndeed , the influence of the S ixteenth-century S ingers i smanifest i n most of his work. I t may be that his researchafter rare and choice words i s somet imes carried to excessand even gives an ai r of labou r to his lyri cal style. But

he is modern in his subst i tution of Spiri tual impressionsfor clearly-defined outl ines, and this lends a vagueness tohis verse without des troying its archaic character. Hencei t i s true, as Anatole France says, that ‘ he i s one of theseven stars of the new Plé iade and also the Ronsard ofsymbo l ism ’

.

Jean Moreas is said to be descended from two Greekheroes ; one the naval commande r (navargue) Tombaz isand the other Papadiamantopoulos, a name for everassociated with Missolonghi. But he has made Pari s hi shome and given himse l f to the serious study of letters .

Jules Laforgue, author Of les Comp/sinus ( 1885) l’lmitation de Notre

Dame la Lane ( 1886) and some rhapsodical prose essays, d ied in 1887 at

twenty-seven years of age . He had a wonderfu l gift of rhyme , me lody andme taphor, and , like ArthurRimbaud , the power of sudden poetical illumination w i thout anycoherent purpose. One of his erases was the creation of

hybrid compounds, such as sexeipregues, mngsuelles, bym iclaa es, violuptis.

In his lucid intervals of inspiration he could throw 06 such a couplet asOh vont les gents d ’

avril , et les rames d'antanL

’

fime des herons fous u nglote sur l ’etang

336

J E A N M O R E A S

The leaves from the woodlandThat whi rl on the bree ze ,B lown far on the headland ,The leaves from the woodlandThat whirl on the breeze ,Will they ever come backTo clothe the same trees ?

The waves of the stream letThat sparkles and poursI n the shade of the hamlet,The waves of the streamletThat Sparkles and pours ,Will they ever come backTo bathe the same shores ?

Conte d’

Amour. X1 .

(Les Syrtes.)

Li t t l e B lu e B i rd .

L ittle blue bird, with t ime-coloured wings ,That sings , and sings

To soothe with tenderness hearts that are tornAnd scou rged by the l ashes of Scorn .

338

J E A N MOR E A S

L i ttle blue bird , with time-colou red wings,That sings

,and sings

To renew as with force, to refresh as with fire ,The languorous l imbs of Desire.

L i ttle blue bird , with time-coloured wings,That S ings

,and sings

To breathe new l ife in to Hopes that lie dead ,And ban ish the phantoms of Dread .

L i tt le blue bird, with time-coloured wings ,Lo ng have I sought thee by rivers and springs.Long have I sought thee on mountain'

and plain ,In vain , i n vain !

Sw ee t s to the Sw ee t .

A .

B astion shadow,

Reddened where fl ickering lampl ight looms,Lakes profound , dense-frondaged glooms

When Hecate ’s chariot leaves the meadow,

Raven plumesThat love the gibbe t, ebon braid

With gems arrayed ;Ye are not the tresses of my Lady.

339

J E A N MOR E A S

Nor you,O Sheaves of golden grain ,

Shimmering star,Tawny sunsets, Splendorous dawns

That gi ld the lawnsRefined gold , your pride i s vain ,

And vain your symbols are !

Fragrant fraughtage of tri remesF rom Araby, how swee t meseem s

The glorious auburn tresses of my Lady.

Be they pleached and d ispreadIn simple fi l lets on her head ,

Or curtained loose when she doth languish ,Yie ld ing to a lover’s angu ish .

To crown her head I fain would bringF lowers al l unnamed of l ips that sing.

Lavender, marjoram, marigold red,

And the rose that breathed on lutes enchantedWhite flower-de-luce by Perdita vaunted

For sweet Prince Florizel’s bedPink, pale primrose, i ri s, orris,And al l the treasure of buxom Chlori sPoor would the sheaf be , garlandedTo crown her head .

34 0

I nd ex .

E schylus, xxiv, 1 2 5, 1 26.

Anacreon, 22 .

Aristo hanes, 175.Arno ld(Matthew), x ix .Asselineau (Charles), 148 ,Aubane l (Teodor), 319.

