A CENTURY OF
FRENCH VERSE
A CENTURY OF
FRENCH VERSE:
Brief biographical and critical
notices of thirty-three French
poets of the nineteenth ceîitury
with expérimental translations
from their poems.
lA» »*» MJ»
WILLIAM JOHN ROBERTSON.
LONDON:
A. D. INNES & CO.
BEDFORD STREET.
1895-
Edinburgh : T. and A. Constable, Printers lo Her Majesty
MA/ a)
T///S VOLUME
IS
DEDICA TED
VVITH AFFECTION AND GRATITUDE
TO
DANIEL FER G US ON RAMSAY
AND
ARCHIBALD EDWARD BUCHANAN BROWN
^a^^
MIU
j-^f:LL
Contents.
PAGE
Ballade against such as speak ill of France (FRANÇOIS villon) xiii
Introduction ......
XV
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER (1762-1794)
I
Bacchus
5
The Young Captive
6
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE (1790-1869)
8
The Lake .
•
13
The Valley
15
The West .
17
Epistle to Adolphe Dumas
19
To a Young Girl who begged a lock of my hair
21
VICTOR HUGO (1802-1885) .....
22
Her Name
29
To a Woman
30
New Song to an Old Air .
31
In a Church
32
This Age is great and strong
32
Mixed Commissions
34
Jéricho
35
Stella
36
Dusk
yi
A Hymn of the Earth
38
Frondage .
42
Reality
43
The Streels and the Woods
44
To the Imperious Beauty .
45
Forerunners
46
Change of Horizon
48
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
JOSEPH DELORME (1804-1869)
To Rhyme
To Victor Hugo
To the Muse
Lausanne .
AUGUSTE BARBIER (1805-1882)
Popularity
Michael-Angelo
Allegri
Shakespeare
GÉRARD DE NERVAL (1808-1855)
April
Neither Good Morning nor Good Night
Lest Lovers
Anteros
Delphica .
Artemis
PETRUS BOREL (l 809-1 859)
To Iseult ... a medallion
Odelet
The Old Breton Minstrel
ALFRED DE MUSSET (181O-1857)
The Night in May
Song : When Hope, Lovés wild capricious minion
On One Dead
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER (181I-1872)
Unfaithfulness
A Verse of Wordsworth .
Secret Affinities
Ode in the manner of Anacreon
Apollonia .
The Nereids
53
56
59
60
61
62
65
66
67
67
70
n
77
78
79
80
81
90
90
92
97
104
104
106
"3
114
115
117
F18
119
Vlll
CONTENTS
PAGE
Carmen ....... 121
Art
122
LECONTEDE LISLE(l8l8-l894) .
. 124
Pan ....
129
The Spring
. 130
Pholoë ....
• 131
Dies Iras ....
• 131
Naboth's Vineyard
. 136
The Black Panther
140
In the Clear Sky .
142
The Imperishable Perfume
• 143
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE (182I-1867)
• 144
Bénédiction
• 153
m Luck ....
. 156
Beauty
. 156
Idéal Love
• 157
Hymn to Beauty .
. 158
Exotic Fragrance
• 159
Sonnet : In uttdulani robes with 1
tacreou
s sheen
impearled 160
The Spiritual Dawn
160
Music
161
The Flawed Bell .
162
HENRY MURGER (1822-1861)
. 163
The Diver
168
Near Juliet's Balcony
. 168
Pygmalion
169
Blanche-Marie
170
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE (1823-1891)
172
The Dawn of the Romance
• 175
Home-Sickness
. 184
Idolatry
. t86
A Love-Song
. 187
A Boat-Song
188
IX
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
PAGE
The Blacksmiths .....
190
The Nightingale .....
192
A Starry Night .....
193
Herodias ......
194
Medea ......
195
Remembrance .....
196
ANDRÉ THEURIET (1833 .. .) ....
198
The Song of the Willow-Weaver .
200
The Kingfisher .....
202
On the Water .....
202
ARMAND SILVESTRE (1837 . . .) .
204
To One by the Sea ....
206
Why should I weep ? . . . .
207
Judith ......
207
Sonnet : Flowerage of lilies opening to the Dawn
208
A Spring Thought ....
209
Nature's Reflections ....
210
LÉON DIERX (1838 . . .) .
211
Lazarus ......
213
Funeral March .....
215
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM (1838-1889) .
219
Discouragement .....
224
Twilight Witchery ....
225
TheGifts
225
Confession .....
226
ALBERT GL.^TIGNY (1839-1873) ....
227
WildVines ...
231
Roses and Wine .....
233
In the Arbour .....
234
The Night is Corne ...
235
AWinterWalk
235
Résurrection . ...
236
CONTENTS
PAGE
SULLY PRUDHOMME( 1839. . .) , . . . .
237
Where? . . . .
240
Saving Art ....
241
The Light of Truth
241
CATULLE MENDÈS (1840 . . .)
243
The Curses of Hagar
246
The Mother ....
250
The Disciple ....
251
THREE NOVELISTS ....
252
My Wishes. (Emile zola : 1840 . . .) .
254
Three Days of Vintage. (ALPHONSE DAUDET : 1840 . . .
) 255
Passionless Nature. (Alphonse daudet : 1840 . . .)
256
Desires, (GUY de maupassant : 1850-1893)
258
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE (1842 . . .) .
260
An October Morning
263
Pharaoh .....
263
The Three Birds ....
265
Persistency ... .
266
On a Tomb in Spring-Time
267
JOSÉ-MARIA de HEREDIA (1842 . . .)
268
Sunset .....
270
The Shell
270
On a Broken Statue
271
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ (1842 . . .)
272
A Faun's Afternoon (fragment) .
274
Flowers .....
276
Sonnet : My tomes redosed upon the Paphian name
277
PAUL VERLAINE (1844 • • •)
. 278
Résignation .....
. 284
Weariness ......
. 284
Anguish .....
.
. 285
XI
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
PAGE
An Autumn Song . . . . 286
The Lover's Hour
286
The Nightingale .
287
The Death of Philip the Second
288
A Song at Sunrise
294
The Art of Poetry .
295
PAUL DÉROULÈDE (1846 . . .)
297
The Marseillaise .
299
Credo
300
MAURICE ROLLINAT (1846 . . .) .
301
The Poppy Ravine
303
The Chamber
305
The Song of the Speckled Partridge
307
JEAN RICHEPIN (1849 . . .)
308
The Death of the Gods .
311
The Wanderer
314
The Hun .
316
Ballade of the Swallow
318
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON (1851 . . .)
319
Sic itur ad Astra .
321
The Burden of Lost Soûls
322
A Poet's Grave
326
Hymn to Sleep
327
ARTHUR RIMBAUD (1854-1891) .
330
Love and Labour .
332
Wasted Youth
333
The Vowels
334
JEAN MORÉAS (1856 . . .)
335
The Leaves front the Woodland
338
Little Blue Bird .
338
Sweets to the Sweet
339
INDEX ....
343
Xll
Ballade against such as speak ill
of France.
May he be met by monsters spouting fire,
As Jason was, in quest o' the fleece of gold ;
Or to a beast be, like Belshazzar's sire,
Seven years transformed, and won in field and
fold;
Or dree such dolorous loss and sore despight
As erst the Trojans wreaked for Helen's flight ;
Or swallovvëd be, like Tantalus of old
And Proserpîne, in Pluto's pool obscène ;
Be worse than Job in grievous suiiferance,
Or held as thrall in Dsedalus' demesne,
That wisheth evil to the realm of France !
Four months may he sit singing in a mire.
As bittern doth his head i' the marish hold ;
Or led in harness, like a beast of hire,
Be to the Grand Turk eke for silver sold ;
Or thrice ten years, like Magdalen naked quite,
In cloth of wool ne linen cloth be dight ;
Be, like Narcissus, drenched in waters cold,
Like Absalom hung by the hair the boughs between,
Fordone as Judas was for malfeasance.
Or in worse case than Simon Magus seen,
That wisheth evil to the realm of France !
xiii
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
His wealth, so might Octavian's time be nigher,
Should molten flow in 's body as a mould ;
Or like Saint- Victor's were his penance dire,
To be between the moving millstones rolled ;
Or by the waves engulfed in sorer plight
Than Jonah lodged in whale's maw day and night ;
Banished be he, nor Phœbus' sheen behold,
Nor Juno's boon, nor solace of Love's queen ;
And by great God be doomed to foui mischance,
As King Sardanapalus was, I ween ;
That wisheth evil to the realm of France !
ENVOY.
Prince, may the troop of Eolus swoop him clean
Where Glaucus reigneth in his forest green,
Forlorn of peace and hopeful countenance ;
For he deserves no goodly thing to glean
That wisheth evil to the realm of France !
Ballade contre les inesdisans de la France.
FRANÇOIS VILLON.
XIV
Introduction.
When Ralph Waldo Emerson disposed, in one summary
and emphatic line, of
' France, where poet never grew '
he was apparently convinced that she could claim no
représentative singer whose name might be fitly placed
along with the five starry names of Homer, Dante, Shake-
speare, Swedenborg and Goethe. It is not unlikely that
the American sage, with his puritanical préjudice against
' amorous poetry ' and his instinctive dislike to * sad
poetry ', had preconceived the existence of certain uncon-
genial éléments in French verse, for even in Goethe's
Faust he found something that was 'too Parisian'. And
it is probable, also, that he was better acquainted with
French writers of the so-called classical period than with
the lyrical voices of the présent century. His déniai
of a poet to France, regarded as the utterance of Per-
sonal feeling, might therefore be dismissed as unworthy
of serions considération were it not likewise the laconic
expression of a widely-diffused opinion. Nevertheless
there must be many lovers of verse who think that the
name of Victor Hugo would hâve completed the circle
of suprême poets more appropriately than that of the
Swedish visionary. Tennyson denoted a truer apprécia-
tion of Victor Hugo's place in literature when he apostro-
phised the
' Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance,
' Darkening the wreaths of ail that would advance,
* Beyond our strait, their claim to be his peer '.
XV
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
And Swinburne may be forgiven some excess of enthu-
siasm, if any excess there be, in that splendid Birthday
Ode which proclaims how
' The mightiest soûl put mortal raiment on
' That came forth singing ever in man's ears
'Of ail soûls with us', . . ,
But, even if Victor Hugo had never existed, it would
surely be a rash thing to assert that ' poet never grew '
in the country which produced Villon and Ronsard in her
archaic âge, Malherbe and Régnier during the period of
formai development, André Chénier in the blackest days
of her intellectual éclipse, and Lamartine, Musset, Banville,
Baudelaire and Leconte de Lîsle as représentatives of
the modem movement which has been made illustrious
by 30 many men of genius, Unless, indeed, an appeal
from blind prepossession to blazing évidence is lost upon
those who willingly believe that no good thing can corne
out of Nazareth !
The oracular judgments of great men are by no means
least among the curiosities of literature. Within half a
century of Jean-Jacques Rousseau's confident prédiction
that such a thing as French music could never be, France
gave birth to Hector Berlioz, the suprême master of
modem orchestration and perhaps the most poetical of
ail composers ; in less than another half-century she had
conquered Europe with her brilliant opéras. . . . ' Equally
* a want of books and men ' was the reproach of Words-
worth to a révolution which produced Lazare Carnot and
Lazare Hoche, and from which has since proceeded the
most ample and splendid literary movement ever known.
. . . According to Voltaire the dramatic art was in its
infancy in England in the days of Shakespeare. And yet
xvi
INTRODUCTION
out of the mouths of thèse Elizabethan babes and suck-
lings human speech was perfected.
******
Although French poetry in the nineteenth century has
exercised a large influence on the lyrical literature of
Italy and Russia, it must be confessed that it has generally
met with grudging récognition abroad. The familiarity
of educated Englishmen with the French language, and
even with French literature as represented by the novel
and the drama, has not promoted to much purpose the
culture of French poetry. And while the appréciative
criticism of certain journals is ready to bear witness that
there are English writers who possess a consummate
knowledge of French verse, its beauties hâve hitherto been
more or less neglected. It is true that of late years a
change has corne over the indiffèrent feeling with which
this notable branch of literature was so long regarded in
England. Evidences of a growing interest in French
poets and poetry hâve been afforded by occasional trans-
lations from Musset or Gautier and occasional essays
on Baudelaire or Verlaine. The anthology edited by
George Saintsbury has helped to give a gênerai notion of
the character and scope of French verse to fluent readers
of the language. If such unambitious spécimens as Dean
Carrington's Translations from the Poems of Victor Hugo
may hâve failed to perform a similar service for the un-
initiated, it cannot be said that the characteristics of
French lyrical form and melody hâve been neglected in
the excellent fugitive translations of Austin Dobson,
Arthur O'Shaughnessy, Andrew Lang, Cosmo Monk-
house and other English writers. The purpose of the
expérimental translations which are published in this
volume is simply to convey to those readers who are not
in touch with the original language some perception of
b xvii
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
the peculiar qualities of French poetry, in so far as thèse
may hâve been reflected in a diversely constituted tongue.
******
• Speaking generallys it is not in respect of form, but
* in respect of matter, that our poets are inferior to the
* English poets ' * says Gabriel Sarrazin in his admirable
séries of studies entitled la Renaissance de la Poésie
anglaise: 1798-1889. In this distinction between spiritual
substance and artistic shape the French writer has seized
at least one characteristic which gives English poetry the
suprême place in modem literature. Other French critics
hâve observed it, for example, Taine, who confesses in his
Noies sur l'Angleterre: — 'To my mind there is no poetry
* equal to English poetry, and none which speaks so
* strongly and so clearly to the soûl '. Théophile Gautier
vvas likewise able to appreciate, if not to emulate, those
inhérent qualities which give to English verse its enviable
supremacy, for he has somewhere vaguely defined them
as ' the Scottish élément ' in song.
It would, of course, be false to assume that the higher
faculties of imagination and moral force hâve exercised no
influence on French poetry. Yet it is certain that the
peculiar pathos of the Elegy written in a Country Church-
yard, the wild fantastic charm of The Ancient Mariner,
and the subtle émotion that breathes through The Solitary
Reaper or the Ode to a Nightingale hâve found no such
perfect expression in the French language, rich as it is in
poetical ideas and images, and possessed of such artistic
resources. And if, in a gênerai sensé, refraining from
futile individual comparisons, we take Keats for André
Chénier ; Wordsworth, Shelley, Coleridge and Landor for
* ' Ce n'est point en général par la forme, mais par le fond, que nos poètes
* sont inférieurs aux poètes anglais.'
xviii
INTRODUCTION
Lamartine, Barbier, Sainte-Beuve and Gérard de Nerval
(forgetting Victor Hugo) ; Byron for Alfred de Musset ;
and Browning, Rossetti, Tennyson, Swinburne, Matthew
Arnold, William Morris and George Meredith for Théo-
phile Gautier, Théodore de Banville, Leconte de Lisle,
Charles Baudelaire and the Avhole school of contemporary
French singers, such a parallel is on the whole unfavour-
able to France, especially when those things which seem
to be the essence and soûl of poetry are divested of their
outward limbs and flourishes. But, in making this
comparison, it must be remembered that although the
combination of moral force with idéal vision which is
conspicuous in Wordsworth, Browning and Tennyson is
not so manifest in Keats, Shelley and Swinburne, thèse
poets hâve nevertheless achieved great things and taken
a place with ail but the highest names in English song.
Perhaps it is unfortunate for French verse that so much of
it has been inspired by Parisian expérience, and that it
often reflects the artificial émotions of a highly-corrupted
civilisation, instead of seeking fresh colour and life from
the healthy influences of natural beauty and spiritual
solitude. For this is the secret of the power which lies in
the best English poetry. Its spell has been woven from
the deepest and widest expériences of human life. Those
éléments of reflection and force, kindled by imagination and
feeling, with which it is so largely sulTused are drawn from
the remote and complex characteristics of a race in which
the robust Saxon, the calculating Norman, the audacious
Dane and the dreamy Celt hâve for âges blended their
activities, their thoughts and their ideals.
* * * * * Ht
The poetry of any people necessarily dérives its
external characteristics from the pecuHar attributes of the
national tongue, for the mould in which the poet's thought
xix
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
îs cast must be determined by the nature of the rhyme
and the limitations of the rhythm vvhich are indigenous to
his own language. Let the émotion be ever so fervid and
the imagination ever so lofty, their rough-cast créations
will hâve to be chiselled, when they cool down, in the
material which the craftsman's native speech has placed
at his service. Hence the ' mechanic exercise ' to which
Tennyson alludes in one of the most spontaneous and at
the same time one of the most highly elaborated of his
Works. The critic of poetry, in his pursuit of 'con-
ceptions ' and ' atmosphères ' and ' periods of évolution ', is
perhaps prone to overlook the importance of this purely
artistic élément in verse. And yet the accidents of
rhyme, the facilities of allitération and the felicities of
assonance are inséparable aids to song. They hâve often
given birth to a beautiful thought, suggested a brilliant
image and contributed to the force of an antithesis, They
help the poet to express himself in a more melodious and
captivating fashion. French poets hâve naturally dis-
played a no less ingenious art than their English brethren
in availing themselves of the ready-made ideas involved in
rhyme and in diversifying thèse ideas a thousand-fold.
But there is one almost vital différence in their method,
arising chiefly from those limitations which the more
précise character of the French language has imposed on
poetical expression. An example taken from two writers
of English verse will serve as a simple illustration. Long-
fellow, who, vvith ail his learning and lyrical capability,
often failed to achieve that perfect harmony between word
and idea which is the glory of Imaginative poetry, has the
following couplet in Flowers : —
* Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,
* Stand, like Ruth, amid the golden corn '.
XX
INTRODUCTION
Keats, the greatest master of his art since Shakespeare
and Milton, sings in his Ode to a Nightingale of
* . . . the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
' She stood in tears amid the alien corn '.
The conception in each case is highly poetical and the
illustration is almost the same, but how the poetry seems
to evaporate when an ordinary descriptive adjective is
substituted for the spiritual one in which Keats, with his
unerring instinct, has summed up the true pathos of Ruth's
loneliness !
It is precisely in the lack of this power to transfigure
common words by the light of imagination that French
poets hâve often failed to reach the height to which
English poetry has so easily attained, owing to the vague
and fluctuant largeness of our English speech. Hence, also,
the abuse of such adjectives as sombre, sacré, divin and
suprême by French poets to whom Milton's 'blind mouths' or
Shakespeare's daring metaphor ' to take arms against a sea
' of troubles ' would seem monstrous, because of the exact-
ness into which the logical French mind has fashioned the
national idiom.
******
There are some essential characteristics of the French
language which contribute to give to French poetry an
artificial form. Its dérivation and structure, which are
scholastic rather than vernacular,* hâve endowed it with a
* Since so much is made of the Celtic éléments in the French nation (and
properly so as regards its ethnological origin) it is significant that modem
French has about 2000 Latin and 1000 Greek radicals and only 700 from the
Germanie and Celtic languages ; indeed the purely Celtic contribution is
rcpresented by less than 100 roots, and many of the words derived from thèse
are of purely local application. (See Henri Stappers : Dictionnaire synoptique
d'étypiologie française: Bruxelles: 1885.)
xxi
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
limited capacity for the expression of homely sentiment,
such as is congenial to the rich root-soil of German
speech. For this reason the French chanson and lyric
hâve so often a cold and conventional air, when compared
with the lied. In Hke manner, the deliberateness of
French poetical diction, contrasting as it does with the
quick incisiveness of the coUoquial language,* tends to
deprive it of that force and fervour which the fine frenzy
of the singer would otherwise infuse into it.
To thèse natural limitations of the French language
must be added the academical restrictions to rhyme, the
lack of rhythmical accents, and the use of the symmetrical
caesura which custom has imposed on poetical speech.
Heine likened the French metrical System to 'a strait-
' waistcoat ' and Zola describes it as ' a steel corselet'. Such
impediments to rhythmical movement and emotional
expression hâve forced French poets to seek relief from
monotony in richly-coloured imagery, in variety of rhyme
and in devices of melody ; often to such a degree that
the reader is tempted to exclaim, like Gertrude, ' More
' matter, with less art ! ' ' French poetry ', says Gabriel
Sarrazin, 'has been striving for a century to reach by
' powerful effects of music and colour that which the
' Anglo-Saxon instinct has unconsciously achieved '.
{Poètes modernes de V Angleterre.) Moreover, their in-
heritance of artistic traditions and their culture of the
sensuous arts f has exaggerated in many of the best
French poets a natural dévotion to form. Hence the
cunning conveyance of subtleties embeUished by fancy
* ' La lenteur de notre chant, qui fait un étrange contraste avec la vivacité
de notre nation.' (Voltaire : Stipplément au Siècle de Louis XIV.)
t Victor Hugo, Barbier, Gautier, Gérard de Nerval, Baudelaire, Villiers,
Dierx, Mendès and many other French poets hâve either been draughtsmen,
painters and musicians themselves or accomplished connoisseurs and critics of
the fine arts.
xxii
INTRODUCTION
and sentiment ; and hence a striving after unfamiliar
rhymes and images which has usurped in many of them
the place of strong émotion seeking utterance in song.
Often the French poet seems to choose a landscape scène
or a phase of human expérience for the express purpose
of painting a picture, instead of weaving external nature
into the mood and émotion of the moment, as in The
Excursion or In Memoriam. But in their own sphère of
art the French poets are suprême. They may claim a
place by themselves as masters of purely intellectual ex-
pression. ^In no other literature hâve there been such
; expert artificers in verse as Gautier, Baudelaire, Mendès,
Mallarmé and Verlaine, men whose verbal work at its best
is unrivalled in visible beauty. By diligently cultivating
and developing their poetical language on its own lines,
î^'such artists hâve carried to perfection in verse ail those
qualities which distinguish French art in gênerai from
English or German or Italian art, and which hâve given
to French music, French sculpture and French painting
a peculiar grâce and individuality. Delicacy of outline,
beauty of form, freshness and brilliancy of colour ; every-
thing that betokens dexterity of touch and absolute
lucidity of vision ; declamatory force, harmonious modu-
lation and dramatic movement — ail are there ! And if
in French verse there is more of the superficial play of
fancy than the transfiguring glow of imagination ; a
sensuous worship of palpable loveliness rather than a
révélation of the inner pathos of natural things ; let it
not be supposed that French poetry is by any means ,*
devoid of the higher attributes of impassioned speech.
The fiery particle has never been extinguished in a poet
because he had to contend with the difficulties of an ex-
tremely complex metrical System. Who will venture to
assert that the observance of the dramatic unities in Greek
xxiii
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
tragedy fettered the passion of Euripides, the pathos of
Sophocles and the sublimity of iEschylus ? Not one of
thèse essential qualities of pure poetry is wholly lacking
in the French verse of the nineteenth century, and, if in
certain schools the artistic attributes are paramount, many
of the higher imaginative and emotional éléments are to
be found abundantly in Lamartine and Musset, while there
is ample measure of every one of them in Victor Hugo, c
*♦*#**
The melody of the French language has been loudly
denied by English writers and especially by those whose
knowledge of French verse was limited to the alexan-
drines of Corneille, Racine and Voltaire. The nasal
' n ' is naturally the head and front of offence. It is
difficult fora foreigner to judgeimpartially of thèse things,
for he almost inevitably ignores similar cacophonies with
which custom has made him familiar in his native speech.
The English hissing plural and many of our harsh con-
sonantal combinations (rnt : rbd : sht) must seem unmusical
to an Italian, particularly when they occur as verse termi-
nais. Take for example a stanza from In Memoriam : —
' I held it truth, with him who s\ngs
' To one clear harp in diveri- Zones,
* That men may rise on steppiw^-i'/ones
' Of their dead selves to higher i^cimgs '.
Not only has the poet ended ail his rhymes with the
sibilant, but he has placed them ail on the same con-
sonant, and some of them in uneuphonious combinations.
And yet Tennyson's supremacy among the modem masters
of verbal harmony is indisputable. It would be worse
than hypercritical to insist on the point. The Germans
hâve their rfft and à)'\t and the Russians their m; (shtch)
xxiv
INTRODUCTION
and TIHHK (tchneek), but the employaient of thèse
harsh sounds in poetical language does not rob it of
harmony and melody. The modem masters of French
versification hâve handled their nasal consonant with
wonderful discrétion, and, however discordant it may be
on the lips of a café-chantant singer, its pronunciation in
poetry by a true artist need not offend the most sensitive
ear. Perfect euphony is not the highest charm of a
language, for almost in proportion as speech becomes
merely mellifluous it loses in virility and vigour, owing to
the absence of concussive sounds. There is as much real
melody in Baudelaire's or Verlaine's French and in Tenny-
son's or Swinburne's English as in the finest Italian. Let
not the persuasive éloquence of silver-tongued De Quincey
nor the loud-mouthed déclamation of Walter Savage
Landor préjudice any one against the melody of French
verse. Their examples of dissonance are generally chosen
from the worst verses of eighteenth-century writers, who
had not the cultured sensé of verbal beauty which is now
common among French writers, whether of verse or prose.
The later French poets hâve discovered marvellous har-
monies in their native tongue, as the following examples
will shew : —
' Car je ne puis trouver parmi ces pâles roses
' Une fleur qui ressemble à mon rouge idéal ' —
{Charles Baudelaire^
' Plus vides, plus profonds, que vous-mêmes ô Cieux !' —
{Charles Baudelaire.^
' Et ce vague frisson de rose d'Orient
' Où la lumière passe et joue en souriant' —
{Théodore de Banville.)
And this magnificent quatrain which, notwithstanding the
XXV
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
consécutive nasal sounds in the second line, is one of the
most majestic in the whole range of French verse : —
* Et toi, divine Mort, où tout rentre et s'efface,
* Accueille tes enfants dans ton sein étoile,
'Affranchis-nous du temps, du nombre et de l'espace,
* Et rends-nous le repos que la vie a troublé ! '
{Leconte de Lisle.)
No nobler and deeper music has ever been moulded by
the lips of man.
* * * * * *
Those who wish to study the structure of French verse
and the rules which govern its rhyme and measure will
find an exhaustive historical analysis in Adolf Tobler's
Vom franzôsischen Versbaii alter und neuer Zeit (Berlin :
1880). This author is more thoroughly scientific than any
French writer on the subject, and his work is admittedly
superior in respect of lingual and archaic learning to those
of Louis Quicherat * and Becq de Fouquières.f An
excellent if in no sensé profound discourse on French
versification is Théodore de Banville's Petit Traité de
Poésie française. Two other poets — Sully Prudhomme in
Réflexions sur T Art des Vers and Stéphane Mallarmé in
Relativement au Vers — hâve vouchsafed on the same sub-
ject some purely philosophical observations, but thèse do
not cope with the problems of metrical construction,
although they give évidence of the prédilection for form
which is so characteristic of French versifiers.
Any attempt to apply a theory of accent or quantity to
the mètre of French verse would be lost labour. Théodore
de Banville's dictum is at once simple and conclusive : —
* French verse has no rhythm, like that of other languages,
* Traité de. Versification. (Paris: 1850.)
t Traité giniral de Versification française. (Paris: 1879.)
xxvi
INTRODUCTION
' formed by a certain interlacement of long and short
* syllables. It is simply the grouping of a certain regular
* number of syllables, divided in certain kinds of verse by
* a pause or rest which is called the caesura, and always
' terminated by a sound which cannot exist at the end of
* one line without being repeated at the end of another, or
' of several other lines, and the return of which is called
* Rhyme'. ^ If this définition be accepted (and there is
no doubt of its accuracy) it follows that French verse has
not a woven harmony of accents, with a regular beat and
rhythm — tempora certa viodosque — but is rather an even
flow of vocal utterance, saved from endless monotony by
the hiatus, and endowed with melody by the devices of
assonance, allitération, elision and rhyme. The following
example of nonosyllabic verse from the Art poétique of Paul
Verlaine will serve as an illustration to Banville's thesis : —
'Car nous voulons | la Nuance encor,
' Pas la Couleur, | rien que la nuance !
*0h! la nuan- | ce seul . . e fiance
' Le rêve au rêve | et la flûte au cor ! '
On no other metrical System can thèse lines be scanned.
The almost exaggerated importance attached by French
poets in gênerai and by Théodore de Banville in par-
ticular to the function of rhyme may be measured by
his bold assertion that *the imagination of Rhyme is,
' above ail, the faculty which constitutes the poet'; and
further that * the only word which you hear in a verse is
' the word which is in the rhyme, and this word is the
* only one which opérâtes in producing the effect aimed
* at by the poet '. The proper significance of Banville's
paradox is only observed when he goes on to explain
that it is necessary to think in verse because a poet
xxvii
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
cannot hâve the right rhyme until he has the vision in
his brain which gives birth to the rhyme. It follows
from the French metrical method, with its compulsory
hemistich in lines of nine or more syllables, that, unless
the language is handled with consummate art, there is a
tendency to tameness and uniformity in the movement
of the verse, a disadvantage of which certain critics, and
among them Jules Janin, hâve been expressly conscious.
But the great masters of French verse hâve contrived by
various devices to give to it a wonderful richness and
diversity. If in a line of equal syllables we miss the
anapaestic trip of Shelley or Swinburne, we hâve at ail
events a release from monotony in the alternation of
masculine and féminine rhymes, in the harmony of
sonorous consonants and assimilated vowels, and in the
verbal resources which distinguish the diction of poetry
from that of prose in every language. Much of Victor
Hugo's verse is so flexible and so forcible that it is almost
impossible to read it without such emphasis as almost
endows it with a rhythmical accent. He revolutionised the
alexandrine by his masterly art in phrasing so as to shift
the caesura from syllable to syllable according to the
demands of his imperious poetical instinct. In vigour and
grandeur, in résonance and splendour, he is immeasurably
superior to every other French poet. None, save now and
then Baudelaire, has such sonorous lines as
' Fleur de bronze éclatée en pétales de flamme ' —
{L'Année terrible.)
'Toi, derrière Lagide, ô reine au cou de cygne' —
{Les Châtiments.')
' Tourbillonnaient dans l'ombre au vent de leurs épées ' —
{La Légende des Siècles.)
xxviii
INTRODUCTION
lines in which the suprême resources of French poetical
diction hâve been demonstrated. The elasticity of his
vovvel elision is admirably illustrated by the following
couplet, in which the rough force of the first h"ne contrasts
with the exquisite tenderness of the second : —
' Je te proclame, toi que ronge le vautour,
' Ma patrie et ma gloire et mon unique amour ! '
{L'Année terrible^
Some of the rigid rules of French versification are
obviously intelligible. Thus a singular (such as lieîî)
must not be rhymed with a plural (such as cietix),
although there is no différence in the terminal pronuncia-
tion. Nor should two similar sounds, one ending with a
consonant and the other ending with a vowel, to wit, a
masculine and a féminine word like noir and gloire^ be
rhymed. Both thèse prohibitions hâve been boldly con-
travened by one or two poets of the advanced school,
notably by the late Jules Laforgue and by Jean Moréas,
but a définitive adoption of such hérésies would discrédit
the System on which the whole volume of French verse
from Villon to Verlaine is composed. The alternation
of masculine and féminine rhymes, which custom had
rendered almost obligatory in French verse, has been
disregarded by one or two living poets who are by no
means revolutionary in their rhythmical methods, especially
by Paul Verlaine in the Sapphic célébrations of Parallèle-
ment and by Jean Richepin in his Chanson dti Sang.
The former poet has aimed at the expression of a volup-
tuous languor in the sole employment of féminine rhymes,
and the latter at a virile and barbarie robustness in his
exclusive use of masculine rhymes. In both cases the
success of the abnormal experiment is vindicated by its
spécifie purpose.
xxix
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
The so-called ' mute e ' seems to hâve derived its value
in French verse from the Italian and Provençal models
of the early French poets. English poetry had a narrow
escape from the same influence, for Chaucer invariably
gave the féminine termination its full rhythmical effect,
both in the singular and in the plural, and if it be dis-
regarded the melody and rhythm of his verse is entirely
spoiled. The précise value of the féminine ' e ' in the
déclamation of French verse is a controversial point, and,
as the poetical language ovves much of its plasticity and
most of its melody to the proper employment of this
vowel, the vocal significance thereof is worthy of some
attention. There is, indeed, little or no différence of
opinion as to its syllabic value in versification, but the
currency which should be given to it in the recitation of
verse has been a fertile subject of discussion among
authors, critics, actors and musicians. When the vowel
occurs at the end of a line its utterance seems by common
consent to hâve become so attenuated as to be almost
inaudible. Théodore de Banville deliberately avers that
the final 'e' of the féminine line is not pronounced, and
does not count in the enumeration of the syllables of
which a verse is composed. Sully Prudhomme says that
' in words which are terminated by the vowel e {e muté)
' the latter has gradually grown weaker to such a degree
' that it is scarcely pronounced at ail , . . and is no longer
' reckoned a sound at the conclusion of a line '. Against
such authorities there is nothing to be urged, but it is
évident that the terminal ' e ' had a distinct declamatory
value when the French language was in process of forma-
tion, and when a fuller and larger fashion of pronunciation
prevailed. This value has always been recognised by
musical composers, so that in a song of Victor Hugo's set
to music by Gounod the terminal ' e ' at once résumes its
XXX
INTRODUCTION
full syllabic significance* But even hère the instinct of
the consummate artist is exhibited in his treatment of
the vowel. Songs Hke the Marseillaise and Une dame
noble et sage (in Meyerbeer's opéra of les Hugue7iots) offer
repeated examples of a coarse and clumsy manipulation
of the final ' e '. On the other hand, in the Nîiits d'été of
Berlioz, in such an air as Plus grand dans son obscurité
(Gounod's Reine de Saba) and in any melody composed
by Massenet or Saint-Saëns the discreet and délicate
treatment of this terminal vowel gives a charm to the
music which is peculiar to the French lyrical language.
In a witty letter written by the last-named composer to
Francisque Sarcey on this subject, he déclares that ' the
* prolonged e mute, that is to say eu, eu, eu, , . . is due to
' our singers, vvho love to dwell on ail finales, whether
' masculine or féminine '.
The function of the féminine 'e' in the body of the
verse is a much more important problem. Some German
savants hâve enunciated a heterodox theory to the effect
that this 'e mute' has no rhythmical value in poetry,
that it plays only a trivial part in dramatic diction, and
that it tends to disappear altogether from French verse.
A fierce controversy recently arose in Paris owing to the
adoption of their opinion by Jean Psichari, a Franco-
Greek contributor to the Revue bleue, who boldly declared
that 'the e mute is not pronounced in French verse, un-
' less in the single case where its disappearance would
' bring about the encounter of three consonants '. The
practical acceptance of such a theory would, of course,
eliminate from French verse every élément of melody and
rhythm, and necessitate the entire reconstruction of its
* 'Thistf, which is not pronounced in ordinary déclamation, is pronounced
* in noted déclamation, and that in a uniform manner.' (Voltaire : SuppU-
ment att Siècle de Louis XI V. )
xxxi
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
metrical System. No better réfutation of this fallacy can
be adduced than the invariable récognition which the
féminine ' e ' has obtained in the verse of every notable
poet of purely French nationality. Omitting this vowel
in the déclamation of their lines, the cadence would be
destroyed, the harmony emasculated and the measure
falsified. French verse, as we know it, would become a
chaotic assemblage of harsh sounds, and the vaunted
alexandrine would be converted into irregularly alternated
lines of eight, nine, ten, eleven and twelve syllables,
' Foreign critics hâve too readily believed ' — says an actor
and teacher who speaks with some authority — ' that our
' verse, devoid of the quantities which form the basis of
' other prosodies, lives only by its rhyme. Failing to find
* in it the cadences due to long and short syllables, they
' hâve accused it of dragging itself along in the uniformity
* of restricted rhythms, of stretching itself out to a fatal
' monotony by the répétition of an unvarying number of
' equal syllables, and, in fine, of achieving only an artificial
' existence and a conventional harmony in the puérile
' play of rhymes. They hâve been unable to feel that
' . . . thèse long and short syllables which they deny to
' us are often created delicately and deliciously by this
* so much misunderstood e mute '. (L. Brémont : le Théâtre
et la Poésie : 1 894.)
Any one who is familiar with French verse, and who
cannot enunciate the 'mute e' with that 'délicate and
' delicious ' ease which is the privilège of tongues to the
manner born, will prefer to give it a fuller rather than a
fainter emphasis if he wishes to realise its value in the
euphony of French verse. The précise significance of
the vowel is determined more by instinct, taste and sensé
of melody than by any recognised standard. Some French
actors carelessly slur it over and others ignore it in a most
xxxii
I N T R O D U C 1' I O N
reprehensible fashion. 'In poetry' — says Francisque
Sarcey — ' its employment admits of a marvellous variety ;
' for it may be simply recalled to the ear by an almost
' insensible suspension of the utterance, or indicated by a
' breath, or more heavily accentuated, or even sounded
' outright'. And it must be remembered, in reading
Racine and Lamartine or Corneille and Victor Hugo,
that the melody of their verse can only be appreciated by
those who hâve mastered the musical effect of the féminine
' e ' and learned to enjoy the cadence, the suppleness and
the harmony which this peculiar vovvel gives to the un-
dulating alexandrine.
It may be noted in passing that one or two con-
temporary poets hâve so far broken with tradition as to
try experiments with the occasional suppression of the
* mute e ' as a syllabic factor in verse. This practice
must, however, be regarded as a bold imitation of the
vernacular elision which is customary in popular songs,
and particularly in Parisian doggerel, for no French poet
of importance has attempted to dispense altogether with
the rhythmical employment of the vowel, nor would it be
possible to do so unless strongly-marked accents or some
other metrical device were substituted.
* * * * -;lc- *
No individual value can be given to the féminine 'e' in
an English translation of French verse. But as it often
confers a greater number of syllables on the French
poetical line than the prose pronunciation of the same
words would warrant, it may be accepted as a gênerai
rule that the double alexandrine is adequately represented
in English by the décimal or so-called heroic couplet, and
this équivalence has been assumed in the following trans-
lations. It would hâve been rash to attempt an English
twelve-syllable verse in the face of Fifine at the Fair,
c xxxiii
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
since a master in the art of moulding difficult measures
has often failed to give the desired flexibility to that long
and heavy line with its monotonous caesura.
Since the metrical regularity of French verse is re-
deemed by the elision of vowels and the employment of
the féminine terminal, it becomes necessary, in an English
translation, to relieve the comparative monotony of the
trochaic and iambic measures with dactylic and anapaestic
rhythms, or by some variety of rhyme. Having regard to
the fact that simple mètres in English are more congenial
to the French rhythmical method, those hâve been
generally employed in the translations which follow, but
diversity has been sought in the occasional use of mixed
masculine and féminine rhymes, as giving at least an
approximate idea of the différence which once appealed
to the ear and still appeals to the eye in the alternating
rhymes of French verse. The difîficulty might hâve been
met by an alternate employment of long-vowel and short-
vowel monosyllabic rhymes, but this device would hardly
hâve been acceptable. The mechanical labour of trans-
lation has been considerably increased by the adoption
of trochaic rhymes. It may be observed that Rossetti
employed this method of rhyme in his beautiful version
of Villon's Ballade des Dames des temps Jadis, and the
practice will probably commend itself to those who hâve
an intimate acquaintance with French versification. In
doing this, some rhymes hâve been used which would not
pass muster in the original, for in French verse ' there are
' no licences ', as Théodore de Banville says in his decided
fashion. No apology, however, should be necessary for
the juxtaposition in rhyme of ' blossom ' and ' bosom ' or
' meadow ' and ' shadow,' which are sanctioned by the
génial freedom of English verse and the custom of the
masters. Had such vocables as 'blossom', 'meadow',
xxxiv
INTRODUCTION
'murmur' and 'splendeur' had a hundred metrical sisters,
instead of existing in single blessedness, there would hâve
been no excuse for imperfect rhymes. But surely the
limits allowed by Keats and Shelley and Swinburne may be
regarded as permissible to any writer of verse who refuses to
follow Elizabeth Barrett Browning in her wanton freedom
with dissyllabic rhymes or to repeat the présent participle
ad naiiseam after the fashion of Felicia Dorothea Hemans.
The variety of rhymes at the disposai of French poets
renders it difficult to translate into English with any
approach to accuracy some of their highly artificial and
elaborate forms of verse, such as the Ballade and the
Rondel ; indeed, if féminine rhymes are considered
essential, the task of giving an English version of French
poems in réverbérant verse is an impossible one. Many
of thèse poems seem to hâve been written chiefly as
exercises in rhyme or to display the composer's crafts-
manship and resource. It is an indisputable fact that
the French language has a greater abundance of rhymes
than any of the European languages which are cognate to
it. The number of rhymes is increased by the rule which
permits words having the same sound and spelling to be
used as rhymes, and, indeed, regards the rhymes as richer
in proportion to their identity. Rich rhyme is composed
of such consonances as rose : morose ; dix -.jadis ; avide :
livide ; and poor rhyme of such consonances as brume :
plume ; cœurs : douleurs ; fière -.poussière ; whilst a léonine
rhyme is one in which the consonance is carried through
two or more syllables, such as écumante : fumante ;
saillir : jaillir ; violet : triolet. There are also numerous
varieties of récurrent and mimicking rhyme which pro-
perly belong to the muséum of poetical curiosities.
In English poetry there are only a few examples of
the French form of ' rich rhyme ', which is not congenial
XXXV
\
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
to our prosody. The poet, in such cases, appears to hâve
pçrmitted a solecism rather than disturb the mould into
which he had already cast his thought, as in Tennyson's
Literary Squabbles : —
* And strive to make an inch of room
' For their sweet salves, and cannot hear
' The sullen Lethe rolling doom
' On them and theirs and ail things here\
Some illustrations of French rhyme may also be found in
Swinburne, who has thoroughly and lovingly studied the
French poets.
The rule laid down by Robert Browning in his superb
préface to The Agamemno7i of ^schylus, that a
translation should be 'literal at every cost save that of
' absolute violence to our language ', is too sound to be
disputed. This rule, however, can be observed in its
strictest sensé only in a prose or a blank-verse rendering ;*
some latitude must be allowed to a transcription in
rhyme. Now rhyme plays such an important part in
French verse that translation into English prose or even
into unrhymed verse would be eminently inappropriate.
Absolute fidelity alike to word and thought is the idéal,
but it is évident that in interchanging the rhymes of tvvo
* The glaring unfitness of blank-verse for the transcription of rhyme is
witnessed in the English translations of the Divina Coin média. The fine
Miltonic verse of Cary gives neither the rhyme and the rhythm nor the
cadence and the accent of the terza ritna, and Longfellow's unrhymed triplets
approach so closely to prose that they seldom suggest either the supple
movement or the subtle harmony of the original. In brilliant contrast to
thèse is Rossetti's version of Villon's ballade before mentioned. In form and
matter it is as perfect a transcription of the charming original as handicraft
and artistic cunning could achieve ; and a single glance at the prosaic versions
signed by Walt'er Thornbury and John Payne is sufficient to demonstrate its
absolute supremacy as a poetical translation. But only a poet can transcribe
with such success, and poets naturally prefer indigenous cultivation to the
transplanting of exotics.
xxxvi
INTRODUCTION
languages which are so diverse in structure and syntax
the Sound must now and then be sacrificed to sensé and
the sensé occasionally subordinated to sound. And
although the substance, the shape and the harmony
ought to be ail preserved as far as is attainable, the verbal
efifect rather than the literal signification has sometimes
to be sought. Especially is this the case with transla-
tions from the French, a language in which the cheville,
or interpolated turn to comply with the demands of
rhyme, is a recognised poetical device. But the true
principles of translation, though easy to enunciate, are
hard to carry into exécution. In the following experi-
ments an attempt has been made to convey the sensé of
the original, whilst imitating the harmony, the cadence
and the characteristics thereof, with some attention to the
alternations of masculine and féminine rhyme which are in-
separably associated with French verse. They will give at
best but a faint reflection of those rich efifects of colour and
melody which hâve been achieved by the French singers of
this spacious century, and must therefore be regarded rather
as an unworthy tribute to the poetical literature on which
Catulle Mendès bestows so magnificent an encomium : —
' Our admirable French verse, glimpsed by Ronsard, desired
' by Corneille and dreamed by Chénier ; that verse which
' is perhaps so little understood by alien ears and has been
' inconsiderately decried, but which, diverse and supple,
' endowed with harmonious numbers, and as well fitted to
' be fiUed with things as the metrical verse of Homer and
* Lucan, bears like a flapping banner on the summit its
* resounding rhyme, multiform and inexhaustible, the effect
' of which, peculiar to our language, is lacking in ail poesy
' save our own'.
{La Légende du Far?iasse contemporain.)
******
xxxvii
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
Thy name, impérial poet, I invoke !
Hugo, whose genius first on fiery wings
Plunged into measureless space sublime and broke
The speechless bounds. With trumpet thunderings,
Tempest and pale éclipse of mortal things
Thy clamorous lips the empyreal echoes woke ;
Anon in cloudless blue thy spirit sings,
Lulls the world's cry, lightens the human yoke,
And with sweet pity thrills love's tremulous strings.
And thine, O hapless Chénier ! with the fair
White blossom blighted when the chill frost fell ;
Lamartine, Musset, whose melodious air
Played whispering prélude to the wilder swell
Of Hugo's clan, Gautier, thy puissant spell !
Gérard and Murger, soûls of beauty rare.
Flamboyant Barbier, fugitive Borel,
Pale Glatigny and sombre Baudelaire
Whose song-fire glows with sullen fiâmes of Hell !
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 :
Subtile Verlaine, quaint Mallarmé whose lore,
Sphinx-like, with symbols dim is sculptured o'er,
And yours, last of the proud Hugonian throng,
Leconte and Banville, bards that evermore
With pseans loud triumphantly prolong
The timbrel-clash and clarion-calls of yore !
xxxvni
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
André Chénier.
Born in Constantinople, 1762 . . . Died in Paris, 1794.
It was well said of the French Révolution that, like
Saturn, she devoured her own children. The times were
not propitious to idealists and singers, and the only poet
of uncommon promise produced during that stormy period
was sent to the guillotine at the âge of thirty-two and
* died without emptying his quiver '.*
Louis Chénier, the poet's father, was an attaché of the
French Embassy to the Sublime Porte, and not Consul-
General of France at Constantinople, as he is often
erroneously designated. He married a Greek girl of great
beauty, high character and exceptional intelligence. Her
name was Elisabeth Santi-Lomaca, and she belonged to
Cyprus, the island of Aphrodite. There is a tradition
that she was descended from the illustrious crusading
family of Lusignan. She died at Paris in 1844. Her
open letters on Greek dances, Greek burials and Greek
tombs were collected and published by Robert de
Bonnières in 1879.
André Chénier was brought to Paris in 1765, when his
father returned home with a wife and four children, as well
as a dilapidated fortune. Louis Chénier soon afterwards
left his family for fifteen years, on receiving the appoint-
ment of Consul-General in Morocco, and when he came
back to France he obtained for André a nomination as
gentleman-cadet in the Angoûmois régiment of infantry.
* ' Mourir sans vider mon carquois ! ' (ïambe III. André Chénier.)
ANDRE CHENIER
A few years later André became attaché to the French
Embassy in London, and he complained bitterly of isola-
tion and weariness during his sojourn in England. Like
Camille Desmoulins, and along with his own brother Marie-
Joseph, André Chénier began early to dabble in literature.
He had been nourished on Greek poetry, and is credited
with a translation of Sappho's fragments and Anacreon's
odes, executed at the âge of fourteen. Until the popular
movement became pronounced, ail the Chénier family were
' aristocrats '. André signed himself Chénier de Saint-
André ; Marie-Joseph posed as the Chevalier de Chénier.
Their discontent with the slow progress of their fortunes
under the monarchy led them to throw in their lot with
the leaders of the démocratie agitation. Marie-Joseph
became an advanced démagogue. André published in
1791 an Avis aux Français, in which he counselled
modération and respect for the laws, in opposition to the
furious spirits of the révolution. Marie -Joseph voted for
the death of Louis XVI. André not only disapproved this
act of injustice, but expressed his opinion so openly that
he became a 'suspect' to the extrême party. He was
arrested during the Terror, and guillotined at the barrière
de Vincen7ies on 7 iher?Jiidor, only two days before the fall
of Robespierre. Save the divine and heroic Charlotte
Corday, no more interesting figure than that of the young
poet was eclipsed with ail the beauty and bravery which
perished in that pitiless Révolution.
It is an almost accepted legend that André Chénier was
the protagonist of French poetry in the nineteenth
century. * AU the poets of the nineteenth century, save
Lamartine ' . . . , says Arsène Houssaye, ' set out in the
' golden argosy of André Chénier, to sail across the lonian
' sea, and listen to the sirens of Homer and Sappho '. His
verse was *a fresh breath from Greece', says Théophile
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
Gautier, with less exaggeration. Sainte-Beuve, in his
Pensées de JosepJi Delorme, seems to hâve been largely
responsible for the promulgation of this legend. Baudelaire
believed that André Chénier had no influence whatever on
the poetical development of the nineteenth century ; and
indeed it was Lamartine who gave the first fresh impulse
to the lyrical movement of his âge. Chénier's poetry was
entirely neglected by his ovvn contemporaries, and it was
only in 1819 that a very imperfect collection of his verses,
with an inaccurate memoir by Henri de Latouche, was
given to the world. The Revolutionary and Napoleonic
epochs had not been favourable to lyric art, but there
can be no doubt that when Chénier's poems were published
they did contribute a little to the efflorescence of 1830,
which was chiefly the work of Chateaubriand, Lamartine,
Musset, Alfred de Vigny, Sainte-Beuve and Victor Hugo.
Chénier's poetical style and metrical treatment do not
differ fundamentally from those of the French versifiers
of the eighteenth century, to which era he belonged by
birth and tradition. But he gave a fresher and freer play
and a fuller harmony and rhythm to the classical mytho-
logy which underlies ail the writings of that period. He
restored suppleness to the stiff old alexandrine, and his
ideas and images had a much more vivid individuality
than those of his predecessors. He had vigour and grâce,
along with which he achieved at times the true lyrical
swing and gait. On this ground, if on no other, he claims
a place among the poets of the présent century, to whom
he is akin also in the dignity and forthright earnestness
of his utterance. His political poems hâve an accent of
sincerity which makes them models of their kind. Perhaps
he felt, when face to face with death, that he had not done
ail he might hâve done with better opportunities and a
more encouraging public. But it does not appear that he
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
would hâve become the leader of a new movement in
letters, if his measure may be taken from the plan of
Hermès^ which was discovered among his posthumous
papers. Spécimens of this work were first published by
Sainte-Beuve, along with other reliques of Chénier's
poetry. Hermès was to hâve been a descriptive and
philosophical poem in three books, containing imitations
of Vergil's Georgics, and of Lucretius, Lucilius, Ovid and
other Latin writers, with whom Chénier had a large
acquaintance. The formation of the earth, the création of
animais and man, the development of the human mind,
the growth of religions, the organisation of society and
the évolution of customs, morals, polity and science were
comprised in the scheme of Hermès. From the fragments
which hâve corne down to posterity, this poem would
seem to hâve been admirably fitted to close the work of
Lebrun and Delille in the eighteenth century, instead of
preluding the melodious bursts of 1830. But the famé of
Chénier must naturally rest on what he did, rather than
what he might hâve donc. His virile, sonorous and
often beautiful verse, his tragic career, and the prématuré
extinction of his ambitious genius, will give him an ever-
lasting place in French literature, and leave not unfulfilled,
in a wider sensé than he conceived it, the fate fore-
shadowed in the last lines which he wrote whilst awaiting
his turn in the prison of Saint-Lazare : —
' Le messager de mort
' Remplira de mon nom ces longs corridors sombres ! '
{ïambe IV : unfinished.)
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
Bacchus,
Corne Bacchus, corne Thyoneus ever young,
As Dionysus or as Leneus sung !
O corne, as when in Naxos lone and vvild
Thy voice did soothe the fears of Minos' child !
The towered éléphant, slain in glorious war,
Had fashioned with his spoils thine ivory car ;
Vine-leaves and tendrils linked in flowing chains
The broad-flanked tiger, furrowed with dark stains,
And dusky pard, fierce panther and starred lynx
That led thee with thy courtiers to thèse brinks.
On wheels and axles gold shone everywhere ;
The Maenads ran with loose and streaming hair,
And lo Bacche ! Evohe Bacche ! sung,
Leneus, Evan, Thyoneus ever young,
And ail thy splendid names in Greece renowned,
Till rock and vale echoed the jovial sound.
Lo, now with wreathëd horns and flûtes they corne,
Crotals and clamorous cymbals and hoarse drum
Waved on thy noisy path with song and dance !
Satyr and Faun and sylvan gods advance
Trooping at random round Silenus hoar,
Who, cup in hand, from the far Indian shore,
Drunken and drivelling as of old, will pass
With slow pace tottering on his lazy ass.
Bacchus.
{Idylles: IX.)
ANDRE CHENIER
The Young Captive.
The green ear ripens while the sickle stays,
The ungathered grape, clustering in summer^days,
Drinks the dawn's dewy boon ;
Like theirs my beauty is, my youth Hke theirs,
And though the présent hour has griefs and cares
I would not die so soon.
Let tearless Stoics seek the arms of Death !
I weep and hope ; before the black wind's breath
I bend, then raise my head.
Among my bitter days some sweet I find !
What honey leaves no satiate taste behind ?
What seas no tempest dread ?
Life's fresh illusion dwells within my breast.
My limbs in vain thèse prison-walls invest ;
Hope ever gives me wings.
As when, escaped the cruel fowler's snare,
More light, more joyful in the fields of air
Philomel soars and sings.*
Why should I wish to die ? From peaceful sleep
Peaceful I wake ; not with remorse I weep,
Nor crimes my rest destroy.
My welcome to the dawn in ail things smiles ;
On sombre brows my look almost beguiles
A reawakening joy.
* The young captive says Philomèle, but perhaps she is thinking of the lark.
6
ANDRÉ CHÉNIER
I seem so far from the bright journey's end !
Thèse elms that fringe the path on which I wend
Stretch forth in endless rows.
Fresh at the feast of life, like a new guest,
One moment only my fond hps hâve pressed
The cup that overflows.
'Tis spring ; the harvest is not yet begun ;
From season to new season, hke the sun,
I vvould fulfil my year.
Flower of hfe's garden, shining on the bright
Spray, scarce hâve I beheld the morning Hght,
And noon is not yet near,
Death, come not nigh me now . . . départ, départ \
Console the sons of fear and shame whose heart
Sinks in despair's pale svvoon :
To me green Pales with her flock belongs,
The Loves give kisses, and the Muses songs ;
I would not die so soon.
La jeune Captive.
{Ode XL)
Alphonse de Lamartine.
Born in Mâcon, 1790 . . . Died in Paris, 1869.
AIphonse-Marie-Louis de Lamartine* is the master
of French reflective verse, and his influence on modem
poetry has been real and lasting. His early youth was
passed in the country-house of Saint-Point, under the wing
of a fond mother and with refined sisters ; his éducation
was superintended by a romantic priest and completed
at the Jesuit seminary of Belley. His youthful faculties
were fed on the Bible, on Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, on
Rousseau and on Chateaubriand, with some of the older
English and Italian poets, and he began early to express
his émotions in verse. After a visit to Italy he entered
the military household of Louis XVHI in 18 14, and soon
became a familiar figure in the best royalist salons in
Paris. His health had always been somewhat fragile,
and his sentimental melancholy led him into many
strange expériences of the tender passion in his youth.
The publication of the first volume of Méditations in
1820 caused an unwonted commotion in literary circles.
It was the most brilliant success, said Sainte-Beuve, since
Chateaubriand's Génie du Christianisme. Lamartine
leaped into famé with one bound, and yet, if the circum-
stances be considered, it is easy to understand the sudden
* The repeated assertion that Lamartine's real name was Prat is inaccurate.
The family name was Lamartine, but the poet's father, a younger son, bore
the courtesy-title of Chevalier de Prat. The family was an old but obscure
territorial one.
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
celebrity of his early poems. Thèse glimpses of pure
affection, nursed in dévotion and faith, and this return to
the love of nature refreshed an âge which was suffering
from weariness after the bloody terrors of the Révolution
and the brutal splendeurs of the Empire. Not only did
Lamartine's verses reveal a fine vein of contemplation,
which expressed simple thoughts and émotions in a simple
way,without recourse to classical allusions and conventional
imagery ; they came at a time when there were few singers
in France and certainly no great one. Casimir Delavigne
had been the Triton among such minnows as Millevoye
and Chênedollé and Désaugiers. Victor Hugo, Alfred de
Vigny, Alfred de Musset and Auguste Barbier had not yet
begun to publish their poems ; ail thèse men of the future
were then under twenty years of âge. Louis XVIII gave
his patronage to Lamartine and granted him a pension.
* A poet is born to us this night', exclaimed Talleyrand,
after reading through the Méditations in a single sitting.
So generally was this judgment approved that Lamartine
was encouraged in 1823 to issue a new volume of
Méditations y for which he received 14,000 francs. He
seemed to be on the high road to fortune. He had been
appointed secretary to the French Embassy at Naples,
and was married to a young Englishwoman who brought
him a considérable dowry, or at least an assured income.
The French Academy elected him in 1830, the year of
his Harmonies poétiques et religieuses.
Lamartine's royalist opinions had been undergoing a
change as he grew older, and he thereupon renounced
the diplomatie career, chartered a vessel, and made a
voyage to the East with his wife and daughter, travelling
like a grand seigneur. In 1835 he published a volume
recording his impressions of Eastern travel ; in 1836 came
Jocelyn, in 1838 la Chute d'un Ange, in 1839 the Recueille-
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
ments poétiques, and in 1 847 the Histoire des Girondins.
But his famé had already been overshadowed by that of
Victor Hugo and the brilliant men of 1830- 1840, and he
himself had lost the touch which made his eadier poems
so fascinating. Moreover, he could not be compared as
an artist with the vvriters of that period. His facihty of
improvisation was fatal to the severe discipline which
forms a poet of the highest order. He had always been a
loose and careless writer, and so disliked the labour of
revision that when Hachettes were about to publish a new
édition oï Jocelyn he could not make up his mind to correct
the faulty verses, and finally proposed that a literary hack
should finish them. And yet this was the poem in which
Béranger, so debonair in his judgments, found flaws,
négligences and longueurs which, even to his indulgent
eyes, were only redeemed by its numberless beauties.
Lamartine's active intervention in politics, his participa-
tion in the overthrow of Louis-Philippe in 1848, and his
courageous and successful résistance, as a member of the
Provisional Government, to an armed multitude in the
streets of Paris, are familiar to readers of French history.
He was almost the absolute master of France for three
months. His décline was rapid and irretrievable. A year
later he could not find a department in France willing to
elect him as its parliamentary représentative. He soon
retired into private life, disappointed and impoverished.
His resources had been badly administered in the day of
his prosperity. Princely expenditure and unhappy spécu-
lations, travelling, élections, charities, and a hundred other
things, had exhausted his fortune. In 1860 he had to
leave Milly, the family domain in the Maçonnais, after
selling his furniture and heirlooms. Thenceforth he lived
in an obscure lodging in Paris with his devoted wife, while
Victor Hugo, exiled, was writing les Misérables in his
10
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
island solitude. Lamartine's efforts to free himself from
debt, says Ernest Legouvé, a friend of his later days, were
superhuman. The author whose Histoiy of the Girondins
had been sold to a publisher for 250,000 francs before he
had written a single line, now slaved for journals and
magazines, furnishing political and historical criticism,
confidences, memoirs and occasional verse for the where-
withal to face dishonoured bills, accumulated interest,
and the demands of urgent creditors. This proud man
had to sacrifice his pride, his ambition, his health and
his happiness in the desperate struggle. The French
Chambers voted him a substantial allowance in 1867, but
this welcome relief came too late. And so Lamartine,
who might easily hâve had ail that should accompany old
âge, died in poverty and loneliness, a shadow of his former
self, in the midst of new political and literary movements
to which he was a stranger. More than once he had failed
to take at the flood that tide in the affairs of men which
leads on to fortune.
Lamartine's character was in many respects a great one.
He was tolérant in his opinions, libéral in his ideas and
just in his actions. When the events of 1848 placed
power in his hands he not only governed with modération
and dignity but he showed himself absolutely disinter-
ested. He had the gift of seizing quickly the superficial
significance of things, yet he lacked persévérance, and
rarely followed up his first enthusiasm with energy and
goodwill. Had he disciplined his literary faculties and
turned aside from political popularity he might hâve been
one of the first poets of the century. As it is, he has
exercised a larger influence on French poetry than either
André Chénier or Alfred de Musset, and no lover of verse
can be insensible to the melodious charm, the contem-
plative beauty and the tender melancholy of his Muse, so
II
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
free from every disposition to revolt and violence. His
ideals of the poetic vocation dififered widely from those of
his chief contemporaries in France, and were rather akin to
Wordsworth's. ' You ask me ', he says in the beautiful
préface to his Recueilkvients poétiques, ' how, in the midst
' of my agricultural labours, my philosophical studies, my
' travels, and the political movement which carries me
' occasionally into its tumultuous and impassioned sphère,
' I can keep some freedom of mind and some hours of
* audience for that poesy of the soûl which speaks only in
' a low voice, in silence and in solitude. It is as if you
' should ask the soldier or the sailor if he has a moment to
* think on those he loves, and to pray to God, in the noise
* of the camp or amidst the agitations of the sea '.
Although the fitful reaction from time to time in favour
of Lamartine has not restored his popularity, there is
little doubt that he vvill occupy in French literature that
place which the rapidity of historical évolution and the
bewildering changes in literary taste hâve so long denied
to him. ' Lamartine ', says Théodore de Banville, * was to
' Victor Hugo what the dawn is to the sun'. With his
generosity, his humanity, his noble ideals, and his pure
poetical talent, so simple and so emotional, the famé of
Lamartine has deserved a better fate. ' There is ', wrote
Jules Claretie in 1881, 'and I say it to the shame of the
' new générations, a want of taste, and also a want of feel-
' ing, in the discrédit into which Lamartine has fallen.
* In him the poet was a great poet and the man a good
* citizen '. Since this was written other povverful voices —
those of Jules Lemaître and Gaston Deschamps not the
least — hâve pleaded for the rehabilitation of Lamartine,
and it will be passîng strange if they hâve always to
plead in vain.
12
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
The Lake.
Thus ever driven, as one that aimless steers,
And borne tovvards night eternal drifts away,
Shall vve not once, on the swift tide of years,
Cast anchor for a day ?
O lake ! one fleeting year hath scarcely flovvn ;
Yet, by the cherished waves she loved to greet,
See, where she watched thee, seated on this stone,
Alone I take my seat !
Thus wert thou moaning on those rocks profound ;
Thus broke thy billovvs on their riven flanks :
Thus at her worshipped feet the wild wind crowned
With foam thy wave-kissed banks.
One night — hast thou forgotten ? — we did float
In silence ; hushed were sky and stream and cave ;
Only the sound of oars in cadence smote
On thy harmonious wave ;
When, suddenly, strange speech, as from above,
Woke the charmed echoes of thy listening shore ;
The waves grew still, and, from the lips I love,
Thèse words the breezes bore : —
' O Time, suspend thy wing ! And you, blest hours,
' Suspend your rapid flight !
' Leave us awhile to taste the bliss that dowers
' Our days with brief delight !
13
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
' Too many wretches groan in yon sad world :
' O speed for them the suns ;
' Let their slow sorrows on your wings be whirled ;
' Forget the happier ones.
* Yet vainly I implore a brief delay ;
' Time Aies, swift as a dream ;
* I pray for night to linger, and the day
' Even now begins to gleam.
* Haste, then, to love ! Seize happiness before
' The fleeting moments fly !
' Man has no haven hère, and Time no shore :
' Life flows, and we glide by ! '
O envious Time, must the hour when raptures spring,
When love pours out long draughts of happiness,
Sweep far beyond us, borne on swifter wing
Than days of sore distress ?
What ! wilt thou leave us not at least a trace ?
What ! wholly flown ? what ! lost for evermore ?
The bliss that Time bestowed shall Time efface,
Nor once its boon restore ?
Space and oblivion, sombre gulfs of time,
Where are the days ye swallow and destroy?
Speak ! shall ye not bring back those hours sublime
Ye ravished from our joy ?
O lake ! O voiceless caves ! Woods dark and deep !
You that Time spares, or freshens in his flight ;
Keep thou at least, belovëd Nature, keep
Remembrance of that night !
Let it be in thy storms and in thy rest,
O lake, and in the shores thy ripple laves,
H
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
And in those gloomy pines, and rocks whose crest
Frowns on thy laughing waves !
Let it be in the breeze that shivers past,
And in the murmur of thy tribute stream,
And in the whiteness of thy surface, glassed
From the Star's silvery beam !
And may the wind that wails, the reed that sighs,
The hght-winged fragrance of thy breath divine,
And ail that soothes the soûl and charms the eyes
Whisper : Their love was mine !
Le Lac.
{^Premières Méditations poétiques.)
The Valley.
My heart, in which even hope has ceased to live,
Shall weary fate no more with idle breath ;
Give me, O valley of my childhood, give
Me shelter for a day to wait on death !