Augier (Emile), 2 97.

Aupick (General ), 14 4 .

Antran (Joseph ), 319.

Baif (Anto ine de), Frenclz poet, 176.

Balkis or Belkiss (Queen of Sheba), 72 .

Balzac (Honoré de ), 26, 62 , 82 , 84 ,109, 1 10 ,

Banvi l le (Theodore de), xvi, x ix, xxv,xxvi , xxvii , xxx, xxxi v, xxxvii i , 1 2 ,

2 5. 1 2 4 . 14 s. 147. 1 4 8 172 183,

Barbara (Louis-Charles), 84 .

Barb ier (Auguste ), x ix , xxii , xxxviii , 9,62 64 , 178 .

Baudelaire-Dufais (Charles), xvi , xv11,xix, xxii , xxiii , xxv, xxviii , xxxv1ii ,3, 96, 106, 107, 1 10, 1 1 1 ,

1 2 4 , 14 4 -152 , 173, 204 , 2 1 1 , 2 2 2 ,

2 2 8, 260 , 2 73, 2 79, 2 80, 2 81 , 30 1 .Beauvo ir (R er de), 7Beckford W(W iam), 2 74 .

de Fouquiéres, xxvi .Beddoes (Thomas Lo vel l), 2 8Beranger (Pierre-Jean de), 10, 51 , 107,Berlioz (H ector), xvi, xxxi , 62 , 82 , 179.

Bernal D iaz del Cast i l lo , 269.

Bernard in de Saint Pierre, 8.

Bor

g! (Petrus), xxxviii , 82

1 1 .

Bore l d’Hauterive, 82 .

Borgias (the), 1 2 8.

Bo uchardy (Joseph), 85.

Bouilhet (Lou is), 2 79.

Boulanger (General), 2 97.

Boulanger (Louis), 85, 88, 179.

Bo

qet, publisber, 87.

Bour on, F renchfamily, 172 .

Bourget (Paul ), 151 .Bow les (William L isle), 54 .

BO er (Philoxene), 2 4 3.

Br mont xxx ii .Brizeux (Auguste), 63, 319.

Brot (Alphonse ), 85.

Brown ing (E lizabeth Barrett), xxxv.Browning (Robert), x ix, xxxvi , 1 26,

Brunet1ere (Ferd1nand), 151 .

Buckley (Alban), 8 1 .

Bu

geaud (Marshal ), 86.

(Frango1s), 93.

Btirger, German poet, 71 .

Byron (Lord ), xix, 54 , 92 , 93, 1 1 1 , 1 2 6.

Cabanis, Frenc/zplzilosop/zer, 144 .

Cabanon (Emile), 175.Cairon (Jules), 2 4 3.

Campbe l l (Thomas), 2 1 1 .

Carducci (Giosue), 1 28 .

Carlyle (Thomas), 88Carn

yot (Lazare), xvi.

Carrington (Dean), xv11, 51 .Cary , E nglish translator qf Dante,

xxxvi .

, 2 83.

Bertrand (Louis), 54 , 84 , ChampfleuryUulesFleuryHusson), 163,

Biré (Edmond), 2 2 .

Bonaparte (King Joseph), 2 2 .

Bonn1éres (Robert de), 1 .

164Chanzy (General ), 2 97.

Charles d ’Orléans, 183.

Chasles (Philarete), 88.

;34 3


Chateaubr

s

iand (Francois- ,René vicomte Diaz del Castil lo (Bernal), 269.

de): 31 8: 931 1 2 6 308Chatterton (Thomas), 144 .

Chatto and Windus, publishers, 2 3.

Chaucer, xxx.Chenedol le (Charles Liout de), 99.

Chenier (André), xvi, xvi ii , xxxvn ,

xxxviii, 1-4 , 1 2 7, 335.

Chenier de Saint André, 2 .

Chenier (Louis), 11 .

Chenier (Marie-Joseph ), 2 .

C ifuentes (Count de), 2 2 .

Cladel (Leon), 2 4 3.