Hère the strait pathway leaves the open glade :
Along its devious slopes hang the dense boughs
That, bending over me their mingled shade,
With blissful calm and silence crown my brows,
Two rivulets there through verdant arches gleam,
Thence down the valley wind with serpent course ;
A moment blend their murmur and their stream,
And, lost in one, forget their nameless source.
Like theirs the current of my youth did roll
Beyond recall, noiseless and nameless passed :
Their wave is clear, but in my troubled soûl
The morning beam no bright reflection cast.
IS
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
The freshness of thèse beds, vvith shadow crowned,
Chains me ail day on banks the streamlet laves ;
Like a child soothed by song's monotonous sound,
My soûl grows drowsy with the murmuring waves.
Ah ! hère, girdled by ramparts ever green
Whose narrow bound my vision satisfies
I love to linger, and alone, unseen,
Hear the stream only, only see the skies.
Too much my soûl has lived and loved and striven ;
Living I corne to seek Lethean calm ;
May blest oblivion by thèse shades be given,
For save oblivion naught can bring me balm.
My soûl finds silence hère, my heart repose ;
The turmoil of the world comes muffled hère,
Even as a distant sound that feebler grows.
Borne on the wind to the uncertain ear.
Hence over life a cloudy veil is thrown,
The past through shadow casts a fading gleam ;
Love alone dwells, as some vast shape alone
Survives the awakening from a vanished dream.
Linger, my soûl, in this last resting-place,
Even as a traveller, in the dwindling light,
Before the gâtes of refuge rests a space.
And breathes refreshed the balmy air of night.
Let us, like him, shake from our feet the dust ;
The path of life once trod our journeyings cease :
Let us, like him, o'erwearied, breathe in trust
This calm, precursor of the eternal peace.
Thy days, sombre and brief like autumn days.
Décline, as on those slopes the night-shades gloom ;
i6
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
When love forsakes thee, and thy friend betrays,
Alone thou treadst the pathway to the tomb.
But Nature's welcome hère thy love shall claim ;
Plunge in her breast, that ever open lies ;
Ail else may change, but Nature is the same,
And ail thy days behold the same sun rise.
Her breast with light and shadow still is stored.
Turn from false loves and dreams that fade erelong ;
Adore the voice Pythagoras adored,
Give ear, like him, to the celestial song.
Fly with the north vvind on her aëry car ;
Follow the noonday glow, the twilight pale :
Beneath the beam of eve's mysterious star
Steal through the woods when shadow swathes the vale.
In Nature seek the soûl ; blind though thou art,
God gave thee light to know him and rejoice ;
A voice speaks in his silence to the heart.
Who has not heard the écho of that voice ?
Le Vallon.
{Premières Méditations poétiques.)
The West.
Then the sea dwindled, as a boiling urn
Wanes when the furnace burns less fiercely red,
And waves, blown foaming on the sandy bourne,
Fell back, as if to sleep, in her vast bed.
And lo ! the sun, sinking from cloud to cloud,
Poised on the blood-red wave his rayless star,
Then plunged, half-swathed, as in its fiery shroud
A burning vessel sinks on seas afar.
B 17
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
And half the world was darkened, and the breeze
Breathless and voiceless shrank within the veil ;
And shadows gathered round, and skies and seas
Beneath their dusky wing grew sudden pale.
And in my soûl, that likewise waned and dreamed,
Ail sounds, ail splendours dwindled with the day,
And, as in Nature, something in me seemed
By turns to grieve and bless, to weep and pray.
And towards the West alone, with splendour rent,
The wavering flame blazed as a golden pyre,
And, wrapt in purple clouds, was like a tent
That veils, but quenches not, a burning fire.
And clouds and winds and waves with hurrying
wings
Rushed towards that flaming vault in rapid flight.
As though wide Nature and ail living things
Were doomed to death if they should lose the light.
The dust of twilight floated from the ground,
Upwards the white foam from the black waves flew,
And in mine eyes, that wandered sadly round
To watch their flight, tears gathered like the dew.
Then the light vanished, and my soûl oppressed
Grew void, swathed like the sky with cloudy bands ;
And one sole thought rose in my troubled breast,
Sole as the pyramid on désert sands
O light ! where goest thou ? Orb forlorn of flame,
And clouds and winds and waves, and thou my
soûl,
Foam, dust and darkness, if we know, proclaim
What course is yours, and where your final goal !
i8
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
In thee, vast Ail, vvhose star is the pale light
Where night and day, and soûl and substance blend !
Life's universal tide in flux and flight ;
Wide sea of Being in whom ail things end ! . . .
L' Occident.
{Harmonies poétiques et religieuses^
Epistle to Adolphe Dumas.
i8 September, 1838.
Musa pedestris.
Still the true poet's soûl soars high and higher !
So, friend, for thee the sum of my désire
Is freedom, and oblivion of the world,
And prose and verse into the black gulf hurled ;
But in thy heart of hearts a plenteous spring,
Where inspiration daily dips her wing,
And whose sweet murmur, while it soothes the mind
Flows in that silent verse no hand hath signed ;
A soûl that still with quenchless rapture glows,
Whence admiration brims and overflows ;
Those sacred transports in the work of God
That make a temple spring on every sod ;
That commune of the soul's mysterious deeps
Held with the wave that sings, the wind that weeps,
And bird, and bush, and starry firmament,
And ail that thrills, with thought and feeling blent :
A sunny nook o' the trellised wall where comes
The bee, afloat in the bright beam, and hums ;
Beneath green sunshade of the noonday pines,
A meadow on whose slope the warm sky shines,
19
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
While through the haze, far as thine eye can reach,
The blue sea flings its white foam on the beach,
And the white sail, remote on billowy seas,
Bends like a wave-borne tree beneath the breeze,
And whence the thunderous sound of floods distraught,
Breaking amain upon thine aëry thought,
Reveals in dreams that mirror vast and clear,
Reflex of the infinité, that brings God near ! . . .
A heaven that sheds its beams above thy soûl ;
Thy heart in tune with life's harmonious whole !
A peaceful conscience slumbering in thy breast,
As in its bed the untroubled pool doth rest ;
On the hill slope, outstretching many a mile,
Thy realm ; a roof of thatch, or slate, or tile,
Whose shadow is thy world, whose threshold saves
Its lord a hundred years from the cold grave's ;
There, slumbers light, that waken with the lark,
The cheerful furrow, ploughed from dawn to dark ;
A frugal board, where, between leaf and flower,
Smile fruits to which thy graft gave double dower ;
On walnut, shining with thy woven flax,
A wine whose fragrance of thy vineyard smacks ;
A summer shade ; a winter hearth aglow,
Where oft thy hand the olive-stone shall throw ;
Candies of bees-wax perfumed in thy hives,
Whose flame on many a vvell-read book revives
Consoling lamps that, for our soûls' relief,
The storms of time hâve left on the bare reef,
And, though our fickle winds fan not their flame,
High in the spirit-sphere shine still the same ! . . .
Then, lest the dregs of âge no sweetness leave,
A mother's, sister's love to cheer life's eve,
A friend of old, whose solitude lies near,
True as the needle and to custom dear,
20
ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE
Who cornes each night, with his familiar smile,
The hearth with friendly converse to beguile.
With thèse, dear friend, let the keen critic's claw
Mark on our tuneful page each fatal flaw,
Let Paris hiss us, vvhile our suns entice;
I long for famé . . . to sell it at this price !
Épître à M. Adolphe Dumas.
{Recueillements poétiques?)
To a Young Girl who begged a lock
of my hair.
My hair ! that Time turns white, and withering mocks !
My hair ! that falls before the winter's frown !
Why should your fingers pleach thèse fading locks ?
Green boughs are best if you would weave a crown,
Think you the brows of manhood, fair young girl,
That forty seasons load with joys and fears,
Wear the blond ringlets in their silken curl
Wherewith Hope plays, as with your seventeen years?
Think you the lyre, attuned to the soul's rhyme,
Sings from our heart of hearts in the full throat,
With never a string that snaps from time to time,
And leaves beneath the touch a silent note ?
Poor simple child ! W^hat would the swallow sing,
When winter winds beat round her ruined tower,
If thou shouldst crave those feathers from her wing
The ruthless vulture strips and tempests shower ?
A une jeune fille qui me demandait de mes cheveux.
{Recueillements poétiques^
21
Victor Hugo.
Born in Besançon, 1802 . . . Died in Paris, 1885.
lie above the rest
In shape and gesture proudly eminent.
It is needless to recapitulate the chief incidents of a life
which has filled so large and luminous a space in the
literature of the nineteenth century as that of Victor
Hugo.* No poet ever lived so much in the full h'ght of day.
Every reader is more or less familiar with the legend of
his glory as the chief of the Romantic Movement of
1830 ; his wonderful fertility from 1830 to 1840 in poetry,
drama and romance ; his exile of nearly twenty years
after the Napoleonic coup d'état in 1852, and the subHme
visions which he gave to the world from his island refuge ;
his return to Paris after the fall of the second Empire ;
his popular triumph in 1881, when Paris was covered with
flags and flowers, whilst a procession of two hundred
thousand persons passed before his dwelling; and, four
* His father was General Joseph-Léopold-Sigisbert Hugo, afterwards Count
de Cifuentes and de Siguenza, in the Spanish peerage of King Joseph Bona-
parte. The Hugo family was of very humble origin. Victor Hugo's grand-
father was a carpenter, and three of his aunts supported themselves by dress-
making. In spite of his démocratie professions the poet took no end of pains
to graft his ancestry upon that of the Franco-German seigneurial family of
Hugo von Spitzemberg, and even assumed their armoriai bearings, but there
is not a particle of évidence to substantiate this pedigree. The authentic
genealogy of Victor Hugo is established beyond a doubt by the documents
cited in Edmond Biré's Victor Hugo avant 1830 (Perrin : Paris) of which a
new édition was published in 1894.
22
VICTOR HUGO
years later, his public funeral, which callcd forth a démon-
stration of sorrovv and enthusiasm such as had never
accompanied the remains of a mortal man to their last
resting-place.
A study of the vast work of Victor Hugo would also
be futile unless a whole volume could be devoted to
the purpose. The mère enumeration of a list of literary
achievements which includes Hernani, Marion de Lonne,
le Roi s^aniuse, Ruy Blas, and les Biirgraves in tragedy,
Notre-Dame de Paris, les Misérables, les Travailleurs de la
Mer, l'Homme qui rit, and Quatrevingt-treize in romance,
and that marvellous séries of lyrical créations in which
well nigh every note of human émotion is sounded and
every phase of human contemplation represented, would
be enough to recall to those who are in touch with French
literature the incomparable power and versatility of Victor
Hugo's genius. Those who are not at home in French
literature may refer to Algernon Charles Swinburne's
Study of Victor Hugo (London : Chatto and Windus :
1886) in which the only blemish is perhaps a too enrap-
tured strain of exubérant eulogy.
The glory of Victor Hugo has not lacked disparage-
ment, and an impartial admiration will hardly be blind
to the faults which are inséparable from such a pheno-
menon of genius. When the flux of images and metaphors
at the poet's command pours in almost ludicrous dispro-
portion to the magnitude of the thought ; when grotesque
antithesis and superfluous analogy are piled up to disguise
the occasional lack of intense passion or sustained imagi-
nation ; when an apparently egregious conceit finds ex-
pression in familiar colloquy with the majestic forces of
Nature until it verges on the burlesque ; — what can the
judicious do but grieve ? And yet ail the trivialities,
and ail the platitudes, and ail the tumid disfigurements
23
VICTOR HUGO
that may be discovered in a critical analysis of Victor
Hugo's work, are small in comparison with the grandeur
and vastness of the whole. The historical anachronisms
and verbal blunders of which so much has been made may
be individually absurd, but they count for little in the
splendid sum, and such inaccuracies are not to be found
in anything of Hugo's which is the record of direct per-
sonal observation. The beauty of a wide landscape is
none the less refreshing to the sensés and inspiring to
the soûl because the beholder knows that if he dissects
the material of which it is composed he may discover
many things on which he would fain close his eyes and
stop his nostrils, Milton leads us sometimes into the
arid wilderness where insipid personages discourse, not
always with the tongues of angels ; nor are Dante's dry
dissertations invariably radiant with the triple influence
of the stars ; even Shakespeare has occasional lapses
into persiflage not unworthy of a farce at the fair. And
Victor Hugo, sublime as thèse in his suprême moments,
must be judged by the gênerai sweep and power of his
genius, regardless of spots that appear and disappear in
the solar radiance.
It was inévitable, also, that the acts and opinions of a
man whose évolution led him from Roman Catholicism to
absolute independence of creed, from the worship of
imperialism and faith in royalty to the glorification of
the idéal republic, and from literary tradition to the indi-
vidual expression of his own genius, should hâve aroused
animosity in many religious, conservative and conventional
minds. This poet who at nineteen adored Delille and
at twenty-one revealed himself as the creator of a new
form of French lyrical art ; this leader of a revolutionary
movement in letters and politics who became a member
of the Academy and accepted a seat in the Senate ; this
24
VICTOR HUGO
peer of the realm who preached humility to the poor and
patience to the oppressed ; this evangelist of equality who
loved the literary throne and breathed with delight the
incense of popular praise ; this courtier of famé who never
wrote a line of congratulation or condolence * without the
pomp and circumstance of an epistle addressed to pos-
terity ; this author who accumulated a vast fortune from
his literary labours f and was carried to the grave (by
his own désire) in a pauper's coffin : ofifered himself readily
enough to the sarcasm of detractors in an âge of publicity
when every contradiction and foible could not fail to be
bitterly discussed.
The glory which illumined Victor Hugo's later days
was not gained without dust and heat, nor, it must be
confessed, without some judicious sounding of trumpets
and beating of drums. For many years he was the pet
aversion of the professors and officiais of literature, Each
one of his titles to famé was fiercely contested, and those
writers who championed his cause, as for example
Théodore de Banville and Auguste Vacquerie, were dis-
missed from the service of the journals to which they
contributed. It is difficult in thèse days to understand
the furies which were let loose on that innovator who
dared to introduce such an ignoble word as ^ chevar into
serious verse and smuggle a lovv epithet like 'gamiti ' into
respectable prose.
Victor Hugo had a singularly robust physical frame,
with uncommonly keen eyesight, and a memory so clear
and so précise as to be almost phénoménal. The exceed-
* See his letter of l6 March, 1869, addressed to Lamartine's widow, and
ending with the phrase : * Henceforth he beams with a double radiance : in
' our literature, where he is a soûl, and in the great unknown life, where he is
• a star '.
+ The rights of publication in les Misérables were sold to Lacroix and
Verboeckhoven for half-a-million francs.
25
VICTOR HUGO
ing vividness with which he could depict and présent
natural objects was due to his naturally quick and care-
fully cultivated faculty of observation. While he walked
he dreamed and created ; hence the appropriateness of
Baudelaire's characterisation of him as ^Méditation qui
' marche '. Indeed one of the secrets of Victor Hugo's
inexhaustible energy and lifelong capacity for indefatig-
able labour — equal to that of Balzac or Littré — was his
healthy love of exercise. Although he was fond of social
pleasures he eschewed those voluptuous indulgences which
hâve been the moral and material ruin of so many French
poets, He kept his vigour fresh and unimpaired long
after the time when the average man is worn out : in old
âge his eye was not dim nor his natural force abated.
And there was always in his nature that real simplicity
which finds its sustenance in the love of flowers and
children and in the sweetness of household affections.
Thèse feelings, expressed in his poetry, hâve left a trail
of exquisite tenderness even on the fierce invective of les
Châtiments and over the blood and désolation of V Année
terrible.
Looked at in large, the character of Victor Hugo, like
that of every truly great man, was good and noble. His
voice, no less than Voltaire's, was continually lifted up
against cruelty, ignorance and oppression. He pleaded
for clemency ; and although his personal likes anddislikes
were equally pronounced, and sometimes indulged to
excess,* he was a faithful believer in tolérance and liberty.
His charities were as ample as they were unostentatious.
To political refugees and literary aspirants he was often a
prudent counsellor and always a gênerons friend. It is a
* A notable instance is the savage animosity of his poem on the death of
Marshal Saint-Arnaud, published by Paul Maurice and Auguste Vacquerie
in the last volume of Toute la Lyre [Poésies inédites).
26
VICTOR HUGO
notable fact that ail thc younger men of letters who
enjoyed the intimacy of Victor Hugo retained through
every change, and to the last, their affection and admira-
tion for the master. For many years he reserved in his
Parisian résidence a chamber which poor authors, fed at
his table and cheered by his discourse, could occupy for
a fevv months at a time, and so work in freedom on some
cherished volume. Gérard de Nerval, Edouard Ourliac
and Albert Glatigny were among the temporary récipients
of this bounty.
It is not literally true, as some admirer has asserted,
that in the nineteenth century ail French poetry vvorthy
of the name is derived from Victor Hugo. Lamartine
and Musset must claim a share in the impulse given to
lyric art. But the supremacy of Victor Hugo has been
recognised by every poet of importance since 1830, and,
like Voltaire in the eighteenth century, Victor Hugo is by
gênerai consent the great représentative genius of France
in the nineteenth century. No writer has excelled him in
weaving the éléments either of human passion or of natural
force into a vast ' tragic landscape '. His colossal architec-
ture has a beauty of outline and a majestic unity of
structure which justifies the epithet of ' Magister de lapidi-
^ bus vivis\ His verse, which has been the envy and
admiration of three générations of French singers, is
distinguished by its extraordinary vigour and véhémence ;
the rhythmical sweep is superb and the inwoven melody
inimitable ; the fertility and felicity of illustration are
boundless. Even a superficial comparison of his work
with that of the older French poets must manifest his
immense superiority, both as singer and artist. Their cold
déclamation is charged with passion ; the note of tender-
ness is truer and deeper ; the harmony is rich and sonor-
ous ; the imagery glowing and original ; the dramatic
27
VICTOR HUGO
intensity at times almost overpowering. His finer verse
is most délicate and fanciful, and in the manipulation of
narrow rhythms and difficult rhymes he displays the
absolute ease of a master.*
No poet vvas ever more profoundly and diversely human
than Victor Hugo, and none, with the single exception of
Shakespeare, has so divinely interpreted
' the prophétie soûl
' Of the wide world, dreaming on things to corne'.
* The short rhythms which Victor Hugo handled with such consummate
art cannot be adequately translated into English. Some wonderful achieve-
ments in similar compass hâve been performed by Shelley and Swinburne and
Beddoes, but in translating it is impossible to turn the necessary rhymes
round in so limited a space without excessive violence to the thought. Victor
Hugo's ample alexandrines also lose much of their effect in the English
rhymed heroic verse, because the latter runs naturally into couplets, whereas
the long French line résolves itself into two hémistiches, and thus lends itself
to the completion of a comparison or antithesis in the space of a single line.
The decasyllabic verse is too abrupt when treated in this fashion, and if the
two alexandrines are fused into one heroic couplet there is often a mixture of
metaphors and a redundancy of images which becomes confusing. It must not
be imagined that the ensuing translations are intended otherwise than as mère
spécimens of Victor Hugo's verse. They will give but a glimmering of the
splendour and scope of his genius as a lyrical and declamatory poet. A
copious sélection from each of his twenty volumes of verse would be needed
to represent the manifold and multiform incarnations of his poetical spirit.
The only living Englishman capable of doing justice to the rush and splendour
of the rhythm and the beauty and variety of the rhyme is Algernon Charles
Swinburne.
28
VICTOR HUGO
Her Name.
Nomen mit Nuiiien.
A lily's fragrance rare, an aureole's pale splendeur,
The whisper of the waning day ;
Love's passionate pure kiss of virginal surrender ;
The hour that breathes farewell, mysterious and tender ;
The grief by comfort charmed away ;
The sevenfold scarf by storm emblazed and braiden,
A trophy to the victor sun ;
The sudden cadence of a voice with memories laden ;
The soft and simple vow won from a shamefast maiden ;
The dream of a new life begun ;
The murmur that with orient Dawn, rising to greet her,
From lips of fabled Memnon came ;
The undulant hum remote of some melodious mètre : —
Ail the soûl dreams most sweet, if aught than thèse be
sweeter,
O Lyre, is less sweet than her name !
Even as a muttered prayer pronounce it, breathing
lowly,
But let it Sound through ail our songs !
Be in the darkened shrine the one light dim and holy !
Be as the word divine the same voice, chaunting slowly
From the deep altar-place prolongs !
29
VICTOR HUGO
O world ! ère yet my Muse, upborne in ample azuré,
Her wings for wandering flight unfolds,
And with those clamorous names, profaned of pride or
pleasure,
Dares blend that chaster one that, like a sacred treasure,
Love hidden in my heart still holds,
Needs must my song, while yet of silence unforsaken,
Be like those hymns we kneel to hear,
And with its solemn strains the tremulous air awaken,
As though, with viewless plumes and unseen censers
shaken,
A flight of angels hovered near !
Son Nom.
{Odes et Ballades?)
1823.
To a Woman.
Child ! if I were a king, my throne I would surrender,
My sceptre, and my car, and kneeling vavassours,
My golden crown, and porphyry baths, and consorts
tender,
And fleets that fill the seas, and régal pomp and splendeur,
Ail for one look of yours !
If I were God, the earth and luminous deeps that span it,
Angels and démons bowed beneath my word divine,
Chaos profound, with flanks of flaming gold and granité,
Eternity, and space, and sky and sun and planet,
AU for one kiss of thine !
8 May, 1829.
30
A une Femme.
{Les Feuilles d'automne?)
VICTOR HUGO
New Song to an Old Air.*
If there be a fair demesne,
Fresher than the rose is,
Where each season's shower and sheen
Some new bloom uncloses ;
Where one gathers, hour by hour,
Jasmine, lily, honey-flower,
Would that such might be the bower
Where thy foot reposes !
If there be a loving breast,
Honour so disposes,
That of ail her gifts the best
Love therein encloses ;
If this noble bosom yield
High desires to love revealed,
Would that such might be the shield
Where thy head reposes !
If there be a dream of love,
Odorous with roses,
Whence each day that dawns above
Some sweet thing discloses ;
Dream that God himself hath blessed,
Wherein soûl with soûl may rest,
Would that such might be the nest
Where thy heart reposes !
Nouvelle Chanson sur un vieil Air.
{Les Chants du Crépuscule. XXII.)
18 February, 1834.
* See Note on page 50.
31
VICTOR HUGO
In a Church.
* * * Hi * *
O woman ! why thèse tears that dim your sight.
Thèse brows with sorrow drawn ?
You, whose pure heart is sombre as the night,
And tender as the dawn ?
What though the unequal lot, to some made sweet,
To some deals bitter dole ;
Though life gives way and sinks beneath your feet,
Should that dismay the soûl ?
The soûl, that seeks ère long a purer realm,
Where beyond storm is peace,
Where, beyond griefs that surge and overwhelm,
This world's low murmurings cease !
Be like the bird that, on the branch at rest
For a brief moment, sings ;
For though the frail bough bends beneath her breast
She knows that she has wings !
Dans r Eglise de . . .
{Les Chants du Crépîtscule.)
25 October, 1834.
This Age is great and strong.
This âge is great and strong. Her chains are riven.
Thought on the march of man her mission sends ;
Toil's clamour mounts on human speech to heaven,
And with the sound divine of Nature blends.
In cities and in solitary stations
Man loves the milk wherewith we nourish him ;
32
VICTOR HUGO
And, in the shapeless block of sombre nations,
Thought moulds in dreams nevv peoples grand and dim.
New days dravv nigh. Hushed is the riot's clangour.
The Grève is cleansed, the old scaffbld crumbling lies.
Volcano torrents, like the people's anger,
First devastate and after fertih'se.
Now mighty poets, touched by God's own finger,
Shed from inspirëd brows their radiant beams.
Art has fresh valleys, where our soûls may linger.
And drink deep draughts of song from sacred streams.
Stone upon stone, remembering antique manners.
In times that shake with every storm-wind wild,
The thinker rears thèse columns, crowned with banners —
Respect for grey old âge, love for the child.
Beneath our roof-tree Duty and Right his father
Dwell once again, august and honoured guests,
The outcasts that around our thresholds gather
Corne with less flaming eyes, less hateful breasts.
No longer Truth closes her austère portais.
Deciphered is each word, each scroll unfurled.
Learning the book of life, enfranchised mortals
Find a new sensé and secret in the world.
G poets ! Iron and steam, with fiery forces.
Lift from the earth, while yet your dreams float round,
Time's ancient load, that clogged the chariot's courses,
Crushing with heavy wheels the hard rough ground.
Man by his puissant will subdues blind matter,
Thinks, seeks, créâtes ! With living breath fulfilled,
The seeds that Nature's hands store up and scatter
Thrill as the forest leaves by winds are thrilled.
c S3
VICTOR HUGO
Yea, ail things move and grow. The fleet hours flying
Leave each their track. The âge has risen up great.
And now between its luminous banks, far-lying,
Man like a broadened river sees his fate.
But in this boasted march from wrong and error,
Mid the vast splendeur of an âge that glows,
One thing, O Jésus, fills my soûl with terror :
The écho of thy voice still feebler grows !
Ce Siècle est grand et fort.
15 April, 1837. {Les Voix intérieures^
Mixed Commissions.
They sît in the shadow while 'Justice prevails !'
They people with heroes their dungeons and gaols,
And the hulks, a détestable cloister
That floats like the blackness of night on the tides
While the sun on the sea gilds its glittering sides
Like scales on the shell of an oyster.
For harbouring an outlaw beneath his poor roof
An old man is crushed by the law's iron hoof,
His cries with their curses they stifle :
To the galleys for branding thèse rogues of our Vote,
Thèse thieves that seized Popular Rights by the throat,
His pockets the better to rifle !
They sentence the son that defended his sire,
The wife that took bread to her husband through fire,
The friendship by Freedom begotten ;
Honour ? . . . they banish : and Truth ? . . . they exile :
From judges like thèse issues Justice as vile
As a graveworm from flesh that is rotten.
Les Commissions mixtes.
Brussels : Juiy, 1852. (j^es Châtiments)
34
VICTOR HUGO
Jéricho.
Sound ! trumpets of the soûl, for ever sound !
When Joshua, vexed at heart, went marching round
The walls, with high head, dreaming ; when the clang
Louder and louder of shrill trumpets rang,
At the first blast the king laughed in his sleeve ;
The next he laughed to scorn : — ' Dost thou believe
* With wind my city-walls to overthrow ? ' —
The third time, as the ark, solemn and slow,
With clarions went before the marching ranks,
A troop of children mimicked in their pranks
The trumpet-blare, and spat upon the ark.
At the fourth blast, by Levi's sons blown stark,
Dusk women, seated at the distafif, spun
Between the crennelled towers, moss-grown and dun,
And flinging stones on the pale Hebrews, jeered.
The fifth time, on those gloomy walls appeared,
With cries, the hait and maimed and blind in crowds,
And mocked the clarion blown beneath the clouds.
The sixth, beneath that rampire's granité crest,
So high that there the eagle builds his nest,
So hard that there the lightning bursts in vain,
The king, with full-gorged laughter, came again
Crying : ' Thèse Hebrews make rare minstrelsy ! ' —
Round their gay king the elders laughed with glee,
Though wont to ponder grave in judgment-halls.
But with the seventh blast crumbled the proud walls !
{Les Châtiments.)
Jersey: i^ March, 1853.
35
VICTOR HUGO
Stella.
One night I slumbered on the sait sea shore.
A fresh wind woke me, and I dreamed no more,
But watched with rapturous eyes the morning-star
Suprême, that rose in skies profound and far,
Swathed in white splendeur, wonderful and soft.
The north wind, flying, whirled the storm aloft.
The bright star smote the clouds in vapours wreathed,
It was a light that thought, and lived, and breathed ;
It calmed the rock whereon the waves unfurl ;
And shone even as the soûl shines through a pearl.
Though night was there, in vain the shadow gloomed
r the welkin, by a heavenly smile illumed.
The top of the slant mast caught silvery light ;
Black was the vessel, but the sail was white :
The seamews, poised upon the ragged scar,
With brooding looks gazed gravely on the star,
Seen like some heavenly fowl with plumes of flame.
The sea, whose swell is like the people, came
And with hoarse murmurings low looked on the light
Trembling, lest backward it should turn in flight.
Ail space with love ineffable was filled.
The green grass at my feet shivered and thrilled ;
Birds in their nests held converse ; the new birth
Of flowers sang sweetly : We are stars of earth !
And, as the darkness her long veils unwove,
I heard a voice fall from the star, that clove
The heavens and said :
' I am the star of doom,
' She that seemed dead and rises from the tomb.
* On Sinaï, on the Spartan rock I shone ;
' A golden pebble winged with fire and thrown,
36
VICTOR HUGO
' As from God's sling, at the black brows of night.
' From ruined worlds I rise reborn and bright,
' O Nations, as the burning sun of song!
' The fire on Moses' brow and Dante's tongue
' Was mine. With love of me the océan sighs.
' I come
Faith, Virtue, Courage, rise !
' Mount to the towers, ye soûls that watch below !
' Blind eyelids open, darkened eyeballs glow ;
' Earth, thrill thy furrows ; speech, inspire the dumb ;
* Up, ye that slumber, for behold I come,
' Vaunt-courier of their march that sunders night,
' The giant Liberty, the angel Light 1 '
Stella.
{Les Châtiments.)
Jersey : 31 Augîtst, 1853.
Dusk.
The pool glimmers white, like a mystical shroud ;
In the depths of the woodland are glimpses of glades;
The boles are a shadow, the branches a cloud ;
Is it Venus that shimmers through leafy arcades ?
Is it Venus that silvers the slopes with her light ?
And you, are you lovers that pass in the gloom ?
With a sheen of soft lawn the dusk pathways are white ;
The meadow awakens and calls to the tomb.
What song from the grass and what voice from the grave ?
Night cornes : they are cold that sleep under the yews.
Let lip cling to lip ! Seek love, hearts that crave !
Let the living be glad while we slumber and muse.
37
VICTOR HUGO
God smiles on the lovers. Live, envied and blest,
O couples that pass on your leaf-covered way !
The love we bore with us to earth's chilly breast,
From the land of the Hving, is left us to pray.
The thatch looming black hides a hearth that is bright ;
The tread of the reaper is heard in the field ;
A star from the blue, Hke a blossom of light,
Bursts forth in the freshness of splendour revealed.
'Tis the month of ripe berries, the month of sweet things.
Night's angel floats dreaming on vvinds overhead,
And blends, borne aloft on his shadowy wings,
The kiss of the Hving, the prayer of the dead.
Crépuscule,
{Les Contemplations^
Ch ELLES : Aîigusf, i8 . .
A Hymn of the Earth.
Her throne is the meadovv, the field and the plain,
She is dear to the sovvers and reapers of grain,
To the shepherds that sleep on the heather ;
She warms her chill breast in the fires of the suns
And laughs, when with stars in their circle she runs,
As with sisters rejoicing together.
She loves the bright beam that caresses the wheat,
And the cleansing of winds in her aether is sweet,
And the lyre of the tempest that thunders ;
And the lightning whose brow, when it shines and takes
flight
In a flash that appals and appeases the night,
Is a smile from the welkin it sunders.
VICTOR HUGO
Glory to Earth ! To the dawn of God's gaze !
To the swarming of eyes in the woodland ablaze,
To nests by the sunrise made splendid !
Hail to the whitening of moon-smitten heights !
Hail to the azuré that squanders her lights
From treasuries never expended !
Earth loves the blue heaven that shines equal on ail,
Whose radiance sheds calm on the throne and the thrall,
Who blends with our wrongs and remorses,
With our sorrows, that burst into laughter too bold,
With our sins, with our fevers of glory and gold,
The song of the stars in their courses.
Earth is calm when the sea groans beneath her and
grieves.
Earth is beautiful ; see how she hides under leaves
The maidenly shame of her blushes !
Spring cornes, like a lover, to kiss her in May ;
She sends up the smoke of the village to stay
The wrath of the thunder that rushes.
Smite not, O thunder ! the humble lie hère :
Earth is bountiful ; yet is she grave and severe ;
And pure as her roses in blossom :
Man pleases her best when he labours and thinks ;
And her Love is the well-spring that ail the world drinks,
And Truth is the milk of her bosom.
Earth hoards up her gold, but her harvest she wears ;
In the flank of dead seasons that sleep in her lairs,
The germs of new seasons assemble ;
She has birds in the azuré that whisper of love,
Springs that gush in the vales, and on mountains above
Vast forests of pine-trees that tremble.
39
VICTOR HUGO
Wide weaver of harmonies under the skies,
She bids the salute of the slender reed rise
With joy to the height of the cedar ;
For her law is the lowly that loves the sublime,
And she bases the right of the cedar to climb
On the will of the grasses that feed her.
She levels mankind in the grave ; at the end
Alexander's and Cassar's proud ashes descend
With the dust of the covvherd to crumble ;
The soûl she sends heavenward, the carcase she keeps,
And disdains, in the doom of oblivious deeps,
To distinguish the high from the humble.
Each debt she discharges ; the branch to the root,
The night to the day, and the flower to the fruit ;
She nourishes ail she engenders ;
The plant that has faith when the man is in doubt ;
O blasphemy, shame against Nature to flout
With his shadow the soûl of her splendours !
Her breast was the cradle, her breast is the tomb,
Of Adam and Japheth ; she wrought out the doom
Of the cities of Isis and Horus ;
Where Sparta lies mourning, where Memphis lies
crushed,
Wheresoever 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 guerdoned with glorification,
The voice that says No with the voice that says Aye,
And the passing of peoples that vanish and die
With the mystical chaunt of création.
40
VICTOR HUGO
Earth's friends are the rcapers ; at twilight her face
On the broad black horizon would gladly give chase
To the swarm of the hungering ravens ;
At the hour when the oxen in weariness lovv,
When homeward vvith joy the brown husbandmen go,
Like ships that return to their havens.
She gives birth without end to the flowers of the sod ;
The flowers never raise their reproaches to God ;
From HHes, still chaste in their splendour,
From myrties that thrill to the vvind not a cry,
Not a murmur from vineyards ascends to the sky,
On their innocence smiling and tender.
Earth spreads a dark scroll beneath the dense boughs ;
She does what she can, and with peace she endows
The rocks and the shrubs and the rivers,
To enlighten us, children of Hermès and Shem,
Whose pages the porings of Reason condemn
To a lamp-light that flickers and shivers.
The end of her being is birth and not death ;
Not javvs to devour, but a Hfe-giving breath ;
When with havoc of battle is riven
Man's furrow and blood-bathed the track that war
cleaves,
Earth turns her wild look, that is angry and grieves,
From the ploughshare by wickedness driven.
Blasted, she asks him : Why kill the green plain ?
What fruit will the wilderness give, and whose gain
Shall be garnered from ruin and ravage ?
No boon to her bounty the evil one yields.
And she weeps on the virginal beauty of fields
Deflowered by the lust of the savage.
41
VICTOR HUGO
Aima Ceres was Earth, and Earth's goddess of old,
She beamed with blue eyes over meadow and wold,
And still the world rings with her paean ;
' Sons, I am Demeter, divine of divine,
' Ye shall build me a temple of splendeur to shine
* On the slopes of the Callichorean '.
La Terre : Hymne.
{La Légende des Siècles. /.)
Frondage.
Orpheus heard, as star rose after
Star and touched the woods with light,
The obscure and ominous laughter
Of the worshippers of night
Phtah, the Theban priestess holy,
Gazing from her dusky shrine,
Saw the ebon shadows slowly
Dance along the starred sky-line.
vEschylus, after sunset, lingered
In the dun Sicilian shades,
Charmed by flûtes that deftly fingered
Flung svveet echoes through the glades.
Pliny, couched among the myrtles,
Deemed the nymphs of Melita fair,
When the wind neath whirling kirtles
Kissed their rosy limbs blown bare.
Plautus wandered through the glowing
Orchards, sometimes turning o'er
Tasted fruits i' the herbage, showing
Where some god had gone before.
42
VICTOR HUGO
In Versailles, with beauty haunted,
Cornes the faun, where fountains flow,
Proffering to Molière the enchanted
Rhymes that so amazed Boileau.
Dante, when his glass grevv dimmer,
Blurred with dark-souled images,
Watched athwart the twilight-glimmer
Women glide between the trees.
Chénier, peering through the slender
Willow-boughs, bewildered hung
On those flying breasts whose splendeur
Vergil, like a lover, sung.
Shakespeare, ambushed in the shadows
Of the drowsy-branchëd oak,
Caught faint trippings from the meadows
When the light-foot fairies woke.
Thus, O foliage, are my fancies
Lured within the bosky bourne !
Pan dwells there, and there in dances
Still the dizzy Satyrs turn.
Floréal: IL
{Les Chaîtsons des Rues et des Bois.)
Reality.
Nature is everywhere the same,
At Timbuctoo as on the Tagus ;
Chlamys is petticoat, save in name :
And Douglas Home is Simon Magus.
43
VICTOR HUGO
Lavallière in her coach, aquest
Of Louis or Mars to quench her passion,
Was just as fiercely love-possessed
As in her shell the bright Thalassian.
O sons, O brothers in poesy,
If the thing is, let the word be spoken !
Nothing is low when the soûl soars high ;
Be pure in spirit and pass the token !
You hear in Paestum's rose-demesne
The hiccuping of old Silenus !
Is Bottom amiss on Shakespeare's scène
When Horace stales the son of Venus ?
Truth laughs at limits, the veil she scorns,
And, thanks to beast-god Pan, earth's Real
Sprouts unashamed, and shows his horns
On the blue brows of the Idéal !
Réalité: Les Complications de V Idéal.
{Les Chansons des Rues et des Bois.)
The Streets and the Woods.
Beware, my friend, of pretty girls ;
Shun the bower of the fallen goddess :
Fear the charm of the skirt that whirls,
The shapely bust and the well-laced bodice.
Look to your wings, bird, when you fly !
Look to your threads, O doll that dances !
Turn from the light of Calypso's eye,
And flee from the fire of Jenny's glances !
44
VICTOR HUGO
When they grow tender, thcn be sure
That slavery lurks within their rapture ;
Love's A B C is Art to allure,
Beauty that blinds and a Charm to capture !
The sun-light gilds a prison-cell ;
A fragrant rose the gaol refreshes :
And just like thèse, you see, is the spell
Of a girl that lures you into her meshes.
Once caught, your soûl is a sombre lyre,
And in your thought are storms that thunder !
And weeping foUovvs dead désire
Ere you hâve time to smile and vvonder !
Corne to the fields ! Spring's gladsome voice
Thrills the vast oaks and wakes the mountains,
The meadows smile, the woods rejoice,
Sing O the charm of crystal fountains !
Pour d'autres : IX.
{Les Chanso7is des Rues et des Bois.)
To the Imperious Beauty.
L'amour, panique Love, like a panic
De la raison, Seizing the will,
Se communique Leaps to tyrannie
Par le frisson. Sway with a thrill.
Laissez-moi dire, Let me beseech you.
N'accordez rien. Turn and refuse ;
Si je soupire, When my sighs reach you,
Chantez, c'est bien. Sing, if you choose.
45
VICTOR HUGO
Si je demeure, If I come kneeling,
Triste, à vos pieds, Near you to dwell,
Et si je pleure, See my tears stealing.
C'est bien, riez. Laugh, it is well.
Un homme semble Man may dissemble
Souvent trompeur. So to ensnare :
Mais si je tremble. But if I tremble,
Belle, ayez peur. Beauty, beware !
A la belle impérieuse : V éternel petit roman.
{Chansons des Rîies et des Bois.)
Forerunners.
On Being and the Thing that is
Man in ail âges broods forlorn.
And ever asks of the abyss
' G Nature ! Wherefore was I born ? '
Believers now, atheists betimes,
We, to the height Prometheus climbs,
The Euclids and the Keplers send ;
Dur doubts like clouds funereal rise.
And, fîlled with darkness, seek the skies,
Whence, fîlled with lightnings, they descend.
G brows whereon the Idéal beams !
From the gulf's edge, in depths of space,
What faces peer with luminous gleams !
What looks are on each mystic face !
See where the starry eyeballs glow
Gf Milton and Galileo !
Dim-visaged Dantes, sombre-hued,
Your heels are worthy of the stars !
46
VICTOR HUGO
Your spirits, on their fiery cars,
Are coursers of Infinitude !
Rise and descend, for ail is there ;
Be bold to seek and seize, for still
Jason proclaims himself ' To dare ! '
And Gama's blazon is * I will ! '
And vvhen the searcher, shrinking yet,
With eyes on davvn and darkness set,
Backward before the mystery springs,
Trembling to read the hieroglyph ;
Lo ! Will, a rearing hippogriff,
Above the sunrise spreads his wings !
This terrible steed was his to urge
When human Genius durst aspire
To pass beyond the inviolate verge,
Armed only with his torch and lyre.
Then on his springing soûl from far,
Reason the sun and Love the star
Rose radiant in the yawning blue,
Where darkness spins lier sombre snares ;
And thèse tvvo planets were God's phares
Shining to guide the giant through.
The hearts wherein God kindles fire,
Though ail around them fleet like fume,
Keep sacred still their wild désire
To explore the gulf and pierce the gloom
Deep in the gulf ail knowledge lies.
They look, they plunge, they agonise :
Life lags too long in aimless ease.
Madness is sire to the sublime ;
And dovvn the same abyss in time
Columbus seeks Empedocles !
47
VICTOR HUGO
O seas to sound ! O skies to scale !
Each dauntless seeker of the True
Unfurls to the infinité his sail,
Fulton the green, Herschell the blue.
Magellan launches, Fourier Aies ;
The frivolous crowd, with scornful eyes,
Too ignorant their dreams to sound,
Watches them vanish from the coast
And cries * Behold ! a soûl is lost ' : —
Nay, scoffing crowd, a world is found !
Les Précurseurs.
{L Année terrible.")
Change of Horizon.
The bard of the old days was Homer ; war
Was law ; âge grew beneath a vulgar star.
The living flew, with strenuous blood and breath,
To meet the sinister embrace of death.
A glorious shroud for liberated Rome,
For Sparta and her laws some holy tomb,
Were the best gifts the Gods could give to man :
The haggard youth rushed frantic in the van ;
He that leaped first into the open grave.
And ran his proud career, was counted brave.
Seek death with glory, O sublime behest !
Achilles' wrath the sage Ulysses guessed ;
A strumpet tore her robe from top to toe.
And ail exclaimed : ' Behold our lord lies low ! '
And the fierce virgin of the Scyrian isle
Masked heroes with august and fatal wile.
Man was the faithful bridegroom of the sword.
Above the Muse hovered a vulture horde ;
48
VICTOR HUGO
Savage, she lured her ghouls to the grim field ;
Vast singer, she, of clashing spear and shield ;
Ogress of Evil, tigress tearing Peace,
Black cloud that lowered on the blue hills of Greece ;
Her clameurs shook the heavens with desperate cry ;
She bade the victor ' Kill ! ', the vanquished ' Die ! ' —
She gashed the flanks of monstrous steeds and rose,
With wind-blown tresses, glaring on the throes
Of demigods in Titan's clenched embrace :
With fires of hell she lit the hero's face,
From Ajax' sheath showered lightnings and with thongs
Trailed Hector's corse before the Trojan throngs,
When warriors blenched, stung by the whizzing steel,
And with red-streaming flanks did faint and réel,
When skulls, yawning like sombre urns, were cloven,
When lances pierced her veil of darkness woven,
When snakes along her white arm writhed and curled,
When through the Olympian realm loud war was
whirled,
Dreadful and calm she sang, and her wild lips
Foamed blood in the fierce clarion ; dim éclipse
Of towers and tents and helms and wounded hosts,
Black swarms of dead, heaped on the grisly coasts,
Whirlwinds of banners, chariots overthrown,
And swords and shields on the epic blast were blown !
But now the Muse is Peace ; she binds no greaves
On her white limbs ; her head is crowned with'sheaves :
To Death the bard says : ' Die, war, shadow, strife ! ' —
And gently leads the march of man towards life :
Her songs, like tears, fall softly in slow showers
On children, and on women, and on flowers ;
Stars burst in splendour on her wingëd brows ;
Her music makes green buds break from the boughs ;
D 49
VICTOR HUGO
Her dreams are woven of dawn ; with lips of love
She sîngs and laughs, clear as the heavens above.
Vainly, with clenched fists, in thy sullen wrath
Thou threatenest still, black past : there leads thy path !
Thy day is done. Henceforth the Hving know,
If they but will, thy hideous towers of woe
Shall crumble, that the light at last shines through ;
That what they shall be springs from what they do :
That men must succour men, that man's fate feeds
On his own treacherous dreams and coward deeds.
I, exiled, travail towards the sacred time
When from man's fears shall issue hopes sublime
To pluck, watching dawn out of darkness rise,
Hell from his heart, with heaven before his eyes.
Changement d'Horizon.
{La Légende des Siècles. I V : XL. V.)
Note on
New Song to an Old Air.
The 'old air' to which this song was written is La bonne aventure^
well known to générations of English chiidren as ' In my cottage by
a wood' or ' Holy Bible, book divine'. The rhythm of the English
version has been vulgarised by the substitution of two distinct
syllables for the graceful féminine cadence of the French original.
La boftne aventure is simply a nursery song, but the genius of two
great poets has matched the melody with words which are worthy
of its exquisite beauty. Molière touched it with tenderness in te
Misanthrope, for there Alceste sings : —
Si le roy m'avoit donné
Paris, sa grand'ville,
Et qu'il me fallût quitter
L'amour de ma mie,
50
VICTOR HUGO
Je dirois au roy Henry :
Reprenez vostre Paris,
J'aime mieux ma mie, au gué.
J'aime mieux ma mie.
And Victor Hugo gave a grander note to it in les Misérables, when
Combeferre sang in the staircase : —
Si César m'avait donné
La gloire et la guerre,
Et qu'il me fallût quitter
L'amour de ma mère,
Je dirais au grand César :
Reprends ton sceptre et ton char,
J'aime mieux ma mère, ô gué !
J'aime mieux ma mère.
Béranger and other chansonniers hâve also paid their tribute to this
charming melody, more beautiful in its simplicity than ail the
cavatinas and arias of Mozart and Rossini. But it would be vain to
seek in French verse, from Malherbe to Musset, for anything so light
and délicate as Victor Hugo's setting. It will be observed that Dean
Carrington's version of this A^ew Song to an Old Tune, which is given
below, does not reproduce the féminine rhyme and is in some other
respects unfaithfui to the lyrical symmetry of the original : —
If some fragrant lawn be found,
By dews of heaven blest,
Where are seen, the whole year round,
Flowers in beauty dressed ;
Where rose, pink, and lilies rare.
Ail in rich profusion are —
I would make a pathway there
For your foot to rest.
If there be that well can love,
Some devoted breast,
Which ail virtue doth approve,
Ail things base detest ;
If that bosom always beat
To perform heroic feat —
There I find a pillow meet
For thy brow to rest.
51
VICTOR HUGO
If a dream of love there be,
By ail sweets possest,
Where each fleeting hour we see
Whatsoe'er is best —
Dream, God-hallowed, bright and kind,
Where the soûl to soûl is joined —
There a shelter would I find
For your heart to rest.
( Translations fro7n the Poenis of Victor Hugo. )
52
Joseph Delorme.
Born in Boulogne-sur-Mer, 1804 . . . Died in Paris, 1869.
Charles -Augustin Sainte-Beuve began his literary life
as a disciple of the Romantic school and assisted in
the Renaissance of French poetry in 1830. If not so
fervent in his later days as in the flush of youth, he always
judged the movement and the men with critical impar-
tiality ; and praise from him was praise indeed.
Sainte-Beuve's father died before the boy was born.
The child's éducation was supervised by his mother, a
woman of good-sense and strong character. He completed
his course at the collège Charlemagne in Paris and re-
luctantly sacrificed his taste for letters to the study of
anatomy and surgery. At twenty-two years of âge he
left the hospital to which he was attached and published
some literary criticisms in the Globe. In 1828 he issued
his Tableau historique et critique de la poésie française et
dît théâtre français au seizième siècle, the first important
essay in modem historical and philosophical analysis
applied to letters.
Sainte-Beuve's admiration for Victor Hugo gave birth
to the imaginary young poet whose productions ( Vie,
Poésies et Pensées de foseph Delorme^ appeared in 1829.
The volume was generously appreciated. It was foUowed
in 1830 by /(?j" Consolations and in 1837 by Pensées daoût.
In ail thèse poems there is évidence of a healthy and
well-nourished mind, refreshed in the contemplation of
nature and expressing itself in noble and harmonious
53
JOSEPH DELORME
numbers. The influence of English literature was acknow-
ledged in translations and imitations of Byron, Words-
worth, Charles Lamb, Coleridge, Bowles and Kirke White;
indeed the French poetry of the period immediately pre-
ceding 1830 is more nearly akin to English poetry in
simplicity and pathos than that of any other period.
Joseph Delorme died on the threshold of manhood, and
in answer to the remonstrances of a friend ail that Sainte-
Beuve could say was that he had no longer any love in
his heart or any song in his voice.* The disappearance
of Joseph Delorme was a great loss to French poetry, for
he combined something of Wordsworth's spiritual insight
with the simple émotion of Lamartine, and brought a
calm and méditative note into the transports of Victor
Hugo and the complaints of Alfred de Musset. He was
a poet of observation and sentiment rather than passion,
and altogether lacked the lyrical buoyancy.
It is unnecessary to say much of Sainte-Beuve's critical
Works, which are a permanent portrait-gallery of French
literature in his own and ail preceding epochs. His vision
was wide in its sweep and keen in its scrutiny, When
he took up the study of a man of letters he contrived not
only to reconstitute the atmosphère of his time, but to
ascertain ' the central point of his work and the dominant
' feature of his character '. Sainte-Beuve's sympathies were
many-sided, and he never afifected that deliberate attitude
of contradiction and superiority which vitiates so much
contemporary criticism ; nor did he disdain to study small
men. His kindly and appréciative notices of such minor
poets as Hégésippe Moreau and Louis Bertrand are an
* ' Mon cœur n'a plus rien de l'amour,
' Ma voix n'a rien de ce qui chante '.
Réponse à AI. Edouard Ttirquety.
{Poésies complètes de Sainte-Beuve. )
54
JOSEPH DELORME
everlasting mémorial of the greatness of his intellect and
a perpétuai lesson to the literary Pharisee.
Sainte-Beuve was a conscientious and unwearied worker,
with an immense range of gênerai knowledge and a most
précise memory. He assimilated everything — the bcauty
of a landscape, the soûl of a book, the character of a
visitor, the structure of an epoch — with the same unerring
faculty. His prose, if not of the highest distinction, is
never trivial : it is clear, sober, convincing, carefully
fashioned, instinct with thought and finely analytical. A
certain English austerity in relation to literary morals is
visible in his critical judgments. His mother had English
blood in her veins, and to her, more than to his father,
Sainte-Beuve attributed the healthy robustness of his
nature. That intelligent sympathy with which he divined
the English character is admirably manifested in his
articles on William Cowper in the Causeries du lundi.
It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that Sainte-Beuve's
life was wholly dedicated to letters. He was a senator,
but not a politician, in his later days ; and a member of
the French Academy. After having passed through
several phases of philosophical belief, he died unfurnished
with the sacraments, and, by his own wish, was buried
without religions ceremony.
This excellent poet, philosopher and critic was an earnest
seeker of the truth and a robust and independent thinker.
55
JOSEPH DELORME
To Rhyme.
Rhyme, to whom the sounds of song
Sole belong,
Rhyme, in whose harmonious numbers
Verse, that rings with accents true
Thrilling through,
Wakes the soûl from voiceless slumbers ;
Rhyme, now echoing as when flûte
Sighs to lute,
Now with burst of trumpet splendour ;
Last farewell, in whispered word
Faintly heard,
Wafted back with cadence tender ;
Rhyme, whose measured sweep and chime,
Keeping time,
Oar-like cleaves the foaming surges ;
Golden bridle, spur of steel,
When the heel
Onward the swift courser urges ;
Buckle that on naked breast,
Closely pressed,
Clasps the girdle of Love's charmer ;
Baldrick by the warrior bound
Firmly round,
Girding on his linkëd armour ;
56
JOSEPH DELORME
Narrow nipple whence the spring
Issuing
Shoots to heaven a crystal tower,
Thence, with roseate tissue spun
By the sun,
Bursts in raînbow-coloured shower ;
Adamant ring whose diamond shine
Near the shrine
Sparkles as the air grows denser,
Where the paling lamp-lights swim
Wreathed in dim
Vapours from the smoking censer ;
Key that keeps from mortal eyes
Mysteries
In the sacred ark enshrouded,
While on Truth's embalmëd vase
Angels gaze,
Veiled in wings with glory clouded ;
Rather sylph whose lissome feet
Skim the fleet
Winds and spurn the earth beneath her,
When she guides the poet's car,
Like a star
Trailing light through fields of sether ;
Rhyme ! O whatsoe'er thou be.
On the knee
Bending, 1 confess my treason ;
Humble hence my rebel pride
Shall abide
Loyal to thy laws of reason.
57
JOSEPH DELORME
Fly not when I court the Muse,
Nor refuse
Help to hîm whose song adores thee ;
Turn, O turn thy kind regard
On the bard,
On the bard when he implores thee !
If a verse deflowered and bare,
In chill air,
Lies beneath thy stern look blighted,
Let no solitary tone
Sigh and moan,
Like a lonely voice benighted.
Erst, when on my trembling lyre
Young désire
Dallied with unskilful finger,
In her flight a soft white dove,
Poised above,
Near the lute seemed fain to linger ;
But ère yet my chords could ring,
Vibrating,
Plaîntively the bird did hover,
Sad as one whose lonely fate
Mourns her mate,
Mourns her mate the exiled lover.
Ah ! sweet songsters, two by two,
Lovers true,
Henceforth shall ye wed twin-voices,
Let your kisses, let your wings,
Thrill the strings,
When my tremulous lyre rejoices ;
58
JOSEPH DELORME
Else, with golden thread for rein,
Let your wain
On the light clouds, vvreathed in roses,
Draw me, cherished steeds of love,
To the grove
Where the Cyprian queen reposes !
À la Rime.
(Poésies.)
To Victor Hugo.
Great is your genius, Friend, your thoughts upborne
As on Elijah's living car ascend ;
Before your breath we are like reeds that bend ;
Beneath the fiery blast men's soûls lie shorn.
And yet how fearful lest you wound us, Friend !
Noble and tender, in your heart you scorn
The thoughtless word that pierces like a thorn.
And still with kind embrace your arms extend.
As the iron warrior, he that laughs at fears,
Lifts from the field a nursling bathed in tears,
And bears him safely through the armëd band,
Gauntletted, soothing him with fond caress :
No nurse could shew more skill in tenderness,
Nor could the mother hâve a softer hand.
À V.H...
{Les Consolations.)
59
JOSEPH DELORME
To the Muse.
Florem . . . âene olentis anethi.
Poor Muse, driven homeward, crushed, abused, betrayed ;
Innocent child that erst in pilgrim guise
Fared forth for me, with songs to charm deaf skies,
Thy drooping brow shall on this breast be laid.
They heard thee not, O dear deluded maid,
Now more than ever dear ; yet cease thèse cries !
Svveeter thy fragrance is when storm-winds rise ;
The bee still loves thy blossoms disarrayed.
A heavenly smile on earth strewed héliotrope,
Lily and hyacinth, windflower and the rest
That Homer rained on the Idalian slope.
Even fields and hedges shîne in beauty drest,
And the bold may-bloom laughs, but I love best
The soft blue eye that humble violets ope.
A la Muse.
{Notes et Sonnets.)
60
JOSEPH DELORME
Lausanne.
Be it at nightfall when beneath a cloud,
Stretched wide from dusk to dark, the skies lie furled,
While beyond Chillon, higher and higher curled,
Summit on summit sleeps in dense blue shroud.
When ail those towering giants, in close crowd,
Loom like the barriers of a far-off world,
Gainst which in vain eternal storms are hurled,
Or antique Thule's battlements steel-browed !
Enchantment vast and vague ! Scarce the wave throbs,
Nor in the clouds nor on my brows one breath ;
What foil divine to dreams of change and death !
O Byron, O Beethoven, hush your sobs !
— Sole in the silence, while my thought takes wing,
From coverts nigh the shrill cicalas sing.
Lausanne: IL
{Notes et Sonnets.)
6i
Auguste Barbier.
Born in Paris, 1805 . . . Died in Paris, 1882.
.... from the book of honour t^azëd guite,
And ail the rest forgot for which he toiled.
Henri-Auguste Barbier was bred for the law by the
decree of his parents, and betook himself to letters of
his own free will. He is one of the forgotten glories of
the French Romantic Movement. A true republican, Hke
Shelley and Landor, he threw a trumpet-note into the
melley of 1830. Balzac adored him, and Berlioz, who had
a keen sensé of poetical beauty, went to ' the terrible poet
of the ïanibes\ as the nearest to Victor Hugo, for the
libretto of Benvenuto Cellini.
Thèse ïambes, collected in 1832 from the gazettes for
which they had been written, are a satire on the worship
of glory and the lust of political power, composed in the
couplet form first employed by André Chénier in his latest
poems. The same measure had been used in stanza form
by other poets of the eighteenth century, but Auguste
Barbier gave this verse a freedom, a vigour and a réson-
ance which no previous poet had ever attained in it. The
alternate twelve-and-eight-syllable lines, with crossed
rhymes, give no idea of the classical lambic, but were
intended to recall it by their * free and rapid gait'.
Barbier's verse is bold and brilliant, and has much pomp
and amplitude of movement. He is usually robust and
seldoni délicate. The author of the ïambes had not that
62
AUGUSTE BARBIER
passion for finely-chiselled handiwork which has distin-
guished so many French poets of this century. But he
had a wonderful way of throwing off a large line when he
loved his subject. To him Italy was the
' Divine Juliette, au cercueil étendue';
and he celebrated Ireland as
' La verdoyante Érin et ses belles collines'.
The poet had visited Italy in the company of Auguste
Brizeux, the Breton bard, and in II Pianto (1832) he sung
her departed glories and later dégradation in some superb
sonnets and stanzas. In Lazare (1833) he recorded his
impressions of a visit to England, satirising in powerful
verse the mingled splendour and misery which he wit-
nessed in her capital, and the doom of her labourers
bound beneath the tyranny of wealth.
Barbier's poetical triumph was brief, his fall sudden
and décisive. He withdrew into lasting obscurity, and
although he issued volumes of verse from time to time —
such as Chants civils et religieux (1841) Rimes héroïques
(1843) Silves et Rimes légères (1864) . . . thèse not wanting
in freshness and grâce . . . and Satires et Chants (1865) —
he seemed gradually to lose vigour as he left behind him
the enthusiasm and fervour of 1830. He was a man of
high culture and learning. Among his miscellaneous
Works were a metrical translation of Shakespeare's Julius
Ccesar in 1848 ; some Études dramatiques ; Chez les Poètes,
a collection of translations and imitations of ancient and
modem verse ; and Contes du Soir and Trois Passions^
prose taies.
The later days of Auguste Barbier were passed in soli-
tude and penury. A shabby little old man, who shrank
in conscious self-effacement and to whose présence the
63
AUGUSTE BARBIER
unwelcome visitor could obtain access only after much
knocking and unlocking of doors, was ail that remained
of the once ' terrible poet of the ïambes '. His time was
spent in conjuring up ghosts of his old poems and in draw-
ing sketches to illustrate historiés of travel and adventure
which he compiled to earn his poor livelihood. Once or
twice only he emerged from his obscurity — the last
occasion was in 1870, when he delivered his réception
speech at the Academy and amazed everybody by the
artificial feebleness of his antiquated diction. The
author of the brilliant Ïambes, so celebrated at twenty-
seven years of âge, died almost unnoticed at seventy-seven ;
ail his triumphs forgotten and ail his glory extinct . . .
nominis umbra.
64
AUGUSTE BARBIER
Popularity.
The People's Love ! She is the shameless goddess
With world-embracing arms,
The antique nymph that flaunts, with open bodice,
To ail her naked charms !
She is the Sea ! the Sea ! now calm and smiling
When dawn first breaks above,
Like a young queen that sings, man's souI beguiling,
Blonde siren, full of love.
The sea, kissing the sand, a perfumed blossom
Borne on bewitching waves,
And cradling in her undulant wanton bosom
Her race of dusky slaves ;
The sea, anon, that frenzied and défiant
From her calm couch doth rise,
Towers with enormous head and, like a giant,
Threatens the sombre skies ;
Thence to and fro, dishevelled, riven asunder,
Bounds in her headlong flight
Through the vext surges, fierce beneath the thunder
As thousand bulls in fight ;
Then, with flanks whitened as in foaming madness,
Warped lips and wandering eyes,
Rolls on the shore, deep moaning with the sadness
Of one that writhes and dies ;
E 65
AUGUSTE BARBIER
And, like the Maenad, worn at last with anger,
Crawls vvearied to her bed,
Still tossing on the beach, in powerless languor,
Torn limb and bleeding head !
La Popularité : V.
(Les ïambes?)
Michael-Angelo.
How wan thy brow, hovv sad thy looks and wild,
O Michael-Angelo, proud marble-bender !
No soft tear ever made those eyelids tender ;
Nor once thy lips, like Dante's, may hâve smiled.
The Muse with milk too strong suckled her child ;
Art alone claimed thy love and life's surrender :
Through sixty years, aureoled with threefold splendour,
No heart with tenderness thy heart beguiled.
Poor Buonarotti ! thine was one sole gladness,
To carve in stone sublimity and sadness ;
Puissant as God and girt like him with fears :
So, when the dwindling sunset of thy glory
Left thee a wearied lion grim and hoary,
Death lingering took thee, full of famé and years.
Michel- Ange.
(Il Piaiîto)
66
AUGUSTE BARBIER
Allegri.
Though in my heart Christ's antique faith may perish,
Art, towering like a marble tomb, shall shine,
As when, from heaven's high vault, suns in décline
Its gloom with glimpses of lone light reflourish.
So thou, austère Allegri, wont to nourish
The seed of sacred song in days divine,
Leadst me where faith and love, in hallowed shrine,
The dead limbs of the World's Redeemer cherish.
Then my vain soûl, wherein no révérence dwells,
My soûl, borne on the song thy rapture swells,
Soars to the blest abode of bright archangels ;
Whence,swathed in mystery from heaven's depths that glow,
I hear the holy ones, in robes of snow,
Chaunt on their golden lûtes divine evangels.
Allegri.
{Il Pianto)
Shakespeare.
Alas ! shall the pure brows that glory kindled
Be blasted by the winter's icy breath,
And must the gods of genius, sadly dwindled,
Go, like the other gods, to dusty death ?
67
AUGUSTE BARBIER
To thèse dull days great Shakespeare's tragic wonders
Unfurl the enchantment of their scènes in vain ;
Men hâve no ears for the proud Briton's thunders :
Voiceless and lonely lies his echoing fane.
Albion no longer loves his sacred symbols ;
Outwearied with their truth the wandering throng
Harks back to barbarism, while tinkling cymbals
Speak louder to the heart than loftiest song.
And yet what Titan, heavenly splendours bearing,
Lightened like him the pools of human slime ?
Plunged in the sait sea's breast, more greatly daring,
And deeper dived into the gulfs of Time ?
What wizard woke like him the sombre passions,
Enormous reptiles swarming in man's heart ;
Dragons obscure that in a thousand fashions
Curl writhing in their nest ? What hand with art
Like his could in their dark recesses take them
And, with discovered face in the pure light,
Like Hercules before the dazed world shake them,
Shrieking in chorus their funereal fright ?
Must we behold base Matter boldly planted
With brutal feet firm on her heavy car ;
Must England choose false lights for ever flaunted
Before the beams of that impérial star ?
On this dull earth shall Beauty cease to hover,
Lost utterly in the wide realm of Night ?
Nay ! Night with sombre clouds the sky may cover,
She shall not quench the lamps of heavenly light !
6S
AUGUSTE BARBIER
O thou, of Nature's womb the rarest blossom !
Nursling robust, child borne in her strong arms ;
Thou that didst cling and, suckled at her bosom,
With puissant b'ps drain Truth from ail her charms
Ail that thy fancy touched with aëry pinion,
AU things to which thy glance gave birth below,
Ail the fresh shapes that .filled thy vast dominion,
Woundless of death eternally shall glow !
Shakespeare ! In vain beneath thèse vaults supernal
Inconstant mortals in vile cohorts pass ;
In vain the abyss of Time sees sempiternal
System on System piled in ruinons mass :
Thy genius, like the sun that rises slowly
And moveless shines at noon's empyreal height,
Still calmly pours its light suprême and holy
Above the wild waves in tumultuous flight !
Shakespeare.
{Lazare)
69
Gérard de Nerval.
Born in Paris, 1808 . . . Died in Paris, 1855.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of iviagmation ail co^npact.
Gérard La Brunie or Labrunie (by anagram changed to
Nerval) was the son of a Picardese surgeon-major in the
army of Napoléon. He lost his mother in early child-
hood ; she died of fever at Glogau during the disastrous
Russian campaign. The boy had a curious éducation
under his father's care. The éléments of Latin and
Greek, Italian and German, and Arabie and Persian, with
a course of Oriental calligraphy, were included in his
curriculum. He was afterwards sent to the collège Charle-
magne, and, while yet a schoolboy, his Elégies natmiales,
composed under the influence of Casimir Delavigne's once
famous Messéniennes, attracted the attention of literary
observers. Before he was twenty years old he had trans-
lated Faust,^ an achievement which drew from Goethe
the precious compliment that he had never understood
his own poetry better than in reading this French tran-
scription. ' Hère everything lives and moves anew with
' freshness and vivacity', said Goethe to Eckermann ; ' and
* this young man ', he added, * will become one of the
' purest writers of France '. Goethe's eulogium was well
deserved, for although the Frenchman's knowledge of
* Issued in 1828 : second édition 1835 : republished, with the second Faust
and translations from several German poets, in 1840.