Claretie (Jules), 1 2 ,Co leridge (Samuel Taylor), xviii , 54 .

Co llé, French chansonnier, 166.

Co l lins (Wi lliam), 14 4 .

Co lon (Jenny), 73.

Condorcet , French philosopher, 14 4 .

CO e (Fran ois), xxxvm, 2 2 0, 2 4 4 ,2

1236262 , 268

92 78 .

Corbiére (Tristan), 319.

CordayCornexlle (Pierre), xxiv, xxxiii , xxxvn.

Cowper (Wi lliam), 55, 75.Dante, xv ,l 2 4 , 1 26.

Daudet A(A! house), 2 2 0, 2 4 3, 2 52 , 2 53.Daumier onoré), 180.

David d ’AngAngers, French scu lptor, 177.

David (Félicien),881 10.

Defoe (Danie l), 88Delacro ix (Engine), 82 , 1 10, 146, 180.

Delaroche (Paul), 82 .

De lavigne (Casimir), 9, 70.

De li lle (Jacques), 4 , 2 4 .

De lorme (Joseph), 3, 53-55.

Delvau (Alfred ), 163.

Deman (Edmond), publisher, 334 .

Dennie (Emma), 2 29.

De Quincey (Thomas), xxv, 150.

Detonl e (Paul), 2 974 98.Deroy mile), 14 8, 173.

Désaugiers, French chansonm’

er, 9, 319.

Desbordes-Valmore (Madamamé

178, 319.

Deschamps (Antony and mile), 93,I79. 3 19.

Deschamps (Gaston), 1 2 .

Desmoulins (Camil le), 2 , 87.Deveria (Achi l le), 180.

Devéria (Eugene), 85.

D iane de Po1tiers, 73.

D ickens (Charles), 2 52 .

Diderot (Denis), 2 2 1 , 2 79.

Dierx (Léon), xxii, 1 2 5, 2 1 1-2 12 , 2 2 1 ,

319.

Dobson (Austin), xv1 1.Dondey deSanteny (Théophile), 85, 175.

Dorval (Marie), French actress, 179.

Douglas, Scottishfamily, 2 19.

Doval le (Charles), 84 .Drouineau (Gustave), 84 .Du Camp (Maxime). 92 , 14 5, 14 8.Dufl

'

y (James), publisher, 8 1 .

Dumas (Ado lphe), FrenchDumas (Alexandre) theDupont (Pierre), 173, 319.

Duseigneur (Jean orJehan), 8

1, 19, 2 1 .

r, 85.

Eckermann, 70.

Edison, 2 2 3.

Emerson Ralph Waldo), xv .

Esquiros (Alp onse), 72 , 86, 175.

Euripides, xxiv, 1 2 5.Faullain de Banville (Theodore), 172 .

Ferriére (Theoph ile de), 175.Flaubert (Gustave), 107, 2 52 , 253, 2 79Fleury-Husson (Jules), 163.Forestier (Paul), pseudonymofArmandSilvestre, 204 .

Fourier, 1 24 .

France (Anatole), 151 , 2 30, 2 4 4 , 282 ,

336.

Gambetta (Léon), 297297.

Gaspard de laNui t, pseudonym of Lou isBertrand , 84 .Gaunt (John

Gaut ier (Jud ith), 2 4 5.

Gautier (Théophile ), xvu , xviii , xix ,

xxii , xx ii i, xxxviii, 3, 71 , 72 , 84 , 85,86 92 . 96. 106 1 1 2 . 14 7.148. 165. 17s. 178. 197. 2 04 . 2 2 1 .

2 37. ?4 5662 52

Gavarm, 1

age

dphine)’ 319‘e Nerval, xix, xxn, xxxviii,

2 7.

2e

70-76. 8 1 . 1 10. 179.2 4 4 , 2 S3

Ghil (René), 334 .

Gilbert (Nico las Joseph Laurent),French poet ( 1751 75, 14 4 .