70
GERARD DE NERVAL
Germai! must hâve been imperfect he had the indispensable
poetic insight and sympathy, to which he joined the rare
art of preserving the depth and fervour of the original
whilst endovving it with the natural lucidity of his own
languagc. This is abundantly demonstrated by his ex-
periments in translating from Schiller, Klopstock, Biirger,
Kôrner, Uhland, Hoffmann, Richter and Heine.
Gérard de Nerval's native dreaminess led him into
many other unfamiliar and fascinating paths of human
idealism. If he had not the marvellous instinct of
Oriental things which is attributed to Méry (who collabo-
rated with him in several dramas) he was nevertheless
conversant with the secular myths and religions of
humanity, and 'even invented some himself if Gautier is
to be believed. He had absorbed the mystical éléments
of Bouddhism and Catholicism, and the spiritual essence
of the legends of Greece and Israël, as well as the influ-
ences of the modem visionaries down to Swedenborg.
' But you hâve no religion ' said some sceptical friend.
' No religion ? ' — answered Gérard — ' Why, I hâve seventeen
* . . . at least ! '
This rare genius was a man of most sweet and gentle
nature ; he was unassuming even to humility, and yet of a
proud and sensitive disposition. His clear complexion,
golden hair, grey eyes and finely-moulded features gave
him in the freshness of youth that appearance of physical
frailty allied to intellectual beauty which was the charm
of Shelley. But as Gérard, short in stature and near-
sighted, grew prematurely bald, he lost in early manhood
the attractiveness of his youth.
His characteristic condition of mind was a mixture of
extrême simplicity and subtle mysticism. He firmly
believed in the efficacy of talismans and exorcisms, drew
horoscopes with touching faith, and had withal a cunning
71
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
gift of observation, which is evinced in his writings by
excessive delicacy and vividness of description.
The first years of Gérard's literary life were spent in
that misérable lodging in the impasse du Doye^me which
he shared vvith nine other Bohemians, among whom were
Théophile Gautier, Arsène Houssaye, Edouard Ourliac,
Roger de Beauvoir and Alphonse Esquiros. Their lot
was occasionally enlivened by the visit of girls from the
Opéra, presided over by the Cydalise whose charms Gérard
has so tenderly sung. Gérard's habits of life were ab-
normal. He rarely slept in his bed-chamber, but wandered
about the streets of Paris night after night, and dozed
anywhere during the day. He was familiar with every
nook and corner of the city, and a friend of his nocturnal
wanderings tells how he took a childish pride in knowing
where to find the best brandy or blanquette or tea-punch ;
where a delicious cup of chocolaté could be had at two
o'clock in the morning ; and where the only good béer
in Paris was served by two red-haired damsels, on whom
Gérard would gaze with 'calm and ecstatic admiration'.
From time to time he had an access of insanity, and was
taken to an asylum at Passy. More than once he passed
a few months in this friendly retreat.
Gérard's literary work was intermittent, and yet he had
the essential virtue of an artist, for, although he never de-
veloped and completed any long poem or romance, he
turned and re-turned his thoughts until he had given them
their fullest expression. His wavering reason could not
face severe and solid work. He had planned a great
drama on the Queen of Sheba, that sphinx-like Balkis
or Belkiss whose fascinations seem to hâve fixed them-
selves on the imagination of so many French men of
letters during the Romantic era, and to whose inspira-
tion we owe the most pathetic and most entrancing of
7<i
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
ail short stories, Charles Nodier's Fcc aux Miettes. This
enchantress hauntcd Gérard like a passion. He plungcd
deeply into Oriental lore to saturate himself with the
warmth and colour of the legend, and for a time could
speak and think of nothing else. His mysticism led
him into another passion, no less œthereal and equally
innocent. He fell in love with Jenny Colon, a famous
vaudeville actress and singer of the day. A Icgacy of
some two thousand pounds which fell to him about the
same period enabled him to launch into a brief career of
luxury and dandyism, and gave him the means to express
his harmless affection. He addressed bouquets and love-
letters to his blonde deity, and founded a journal in
which to celebrate her theatrical talent, but it is not
known that he ever addressed a word to her in proper
person. Then he frittered away the remains of his small
fortune on sham curiosities and spurious antiquities. He
furnished his apartment with rococo carvings and Gothic
chairs and ecclesiastical ornaments, to fit the shrine for
his divinity. The climax of this mediseval lunacy was
his acquisition of a treasure — a * monumental bed ' of the
period of Diane de Poitiers, which he caused to be restored
and embellished for the nuptial chamber, and which in
some way his imagination associated with the inévitable
Queen of Sheba. His friends became alarmed by his
extravagance, his outbursts of bizarre enthusiasm, his
disordered speech. He was discovered one day trailing
a lobster about the Palais-Royal. He had attached a
blue ribbon to it, and reasoned eloquently with his friends
that a tame lobster was not a more ridiculous animal to
lead about than a dog or a cat. ' Lobsters neither bark
' nor bite ', said he, * and besides, they kiiow the secrets of the
' sea\'
In 1845 this strange enthusiast visited Turkey, Egypt
73
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
and the Holy Land. His records of travel dénote the
rare faculty of observation and sympathy which was in-
hérent to him, but he was in a state of hallucination ail
the time and idealised everything. At Cairo and Con-
stantinople he slept in the common khans and lived by the
way, lounging in the bazars and following no regular plan
of perambulation. In the bazar at Cairo he bought a
dark-skinned damsel — Abyssinian say some, Cinghalese
according to others — and married her ; but he deserted
her when he turned his face homevvards. After his return
to Paris he had a long spell of mental tranquillity (1846
to 1850) and did more active and healthy work than at
any period during his life. To this lucid interval belong
Aurélia^ on le Rêve et la Vie, one of his strangest and
most characteristic créations ; his Scènes de la Vie orientale,
contributed to the Revue des Deux Mondes and after-
vi^ards published as the Voyage en Orient ; and a number
of miscellaneous articles which hâve never been collected
from the magazines and journals in which they appeared.
His productions for the théâtre were also of some im-
portance. He furnished the libretto for Armand Lim-
nander's opéra of les Monténégrins, which had a brief
popularity. In conjunction with Méry, he produced at the
Odéon an adaptation of one of the oldest Hindu dramas,
The Terracotta Chariot, followed by r Imagier de Harlem,
a fantastic pièce written in mixed verse and prose.
Thèse, and several other plays to which he contributed,
had either a transient success or failed altogether.
Ail the prose work of Gérard which has been preserved
is of exceeding beauty, and everywhere impregnated with
the vague and vaporous poetical charm which was peculiar
to his subtle genius. His claim to rank among the
masters of French prose is beyond dispute.
To his later period belong also the best of the Chimères^
74
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
a séries of sonnets which vie with the finest examples of
rime riche in the French language. In thèse poems the
spiritual essence of diverse mythologies is fused with a
felicity which shews how thoroughly this dreamer of
dreams had deciphered the symbols of human worship.
Though often obscure in their intense mysticism, the
woven melody and luminous depth of some of his lines
are matchless. Like Cowper in The Castazvay and Gilbert
in the Ode imitée de plusieurs Psattmes, he found in the
shadow of imminent madness and death an efflorescence
of pathos which is not visible in his earlier poems. Much
of Gérard's poetry, however, instead of being crystallised
into verse, was diffused throughout his prose writings, as
in les Illuminés and les Filles du Feu.
Gérard had a terrible relapse of lunacy about the end
of 1854, and vaînly sought relief in a visit to the countries
beyond the Rhine. His dreamîness had degenerated into
melancholy, his melancholy into madness, and his mad-
ness became a settled despair. For two or three years his
existence had been a hopeless struggle with the blackest
destitution, and in the misery of his unfulfilled hopes and
failing intellectual powers he had recourse to stimulants.
One chill grey dawn in January witnessed the last scène of
this dreadful tragedy. Gérard's body was found by a rag-
gatherer hanging in the gutter near the foot of a narrow
staircase which led up from the squalid little 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 a
vent-hole above the staircase Gérard had hanged himself
with one of his antiquarian treasures, a cook's apron-cord
which he had bought for the gîrdle of Madame de
Maintenon, and which his delusion converted into the
Queen of Sheba's garter.
75
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
Gérard de Nerval was the most beautiful of ail the lost
soûls of the French Romance. With spiritual intelligence
at once lucid and visionary, he had a frail hold on the
material conditions of life. His kingdom was not of this
world, for he floated in a loftier atmosphère, which was
composed of the dreams and ideals of the human soûl in
ail âges. ' The best part of man ', he said, ' is that which
' thrills and vibrâtes in him '. No one who is responsive
to the sorrows of genius can refuse an émotion and a
tear to the fate of this créature so exquisitely gifted,
a victim to that sensé of the supernatural which to finer
spirits is at once the charm, the mystery and the scourge
of existence.
7^
GERARD DE NERVAL
April.
Once more tlie sun, the dusty ways,
A heaven of blue transparent haze,
And luminous walls and twilights long ;
Not yet grown green the gaunt trees wear
A rosy blush that hides the bare
Black boughs, forlorn of leaf and song.
The season irks and overpowers.
For only after daylong showers
Shall Spring, as from a radiant dream,
Rise garmented in green and rose,
Like a fresh nymph, with cheek that glows,
New-blown and smiling from the stream.
Avj'il.
{Odelettes rythmiques et lyriques?)
Neither Good Morning nor Good Night.
N^ KaXrjfMcpa vij'Tlpa KaXrj,
Morn is no more, nor yet the twilight trembles,
Though from our eyes love's paling splendours flee.
N^ K.a\r)fjL6pa vr]"flpa KaXrj.
But rosy dusk the rosy dawn resembles,
And, with Night's shadovv, shall oblivion be !
Ni bonjour ni bonsoir.
{Odelettes rythmiques et lyriques.)
77
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
Lost Lovers.
O death ! where are our lovers ?
They slumber in the tomb.
Their happier dream discovers
A dawn beyond this gloom.
Their converse is with angels.
In heaven's blue depths serene
They sing the sweet evangels
Of Mary, Virgin Queen !
O pure and sinless maiden !
White spouse whose bloom was brief !
Forsaken soûl, love-laden,
That withered, worn with grief!
The light of heavenly morrows
Smiled in your radiant eyes :
Quenched lamps of this world's sorrows
Relumed in lovelier skies !
Les Cydaliscs.^
(Poésies diverses^
* ' The ode entitled les Cydalises c&me to me, in spite of myself, in the form
of a song. I found at once the verse and the melody — and the latter, which
I hâve had noted down, has been recognised as very suitable to the words.
Ni bonjour ni bonsoir is composed on a Greek air. I am persuaded that
every poet could easily furnish the music for his own verses if he had some
knowledge of notation. ' (Za Bohème galante — Mus ù] ne. )
78
GERARD DE NERVAL
Anteros.
Why do I bear a breast so swollen with ire,
And on lithe neck a head indomitable ?
Against the conquering god, as ancients fable,
I turned his darts . . . Antœus was my sire !
Yea, I am he the Avenging Ones inspire ;
They branded on my brows their angry label,
And on the pale blood-sprinkled lips of Abel
Burns the red rage of Cain's relentless fire !
Jehovah, vanquished by his foes that fell,
Cursing their tyrant from the depths of hell,
Was Baàl my grandsire and my father Dagon . . .
Though thrice they plunged me in Cocytus wave,
The Amalekite, my dam, I shield and save,
Sowing again the teeth of the old dragon.
A ntéros.
{Les Chimères?)
79
GERARD DE NERVAL
Delphica.
Ultima Cuviaei venitjam carminis aetas. . . .
O Daphne ! knovvest thou that old-world chorus,
Beneath green olive or pale laurel sung,
Or myrtle, or vvhere trembling vvillows hung,
That song of love . . . with echoes still sonorous ?
Knowest thou this lofty temple towering o'er us,
Thèse cloven citrons bitter to thy tongue,
That cave, wherein the old dragon's seed once flung
Lies slain, now sleeping cold and void before us ?
The Gods shall corne again to stanch thy tears !
Time shall roll back the tide of ancient years :
Earth thrills even now with breath of things immortal.
Though yet the Sibyl of the Latin shrine
Slumbers beneath the arch of Constantine,
And not a tremor stirs the rigid portai !
Delfica.
{Les Chimères)
Tivoli : 1843.
80
GÉRARD DE NERVAL
Artemis.*
The thirteenth cornes again ! . . . She is, moreover,
The first and sole — or one sole moment seen :
O thou ! the first or last, art thou the queen ?
Art thou the king, thou sole or the last lover? . . .
Love thou vvhose love thy birth and hier did cover ;
She whom I loved loves me no less, I ween :
Death — or one dead — O ecstasy ! O teen !
On the dusk rose she holds dense shadows hover.
Pale Saint -Gudule, whose hands are full of flame,
Whose breast the purple-hearted rose doth cherish ;
Hast thou too found thy cross in wasted skies ? . . .
White roses fall ! Ye flout our Gods vvith shame :
VVhite phantoms fall from burning heavens and perish;
The saint of Hell is holier in thèse eyes !
Artémis.
{Les Chimères.)
* The meaning of this somewhat obscure sonnet may be elucidated by a
référence to Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sonnet on Vain Viriues and Charles
Baudelaire's sonnet on Femmes damnées. The ' dusk rose ' in the original is
rose-trémière or hoUyhock. Gérard calls Saint-Gudule ' a Neapolitan saint ',
but Saint-Gudula or Goule, the patron saint of Brussels, was of Flemish
origin. She 'consecrated her virginity to God ', and is commonly represented
in pictures with a lamp in her hand, because she was accustomed to leave her
father's castle in the early morning, accompanied only by her maid bearing a
lantern, to say prayers in a church two miles off. (See Alban Buckley's
Lives of the Fathers, Martyrs and other Principal Saints. James Duffy :
Dublin: iS66.)
F 8l
Petrus Borel.*
Born in Lyons, 1S09 . . . Died in Algeria, 1859.
Petrus Borel — the Lycanthrope and Basileophagus (as
he loved to call himself) — represents the most extravagant
phase of the French Romance of 1830 to 1840. When
Victor Hugo was boldly preparing to follow up the
triumph of Hcrnani with Marion de Lorme and le Roi
s'amuse^ to endow dead âges with life in Notre-Dame de
Paris and to give his lyrical wings a wider sweep in les
Feuilles d'automne ; when Honoré de Balzac was working
sixteen hours a day in his soHtary chamber in rue de
Tournon and shaping in his dreams the phantasmagoria
of the Comédie humaine ; when Hector Berlioz was re-
fashioning his Symphonie fantastique in Rome and fore-
shadowing in his overtures to Rob Roy and King Lear
the wonders of a new world of orchestration ; when Eugène
Delacroix was looked upon as a madman in art, while
Paul Delaroche was gazing within the friendly gâtes of
the Institute ; — Petrus Borel was engaged in a melodra-
matic attempt to give Bohemianism a local habitation
and a name on the heights of Montmartre.
In 1831 the tribesmen of 'The Tartars' Camp' pitched
their tents beneath the blue sky on an open space in rue
* Often and perhaps correctly written Petrus Borel. His full name was
Joseph-Pétrus Borel d'Hauterive, and he belonged to a noble family of
Dauphiny, which was reduced to poverty and driven into exile by its ré-
sistance to the Republican arniy during the Révolution.
82
PETRUS BOREL
Rochechouart. Their laws were summed up on a placard
in the prccincts : —
Clothing is prohibited.
They had no political opinions, other than a ferocious
Republicanism ; no social ideals and no defined aims in
literature or life. The only sentiments that bound the
Tartars together were the vanity of solecism and a blind
frenzy against the bourgeoisie with its pernicious influence
on art and letters. The members of the camp cursed
Society and lived ; they flourished daggers, danced and
gesticulated wildly, sneered at convention, and paraded a
pessimistic discontent with everybody and everything in
the worst of possible worlds. Expelled by their land-
lord for riotous conduct, they transferred their camp to a
building in rue d'Enfer, and celebrated the occasion by a
colossal feast There are sinister legends of drinking
cream from a skuU, and of a masked bail in which the
domino was the sole apparel. It is certain that when the
Tartars sallied into the streets, clothed but scarcely in
their right mind, they fell foui of the police and were
now and again locked up for disorderly conduct.
The misfortune of the Romantic Movement was that
most of the men thrown into its whirlpool belonged to
that morbid, nervous and demoralised génération which
was produced in France during and immediately after the
Revolutionary period. They were the children of frenzy
and enthusiasm begotten by the Revolt of the People, by
the sanguinary excesses of the Terror, by the transports
of Republican conquest and by the glories and despairs
of Napoleon's campaigns. The horrors of battle and
murder and sudden death brooded over their birth ; their
genius was the diseased efflorescence of that terrible epoch.
83
PETRUS BOREL
Many of them lived a feverish existence on the border-
land of insanity, and their moral and intellectual disarray
too often ended in violence and suicide. Charles Dovalle,
author oï le Sylphe (1830), was killed in a duel at twenty-
two years of âge. Louis Bertrand (i 807-1 841), whose
exquisite prose poems were published under the sinister
name of Gaspard de la Nuit, lived in abject misery, died
in a charity hospital, and after dissection was flung naked
into a coffîn and buried without consécration or ceremony.
Charles Lassailly, the phenomenally lean author of a
haggard romance entitled les Roueries de Tiàalph, notre
contemporain avant son suicide^ perished in a madhouse at
the âge of thirty-one, a victim to Balzac and black coffee.*
Edouard Ourliac, another of Balzac's hapless secretaries,
after a youth of lively gaiety and a discouraging struggle of
six years against ill-health and exhausted énergies, ended
his misérable existence in the hospital of the frères de
Saint- Jean de Dieu, at the âge of thirty-five. Louis-Charles
Barbara (1822- 1866) threw himself out of the window of
an asylum, after losing wife and child and reason in a
plague. Gustave Drouineau, prolific writer of romances
and plays, who saluted the Révolution of 1830 with his
Soleil de la Liberté, was consigned to a madhouse at
thirty-five, and lingered there for forty-three years. And
thèse were but a few of the obscure and ill-starred victims
of the time — the very names of many others hâve long
since gone down to dust and damned oblivion.
Petrus Borel was in many respects a remarkable man.
* Balzac had several young men of exceptional talent as secretaries.
Théophile Gautier and Jules Sandeau are said to hâve served him in this
capacity in their early days. Balzac's laborious System of revision necessi-
tated literary assistance in his novels and plays, and his service was a form
of slavery, recompensed by poor pay, disturbed slumbers, copions libations
of black coffee, and a novel system of cheap feeding, in which spinach and
a. purée of onions played the principal part.
84
PETRUS BOREL
There was a kind of method in his madness, and had
he not deliberately choscn the wrong way there is no
telling what he might hâve accomph'shed. At one time he
so împressed his fellows and followers that with one accord
they acclaimed him the chief of the Romantic Movement.
Even Théophile Gautier acknowledged his genius and
confidently expected that whenever he chose to assert him-
self Victor Hugo would hâve to hidc his diminished head.
But the poor lycanthrope was not destined to echpse the
supremacy of the real leader of the literary révolution.
Petrus Borel had a commanding présence and un-
common physical attractions. Of médium stature, his fine
features and long flowing beard gave him the appearance
of an Arab sheik or Hebrew patriarch. In his earlier
association with the Romantics he displayed a Castillan
dignity of manner, and even shewed a disposition to hold
aloof from his wilder comrades. His éducation had been
entirely neglected. He left school at fifteen years of âge
to serve his apprenticeship to an architect, and afterwards
took lessons in painting from Eugène Devéria. So
absolute was his destitution that he often lived in the
cellars of houses in course of construction, and fared on
potatoes cooked under ashes, with cold water for his drink.
When he established * The Tartars' Camp ' many of those
who rallied round him were young men of considérable
talent. Gérard de Nerval ; Théophile Dondey de Santeny
(known as Philothée O' Neddy) author of FeiL et Flamme ;
Joseph Bouchardy, the prolific playwright ; Jules Vabre,
the architect, notorious for his mad admiration of Shake-
speare ; Jean (otherwise Jehan) Duseigneur, the sculptor ;
Auguste Maquet (Augustus Mac-Keat) who collaborated
with the elder Dumas in les Trois Mousquetaires and
was destined to outlive ail his literary comrades save
Alphonse Brot ; Louis Boulanger, the designer ; Célestin
85
PETRUS BOREL
Nanteuil, a neglected artist of distinct ability ; Achille
Devéria, engraver, a brother of the better-known painter ;
and Louis (alias Ludovic, Aloysius or Aloïsius) Bertrand :
— thèse were a few among the many who gathered round
Borel, and listened to the impassioned expression of his
revolutionary opinions on art, or gravitated towards the
cénacle of les Jeunes-France, over which Théophile Gautier
and Gérard de Nerval held undivided sway. Ail were
steeped in poverty to the lips, and many a time they
turned from their dreams of famé to wish that ' the moon
' were a silver crown and the sun a golden pound'.* Petrus
Borel was the bright particular star of that sombre sky.
Bohemia was not the blind-alley to Borel which it was
to so many of his associâtes. He tried hard, but without
success, to make a name in literature and a living by jour-
nalism. In 1846 he obtained, by the influence of Théophile
Gautier, the appointment of Inspector of Colonisation at
Mostaganem in Algeria — for which his expérience in ' The
Tartars' Camp ' was perhaps his chief qualification — but
he was cashiered in 1848. Thanks to the intervention of
Marshal Bugeaud, he soon received a similar appointment
at 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 dis-
missal was his practice of writing the officiai reports in
rhyme. After a hopeless effort to live by agricultural labour
on his allotment of land, he died of cérébral congestion
from sunstroke, a disappointed and disappointing man.
It was his own fate which he had foreshadowed in his
finest pièce of verse, the prologue to Madame Putiphar : —
' Quand finira la lutte, et qui m'aura pour proie —
' Dieu le sait !^-du Désert, du Monde, ou du Néant ? '
* ' La lune écu d'argent, le soleil louis d'or.' — Alphonse Esquiros.
86
PETRUS BOREL
The mediocrity of Borel's poetry has cast a shade over
his réputation. He had no great lyrical gift, he lacked
imagination, he was incohérent in expression and penu-
rious of ideas ; and yet one or two of his pièces prove
that he could hâve donc better things. His Rhapsodies
(Levavasseur : Paris: 1832 — second édition, Bouquet:
Paris: 1833 — reprinted ?iS Rapsodies at Brussels in 1868)
are not rhapsodical in any sensé which implies dithyrambic
inspiration, although there are a few fine verses in the
volume. But those who say, with Catulle Mendès, that the
man was ' destitute of talent ' are strangely deceived, for he
was a prose-writer of singular genius.
Madame Putiphar (Ollivier : Paris: 1839) deserves to
be ranked with the most real and living historical
romances now extant. Why it has fallen upon neglect is
one of the wonders of literary injustice. There is no more
poignant and pathetic story in human fiction than the
adventures of those two young Irish lovers, cruelly
separated and persecuted because the husband shewed
himself insensible to the séductions of Madame de
Pompadour. The plot, taken from a chapter in the
miscellanies of Camille Desmoulins, is worked out with a
master-hand. Madame Putiphar is not a taie of ' lewdness
' swathed in sentiment', as the title might intimate, but a
secular reconstruction of heroic proportions, handled with
powerful reserve, full of vivid description and alive with
incident and character. The court of Pharaoh (Louis xv)
serves as a background to the picture of Patrick and
Déborah, faithful to one another through the scandais and
intrigues of the time ; the husband buried alive in an
unknown dungeon, the wife left a prey to libertine
assaults. Then comes the tragic death of their son, whose
life had been devoted to revenge for the fate of his father ;
followed by the ghastly meeting of man and wife — he
^7
PETRUS BOREL
mad from suffering, and she dying in agony at the sight
of him, after long years of hope and anxiety — when at last
he is liberated from his prison. Altogether, in spite of
occasional extravagances and affectations, one of the
great dramatic créations of the nineteenth century. The
closing chapter on the capture of the Bastille is a triumph
of vigorous description, worthy of Carlyle, and the fitting
crown to a work of genius.
Madame Putiphar was written in Champagne, during a
period of sane resolution and laborious energy, but in the
midst of such black misery that Borel had from time to
time * to issue forth from his den and glean his nourish-
* ment in the country-side '. He was paid 200 francs for
this masterpiece of true romantic art. Like Milton and
Landor, he had his own ideas about orthography, and
Madame Putiphar was written thereafter. A fine reprint
of the work was published in 1877 by Léon Willem of
Paris, with a préface by Jules Claretie, but the two original
volumes are scarce, and were so little known that when
the editor visited the National Library in Paris to consult
them he found that they had been lying there for more
than a quarter of a century, unopened and uncut.
Among the miscellaneous literary works of Petrus
Borel are Champ av ert : Contes immoraux {i^-^Z) ) ^ trans-
lation of Roôinson Crusoe (1836) with a life of Daniel
Defoe by Philarète Chasles and illustrations by Nanteuil,
Devéria, Boulanger and Napoléon Thomas ; and a grand
romantic drama, entitled le comte Alarcos, which has never
been published. In most of his writings there is évidence
of a powerful satirical talent and of the capacity to create
living character. He had ail the gifts of a successful man
of letters, save one. . . .
' Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel '.
88
PETRUS BOREL
To Iseult ... a medallion.
U amour chaste agrandit les âmes.
Enchanting bronze that gives the soûl love's fever,
Green emerald, vvhose radiant beauties shine ;
Iseult, angel with saddened looks divine,
Oh ! could such bliss be given to me for ever,
Only to press my lips on thine !
Chaste ecstasy, my soul's one aspiration,
For never durst thèse fingers with désire
Touch one so pure, nor thrill her with love's fire ;
I gaze on her with such hushed exultation
As pilgrims glimpse the holy spire.
So much her beauty on my soûl holds power,
So in my heart her flame doth purely burn,
So seems her mouth to me a holy urn ;
So do I worship, as a drooping flower
Towards the golden dawn doth turn.
No blossom e'er disclosed so sweet a chalice ! —
Furl up thy soûl, no longer filled with fears ;
Passionless as the grave thy face appears :
Calm is thy look, that chases shame and malice,
Calm as the everlasting years.
Abide, while exile lasts, thou heavenly angel !
Sombre, but pure as snow, with us abide !
Even in the crowd the friend leaves not thy side ;
He loves, reveal to him thy dreamed evangel,
And he thy wandering feet shall guide !
89
PETRUS BOREL
No more, with thee, is solitude propitious ;
Figure divine, thy visage sweet and young
Is like to one beloved, whose nectared tongue
Is in my heart a sérénade delicious,
By soft and fragrant breezes sung
. *
Aîi Médaillon diseiilt.
{Les Rhapsodies^
Odelet.
Would that I had lived i' the Middle Ages
Days that bards and troubadours désire.
Then the singer served with love for wages,
Sung as linnets sing in golden cages,
Slave of love and of the lyre !
Song and svvord to him were wine and wassail ;
AU his wealth beneath his cloak he wore ;
Song that welcomed him in bower and castle,
Sword that was his lady's loyal vassal,
Brandished at her word he bore.
Odelette.
{Les Rhapsodies.)
The Old Breton Minstrel.
Corne, children, come, the maple-branches tremble,
Dance, Bretons, to the sound of the binew ;
To hear my plaintive song with smiles assemble ;
Once, in life's spring, I danced and sang like you.
* The last verse, omitted in this translation, is in praise of Jehan Dusei-
gneur, the sculptor of Isetilt.
90
PETRUS BOREL
Cold death to-morrow may benumb my fingers,
For now, grown frail, I tottcr towards the grave. . . .
Corne then and learn, while yet your minstrel lingers,
The old refrains that to your youth I gave.
Remember ! every son of hers remembers
How Breton soil was once * the field of rest ' ;
How Gaul sent forth, as fire from smouldering embers,
A thousand heroes from her magie breast.
Freedom, whose stripling tree thèse shores once
nourished,
Over your youth her branches doth expand ;
Let bold Duguesclin's héritage be cherished,
Virgin of tyrants is our native land !
Dolmen and menhir, ruins of your glory,
Scattered along those granité ridges lie.
Within thèse forests bard and druid hoary
Revealed to your proud sires their destiny !
Wild days ! when fiercely against Caesar's ravage
The Roman saw her warriors issue forth ;
Wild speech ! with thèse same Celtic accents savage
His clansmen cheered the Chieftain of the North !
But now the light Aies. Darker on the frondage
The night-shades fall, the mist clings round your
eaves ;
Soon the black vvizards, waking from day's bondage,
Shall vvind the unholy spell that darkness vveaves.
Fly ! fly ! for I discern on the far mountains
The elves that dance round the wild peulvan-ring ;
The kelpies shout and plunge in the cold fountains :
Fly, Breton folk, ère midnight spreads her wing !
Le vieux Ménétrier breton : Villanelles.
{Les Rhapsodies.)
91
Alfred de Musset.
Born in Paris, iSio , . . Died in Paris, 1S57.
The ease and sprightliness of Musset's lyrical talent, the
versatility of his character and the personal émotion
which breathes through his verse hâve contributed to
give him a large place in French poetical literature, but
perhaps scarcely so large a place as he deserves,
Lamartine hardly deigned to notice him. Victor Hugo
affected to treat him as one of those ephemeral artists
who owe their notoriety to the caprices of fashion, and
yet Heine held in 1840 that Musset was as far above
Victor Hugo in poetry as was George Sand in prose.
Jules Janin classed him with living poets of the third
rank, and Sainte-Beuve valued him likewise ; although
after Musset's death the author of the Causeries du lundi
assigned to him a much higher literary rank that he was
willing to allow him when alive. Like Byron and Men-
delssohn, Alfred de Musset seems to possess an individual
fascination which is proof against the vicissitudes of taste
and the glamour of great names ; and many admirers of
French poetry will be disposed to agrée with Théophile
Gautier and Maxime Du Camp in placing him among the
three masters of his art in the nineteenth century.
Louis-Charles-Alfred de Musset was descended from
an old but decayed aristocratie family of Vendôme. His
father, Victor de Musset (sometimes designated Musset de
Pathay), held a lucrative appointment in the offices of the
Ministry of War and was known in letters as an editor of
92
ALFRED DE MUSSET
the Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Had Alfred de
Musset been born, like Henry Miirger, in the slums of
Paris, he vvould certainly hâve found his way to the
quartier latin, for he was a Bohemian by nature. As it
was, he blossomed in early youth into a dandy. He was
dressed by the fashionable tailor. He gambled at the
clubs, he rode in the Bois, he ran deeply into debt ; his
nights were passed with boon companions or at the
shrine of davinosa Venus. He was the spoiled darling of
frivolous women in the choice salons of Paris.
Musset's first prose work, the Contes d'Espagne et d Italie,
was published in the year of glory 1830. He was already
known in literary and aristocratie circles as the author
of some promising poems. The encouragement of the
brothers Deschamps, and later of Sainte-Beuve and Victor
Hugo, with the practical assistance of François Buloz,
the celebrated editor, helped him on his way. Chateau-
briand and Byron had more influence than any of the
Parisian poets of his own time upon Musset. He followed
neither Lamartine nor Victor Hugo ; indeed, he prided
himself on his individuality* and rallied Emile Deschamps
and others on their servile adulation of the leader of the
Romantic Movement
For many years the famé of Musset was almost con-
fined to the fashionable assemblies of Paris, at a time
when it was customary for poets to read their own verses
to idolising circles. But he was also the poet of youth ;
and his exquisite sensibility, his tender scepticism and !
his fascinating melancholy were made to charm the heart f
of the âge. In ten years he sent forth ten volumes of
poems and plays, among the latter those captivating
Comédies and Proverbs, so full of sparkling wit, which are
* ' Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois dans mon verre.'
{La Coupe et les Lèvres. )
93
ALFRED DE MUSSET
in their kind the best things ever written. It was only
in 1847, when hewas already exhausted and disheartened,
that his famé began to extend. The tardy performance
of Un Caprice at the Comédie-Française disclosed a brilliant
and accomplished playwright, and one whose works hâve
never since been entirely banished from the national
stage.
The popularity of the poet did not gain much by his
theatrical success ; indeed it had been steadily declining,
and the vapid prose and feeble verse vvhich he doled out
during the last fifteen years of his life shewed that the
spring of his genius was already drained dry. His capri-
cious disposition, rapidly passing from one extrême to
another, rebelled against patient labour ; his excesses of
passion and the reckless dissipation of his énergies
hurried him on to untimely old âge. Since the death of
his father had thrown him too early on his own resources
his life had been an incessant struggle with ways and
means. He never learned to work for a livelihood, and
the small revenue which he derived from his writings and
from a government appointment as librarian was miser-
ably disproportionate to his extravagant scale of living.
A long period of physical prostration and intellectual
melancholy ended in prématuré death from disease of the
heart, an affection from which he had suffered for many
years.
Heine's maundering sentiment on the liaison of Alfred
de Musset and George Sand lias cast over this épisode of
the poet's life a halo which fades away in the fierce light
of friendly indiscrétion and hostile criticism. Much may
be forgiven to the first love of two beautiful young soûls,
however little their union owes to the blessing of the
church and the sanction of the community, but it would
be difficult to find anything idyllic in this amour of the
94
ALFRED DE MUSSET
experienced woman of thirty years with the precocious
libertine of tvventy-three. It is only too certain that ail
the morbid violence of Musset's emotional character was
aggravated by that visit to Italy in the vvinter of 1833-34
from which he returned to his mother's house with *a
' diseased body, a dejected soûl, and a bleeding heart '.
His Confcssien d'un Enfant du Siècle (1836) is an inco-
hérent record of the transports and disillusions of this
sufifering soûl ; and the painful self-analysis of the con-
fession is not redeemed by its literary style, which can by
no means claim to be a model in the language which
boasts so many masterpieces of autobiographical prose.
And no worse service was ever rendered to Musset's
memory than the vainglorious and saddening notice of
the poet's life published by his elder brother Paul, author
of Lui et Elle.
Musset's legacy of literary work is a considérable one,
for he was a feverishly rapid if at no time a steady
worker. He had the gift of inspiration, and would throw
off his verses beneath the chestnut-trees of the Tuileries
gardens or in his bed-chamber after a noisy supper-
party. His mobile and impressionable tempérament is
reflected in thèse verses, which hâve ail the fervour of
youth and the effervescence of precocious passion. Musset
has left no immortal poem of singular beauty, like The
Ancient Mariner or Hyperion ; but if his verse lacks
originality in structure and rhyme, and seldom reveals the
dévotion of an artist to perfection of form, there is often a
freshness of conception, a spontaneous ease in expression,
and withal a Hght fantastic grâce which has its own
peculiar charm. He had no firmly-defined ideals and
little spiritual force. His verse, so full of sensibility, is
often tinged with the melancholy of a spirit which
was out of tune with the world and disappointed
95
ALFRED DE MUSSET
of aims which might easily hâve been fulfiUed had his
capacity for assiduous toil been equal to his inspiration.
This careless singer has nevertheless left more fine lines
than any French poet of his génération, and by pure
genius has carved out verses far beyond the subtle
and laboured art of Théophile Gautier. This tormented
poet has thrilled strings which even the proud hand
of Victor Hugo essayed in vain to sweep, and with a
touch has drawn tears from deeps that to the dark soûl
of Baudelaire were as a hidden spring and as a foun-
tain sealed. It is by this personal note of true émotion,
in the midst of much that is frivolous and superficial,
that his poetry lives, and with its blended grâce and
feeling justifies the félicitons phrase of Heine : ' The
' Muse of comedy has kissed him on the lips, and the
' Muse of tragedy on the heart'.
96
ALFRED DE MUSSET
The Night in May.
THE MUSE.
Take thy lute, poet, kiss my lips and sing ;
The vvild-rose feels her buds begin to swell.
The winds grow warm ; this night gives birth to Sprhig :
The wagtail, while the h'ngering dawn doth dwell,
Loves on the first green bush to rest her wing ;
Take thy lute, poet, kiss my h'ps and sing !
THE POET.
How black below the valley lies !
Methought I saw a veiled form rise
And hover on the woodland gray.
Along the mead she seemed to pass ;
Her light foot skimmed the flowering grass :
Like a strange vision, but alas !
Fainter it grows, and fades away.
THE MUSE.
Take thy lute, poet ; from her perfumed vest
Night shakes the zéphyr on the sward and sighs.
The rose, a jealous virgin, shuts her breast x
In which the pearly hornet swooning dies.
Dream thou of the beloved, while ail thingà drowse !
To-night beneath the sombre linden-boughs'
The beam of sunset leaves a sweet farewell.
To-night ail things shall flower : immortal earth
Is filled with fragrance, love and murmuring mirth,
Like the blest couch where two young lovers dwell.
G 97
ALFRED DE MUSSET
THE POET.
Why leaps my heart with sudden throbs ?
What in my bosom swells and sobs
With fears that on my sensés brood ?
Did not a hand strike on my door ?
Why does my dwindling lamp-light pour
Its splendeur in a sudden flood ?
God ! through my limbs what tremors run !
Who cornes ? Who knocks ? Who calls me ? None !
The hour-bell sounds ; I am alone :
O poverty ! O solitude !
THE MUSE.
Take thy lute, poet, for the vvine of youth
Ferments even now as with a God's désire.
My troubled breast is torn with joy and ruth,
And parchëd winds hâve set my lips on fire.
See, wayward child, my beauty shines unveiled !
Has our first kiss no memory that charms,
As when, touched by my wing, with cheeks that paled
And tearful eyes, thou swoonëdst in thèse arms ?
Then I consoled thee for a bitter grief!
Alas ! so young, yet dying for love's sake.
Console me now, I die of hopes too brief;
I can but pray to live till morning break.
THE POET.
Is thine the voice that calls my name,
And art thou corne, O my poor Muse ?
O my flower ! my immortal flame !
Sole being faithful even in shame,
Whose love of me my love renews !
98
ALFRED DE MUSSET
Welcome again, my blonde delight,
Mistrcss and sister svveet thou art !
I feel thee near, through deepest night,
Bathed in thy golden garments bright
With beams that steal into my heart.
THE MUSE.
Take thy lute, poet. I, the immortal love,
Hâve watched this night thy silence and thy tears,
And now, as when her nestlings call the dove,
Descend, to weep with thee, from highest sphères.
Thou sufferest, dear friend. Though lonely grief
Consume thee, though despaîr thy soûl destroy ;
Though love, such as earth wears, was ail too brief,
A shadow of delight, a spectral joy :
Corne, sing to God ; sing in thy thoughts again,
Sing thy lost pleasure, sing thy vanished pain ;
Soar, in a kiss, towards the unknown world.
Awake at will the echoes of thy lyre,
Tell us of glory and gladness and désire,
And let thy fancies float in dreams unfurled.
Discover realms that give our woes surcease ;
Fly hence, we are alone, the world is ours ;
Green Caledon, dusk Italy, fair Greece
My mother, with her honied crown of flowers,
Argos, red Pteleon of the hecatombs,
And Pelion's naked brow that glows and glooms ;
And Messa the divine, delight of doves.
And blue Eurotas, and, like silvery light
Glassed in the gulf whose wave the pale swan loves,
White Oloôsone and Camyra white.
Tell me what songs shall lull our golden dream !
From what mysterious source our tears shall stream !
99
ALFRED DE MUSSET
When this day's sunrise smote thy lids with dawn,
What seraph, bending pensive from above,
Shook lilac-blossoms from his robe of lawn
And, whispering low, breathed on thycouch his love?
Shall we sing songs of joy, or grief, or hope ?
Drench in their blood the steel-embattled ranks?
Suspend the lover on his silken rope ?
Fling on the winds the foam o' the courser's flanks ?
Say from what hand unnumbered lamps above
Lighten by night and day in heavenly dômes
The holy oil of life and deathless love ?
Cry ' Tarquin, 'tis thine hour, the shadow cornes ! ' ?
Plunge and pluck up the pearl from deepest seas ?
Watch the kid browse on bitter ebony-trees ?
Lead Melancholy to the skiey shores ?
Follow on scarpëd hills the hunter's horn ?
The hind beseeches him, looks and implores ;
Her heath-bed waits ; her favvns are newly born :
He stoops, he slays her, and the quarry throws,
Still quivering, to his hounds that pant and reek.
Or shall we paint the virgin's crimsoned cheek
When, followed by her page, to mass she goes,
And, by the matron's side, with absent air,
Forgets on half-closed lips her pious prayer?
Trembling she hears, hard-echoing on the ground,
The spurs of a bold cavalier resound.
Shall we command the heroes of old France
To mount, full-armed, their many-crenelled towers.
And from oblivion wake the rude romance
Their glory taught to antique troubadours ?
Swathe the soft elegy in white ? Or woo
Wild war, and bid the man of Waterloo
Boast how his scythe mowed down the mortal bands,
Before the herald of eternal night
lOO
ALFRED DE MUSSET
Swooped wîth swift wing on the green island-hcight,
And on that iron heart crossed his pale hands ?
Shall our proud satire to the gibbet nail
ALFRED DE MUSSET
What pain soever youth nursed in his core,
Let it find issue ; sacred is the sore
Black angels opened in thy heart's profound ;
THE POET.
O voice from the abysmal deeps,
Lay not on me this last command !
Man leaves no writing on the sand
When at its hour the north-wind sweeps.
k\f? \ There was a time when love, in sooth,
/\Ay .w Rose ceaseless on my h'ps, and youth
!>- ^ Was ready, like a bird, to sing ;
/\ '^\jjjl ^ But I hâve suffered, as through fire,
\ a>-''ç ^ ^ And should my silent griefs désire
»yy, ^ * #" To speak their anguish on my lyre
^.■^' Their lightest breath would break the string.
La Nuit de mai.
{Poésies nouvelles^
May, 1835.
103
1840.
House wiih a paramouf so young ?
Chanson.
(^Poésies nouvelles?)
On One Dead.
She too was fair, if sombre Night,
Laid in the chapel cold and bare
To moveless slumber by the might
Of Michael-Angelo, is fair.
She too was kind, if kind they be
That passing drop from open palms
A gift God does not deign to see ;
If, without pity, gold is alms.
She thought, if sweet and silvery tones
Of a voice softly murmuring naught
Like a brook babbling o'er the stones,
May seem the utterance of thought.
104
ALFRED DE MUSSET
She prayed, if two bewitching eyes,
Now turned to earth with pensive air,
Novv raised with rapture to the skies,
Deserves indeed the name of prayer.
She might hâve smiled, if the furled flower,
That lies yet in the bud unblown,
Could open to the freshening shower,
And breeze that woos it and is flown.
She might hâve wept, if once the hand
On her cold bosom coldly pressed
Had felt the human clay expand,
With dews of heaven embalmed and blessed.
She might hâve loved, had not her pride,
Doomed like a useless lamp to dart
Its radiance by the coffin-side,
Kept vigil in her barren heart.
She never lived and she is dead.
Hers was life's semblance and life's look :
From listless hands she dropped the book,
No line of which she ever read.
Sur une Morte.
{Poésies nouvelles^
October, 1842.
105
Théophile Gautier.
Born in Tarbes (Hautes- Pyrénées) 1811 . . . Died in Paris, 1872.
Although Pierre-Jules -Théophile Gautier happened to
be born in Gascony, he was of Provençal origin, but he
had none of therestless garrulity and superficial véhémence
which are characteristic of his race. He came to Paris
when 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-fellows, and
along with Arsène Houssaye, Camille Rogier, and one or
two other Bohemians of the Romantic troop, thèse two
poets founded their cénacle in a squalid lodging in rue du
Doyenné, in the quartier latin. There Théophile Gautier
passed his first youth, with * its joyful miseries, its gênerons
' follies, its tender escapades and its charming faults, which
' are better than ail the virtues of riper âge '. There, too,
with hard study of the early French poets and unvvearied
patience in imitating the Romantic masters, he wrote
his Comédie de la Mort (published 1838) in the midst of
poverty, wretchedness and obscurity, not unvisited be-
times by the bright présence of that graceful Cydalise
whose form and features the genius of Camille Rogier has
immortalised.
The sane balance of Gautier's intellectual faculties saved
him from the fate of Gérard and Bertrand ; his capacity
for continuons work preserved him from the misfortunes
of Borel and Baudelaire; and yet no poet of the Romantic
period has written of thèse children of genius and disaster
106
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
with so much sympathy and vvith such discernment as
Théophile Gautier. Nor did any man of letters of his
time remain so faithful to grand ideals of art and duty as
he, long after the advent of Baudelaire and Flaubert had
brought nevv aims and new forces into French literature.
The Romantic Movement, as represented by the dramas
of Victor Hugo, found its foremost and one of its most
vigorous champions in Théophile Gautier. He belongs
to the legend of the Romance, with his grave sallow coun-
tenance and long black hair, as he vvitnessed the first
performance of Hernani^ wearing the famous crimson
plush waistcoat which was regarded as the oriflamme of
the fight for freedom of literary speech. But Gautier
himself was not much given to sentimental extravagance.
His literary style évinces a more scrupulous regard for
measure and restraint than that of the most part of his
militant contemporaries. Perhaps his cold control and
his culture of the plastic arts saved him from the excess
of zeal which inevitably accompanies a revolutionary
movement in letters.
Gautier's life was one of ceaseless and indefatigable
labour, broken only by excursions to Spain (1840) Algeria
(1845) Italy and the Levant (1850-52) and Russia (1860).
So little of adventure and incident relieved his existence
that Baudelaire was justified in denoting it as 'an immense
' spirituality '. His own simple needs, and the family
obligations which he fulfilled with heroic effort, doomed
him to the slow martyrdom of journalism. His work for
the newspaper press, that modem monster which, as
Déranger laments, has ' devoured so many young talents ',
was remunerated by a pittance which would be scorned
by a contributor of the same cahbre to one of the great
French or English journals of the présent time. There is
a world of satire in the placard which was posted in his
107
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
room : — ' Daily newspapers appear every day '. The
énergies thrown into this exacting and exhaustîng toil
absorbed much of the thought and feeling which might
hâve been devoted to the création of great and durable
Works of art, such as the Greek dramas which he dreamed
and never achieved, and a long-cherished translation of the
Mahâbhârata into French verse. And yet he could hâve
escaped from this drudgery but for his conscientious love
of art and literary independence. He threw up his appoint-
ment on the Presse^ and incurred the scorn of Emile de
Girardin, rather than prostitute his pen by becoming the
^■âXà attaché oi certain théâtres, and so enriching himself
by partial criticism. The sacrifice of this rare artist to
the daily needs of existence is one of the most unfortunate
examples of the difficulty of living on the wages of litera-
ture in days when any kind of meretricious talent may com-
mand a fortune if it falls in with the fashion or the fancy
of the hour. Time brought no relief to Théophile Gautier.
The Révolution of 1848, on which so many literary
fortunes rose, was a disaster for him. It plunged him into
even deeper poverty than he had known before, and his
life thenceforth was one of constant anxiety, harassed to
the day of his death by the demands of creditors and
relations.
An unauthorised collection of Gautier's dramatic
articles was published by Hetzel of Leipzig between 1858
and 1860, under the appropriate title of Histoire de l'Art
dramatique e7i France depuis vingt-cinq ans. Thèse criti-
cisms cover an immense range of subjects, and show that
in his ephemeral work the author's conscientious spirit, as
well as his instinct of style, never failed him. Even when
dealing with music, of which he had absolutely none in his
soûl, and which he once paradoxically described as ' the
* least disagreeable and most expensive of noises ', his
108
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
înnate taste and cultivated judgment saved him from the
expression of philistine opinions.
Notwithstanding his close application to work, and a
certain proud reserve of disposition, this great artist was
always accessible to his literary friends. His natural
attitude was one of génial dignity and stately ease. He had
the modesty of a genuine man of letters, without pose
or pretension ; and was indeed a living vindication of
Heine's aphorism that ' Simplicity is always the obbligato
* accompaniment of genius'. He had the dislike of an
idealist to society. His healthy and robust disposition
shrank from morbid complaining ; ail ungainly objects,
and ail those things that pertain to the hideous parapher-
nalia of death, were hateful to him, It is characteristic in
this respect that Gautier, with ail his wit, had no great sensé
of humour, although he handled the grotesque and satirical
éléments in literature with considérable skill. He was
inclined to despise laughter as a disfigurement of facial
beauty and a disturbance to contemplative repose.
Théophile Gautier was an omnivorous reader. Like
Victor Hugo and Balzac he had a large vocabulary and a
wonderful faculty for the assimilation of rare words. He
was the virtuoso of French prose. His knowledge of the
arts gave him a command of uncommon technical terms ;
he held the key to architecture, archaeology and heraldry ;
and he had an insight into the obscure sciences. His
marvellous memory and systematic method made literary
composition an easy task to him, and although his fastidi-
ous regard for style grew into a passion he wrote much
that scarcely needed revision, so dififering from Balzac,
who spent in anticipation ail the earnings of his pen and
ruined himself in corrections and recast of copy. It may
be that the verbal direction of Gautier's talent was to a
certain degree determined by his comparative poverty of
109
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
ideas, but his admirers are perhaps consoled by the recol-
lection that in literature ideas are plentiful and artists few.
He was not a member of the French Academy.
Théophile Gautier's vvork, when the conditions of his
life are discounted, is of considérable volume and value.
He never wrote a careless and rarely an uninteresting line.
Le Roman de la Momie and le Capitaine Fracasse (planned
between 1830 and 1840, but not published until 1863) are
novels full of vivid description and romantic incident. In
la Morte amoureuse and other short stories he displays
that subtle and beautiful charm of style which has its
masterpiece in Mademoiselle de Maupin (1835), oi^^ of the
glories of French prose :
* , . . the golden book of spirit and sensé,
* The holy writ of beauty '
It was in this book, idolised by Svvinburne and admired
by such diverse men of letters as Balzac and Baudelaire,
that Gautier's incomparable prose first assumed definite
shape. Written in the full flood of the Romance, it came
like a plea for the severest and purest beauty amid the
violent excesses of that movement.
Gautier's records of travel {Tra las Mo?ites: 1841 —
Italia: 1850) share with those of Gérard de Nerval the
honour of having first impressed upon French prose that
Oriental touch which is visible in the colouring of Eugène
Delacroix and Prosper Marilhat ; in the music of Félicien
David and Camille Saint-Saëns ; and, with a more accen-
tuated note of exotic splendour in the verse of Baudelaire,
Leconte de Lisle and Heredia. The keen observation of
Gautier revealed to him the peculiar beauty and charm of
each new country and people, and his consummate art
enabled him to create that proper atmosphère which is
everything in a book of travel.
IIO
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
Théophile Gautier's early poems date from 1830. They
dénote a great inhérent gift of versification and deal with
a wide variety of thèmes. Some of them were inspired
by the enthusiasm of Byron, whose fervent influence spread
like an épidémie ail over Europe, and found even in Russia
a congenial response in the songs of that strangely original
genius Pouschkin and in the gloomy imagination of
Lermontoff. Albertus: ou l'âme et le péché {iZn) was the
chief outcome of this mania in Gautier, and, like Alfred
de Musset in Rolla, the French follower out-Heroded
Herod without ever reaching that sublime height to which
Byron occasionally rose with a single sweep from the
wastes of persiflage and the depths of cynicism. In 1845
Gautier published ail the poems which he had composed
during the romantic fever of 1830- 1840, and thenceforth
devoted himself to the cultivation of his individual style.
In Émaux et Camées (185 2- 1856) he revealed himself as
the suprême artificer of his time in verse. No single
volume of French poetry contains so many flawless pièces,
excepting, perhaps, the Fleurs du Mal, and Baudelaire's
are more uniform in tone and tempérament. Alike in
their perfection of form and in their verbal beauty the
Emaux et Camées are unrivalled as works of art. They
recall the most finished achievements of Tennyson and
Rossetti in their absolute shapeliness. But, admirable as
they are in artistic structure, there is no grandeur of con-
ception or depth of passion in them. They are well
named enamels and cameos, for they possess a luminous
beauty of colour and a crisp delicacy of outline which be-
long to the lapidary's art, and are the work of a carver
and jeweller of words rather than that of a spontaneous
poet. There are no long lines pregnant with powerful
thought, but within their limited range they are wonder-
fully rich and fanciful, and often attain in the octosyllabic
III
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
line a firmness and dignity not to be found even in the
favourite alexandrine of other French poets.
Théophile Gautier, worn out with life-long labour and
partly paralysed, died not long after the horrors of the
siège of Paris had been aggravated by the slaughters
of the Commune. His death was commemorated by
the publication of an album of verse {Le Tombeau de
TJiéophile Gautier — Alphonse Lemerre: Paris: 1873)
modelled on the fashion of the sixteenth century.
This poetical tribute from no fewer than eighty men
of letters was headed by the vénérable name of Victor
Hugo. Algernon Charles Swinburne sung the praîses
of Gautier in French, English, Latin and Greek ; John
Payne in French and English ; and there were contribu-
tions by Svviss, Hungarian, Italian and Provençal poets
in their accustomed speech. The fine medallion on
Gautier's tomb, an etching of vvhich serves as frontispiece
to this mémorial volume, gives an excellent presentment
of his Olympian head and calm countenance, so expres-
sive of serene reflection.
112
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
Unfaithfulness.
Hère is the elm vvhose swinging shadow
The well-known footpath keeps,
The eglantine that scents the meadow,
The wood where silence sleeps ;
And hère we loved to sit alone
At twilight on the bench of stone.
Hère is the bower that breathes the fragrance
Of clustering lilacs twined,
Wherein, when weary of love's vagrance,
Together we reclined ;
Where, under coronals of flowers,
We watched the flight of sultry hours.
Hère is the pool that breaks in bubbles
When silvery fishes swim,
Where oft the frog leaps forth and troubles
Its rippling surface dim ;
Hère, as of old, beneath the wave,
Their feet the reeds and rushes lave.
Hère, as of old, the spring-flowers sprinkle
The turf of velvet green ;
And hère the clambering periwinkle
To kiss the sun doth lean,
Turning, half-filled with honey-dew,
Her chalice clear as heavenly blue.
H 113
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
Hère, as of old, the fluttering swallows
Skim by the donjon's gloom,
The swan a self-same circle follows
And smooths her pure white plume : —
Soft sward below, blue sky above,
And nothing changed save you, my love !
Infidélité : Élégies.
{Poésies \ 1830- 183 2.)
A Verse of Wordsworth.
No verse I know, save one, of Wordsworth's art,
That rankled so in Byron's bitter leaven,
One verse that echoes ever in my heart
Of ' spires whose silent finger points to heaven '.
It served as epigraph (how strange a place !)
Heading a chapter from the loves impure
Of some frail girl ; the book a foui disgrâce
Drawn from the Dead Ass by a hand obscure.
This fresh and pious verse, among the loves
Of a lewd volume lost, refreshed my sight
Like a wild blossom shed, or like a dove's
White plume on the black puddle dropped in flight.
Now, when the Muse rebels, when to no sign
Of Prospero's wand will Ariel's wing be given,
I fringe my margins with a quaint design
Of spires whose silent finger points to heaven.
Un Vers de Wordsworth.
{Fantaisies?^
114
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
Secret Affinities.
A Pantheistic Madrigal.
Built in an antique temple high,
Two blocks of marble, lit with beams
In the blue depths of Attic sky,
For âges blended their white dreams.
Twin drops congealed in the same shell,
Tears of the foam whence Venus sprung,
Two pearls, plunged in the deep sea-swell,
Held converse in an unknown tongue.
What time the Moorish kings held sway
In bright Alhambra, blown beneath
The ever-weeping fountain-spray
Two roses mixed their fragrant breath.
In Venice, on the radiant dôme,
Two rose-tipped doves of snowy white
Ordained love's immémorial home,
And nestled there a summer night.
Marble, and pearl, and rose, and dove,
Decay and die. Time melts the stone,
The pearl dissolves, the flower of love
Falls withered, and the bird is flown.
Their dust, through changes manifold
Dispersed, earth's deep alembic brings
To enrich the universal mould
Whence Nature shapes ail beauteous things.
115
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
By transmutation slow and strange,
In diverse forms they recompose ;
White marbles into white limbs change,
On rosy lips reblooms the rose.
Once more the dove with amorous coo
The fresh young heart of love beguiles,
And pearls in clustered teeth renew
Their whiteness wreathed in radiant smiles.
Thence hidden sympathies hâve birth
In throbs imperious and sweet,
That teach the secret of the earth
To soûls when sister soûls they greet.
Responsive to the spell that lies
In perfume, colour, gleam or grâce,
Atom to kindred atom Aies,
Like bee that seeks the flower's embrace.
Remembering thus their ancient dreams
On temple or in sea beheld,
And flowery converse near the streams
That from their crystal sources welled ;
And tremulous kiss and thrill of wing
On dômes grown golden in the sun,
The faithful atoms, vibrating,
Désire and strive to blend in one.
Forgotten love from long éclipse
Comes forth in vague new birth at last ;
The blossom breathes on vermeil lips
Afresh the fragrance of the past.
U6
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
The jewelled row that smiles cnshrine
Recalls its splendeur to the pearl ;
Thrilled marble sees its beauty shine
In the white bosom of a girl.
A whisper to the dove reveals
Soft echoes of her former moan,
And love-dissolved résistance feels
The lover risen in one unknown.
Thou before whom I thrill and glow !
What wave, what shrine, what dôme, what bower,
Knew us, in âges long ago,
As pearl or marble, dove or flower ?
Affinités secrètes : madrigal panthéiste.
{Émaux et Camées^
Ode in the manner of Anacreon.
Wouldst thou, O poet, hâve me love thee,
Bid not, vvith too much fervour, fly
My timid love that soars above thee,
Like a dove in shame's rosy sky.
The bird, in the hushed alley lighted,
Starts trembling at the faintest stir ;
My passion, wingëd too, is frighted
And Aies when one would follow her.
Mute as the Hermès carved in marble,
Beneath the elm stand still and see
The bird erelong, with joyous warble,
Descending fearless from the tree,
117
I^HÉOPHILE GAUTIER
To breathe on temples flushed with brightness,
And fanned with fresh warm whisperings,
In one tumultuous whirl of whiteness
A palpitation of soft wings ;
When the dove, nestling on thy shoulder,
Loses her shame in amorous bliss,
Pouts her rose-pointed beak, grown bolder,
And swoons bewildered with thy kiss.
Odelette anacréontique.
{Émaux et Camées.)
Apollonia.
I love thy name that like a chorus
Far-echoing from the sacred shrine
Hails thee, in harmonies sonorous,
Apollo's daughter and divine.
When with that name suprême and splendid
An ivory plectron thrills the strings,
Sweeter than love and glory blended,
Like bronze the résonant music rings.
Lo Greek ! the elves, from forests lonely,
Plunge wailing in their lake forlorn ;
Name by the Pythian priestess only
In Delphos fitly to be worn,
When, girding round her antique vesture,
Poised on the golden tripod high
She waits, with rapt prophétie gesture,
The god whose tarrying steps are nigh.
Apollonie.
{Émaux et Camées.)
ii8
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
The Nereids.
My chamber holds no canvas quainter
And lovelier than this stretch of sea ;
Though rhyme and rhythm disown the painter-
Theophilus Kniatowski.
VVhere the light foam's white fringes flash on
The woven waters blue and gray,
Cluster three nymphs in sweet flower-fashion,
Strange blossom of the bitter spray ;
Swung like drenched lilies on the surges
With every silver whorl that swims,
And now sustains and now submerges
The undulant dance of délicate limbs.
On tresses crowned with spoil o' the shingle,
And reeds impleached with rushy plume,
Coyly thèse witching sirens mingle
The bright sea's blazonry and bloom.
The shell, its lucent drops dispearling,
Stars with a rare and precious chain
Each bosom, which the flood, unfurling,
Sprinkles with purer pearls again.
And downwards, where the sinewy Tritons
Those fine and shapely flanks uphold,
Their splendour, washed with azuré, lightens
Long trailing hair of dusky gold.
Below, with the blue billow blended,
Their whiteness thrills the oozy sheen ;
And by a tail the torso ended
Half woman and half fish is seen.
119
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
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-line — quaint apparition
That blends the fabulous and true —
A vessel veers athwart the vision,
Startling thèse naiads of the blue :
Far ofif its flag tricoloured flashes ;
Its funnels belch forth smoke and steam ;
Its wheel the sounding water lashes : —
And the scared nymphs plunge in the stream.
Erewhile in fearless flock they foUowed
The trirèmes of the gulf athrong,
While dolphins frisked, with arches hollowed,
As erst to hear Arion's song.
But now the steamer's paddles speeding
Soon would disperse them through the surge
With naked bodies bruised and bleeding,
Like Venus under Vulcan's scourge.
Farewell, fresh myth, to ail thy fancies ! —
The packet, passing out of sight,
Leaves only on the dim expanses
A shoal of porpoises in flight.
Les Néréides.
{Émaux et Camées. )
120
THEOPHILE GAUTIER
Carmen.
The gipsy's eye, bright as a jewel,
Is circled by a bistre band ;
Her hair is black, her lips are cruel,
The devil himself her skin has tanned.
A curse on her each woman whispers,
But ail the men are mad to see ;
The Archbishop of Toledo's vespers
Are chaunted nightly at her knee ;
For on her neck of dusky amber
Is twined a swarthy coil that swims
With long loose ripples in her chamber,
And makes a mantle for her limbs :
And from the pallor of her bosom
Her mouth with sovran laughter breaks ;
A crimson spice, a scarlet blossom,
That from heart's-blood its purple takes.
So dowered, before this gipsy dwindles
The proudest beauty, put to shame,
And from her eyes the warm light kindles
In satiate soûls their smouldering flame.
Her strange unloveliness possesses
A sait trace of the bitter foam,
Whence, warm and panting for caresses,
Venus in naked beauty clomb.
Carmen.
{Émaux et Camées^
121
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
Art.
Art's noblest work from things
Rebellious to the trammel
She wrings :
Rhyme, marble, gem, enamel.
No false constrainments use !
But so thy tread be stately,
O Muse,
Bind on the buskin straitly !
A rhythm too easy spurn ;
Sandals so wide of measure,
In turn,
Each doffs or dons at pleasure !
Sculptor, since clay is vile,
Moulded with careless finger,
The vvhile
Thy spirit elsewhere doth linger,
Bend thou on marbles hard
And rare thy soul's endeavour ;
They guard
Their beauty pure for ever !
Seek Syracusan bronze
That, firmly graven thorough,
Disowns
No proud and graceful furrow ;
Or, with a délicate hand.
In veins of agate follow
The grand
Grave profile of Apollo.
122
THÉOPHILE GAUTIER
Limner, lest mildew shame
Thy tints too evanescent,
Let flame
Fast fix them incandescent.
Make sirens blue that comb
Gold tresses trailing under
The foam ;
Emblazon beasts of wonder : —
Jésus, with cross and globe,
The triple-haloed Virgin
Whose robe
Bears lily-bloom and burgeon.
Time brings ail things to dust : —
Art is Time's only rival.
A bust
The city's sole survival.
The rigid disk some hind
Earthed in its urn funereal
Doth find
Reveals a form impérial.
The gods themselves must pass : —
But sovran rhyme rings louder
When brass
And iron are ground to powder.
Against the hard stone set
Thy hand ; hew, chisel, planish.
Ere yet
The dream dissolve and vanish !
LArt.
{Éinajix et Camées^
123
Leconte de Lisle.
Born in Saint-Paul (Réunion) 1818 . . , Died in Louveciennes, 1894.
The great Créole poet Charles-Marie-René Leconte,
known as Leconte de Lisle, was the child of a Breton
father and a Gascon mother. He had the Celtic clearness
of vision and love of beauty, and the vigour and courage
of the Pyrenean race. In his youth he travelled through
the East Indies, and the vivid impressions of tropical
colour and warmth which are visible in his poetry dérive
their value from the personal observation of nature in
those régions.
Leconte de Lisle came to Paris in 1847, and as his first
ambition was to become a power in politics he threw him-
self with ardour into the Revolutionary Movement of 1848.
He was also an active disciple of the school of Fourier.
His social passion soon cooled down, but he had brought
some verses with him from the East, and he studied
his art assiduously, giving lessons in languages and
literature to provide for his daily subsistence. The
appearance of his first volume established his relations
with Alfred de Vigny, Victor de Laprade, Baudelaire and
Banville, and gained for him a place among the foremost
poets of the time.
No poet ever gave himself up to his art more thoroughly
than Leconte de Lisle. He had no désire for wealth or
luxury,and the small income which he earned by his literary
labours, supplemented in later days by his émoluments as
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LECONTE DE LISLE
sub-librarian at the Luxembourg (Library of the Senate)
enabled him to live his simple, austère and laborious life,
and to provide for his small Household — a wife without
children. A grant of 300 francs a month, given to
him by Napoléon m in 1870 and continued under the
Republic, was a welcome auxiliary to his slender re-
sources. In his later years Leconte de Lisle was the
friend of Victor Hugo and the oracle of a sélect circle of
men of letters, among them Mallarmé, Mendès and Dierx,
who regarded him as their master. He served as a
National Guard in the war of 1870 and succeeded to
Victor Hugo's chair in the Academy in 1886.