344

A C E N T U R Y OF F R E N C H V E R S E

Mal larme (Stéphane), xx i ii, xxvi, Oll ivier, publisker, 87.

xxxviii , 1 2 5, 150 , 2 2 1 , 2 72-2 75, 337. O‘Neddy (Philothée), pseudonym ofMaquet (Auguste), 85. Theophile Dondey , 85.

Man lhat (Prosper), 1 10. O ‘Sha essy (Arthur),Massenet ules), xxx i, 1 26. Ourliac ouard), 27, 72 , 84 .

Math i lde naparte (Princess), 260. Ovid , 4 .

Maupassant (Guyde), 2 53.Mazarin, F rencbfamily, 172 . Papadiamantopoulos, Greek hero,Mende lssohn-Bartho ldy(Felix), 92 . Pauvre Lelian, pseudonym q

’ lMendes (Catulle), xxii, xxiii, xxxvn , Verlaine, 28 1 .

87, 12 5, 2 2 0, 2 39, 2 4 3-2 4 5, 260,268. 274Mendes udith ), 2 4 5.

Merat bert ), 2 4 4 , 319.Meredith (George), xix, 2 52 .Mérimée (Prosper), 2 53.Méry (Paul in). 71. 74 . 173Meurice (Paul), 26.

Meyerbeer (Giacomo ), xxxi, 179.

Michael-Angelo , 180.

Michelet (Jules), 178.

Millevoye (Charles-Hubert ), 9.Mil ton, xx i , 2 4 , 88, 1 26.

Mistral (Frederic), 319.Mo liere , 50 , 260.

Monkhouse (Cosmo),Monselet (Charles), 2 4 3.M0160 can) m s 303 .Moreau H 54 .

Morris (M lliamfipzix.

Moaart, 1 .

“

gyme

ggu n i“ 930 62 167 8:12.1

5

.sMusse

’

t (Alfred de), xvi, xvii, xix, xxiv,xxxviii, 31 91 " s 270 S‘s S4 0 Rl beh il . ‘661 l76’1 1 1, 163, 178, 261 . Racine, xxiv, xxxiii , 1Musset (Paul de), 95. Rameau , 2 2 1.

Musset (Victor de) 92 . Regnier (Mathurin), xvi.Musset de Fathay (Musset-Fathay), 92 . Ren

sduel (Pierre-Eugene), pnbtisber,l I.

Nanteuil (Celest in), 86, 88, 179. Reynaud (Jean), 298.Napo leon 70, 83. Ricard (Louis-Xavier de), 2 44 , 279.

Napo leon 1 2 5, 165. Richepin (Jean), n ix, 283, 302 , 308Napo i le ?rénéon, 175. 310.

Naugeot, rend afflict, 148. Richter can-Paul ), 71 .Nerval (see Gerard). Rimhan (Arthur), 330-331 , 336.Nevil ls ofAbergavenny, 288. Robespierre. 2 .Nodier (Charles), 73, 166, 2 53. (Camille ), 106.

Nordau (Max), 2 19. R inat (Maurice), 2 83, 30 1-302 .

Noriac (Jules), pseudonym d’ Jules Ronsard (Pierre de ), xvi, xxxvii, 176,

Cairon. 2 4 3 2 2 8. 336Roqneplan (Nestor). 278

346

Peyrat (Napo leon), 175.Piron (Alex is), 2 53.Poe (EdgarAl lan), 150, 2 72 .

Pompadour (Madame5de), 87.

Pontavice dc Heussey (Robert (in),2 19.

Pouschkin (Alexander Serguiévitch),Russian pad , 1 1 1 .

PratPré.

(lChevalierde ), 8.

Prélm t A 173. 179.

Pri vat di m“

t , 163, 173.Prudhomme (Sully), xxvi , xxx , xxxviii ,a 7-2 39. 260.

(Jean). xxxi.Pru (F8 12 ). 173

I N D EX

Rossett i (Dante Gabriel), xix, xxx iv,xxxvi, 8 1 , 1 1 1 , 150.

Rossini, 51 .

Ro thschild, 178.Rousseau can-Jacques), xvi, 8, 93.

Ruskin U0 283.

Saint-Arnaud (Marshal ), 26.