Leconte de Lisle had a robust physical and intel-
lectual character. His powerful forehead, clear cold eyes,
ironical smile and exceedingly sarcastic speech were the
external signs of a pronounced individuality. He always
wore a single eye-glass and was seldom seen without a
cigarette. His friends knew him as a lively controversial
speaker, with great resources of éloquence and irony. He
had strong préjudices and decided opinions. In religion
as in politics he was a révolté. He published (anony-
mously) a démocratie catechism and a popular history of
Christianity. Frankly republican and atheist himself, he
courageously avowed the disbelief in a divinity which so
many men repudiate with their lips and practise in their
lives. In later years he lost much of his vivacity and was
somewhat embittered by disappointment — for his poetry
was caviare to the gênerai — and he also resented the
failure of his laborious energy. His death definitively
closed the Hugonian period in French poetry.
A scholar of exact and extensive learning, Leconte de
Lisle has given to French literature a séries of absolutely
literal prose translations of Homer, Hesiod, Theocritus,
Sophocles, Euripides, .^schylus, Horace and other classi-
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LECONTE DE LISLE
cal authors, Like Robert Browning he introduced in his
translations the proper spelling of Greek names, and in-
curred thereby much undeserved ridicule. His own ex-
periment in classical tragedy, les Érinnyes, with music by
Jules Massenet, was produced at the Odéon in 1872 and
had as favourable a réception as could hâve been expected.
But the poet was so conscious of his inability to achîeve
success in drama that he burned the manuscript of Frédé-
gonde, a tragedy of which he had completed one act.
Leconte de Lisle's poetical renown is firmly established
on the great trilogy: Poèmes antiques (1852), Poèmes
barbares (1862) and Poèmes tragiques (1884). Thèse hâve
had a considérable influence on contemporary French
and Italian poetry. His opinions on the poetical art are
uncompromisingly and somewhat wildly expressed in the
préface to the Antique Poems : —
' Since the days of Homer, ^schylus and Sophocles, who repre-
' sent poetry in its vitality, its plénitude and its harmonious
' unity, décadence and barbarism hâve invaded the human
' mind. In point of original art the Roman world is on
' a level with the Dacians and the Sarmatians ; the entire
' Christian cycle is barbarous. Dante, Shakespeare and
' Milton hâve only the force and grandeur of their in-
' dividual genius ; their speech and their conceptions are
' barbarous. . . . Modem poetry, a confused reflection of
' the fiery personality of Byron, the artificial and sensuous
' religiosity of Chateaubriand, the dreamy mysticism of
' Over-Rhine and the realism of the Lakists, is the poetry
* of disturbance and dissolution '.
With such exorbitant assurance did this great poet —
' a soûl from which every modem idea is absolutely ban-
* ished ', said Théophile Gautier — sweep away everything
between Athens and himself. And in so far he is the
father of the French décadence, which holds the opinion
126
LEÇON TE DE LISLE
that poetry should not be the expression of individual
émotion and thought, but the pursuit of an idéal beauty
and serenity in transfigured nature and spiritualised
legend. A Romantic poet by his rich colouring, his
splendid imagery and his choice of exotic subjects,
Leconte de Lisle nevertheless belongs essentially to the
Pagan group of nineteenth-century poets and is perhaps
the greatest of them ail. He renewed and widened the
work of André Chénier, with a larger sensé of beauty and
a deeper range of sympathy, with a breadth and wealth
of colouring which Chénier could never hâve attained, and
sometimes with the bitter tinge of pessimism which be-
longs rather to the disillusioned end than to the ardent
inception of a great movement in art.
Leconte de Lisle has been described as cold and un-
lyrical. Thîs is less than half true. His work is chiselled
and polished as if to last. He had a rare eye for perfec-
tion of form, and in variety of thème and plénitude of
treatment he is unapproachable. He scorned every con-
cession to popularity, and followed his own way with
décision and consistency. If there is not much personal
passion in his work, there is an intellectual émotion which
rises at times to the highest degree of intensity. Some-
times he has the lyrical sweep of Shelley and Swinburne,
with the same disposition to heap up images and dazzle
with colour. He gives the noblest expression to human
revolt and désire, to idéal dreams, and to the pure and
sometimes pathetic love of external nature. He is always
truly French in the lucidity and directness of his speech.
His tropical landscapes, his reconstructions of savage
scènes, his studies of traditional epochs, are triumphs of
learned imagination and splendid in their conception and
clothing. No poet so richly endowed with the gifts of
rhythm and déclamation and melody has illustrated the
127
LECONTE DE LISLE
latter half of the nineteenth century, save perhaps Giosuè
Carducci or Algernon Charles Swinburne.
At the tîme of his death Leconte de Lisle had a new
volume of poems in préparation. He also left unfinished
les États du Diable, a véhément satire on the condition of
Rome in the days of the Borgias. Thèse reliques will
probably be published by his widow, with the assistance
of José-Maria de Heredia and the vicomte de Guerne, two
intimate friends of the poet. Leconte de Lisle was most
fastidious in weighing his own work, and destroyed every-
thing which he judged unworthy of publication.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
Pan.
Arcadian Pan, goat-hooved, with hornëd brows,
Whose shout stirs the pleased shepherds when they
drowse,
Breathes through the fresh green reeds an amorous strain.
Soon as the dawn strows gold on slope and plain,
Vagrant he frisks amidst the dancing horde
Of Nymphs on the flowered moss and tender sward.
A lynx-skin clothes his limbs, his locks are crowned
With saffron and soft hyacinth wreathed round ;
And with his résonant laugh the wild woods shake.
The Nymphs, half-naked, at his call awake,
Light-footed run and, near the limpid springs,
Troop round the god in swiftly whirling rings.
In vine-clad caves, in hollows cool and lush,
And where Hve rivulets through the woodland gush
Or clustering hollies weave a tangled bower.
Pan Aies the ardours of the noonday hour ;
He slumbers, and the boughs, with jealous screen,
Shelter his sleep from the sun's arrows keen,
But soon as the calm night, star-girdled, trails
O'er silent skies the long folds of her veils.
Pan, from familiar shades, enflamed with love,
Follows the flying virgin through the grove,
Swoops on her path, and, with transported play,
In the clear moonlight carries off his prey.
Pan.
{Poèmes antiques^
I 129
LECONTE DE LISLE
The Spring.
A live stream sparkles in the bosky gloom,
Hidden from the noonday glare ;
The green reeds bend above its banks and there
Blue-bells and violets bloom.
No kids that batten on the bitter herb,
On slopes of the near hill,
Nor shepherd's song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,
Its crystal source disturb.
Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screen
Whose shade the wild-bee loves,
And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring doves
Their ruffled plumage preen.
The lazy stags in mossy thickets browse
And sniff the lingering dew ;
Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,
The languorous Sylvans drowse.
White Naïs, near the sacred spring that drips,
Closing her lids awhile,
Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smile
Floats on her purple lips.
No eye, kindling with love's désire, has scanned
Beneath those lucent veils
The Nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trails
Gleam on the silvery sand.
None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,
The splendid bosom's swerve,
The ivory neck, the shoulder's délicate curve,
White arms and innocent mouth.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,
Spies from his leafy trench
Those supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drench
As vvith 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
Flies like the lightning-glimpse.
Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,
Slumbers in woods obscure,
Fly from the impious look and laugh impure
O Beauty, the soul's dream !
La Source.
{Eoèmes antiques?)
Pholoë.
Forget, O Pholoë, the lyre and the feasts divine,
The jovial gods and the nights too swift and the wine,
And desires in swarm on the lips that love uncloses ;
For Time, as he skims thee with wings that glide like
dream,
Blends in those tresses, just touched by a silvery gleam,
The asphodel pale with thy roses.
Pholoë. Études latines.
{Poètnes mitiques.)
Dies Irae.
On life's rough road a day, an hour will corne
When, bowed beneath its weight of woes and fcars,
The soûl of man halts wearied and with dumb
Désire looks back to immémorial years.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
His life with fruitless expectation worn,
Deceived of God, who does not hear or see ;
He feels earth's childhood in his heart reborn,
He hears thy voice, O sacred memory !
The stars he loved of yore with glimpses pale
Silver the night's mysterious dusk abodes,
And shine on hallowed slope and antique vale
Where beneath black palms sleep his early Gods.
He sees earth free, and her green auréole
Float like fresh incense on the river's verge,
And, singing on their shores, blue seas that roll
To unknown deeps the immeasurable surge.
On mountain-tops, that nurse a generous race,
Rise murmuring floods, with whisper of green dômes,
Hailing the vigorous growth in virgin grâce
Of young Humanity in old-world Homes.
Blessëd were they ! For them the eternal globe
Held commune with the imperishable sphères ;
No soilure smirched man's still unblemished robe,
The new world's beauty blest his forceful years.
Then Love, that in the soûl of man doth shine,
Through âges burned with undiminished ray ;
And simple faith and innocence divine
Watched in the tabernacle night and day.
Why then has pleasure's spring, once quaffed, run dry ?
Why thèse vain toils, thèse doubts that peer and
grope ?
The winds hâve heaped dense clouds in the clear sky ;
One hour of storm has swept away man's hope.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
O tent in the wilderness and on the hill,
With pensive cedars shadovving dreams sublime,
And virgîn Freedom shouting loud and shrill,
And swelling transports of the human prime !
Vainly by anguish our désire is spurred :
Henceforth whose eye the primai scroll shall read ?
Since man has lest the sensé of the world's word
The spirit is dumb, the letter dead indeed.
No hand again tovvards mystic dusk shall draw
The purple veil that hung before the shrine;
No ear on winds prophétie hear with awe
This earth's first converse with the Voice Divine.
The flickering light of Heaven at last is flown ;
Impénétrable night the welkin loads :
Ormuzd lies dead beneath his starry throne ;
The East sleeps on the ashes of her Gods.
The spirit descends not on the chosen race
To consecrate the just, the strong affirm ;
In moveless Asia's withered womb the embrace
Of barren suns shrivels each lifeless germ.
Down in the river-reeds the Ascetics brood
Lulled by pure waves that whisper on the shore.
Weep, sages, weep for wisdom's widowhood !
On the Blue Lotos Vishnu dreams no more.
Bright Hellas, virgin crowned with golden locks,
To whom a world's love came with wreaths and
hymns,
Lies mute for ever on her sacred rocks,
Strown with the white Immortals' sacred limbs.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
No more the live coal burns on prophet-lips !
Adonaï ! on the winds thy voice is whirled ;
And the bovved Nazarene, in pale éclipse,
Wails his last agony to a heedless world !
Thou whose fire-haloed brows are veiled in gloom,
Whose wandering feet the lone lake-margin trod,
Ail hail ! The soûl of man in thy sealed tomb,
O young Essene, keeps watch on his last God !
The barbarous West grows faint and fain would
drowse.
Our soûls in heavy slumber crouch fordone,
Like shrubs, with cankered root and mildewed boughs,
Green for a day, and withering with the sun,
Only the wise, that keep an even soûl,
Couched in the shade of secret thresholds lie,
While stormy years and peaceful seasons roll
The stream of man to vast eternity.
But we, whose soûl unfed désire devours,
A prey to faith beguiled and love in vain : —
Answer, new days ! Shall life again be ours ?
Speak, days of old ! Shall love be ours again ?
Where are the golden lyres, with hyacinth wreathed,
The hymns to happy gods, the virgin choirs,
Eleusis, Delos, hopes that burned and breathed,
And holy songs that sprang from pure desires ?
Where are the promised Gods, the idéal forms,
The rites in purple and in glory clad.
And cloven skies that hailed in wingëd swarms
The Ascension of white soûls, serene and glad ?
134
LECONTE DE LISLE
Sadly the Muses, scourged vvith bitter scorns,
Like heavenly outcasts through our cities flee,
Too long they bleed beneath their crown of thorns,
And sob with ceaseless sorrow like the sea !
The Eternal Evil on our heads is hurled.
Round ulcered soûls the vile âge weaves her charms.
Hail, blest oblivion of this crowded world !
Fold us, O Nature, in thy sacred arms !
In golden chlamys clothed, mysterious Dawn,
Waken a song of love in woodlands dank !
Sun, be thy glorious veil again withdrawn !
Calm mountain, open wide thy perfumed flank !
Majestic murmur of waves appeased and stilled,
Deep in our careworn hearts exhale your sighs !
O forests, shed your dews from urns fulfilled !
Stream through us, sparkling silence of the skies !
Console us for vain hopes and vanished joys :
Our naked feet are bruised on barren roads.
From headland summits, pure of human noise,
Waft us, O winds, towards the unknown Gods !
But if no answer wakes the vast expanse,
Save the everlasting écho of désire,
Farewell, void wastes, in which the soul's wings glance,
Farewell, wild visions, fringed with fading fire !
And thou, divine Death, womb and tomb of ail,
Welcome thy children to thy starry breast,
Of time and space and number disenthral
Our soûls, and from life's fever give us rest !
Dies Irœ.
{Poèmes antiques^
135
LECONTE DE LISLE
Naboth's Vineyard.
In his dark chamber, on the cedarn couch,
With cold hard eyes and pale Hps quivering,
His face turned to the wall, Ahab doth crouch.
Not tasting bread or wine Samaria's king
Broods, as in noonday heat the traveller doth,
Wearily bending o'er a thirsty spring.
Ahab, whose heart ferments with hate's foui froth,
Athirst the wine of wickedness to drain,
Conjures the Golden Calf and Ashtaroth.
— ' Am I a king ', he asks, * whose wrath is vain ?
* By Baâl ! thrice I chased thy horsemen proud,
* Benhadad, swift athwart the Tyrian plain,
* Those of Damascus kissed the dust in crowd,
' With sackcloth on their loins and ash-strown hair,
* Like camels low before their keepers bowed.
' On their parched lips my sign struck dumb the prayer,
' Their blood in the high-place reddened the sods,
' And on their warlike flesh my dogs did fare.
' My prophets are most wise ; I hâve three Gods
' Most mighty, of my kingdom the strong staff;
* They scourge my people with their scourging-rods.
' And now my glory is like worthless chaff,
* My sceptre as a reed that bends and breaks
' Before the servile crowd's insulting laugh !
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LECONTE DE LISLE
* The Rock of Israël thus his vengeance slakes
* For Baàl, throned by the black terebinth,
* Beneath whose rubied brow Samaria shakes.
' Twice dyed in crimson, clothed with hyacinth,
* Like a sun, golden-red, the God doth shine
' In the vast precinct on his jasper plinth.
' But if his anger waxeth not with mine,
* My high-priests shall abolish him and place
' The Golden Calf of Ephraïm in his shrine.
' Désire consumes me in her fierce embrace ;
' By the ass's hoof and ox's horn laid low,
* Like a dead lion flouted in the face.
* I said " I will ", and one dared answer " No ! "
' And lives, nor my suspended falchion heeds
' And wrathful heart, swollen with shame's overflow '. —
The son of Omri thus his anger feeds
With hâte, his hair dishevelled hangs awry,
And torn with furious teeth his pale lip bleeds.
Then softly towards the haggard king draws nigh
Eth-Baâl's daughter, crowned with swarthy tresses,
Whose beauty the king loves exceedingly.
Nursed in the arms of Ashtaroth's priestesses,
She darkens sun and moon with secret spells,
And curbs wild lions under her caresses.
In her dusk eyes a drowsy influence dwells,
And soûls by violence hurled to endless woe
Thrill at her voice even in the lowest hells.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
She nears the couch, with port superb and slow,
And speaks : — ' What ails my Lord ? What unblest thing
* Bends the proud cedar with the herbs below ?
' Hath Baâl sent some spirit on evil wing ?
' The night falls. Let my Lord rise and break bread !
* What sorrow stirs thy troubled soûl, O King ? '
— * Woman, I must hâve vengeance ', Ahab said,
* For sleep I shall not taste, nor bread nor wine,
'Till Naboth's reeking blood in dust be shed.
' Hard by mine orchard grows his fertile vine,
* Now to this man the King his master saith
* It pleaseth me, exchange, or sell me thîne !
* Quoth he : — " My father's field is mine till death,
' Shouldst thou against its grapes gold shekels measure
' I would not sell, even with my latest breath !
' Though thou, with Phogor's plain for land of pleasure,
* And Ramoth-Gilead, Seir, 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 Jezebel : — ' By the Gods of Akkaron !
' Surely 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, till his flanks be curbed, will rear ;
' Yield to the dromedary and he doth prance '. —
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LECONTE DE LISLE
— 'Because the Rock of Israël I fear',
Said Ahab : — ' Naboth and Elijah trust
* In Him. The nations fall beneath His spear.
* My pride, by Him brought low, would kiss the dust,
* As the bound heifer, towards the altar drawn,
* Moans while the knife is sharpened for the thrust.
* Nay wait ! The Gods of Beth-El and of Dan
' To him that worships, hearkening their behest,
* Will surely grant the slaying of this man ! '
— *Rîse then, O chief ! eat bread and take thy rest',
Said the Zidonian, laughing bitterly ;
* What my Lord dares not do shall vvhet my zest.
* To-morrow, when the sun slopes towards the sea,
' Ere yet thy royal hand hath touched this slave,
* He dieth on Mount Shomer, slain by me.
' Then may the Tishbite spit his spume and rave
' From Carmel unto Horeb, like a hound
' That hungering Aies before the brandished stave.
' My Lord shall say to him : — " Where hast thou found
* My handwork in this murder, or my sign ?" —
Then Ahab smiled : — ' O woman, fitly crowned,
' I shall spill this man's blood and drink his wine !' —
La Vigne de Naboth : I.
{Poèmes barbares)
139
LECONTE DE LISLE
The Black Panther.
Along the rosy cloud light steals and twinkles ;
The East is flecked with golden filigree :
Night from her loosened necklace slowly sprinkles
Pearl-clusters on the sea.
Clasped on the bosom of the sparkling azuré
Soft skirts of flame trail like a flowing train,
And cast on emerald blades a bright emblazure,
Like drops of fiery rain.
The dew shines, like a sheaf of splendour shaken,
On cinnamon leaves and lychee's purple flesh ;
Among the drowsed bamboos the wind's wings waken
A myriad whisperings fresh.
From mounds and woods, from mossy tufts and flowers,
In the warm air, with sudden tremors thrilled,
Fragrance bursts forth in sweet and subtile showers,
With feverish rapture filled.
By virgin jungle-track and hidden hollow,
Where in the morning sun smoke tangled weeds.
And where live streams their winding channels follow
Through arches of green reeds,
140
LECONTE DE LISLE
Steals the black panther from her midnight prowling,
With dawn turned to the lair in which her cubs
Among smooth shining bones, with hunger growling,
Grovel beneath the shrubs.
Restless she slinks along, with arrowy flashes
That Scan the shadows of the drooping wood.
The bright, fresh-sprinkled crimson dew that dashes
Her velvet skin is blood.
Behind she drags the relict of her quarry
Torn from the stricken stag, a mangled spoil
That leaves a loathsome trail and sanguinary
Along the moss-flowered soil.
Round her the tawny bées and light-winged dragons
Flit fearless as she glides with supple flanks ;
And clustering foliage from a thousand flagons
Pours fragrance on the banks,
The python, through a scarlet cactus peering,
Slowly above the bush lifts his flat head
And curious eyes, his scaly folds uprearing
To watch her stealthy tread.
She glides in silence into the tall bracken,
Then plunges, lost beneath the lichened boughs :
Air burns in the vast light, earth's noises slacken,
And wood and welkin drowse.
La Pantîicre noire.
{Poèmes barbares.^
141
LECONTE DE LISLE
In the Clear Sky.
In the clear sky, cloven by the lissome swallow,
Heaven's dawn, that blossoms like a blushing rose,
Sheds fragrance on green glade and leafy hollow
Whence nests of love send full-voiced songs to follow
Wings quivering where the woody heights disclose
Heaven's dawn that blossoms like a blushing rose
In the clear sky, cloven by the lissome swallow.
Drop answering drop, in golden notes rained shrill,
Live streams on the smooth gravel glance and glisten,
With showers of fleecy spray that kissing thrill
Heath-flower and thyme, iris and daffodil ;
The while young kids that wake with sunrise listen,
Live streams on the smooth gravel glance and glisten,
Drop answering drop, in golden notes rained shrill.
Through thickets where the light wind laughs and rushes,
By paths that into dreamy distance wind,
Beneath blue veils of haze dissolved in blushes
Thèse two, while dewy dawn the soft air flushes,
Pass slowly, with linked hands and arms entwined,
By paths that into dreamy distance wind
Through thickets where the light wind laughs and rushes.
Aswoon with love's delight that fills their eyes,
They heed not how the moments swiftly vanish ;
The charm of earth, the beauty of the skies.
For them the enraptured hour immortalise,
And blissful dreams ail dreams of sorrow banish.
They heed not how the moments swiftly vanish
Aswoon with love's delight that fills their eyes.
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LECONTE DE LISLE
In the clear sky, cloven by the lissome swallow,
Heaven's dawn still blossoms like a blushing rose,
But they, athwart green glade and leafy hollow,
Shall thrill no more to songs of love that follow
Wings quivering vvhere the vvoody heights disclose
Heaven's dawn that blossoms like a blushing rose
In the clear sky, cloven by the lissome swallow.
Dans le Ciel clair.
{Poèmes tragiques.^
The Imperishable Perfume.
When the rare Indian rose, soûl of the sun,
In crystal cup or golden urn distilled,
Hath shed its fragrant tear-drops, one by one,
On burning sands the essence may be spilled.
Enclosëd thus, over the narrow shrine
Rivers shall roU in vain and océans sweep.
The sands insphere each odorous drop divine,
And even in dust dispersed its perfume keep.
Since through this open wound no craft can cure
Thou pourest from my heart in effluence pure,
O Love ineffable, drawn by her spells !
Her sin be shriven, my sorrow sanctified !
For, beyond mortal hours and the infinité tide,
Even in my dust a deathless fragrance dwells.
U impérissable Parfum.
{Poèmes tragiques.)
143
Charles Baudelaire.
Born in Paris, 1821 . . . Died near Paris, 1867.
The life and death of Charles Baudelaire is one of the
most awful tragédies in the annals of literature. The
fate of Chatterton and Collins, of Gilbert and Bertrand,
and of so many other children of despondency and mad-
ness is pale in pathos beside the spectacle of Baudelaire,
after his strangely lurid existence in Paris and Brussels,
lingering in a madhouse, paralysed and speechless, until
death released his sufîfering soûl.
Charles-Pierre Baudelaire-Dufaïs belonged to a family
of some social distinction. His father was a professor in
the University of Paris, an accomplished scholar, and
the friend of Condorcet and Cabanis. Charles Baudelaire
was but a boy when his father's widow married General
Aupick, afterwards French ambassador to the Porte (1850).
At home he was a spoiled child, in school a rebellious
subject. His precocious love of letters and his capricious
temper were a source of anxiety to the family, and thèse
faults were aggravated by his irreconcilable attitude to-
wards the disciplinarian step-father. A violent outburst
of anger at an officiai dinner given by the General (who
was grossly insulted by the boy before his guests) deter-
mined the * parents ' to send him abroad, after a fortnight
of solitary confinement in his own room. Baudelaire
lived for a time in the East Indies, travelled thence to
Mauritius, Bourbon and Madagascar, failed to find any
attraction in commerce, and squandered his time and the
144
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
money with which he was liberally furnished. Returning
to Paris he inherited, on reaching his majority, a small
fortune (about seventy thousand francs*) and decided to
follovv the literary vocation. He had learned English
when in the East, and toiled assiduously for a time
to fit himself for his chosen career. His relations
tried to introduce him into social life, but his wilful
eccentricity always frustrated their wishes. Then he
launched into the world of cafés, saloons and studios,
trod the primrose path of dalliance, ran through one
half of his little patrimony in about two years, and
was put under légal tutelage. This temporary access of
Bohemianism caused Théophile Gautier to express some
appréhension lest Baudelaire should go the way of
Petrus Borel.
Théodore de Banville says that Baudelaire had immense
érudition. Maxime Du Camp avers that he was wofully
ignorant. The two things are not incompatible, but there
is not much évidence of deep learning in Baudelaire's
literary works. He was certainly a devouring reader.
Although he had been something of a lexicomaniac from
his youth upwards his methodical habits and accurate
memory enabled him to dispense with a large library. His
criticisms shew that he had the gift of keen observation '
and profound spiritual însight. In literature his prédilec-
tion was for the old French poets and the poets of the
Latin décadence.
Baudelaire was a consummate connoisseur in painting
and music. In his Salon articles he fought the battle of
* It has been argued that because Baudelaire left some thirty or forty
thousand francs he could never hâve been in absolute penury. But the fact
is overlooked that he had only the revenue of this sum, which to a man of
his luxurious habits was of little account. He earned but a pittance by his
pen, and was always desperately in debt.
K 145
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Eugène Delacroix. He was the first of that enlîghtened
band of French poets who championed the cause of
Richard Wagner. In 1861, when not one French com-
poser of music had the least inkling of the essential
qualities of Wagner's genius, Baudelaire declared that ' no
' musician excels him in painting material and spiritual
' space and depth '. Indeed the sesthetic writings of
Baudelaire are full of lucid and discerning judgments, at
once subtle and sober in their discrimination. He held
uncompromising opinions on the artist's right of choice
in subject and treatment as an essential privilège of
genius ; and his scorn for every concession to easy
popularity or vulgar consistency was pronounced. * The
' most sacred right of man ', said he, ' is the right to con-
' tradict himself '.
It was in les Fleurs du Mal that Charles Baudelaire
threw down the gauntlet by the application of his
aesthetic théories to poetry. Most of them written in
1 843- 1 844, but not published until 1857, thèse poems caused
a tremendous commotion. The criminal prosecution
which followed their appearance embittered the poet's
character, for, although he was legally acquitted and
could not but rejoice at the vogue given to his verses,
he resented the humiliation of having to défend from the
criminal bar his claim to literary freedom. The Sapphic
poems which gave the occasion of légal procédure were
judiciously eliminated in the définitive édition of the
Fleurs du Mal. It is therefore to be regretted that the
moral offence should hâve been renewed, if indeed the
erotic poems surreptitiously published in Brussels were
written by Baudelaire. But it ought to be charitably
remembered that he was then under an întellectual cloud,
overwhelmed with debt, and riddled with cynical disgust
of life. He was not instigated by any mëfe^gFeëd^'of gain,
146
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
for, as Banville truly says, the poet had ' a profound and
* absolute scorn of money '.
The decay of Baudelaire's noble mind was rapid and
ruinous. He had drained the chalice of his youth with
full lips, and freely indulged ail the desires and delights
of his restless fancy. In later years the fiery fret of his
imagination turned inwards and wore him down. His
genius had been largely recognised after the noterions
trial. He was tempted into journalism, but his fastidious
taste and scrupulously slow method of composition un-
fitted him for the kind of toil which exhausted Théophile
Gautier. For a while he lived a life of wretched expédi-
ents in Paris, renewing his bills, dodging his creditors, and
constantly putting off the day of regular labour. Although
he knew and declared that 'inspiration is work every
'day' he had the idle disposition of a luxurious man.
He revolved in his imagination vast plans of drama and
romance which never came near to exécution. His post-
humous notes shew that he bitterly regretted the dissipa-
tion of his énergies ; his life gives évidence that he had
not the strength of will to amend the evil of his ways.
He succumbed at last to the charms of literary lecturing,
in émulation of so'.ne successful authors in England and
America. The experiment was tried in Brussels. Dis-
heartened by his réception he became moody and morose,
and alarmed his friends in Paris by writing insane exé-
crations of Belgium and the Belgians. His constitution
had been ravaged by debauch, by opiates, by stimulants,
and by the remorse of faculties unused or fatally misused.
He lost the power to work at anything, his speech became
slow and faltering, and the insidious disease soon cul-
minated in a shock of paralysis, varied with spasms of
maniacal frenzy. He was brought back to Paris, where
after a year of confinement, shut off from the converse and
147
^
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
sympathy of mankind, unable to speak or write and with
a fixed look of haggard despair on his face, but apparently
conscious of his terrible condition, he died. Sad destiny
for a poet who was justly described by Charles Asselineau
as * oneof the most perfect, jQQSt exquisite, and best en-
. 'dowed men of genius' jgy^^given Jo Françe.^^ English
readers will remember Swinburne's magnificent threnody
beginning
* Shall I strew rose, or rosemary, or laurel,
* Brother, on this that was the veil of thee ? ' —
one of the finest tributes of many paid to the memory of
* this rare and extraordinary poet '.
The character of Charles Baudelaire is an unsolved
psychological problem. Ail that Gautier and Asselineau
and Banville and Sainte-Beuve and Du Camp hâve written
about him only serves to bring into relief the contradic-
tions and complexities of this strange idiosyncrasy. He
had Bohemian instincts, but was too fastidious to be a
real Bohemian. His dandyism in dress and demeanour
often took the most fantastic forms. He was notorious
for capricious changes in his apparel, in his toilet, in his
attitudes, and even in his facial expression. His charac-
teristic mannerism was a peculiarly deliberate emphasis
of gesture and speech.
The acknowledged portraits of Baudelaire are so dis-
similar as to beget a doubt if they represent the same
person. Gautier describes his appearance as that of 'a
' devil who had turned monk ', and such he certainly seems
to be in the counterfeit presentment by Naugeot ; but in
the tragic likeness by Emile Deroy (1844) he looks sad
and dreamy — a Hamlet whose brow is prematurely
' sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought '.
Whether Baudelaire's dilettante expériences in debauch,
148
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
his ostentatious nympholepsy and the cold cynical per-
versity of his moral sentiments were entirely real, or in
a certain measure merely affected, it would be idle to
speculate. He took a malicious pleasure in * astonishing
' fools ' and loved to ' flabbergast the Philistines ' {épater
les bourgeois). Even among his intimate associâtes he
would enunciate the most monstrous théories and argue
them out with ail the earnestness of grave conviction. He
was deeply conscious of the cause for grief which his
disordered life had given to a fond mother, and he en-
deavoured to make amends to her by constant affection
and tenderness. He did not display the characteristic
indifférence of a voluptuary towards the wretched mulatto < ,-(
woman with whom he lived for so many years, and whose < ^^
charms he has sung in strangely sensuous verse ; for in
his darkest days, long after she had ceased to charm his
sensés, he ministered to her necessities, and indeed nearly
ruined himself to help her when she was sunk in misery
and afflicted with an incurable disease. His pétulant
sallies of violence seem to hâve been sometimes sincère
and sometimes assumed. Thèse whimsical excesses must
hâve been but transient, and perhaps superficial, or else
his literary friends could not hâve left such a fascinating
record of his courtesy. ' If ever the word seductiveness
' could hâve been applied to a human being ' — says one of
them — ' it was to him, for he had nobility, pride, élégance,
* a beauty at once infantine and virile, the enchantment
' of a rhythmical voice and the most persuasive elo-
' quence'. He was an absolute aristocrat in character as
in genius. In gênerai he was not voluble of speech, for
he rather affected an English reserve of manner. He had
a scrupulous love of neatness, cleanliness and order.
Altogether a peculiarly sensitive, nervous and impres-
sionable nature, prone to fantastic idealism, mystically
149
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
voluptuous and madly amorous of new and strange
sensations.
/ Baudelaire's poetical work is distinguished by its rare
^ I perfection of forrri. If it is insignificant in volume it is
Ni exquisite and precious in quality, and has had a larger
"' influence on contemporary poetry in France than the
work of any other author. The verse of the Fleurs du
liai, with its shapely line and lumînous melody, has
been the glass of fashion and the mould of form for
Verlaine and Mallarmé and many other poets of the
présent time. Baudelaire's excessively fastidious taste
saved him from the direct imitation of models, although
he could appreciate and assimilate foreign ideas, as his
prose translations of De Quincey and Edgar Allan Poe
and his poetical images from Shakespeare and Gray and
Longfellow clearly demonstrate. And although Victor
Hugo was in the plénitude of his supremacy in 1840
there is little or no évidence of his formative influence
on Baudelaire, who sedulously applied himself to the cul-
tivation of that closely-wrought and deeply-concentrated
style which in poetry marks him as a man apart. There
Is seldom a glimpse of sudden passion in his sôhg,
|'t)ut the expression of his love for the beautiful is so
intense, so super-refined and so subtle that his verse
glows with a white beat, which fiercely smoulders if it
never flames. In his colder and more deliberate moods
there is a sculpturesque solidity and a serene beauty that
is not excelled even by Landor and Rossetti at their best.