Sainte Beuve, xix , 3, ,

33 55, 92 ,

93. 14 8. 151. 178. 2 37. 2 7Saint-Pierre (Bernard in de), 8Saint-Sach s (Cami lle), xxx i, 1 10 , 2 05.

Saintsbury (George), xvii.Sand (George ), 92 . 94 , 178. 204 .Sanda u (Ju les), 84 .

Santi-Lomaci (E lisabe th ), 1 .

Sapph0 , 2 .

Sarcey (Franc15tflue), xxx i, xxxiii , 308 .

Sarrazin (Gabrie xviii, xxu

Scheuring, pub/u lcer, 2 2 2 .

Schil ler, 71 .

Scott (SirWal ter), 2 52 .

Shakespeare, xv , xv1, xxi , 2 4 ,150, 163, 2 80 .

She ley, xviii , x ix , xxvi1i, xxxv ,Siefert (Louisa), 319.

Sigpu

enza (Count de), 2 2 .

tre (Armand ), 204 205.

So l iman (Sul tan), 2 19.

Sophocles, xxiv, 1 2 5, 1 26.

80 1112 17 319Stap (Henri), xx1xx1.Swpen rgbo (Emanuel ), xv , 71 .

Swinburne

rg(Algernon Charles), xvi , xix ,

xxv , xxviii , xxxv , xxxvi , 2 3,1 1 2 ,

Taine (Hi lyte), xvii i.Talleymndi

pg.

Tu tu (Amab le ), 319.

Tennyson, xv, xix, xx , xxiv , xxv , xxxvi ,1 1 1 .

Thabaud (Hyacinthe ), see Henri deLatouche .

Thackeray, 2 52 .

Theocri tus, 1 2 5.

Theresa, burlesque actress and singer,182 .

Theuriet (André), 198-199, 204 .

34 7

Thomas (Napo leon), 88.

Thornbury (Wal ter), xxxvi .Tob ler (Ado lf), xxvi.Tombazis, Greek bero, 336.

Tree (Beerbohm), 174 .

Turner, E nglz'

slzpainter, 2 83.

Turquety (Edouard ), 54 .

Uh land , Germanpoet, 71 .

Vabre otfierw z’

seVavre (Ju les), 85.

Vacquerie (Auguste), 2 5, 2 6, 319Valade (Leon), 2 4 4 , 319.

Valmore (Madame D esbordes 178,319.

Vanier (Leon), publz's/zer, 337.

Vergil , 4 .

Verlaine (Pau l), xvn , xx111, xxv, xxvn ,

xx ix, xxxviii , 150, 2 05, 2 39, 2 4 4 , 268,2 72 . 2 74 . 2 78-2 83. 301. 302 . 330.

,331 1 337Vigny (A lfred de), 3, 9, 1 2 4 , 173, 2 2 8 ,3 19.

Villiers de l’Isle-Adam (Joseph de),

2 19, 2 2 1 .

Vil l iers de l’Isle-Adam (Phi l ippe de),2 19.

Vi ll iers de l’Isle-Adam (Philippe

Auguste de), xxii , 2 19-2 2 3, 2 68, 2 72 .

Villiei s de l’

Isle-Adam (Victor de),2 2 1 .

Vil liers de l’Isle-Adam, Frenclcfamily,

2 19, 319.

Vi llon (Franco is), xiv, xvi , xxix , xxx iv,xxxvi , 2 79, 336.

Vil lon (Franco is), pseudonym of Theodore de Banville, 174 .

Vi tu (Auguste), 163.Voltaire , xvi , xxii , xxi v, xxxi, 2 6, 27,

164 . 310. 334

W er (Richard ), 146, 2 2 1 , 2 4 5, 2 83.

Wig?! udith), 2 4 5.

Wh ite en Kirke), 54 .

Whi tman alt), 331 .

Wil lem (Léon), publisher, 88.

Wordsworth (W1lliam), xvi, xv m, xix ,1 2 , 54 .

Zo la (Emile), xx11, 2 4 3, 2 52 , 335.

A Century Of - Forgotten Books

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