Many of his lines bave the curved delicacy of flesh and
the firm smoothness of marble. If there is a fault in
his woven harmony of words it is uniformity of tone :
he thrilled a lyre of rich and splendid résonance, but of
few strings. Hence the répétition of images when, as in
the Hymn to Beauty, he exceeds his customary range.
150
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Baudelaire's tropical expérience and his responsiveness to
exotic sensations assisted him in giving a new colour and
a new vibration to French verse. There is a matchless
çharm and fragrance in such lines as
' Parfum qui fait rêver aux oasis lointaines ' —
{L'Amour du Mensonge^
' Et trouve un goût suave au vin le plus amer ' —
{La Voix.)
and there are hundreds like them in those intoxicating
Flowers of Evil.
That Baudelaire's book should hâve been sometimes
wilfully and sometimes ignorantly misunderstood is not
surprising. The poet has been roughly handled by a few
of the eminently sane critics of the présent time, repre-
sented by Ferdinand Brunetière and Jules Lemaître. But
Sainte-Beuve and Paul Bourget and Anatole France
hâve been more tender, more sympathetic, and therefore
more just in their judgments on this strange genius.
Bajidelaire^^uripus .hlendiag of^eligious mysticism wLth
voIuptuOLUS^êmotion has seemed to many to be blasphemy
and evenatheism, and yet his inmost thoughts were always
a passionate prayer to God for deliverance from the world,
the flesh and the devil. His bold and occasionally crude
anaiysis of diseased passion has been mistaken for an
appeal to fleshly indulgence by those whose regard for
Cthe outward and visible forms of morality blinds them
|to the spiritual éléments of human désire. It is true
that such a poet as Baudelaire could hâve been produced
only in an epoch of social corruption and decay, and that
he was in many respects the morbid embodiment of the
Lower Empire. But he was nevertheless a great and true
poet ; and if his life was a moral failure and his life's work
a moral phenomenon it is because a mysterious fatality
(Tfi
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
has denied to the chiidren of light the wisdom which is so
plentifully bestowed upon the chiidren of this world. The
sinister éclipse of genius endowed with such conspicuous
gifts and grâces is only the more appalling if it be true that
' not for this
' Was common clay ta'en from the common earth,
' Moulded by God, and temper'd with the tears
' Of angels to the perfect shape of man '.
152
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Bénédiction.
When, by the sovran will of Povvers Eternal,
The poet passed into this weary world,
His mother, filled with fears and doubts infernal,
Clenching her hands towards Heaven thèse curses
hurled.
— ' Why rather did I not within me treasure
' A knot of serpents than this thing of scorn ?
' Accursëd be the night of fleeting pleasure
* Whence in my womb this chastisement was borne !
' Since thou hast chosen me to be the woman
' Whose loathsome fruitfulness her husband shames,
' Who may not cast aside this birth inhuman,
'As one that flings love-tokens to the fiâmes,
* The hatred that on me thy vengeance launches
' On this thwart créature I will pour in flood ;
* So twist the sapling that its withered branches
* Shall never once put forth a cankered bud ! '
Regorging thus the venom of her malice.
And misconceiving thy decrees sublime,
In deep Gehenna's gulf she fills the chalice
Of torments destined to maternai crime.
Yet, safely sheltered by his viewless angel,
The Childe forsaken revels in the Sun ;
And ail his food and drink is an evangel
Of nectared sweets, sent by the Heavenly One.
153
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
He communes with the clouds, knows the wind's voices,
And on his pilgrimage enchanted sings ;
Seeing how like the wild bird he rejoices
The hovering Spirit weeps and folds his wings.
Ail those he fain would love shrink back in terror,
Or, boldened by his fearlessness elate,
Seek to seduce him into sin and error,
And flesh on him the fierceness of their hâte.
In bread and wine, wherewith his soûl is nourished,
They mix their ashes and foui spume impure ;
Lying they cast aside the things he cherished,
And curse the chance that made his steps their lure.
His spouse goes crying in the public places :
— ' Since he doth choose my beauty to adore,
' Aping those ancient idols Time defaces
' I would regild my glory as of yore.
' Nard, balm and myrrh shall tempt till he desires me
' With blandishments, with dainties and with wine,
* Laughing if in a heart that so admires me
' I may usurp the sovranty divine !
* Until aweary of love's impious orgies,
' Fastening on him my fingers firm and frail,
' Thèse claws, keen as the harpy's when she gorges,
' Shall in the secret of his heart prevail.
'Then, thrilled and trembling like a young bird cap-
tured,
' The bleeding heart shall from his breast be torn ;
' To glut his maw my wanton hound, enraptured,
' Shall see me fling it to the earth in scorn '.
154
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Heavenward, where he beholds a throne resplendent,
The poet lifts his hands, devout and proud,
And the vast lightnings of a soûl transcendent
Veil from his gaze awhile the furious crowd : —
* Blessëd be thou, my God, that givest sorrow,
* Sole remedy divine for things unclean,
' Whence soûls robust a healing virtue borrow,
* That tempers them for sacred joys serene !
* I know thou hast ordained in blissful régions
' A place, a welcome in the festal bowers,
' To call the poet with thy holy Légions,
' Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers.
' I know that Sorrow is the strength of Heaven,
' Gainst which in vain strive ravenous Earth and Hell,
* And that his crown must be of mysteries woven
' Whereof ail worlds and âges hold the spell.
' But not antique Palmyra's buried treasure,
* Pearls of the sea, rare métal, precious gem,
* Though set by thine own hand could fill the measure
* Of beauty for his radiant diadem ;
* For this thy light alone, intense and tender,
' Flows from the primai source of effluence pure,
* Whereof ail mortal eyes, though bright their splendeur,
' Are but the broken glass and glimpse obscure '.
Bénédiction : Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
155
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
111 Luck.
To bear so vast a load of grief
Thy courage, Sisyphus, I crave !
My heart against the task is brave,
But Art is long and Time is brief.
Far from Fame's proud sepulchral arches,
Towards a graveyard lone and dumb,
My sad heart, like a muffled drum,
Goes beating slow funereal marches.
— Full many a shrouded jewel sleeps
In dark oblivion, lost in deeps
Unknown to pick or plummet's sound :
Full many a weepîng blossom flings
Her perfume, sweet as secret things,
In silent solitudes profound.
Le Guignon : Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
Beauty.
My face is a marmoreal dream, O mortals !
And on my breast ail men are bruised in turn,
So moulded that the poet's love may burn
Mute and eternal as the earth's cold portais.
Throned like a Sphinx unveiled in the blue deep,
A heart of snow my swan-white beauty muffles ;
I hâte the line that undulates and ruffles :
And never do I laugh and never weep.
156
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
The poets, prone beneath my présence tovvering
With stately port of proudest obelisks,
Worship with rites austère, their days devouring ;
For I hâve charms to keep their love, pure disks
That make ail things more beautiful and tender:
My large eyes, radiant with eternal splendour !
La Beauté: Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
Idéal Love.
No, never can thèse frail ephemeral créatures,
The withered offspring of a worthless âge.
Thèse buskined limbs, thèse false and painted features,
The hunger of a heart like mine assuage,
Leave to the lauréate of sickly posies
Gavarni's hospital sylphs, a simpering choir !
Vainly I seek among those pallid roses
One blossom that allures my red désire.
Thou with my soul's abysmal dreams be blended,
Lady Macbeth, in crime superb and splendid,
A dream of ^schylus flowered in cold éclipse
Of Northern suns ! Thou, Nîght, inspire my passion,
Calm child of Angelo, coiling in strange fashion
Thy large limbs moulded for a Titan's lips !
L'Idéal : Spleen et Idéal
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Hymn to Beauty.
Be thou from Hell upsprung or Heaven descended,
Beauty ! thy look demoniac and divine
Fours good and evil things confusedly blended,
And therefore art thou likened unto wine.
Thine eye with dawn is filled, with twilight dwindles,
Like winds of night thou sprinklest perfumes mild ;
Thy kiss, that is a spell, the child's heart kindles,
Thy mouth, a chalice, makes the man a child.
Fallen from the stars or risen from gulfs of error,
Fate dogs thy glamoured garments Hke a slave ;
With wanton hands thou scatterest joy and terror,
And rulest over ail, cold as the grave.
Thou tramplest on the dead, scornful and cruel,
Horror coils like an amulet round thine arms,
Crime on thy superb bosom is a jewel
That dances amorously among its charms.
The dazzled moth that Aies to thee, the candie,
Shrivels and burns, blessing thy fatal flame ;
The lover that dies fawning o'er thy sandal
Fondles his tomb and breathes the adorëd name.
What if from Heaven or Hell thou com'st, immortal
Beauty ? O sphinx-like monster, since alone
Thine eye, thy smile, thy hand opens the portai
Of the Infinité I love and hâve not known.
158
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
What if from God or Satan bc the evangel ?
Thou my sole Oueen ! Witch of the velvet eyes !
Since with thy fragrance, rhythm and light, O Angel !
In a less hideous world time swiftlier Aies.
Hymne à la Beauté : Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
Exotic Fragrance.
When, with closed eyes in the warm autumn night,
I breathe the fragrance of thy bosom bare,
My dream unfurls a cHme of loveliest air,
Drenched in the fiery sun's unclouded light.
An indolent island dowered with heaven's delight,
Trees singular and fruits 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 haîl
A charmëd harbour thronged with mast and sail,
Still wearied with the quivering sea's unrest ;
What time the scent of the green tamarinds
That thrills the air and fills my swelling breast
Blends with the mariners' song and the sea-winds.
Parfum exotique : Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
159
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Sonnet.
In undulant robes with nacreous sheen impearled
She walks as in some stately saraband ;
Or like lithe snakes by sacred charmers curled
In cadence wreathing on the slender wand.
Calm as blue wastes of sky and désert sand
That watch unmoved the sorrows of this world ;
With slow regardless sweep as on the strand
The long swell of the woven sea- waves swirled.
Her polished orbs are like a mystic gem,
And, while this strange and symbolled being links
The inviolate angel and the antique sphinx,
Insphered in gold, steel, light and diadem
The splendeur of a lifeless star endows
With clear cold majesty the barren spouse.
Spleen et Idéal: XXVIII.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
The Spiritual Dawn.
When on sorne wallowing soûl the roseate East
Dawns with the Idéal that awakes and gnaws,
By vengeful working of mysterious laws
An angel rises in the drowsëd beast.
The inaccessible blue of the soul-sphere
To him whose grovelling dream remorse doth gall
Yawns wide as when the gulfs of space enthral.
So, heavenly Goddess, Spirit pure and clear,
i6o
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
Even on the reeking ruins of vile shame
Thy rosy vision, beautiful and bright,
For ever floats on my enlargëd sight.
Thus sunlight blackens the pale taper-flame ;
And thus is thy victorious phantom one,
O soûl of splendour, with the immortal Sun !
L Aube spirituelle : Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
Music.
Launch me, O music, whither on the soundless
Sea my star gleams pale !
I beneath cloudy cope or rapt in boundless
iEther set my sail ;
With breast outblown, swollen by the wind that urges
Swelling sheets, I scale
The summit of the wave whose vexëd surges
Night from me doth veil ;
A labouring vessel's passions in my puises
Thrill the shuddering sensé ;
The wind that wafts, the tempest that convulsés,
O'er the guif immense
Swing me. — Anon flat calm and clearer air
Glass my soul's despair !
La Musique : Spleen et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
i6i
CHARLES BAUDELAIRE
The Flawed Bell.
Bitter and sweet it is, in winter night,
Hard by the flickering fire that smokes, to list
While far-off memories rise in sad slow flight,
With chimes that écho singing through the mist.
O blessëd be the bell whose vigorous throat,
In spite of âge alert, with strength unspent,
Utters religiously his faithful note,
Like an old warrior watching near the tent !
My soûl alas ! is flawed, and when despair
Would people with her songs the chill night-air
Too oft they faint in hoarse enfeebled tones,
As when a wounded man forgotten moans
By the red pool, beneath a heap of dead.
And dying writhes in frenzy on his bed.
La Cloche fêlée : Spleeît et Idéal.
{Les Fleurs du Mal.)
162
Henry Miirger.
Born in Paris, 1822 . . . Died in Paris, 1861.
Henry Miirger, the son of a poor German tailor, was born
in one of the slums of Paris. He had no regular éducation,
and took the road to Bohemia from necessity rather than
choice. His first expérience of life was as a notary's clerk
with a small salary. He wished to become a painter, but
his progress in art was so slow that he resolved to try
letters. His sole source of inspiration was his own
narrow expérience of the world ; his greatest gift a
faculty for hard work. He would spend the whole night
over a single page of prose or verse. He had a limited
knowledge of literature, and nourished his mind by read-
ing over and over again the few books which he possessed
— among them the poems of Victor Hugo and Alfred
de Musset, with Letourneur's hazy translation of Shake-
speare's plays. With classical literature and the older
French poets he was totally unacquainted.
Miirger was the acknowledged chief of the lesser
Bohemia, in which Privât d'Anglemont, Auguste Vitu,
the witty and refined Alfred Delvau and the novelist
Champfleury* were his principal satellites. Their places
of rendezvous were the café Moinus in rue des Prêtres-
Saùit-Germain-l' Auxerrois and the cénacle of the barrière
d'Enfer.
By craning over the window of their poor chamber in
* Jules Fleury-Husson, afterwards Curator of the National Muséum at
Sèvres, a prolific writer of novels and a recognised authority on ceramic art.
163
HENRY MURGER
rue Vaugirard, Champfleury and MUrger could see one of
the trees in the garden of the Luxembourg. The furniture
at first consisted of six earthenware plates, a superannu-
ated commode, a few volumes of poetry and a Phrygian
cap, the property of Murger. Champfleury, who was more
luxuriously endowed, contributed to their heterogeneous
plenishing two mattresses, more than a hundred books, an
armchair, two common chairs, a table and a skull. Thèse
two Bohemians spent the most of their time in reading,
writing and smoking. Between them they had an income
of 70 francs a month, out of which they paid 300 francs
per annuni for their lodging. Nearly ail the payments of
this curious household were made on the first of each
month, when the joint revenue fell due, and they kept a
diary of disbursements in order to guard against extrava-
gance. Well might Léon Gozlan parody Racine's famous
verses : —
' Aux petits des oiseaux Dieu donne leur pâture,
' Et sa bonté s'étend sur toute la nature ' —
by substituting for the second line of the couplet : —
* Mais sa bonté s'arrête à la littérature ' !
And yet the gaiety which thèse poor wretches ex-
pended on their existence was prodigious. They acted
on Voltaire's principle. ' Five or six miseries together' —
said the Geometer to the Man with Forty Crowns — ' make
' a very tolerable establishment'.
When Murger was writing his Scènes de la Vie de Bohême
for the Corsaire at eighteen francs the feuilleton he could
afford neither the railway-fare to go out to the country and
see nature nor the cost of a black coat to go into society and
study manners. Hence the close atmosphère in which his
164
HENRY MURGER
characters so vividly and so intimately move ; every line
records an incident of his own sad life. Occasionally lie
had a little money — at one time he was private secretary
to some great Russîan seigneur — and then his habits
blossomed into brief luxury, for he was always of a most
improvident disposition. In his later days he was accus-
tomed to fly from Paris in spring, summer and autumn
to a thatched hut which he had discovered in the forest
of Fontainebleau. This welcome change was unhappily
of little avail. It is true that his genius was beginning to
be recognised and that he seemed to be fairly on the road
to famé ; in earnest of which a pension had been granted
to him by Napoléon m. Miirger had no spécifie ailment ;
but the poverty of his Parisian blood, drained by wasteful
excesses, by the abuse of strong coffee, and by the
generally unwholesome conditions of his life, doomed him
to prématuré decay. The blight came upon him suddenly
in a loathsome disease, which caused rapid mortification
of the flesh, and was thereupon pronounced incurable.
' Bohemia ', he once wrote, ' is the préface to the
' Academy, to the Hospital, or to the Morgue'. In his
case it was followed by the hospital. During his sojourn
there this Voltairean scoffer, composed religions poems
for the sisters who nursed him ; and, timid as he was in
the struggle for existence, he faced death with résignation
and even with cheerfulness.
Like most of his fellows, Miirger wrote a good deal
which was scattered in journals and will never be col-
lected. He was also an active contributor to the théâtre.
The Scènes de la Vie de Bohême, which met with little
récognition in ih^xx feuilleton form in 1848, had a fuller
measure of success on the stage. The dramatised version
was studded with brilliant and touching things, for, as
Théophile Gautier said at the time, Miirger had ' that rare
165
HENRY MÛRGER
* and marvellous gift of wit full of feeling . . . his laugh
* touched on tears'. The same critic signalised Murger,
along with Balzac and Gavarni, as perhaps the most
truly Parisian artist of his epoch. He had real original-
ity, which owed little to learning, for in that squalid strife
of his youth he had wasted the time that might hâve been
given to study, to experiment and to assimilation.
Scènes of Bohemian Life remains the suprême example
of pure humour in the French language, and it is perhaps
significant that it should hâve been contributed by an
author of Teutonîc extraction. Humour, indeed, is hardly
a French characteristic. Of wit there is enough and to
spare, whether in the caustic sarcasm of Le Neveu de
Rameau^ the shrewd irony of Candide or the grotesque
exaggeration of Tartarin de Tarascon. The jovial
humour of Rabelais, like that of Falstaff, stands alone.
Béranger's sprightly style is essentially satirical, and
Balzac falls into gross pleasantry when he essays the
humorous vein. Even the quaint spiritual humour of
Charles Nodier cannot be compared with that of Henry
Murger, which is as spontaneous as it is captivating and
rare. And it owes little or nothing to the fescennine
fancy which runs so freely through Gallic literature : —
' Ah ! la muse de Collé
* C'est la gaudriole, ô gué ! '
as Béranger so genially sings.
The life of Henry Murger is the life of the poor poet in
every âge, and, whatever glamour of romance may hâve
been thrown over it, too often has it been one of ignoble
enjoyment and sordid misery. A few of the Bohemians
escaped from their dungeon with clean limbs and un-
clouded minds ; the greater number succumbed in a hope-
less struggle with starvation and debauchery. Murger
i66
HENRY MÛRGER
might hâve enfranchised himself had he possessed a
healthier body and a more ambîtious mind. Sapped by
early privations, broken by youthful excess and anxiety and
toil, he died on the threshold of manhood, the most attrac-
tive and the most pathetic figure of the later Romantic
period. With hîm the Bohemia of the nineteenth
century disappeared. We know that the poor poet is ever
with us, but the conditions that gave his existence a local
habitation and a name hâve changed, and with them the
génial good-fellowship and generous émotions which
graced his forlorn lot. Where is the feast of reason and
the flow of soûl ? Where is the symposium of choice spirits
bound together by kindred sorrows and kindling ideals ?
Where is the sparkling Cydalise and the pale grisette,
whose charms shed a consoling light on lives that knew
too little of the joy of living ; and
' Where are the snows of yester-year ? '
167
HENRY MURGER
The Diver.
To enrich her circlet, starred with precious thîngs,
The queen said to the diver : — ' At my sign,
' Plunge to the palace where the sîren sings,
' And pluck me the blonde pearl beneath the brine '.
Then into the wild wave the diver springs ;
On golden sands, where crimsoned corals shine,
Plucks the blonde pearl, and to his sovercign brings
The treasure prisoned in its nacreous shrine.
The poet, like this diver, is a slave,
Lady, and if your smiling fancies crave
A verse to voice abroad your beauty's spell,
Straightway he plunges into depths of thought,
Where sleeps the hoarded rhyme with gold inwrought,
And brings the wished-for jewel in its shell.
Le Plongeur : Fantaisies.
{Les Nuits d'hiver.)
1844.
Near Juliet's Balcony.
Your balcony, my lady, boasts such art
As the fond sculptor loves to contemplate ;
Of wondrous shape, each richly-chiselled part
A masterpiece of Art's divinest date.
168
HENRY MURGER
An arch young Love, sharpening his wanton dart,
Bears up the baluster, and mocks the fate
For ever threatening thence the wounded heart
That you must cure, my lady. — Soon or late,
A hapless lover, touched with arrowy fire.
And blending with night's sighs his soul's désire,
Will steal, lil<e Romeo, hiding from the moon,
And scale thy balcony, Juh"et, when 'tis dark,
Lingering until the hour when sings the lark,
The parting hour, that ever cornes too soon !
Au Balcon de Juliette: Fantaisies.
{Les Nuits d'/iivcr.)
1844.
Pygmalion.
In vain the priests of Venus long to raise
Her image in the void Athenian shrine ;
The jealous artist, deaf to prayers or praise,
Enamoured of his handiwork must pine.
Love's naked goddess to his love displays
The moveless splendour of her shape divine ;
Till kneeling, lo ! beneath his ardent gaze
In lifeless marble sudden life doth shine !
Poet ! this marvel chanced in antique years ;
The gods, long exiled from Olympian sphères,
Grant not to thee the Cyprian sculptor's grâce :
Though of thine own soul's beauty amorous grown,
Like old Pygmalion doting on the stone,
She will not glow with life in thy embrace.
Pygmalion : Fantaisies.
{Les Nîdts d'hiver^
1844.
169
HENRY MÛRGER
Blanche-Marie.
The virgin veil of Blanche-Marie
Was white as mountain-snows ;
The heavenly robes no brighter be
That Mary's love bestows :
With flowers of silk enwoven thereon
She wrought so cunningly
That like a saint with garlands shone
The body of Blanche-Marie.
Her veil of white but once she wore,
When, swathed in folds thereof,
With downcast eyes she knelt before
The chalice of Christ's love.
The spousal veil of Blanche-Marie
Was black as raven's plume ;
Wrought when her mother died, and she
Watched in the silent room ;
Of willow-leaf and yew she made
Its sombre broidery :
The dew-drops glistering through its shade
Were tears of Blanche-Marie.
Her veil of black but once she wore,
When, dowered with love unpriced,
She stood a bride on convent-floor
And gave herself to Christ.
170
HENRY MÛRGER
The mystic veil of Blanche-Marie
Was vvoven of heavenly blue,
So fine, so clear, that you might see
Her pure face shining through ;
And on her veil were sprinkled stars,
A radiant mystery :
With lilies white and nénuphars,
A crown for Blanche-Marie.
The veil of mystic blue she vvore
By God's own love was given,
That day her guardian-angel bore
The sinless soûl to heaven.
Les Trois Voiles de Marie Berthe!^
.{Les Nuits d'hiver.^
April, 1844.
* A little liberty has been taken in translating this prose ballade into verse
form. Blanche-Marie and the preceding sonnets présent a différent aspect
of Miirger's poetical talent from the Chanson de Miini or the Chanson de
Miisetie, but it would hâve been superfluous to translate the latter after the
spécimens of Miirger's Bohemian muse which hâve been so delicately and
so gracefully rendered into English by Andrew Lang.
171
Théodore de Banville.
Born in Moulins (Allier) 1823 . . . Died in Paris, 1891.
Few better examples of a peaceful and unpretentious life,
wholly devoted to letters, could be found than that of
Théodore Faullain de Banville. He was the son of a
retired naval captain, who belonged to a family of country
gentlemen once possessed of large estâtes in the depart-
ments of the Allier and the Nièvre. It was 'the land of
* the Loire ', in the midst of that beautifuUy-wooded
country which lies between the ducal domains of the
ancient families of Bourbon and Mazarin. The lavish
hospitality and Quixotic caprices of Banville's great-
grandfather had ruinously impaired the family patrimony,
and thus it was that Théodore de Banville was ' reduced
* to the condition of a lyric poet, so that he might break-
* fast on a sunbeam and sup on the wandering breeze and
* moonlight '. His choice of the poetic calling needs no
vindication, for even his prose gives évidence how spon-
taneously his thoughts crystallised themselves in lyrical
form.
From an ancestral race of robust and healthy constitu-
tion Théodore de Banville inherited those characteristics
of good sensé, simplicity and kindliness which underlay
his lyrical genius and were displayed in his daily life.
His philosophy was unaffected and full of amiability.
* Give children everything they désire and allow them to
' do anything they wish, but never let them hear false
' or foolish things ' was one of his axioms. Another : ' If
172
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
' you hâve a pièce of bread and a pièce of cake, ahvays eat
' the cake first, for you never know if you will live long
' enough to eat the bread also '. Thèse aphorisms werc
the essence of a génial disposition, which enablcd its
possessor to meet with a smiling face ail the troubles and
toils of existence.
Corning to Paris soon after his pension expired, Théo-
dore de Banville was brought under the influence of
Count Alfred de Vigny, in whom he recognised a great
poet and a noble man. The young provincial soon rallied
to the Romantic Movement, for the simple reason that he
was always in search of ' the latest expression of Beauty ',
as Baudelaire had defined it. He also knitted acquaintance
with Jules Janin, and became the advocate of Victor Hugo's
genius, which ' the prince of critics ' was at that time
unwilling to acknowledge. Among Banville's more or less
intimate friends were Charles Baudelaire ; Paulin Méry,
renowned for his phénoménal memory ; that strange
hétéroclite créole, Privât d'Anglemont ; Pierre Dupont
the chansonnier; the painter Emile Deroy ; the witty
sculptor Auguste Préault ; and Félix Pyat, in whom the
love of letters was sacrificed to revolutionary zeal.
Living in a chamber which, with ' a bed, a small table
' and three volumes of verse, was infinitely well furnished '
Banville set to work in earnest, and quickly achieved
celebrity with les Cariatides (1842) and les Stalactites
(1843-45). From 1846 to 1856 he laid purely lyrical
poetry aside to compose and publish those charming
comédies which he wrote with such rare felicity. He was
a great lover of plays and players, and delighted in the
innumerable small théâtres which swarmed in Paris from
1830 to 1870. Among his most successful of a dozen
comédies are le beau Léandre (1856) Diane au Bois (1863)
Gringoire (1866) and Socrate et sa Femme (1885) ; but in-
173
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
deed they are ail instinct with poetic feeling and fuli
of délicate beauty. His avowed object in writing thèse
plays was to do for comedy what Victor Hugo had done
for tragedy ; and those to vvhom Beerbohm Tree's acting
in the English version of Gringoire bas revealed the pos-
sibilities of poetry on the stage (if indeed any such
démonstration should be necessary after The Tempest and
A Midsîumner Nighfs Dream) will understand how
diverse from that of the average playwright was Théodore
de Banville's idéal of comedy. Banville resumed his
lyrical work in 1866 with les Exilés, followed by les
Occidentales in 1871, and other collections of verse in
1873, 1874 and 1876, His prose miscellanies were
numerous and full of vitality.
As a journalist Théodore de Banville did excellent and
varied work, sometimes in his own name and sometimes
under the disguise of Francis Lambert or François Villon.
He threw up his appointment as literary and theatrical
critic in the National rather than keep silence on the
subject of Victor Hugo ; and afterwards wrote in the Gil
Blas a séries of delightful CJirojiiques which were alive with
wit and fancy, if sometimes easy on the score of morals.
Thèse, however, brought him more money than he ever
earned by his poetry or plays.
Perhaps the most characteristic and striking achievement
of Théodore de Banville was his Odes funavibidesques, a
séries of satirical poems in which he aimed at the intro-
duction of a new comic élément into French literature.
In thèse odes the tours de force of rhyme, ingénions plays
on words, parody and witty badinage are singular and
original. They were the first and are the finest examples of
refined lyrical buffoonery in French verse, but many of them
cannot be translated owing to the puns, peculiar devices of
verbal imitation, and allusions to contemporary personages,
174
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
places of resort and popular ephemera with which they
abound. So much so, that to many intelligent Parisians
of the présent tîme they are almost as obscure as the
satire of Aristophanes.
Throughout his long life Théodore de Banville remained
faithful to the men and the traditions of the Romantic
Movement. He of ail that survived, if Théophile Gautier
be excepted, best understood and sympathised with the
wild passion and faith of 1830, keeping unchanged his warm
admiration for Louis Bertrand, Théophile Dondey, Emile
Cabanon, Théophile de Perrière, Alphonse Esquiros, and
ail the nigh forgotten names * of that unforgotten time !
When Charles Asselineau, the high-priest of the French
Renaissance, published his Bibliographie des Romantiques
in 1866, it was Théodore de Banville who welcomed it in
a famous ode, in which he thus summed up the glories
of that great revival : —
The Davvn of the Romance.
Ta Charles Asselineau.
Hail to thee eighteen hundred
AND THIRTY ! Dawn that sunderëd
The night of things unborn ;
O laughing morn !
Dawn bursting into sunlight !
Whose blended lights like one light
Renew, even in my dreams,
Their rosy gleams.
* Among the poets of 1830- 1840 there was at least one who deserved a
kinder destiny. The Roland of Napoléon Peyrat (Napol le Pyrénéen) has
more of the true Romantic colouring and flavour than any poem of the period,
Victor Hugo's alone excepted.
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
With radiance amethystal,
Turning the clouds to crystal,
Thou breakest and the night
Takes sudden flight.
Crowned with ambrosial garlands,
The exiled Muse from far lands
Returns with subtile art
To touch the heart.
The Drama's web is woven
Rich-hued ; the silence cloven :
The Ode harmonious rings,
The Sonnet sings.
Hère Shakespeare shouts sonorous,
While Petrarch sighs in chorus ;
Gay Horace, clear and strong,
Trolls out his song.
Ronsard repeats his proem
In canzonet and poem,
Swelled with the wild refrain
Of Baïfs strain.
Lethe's duU flood beguiling,
Old Rabelais rises smiling
To dower romance with store
Of jovial lore.
Love's rosy fire so flushes
The cheek of youth with blushes
That even the journal grows
Ashamed of prose !
176
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Proud Architecture raises
Her pure and holy praises
In pillared arch and aisie
That heavenward smile.
Sculpture records the features
Of saint-like loyal créatures
That white as lilies wear
Their virtues rare.
Music on wings immortal
Lifts soûl up to the portai
Whence echoes loud and long
The heavenly song.
O converse hymeneal
Of Life with the Idéal !
Antiphony sublime
Of Lute and Rhyme !
Hugo, with tragic présage,
Sends forth his sombre message
To great hearts desolate,
The slaves of fate ;
To the exile, to the dreamer,
His Muse is a redeemer ;
Marion de Lorme, alas !
And Ruy Blas :
While, lost in contemplation,
Great David's émulation
Prophétie wreathes his brow
With laurel-bough.*
An allusion to the celebrated bust of Victor Hugo by David d'Angers.
M 177
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
George Sand reveals the human
Love-tremulous soûl of vvoman ;
Musset unfolds his vvings
And weeping sings.
The whole World's Comedy dances
Round Balzac, who advances
To strip, with suprême art,
Man's naked heart.
Barbier displays his trophies
In bright and burning strophes ;
Sainte-Beuve to lyres that ring
Lends a new string.
Plaintive Valmore sings sobbing ;*
Her heart, with sorrow throbbing,
A bitter sigh exhales,
As the sea wails.
Throned on her mountain-summit
Art, holding vvisdom's plummet,
Gives Théophile Gautier
A world to sway.
In days superb and sordid
Karr keeps more young love hoarded
Than Rothschild's coffers hold
Of massive gold.
* Marceline-Félicité-Josèphe Desbordes-Valmore — 1786-1859 — an actress,
singer and poetess whose sad life and lyrical talent excited the sympathetic
admiration of Sainte-Beuve, Lamartine and Victor Hugo. Her poems are
full of sensibility. According to Michelet she possessed, above ail, ' the
' gift of tears '.
178
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
With lips enthralled and tender,
Gérard reveals the splendeur
Of faëry dreams and rhymes
From Orient climes ;
Deschamps, twin harps and voices
One on swift wings rejoices,
One groans beneath the weight
Of Romeo's fate. -
Lemaître leads the captured
Melpomene enraptured,
And grand Dorval stands near,
His only peer ;
Berlioz, with storm and thunder,
Cleaves the thick clouds asunder,
And calls in lightning-glare
To Meyerbeer ;
Préault's fantastic finger
Bids trembling pathos linger,
Pale, with immortal grâce,
On Sorrow's face :
Johannot's brain, o'erflowîng
With fancies warm and glowing,
Leads Love in pilgrimage
Through each new page.
Fond Art is fain to hover
O'er Boulanger her lover,
And even on Nanteuil's brows
A kiss bestows,
179
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
But pours, in amplest measure,
On Delacroix her treasure
Of gems and jewelled things,
Too rich for kings.
While Daumier wields, audacious,
The pencil large and gracious
Of Michael-Angelo,
Lost long ago,
Gavarni thrids the traces
Of amorous nymphs and grâces,
Whose charms Devéria weds
With nobler heads !
Alas, delusive Vision !
Where is thy light Elysian ? —
The days on which it shone
Are dead and gone !
Where are they ? — Singers, Sages,
That charmed the feast of âges,
Those heroes noble-souled,
Those hearts of gold,
Brave hearts of honour zealous ? —
The most lie dead. Their fellows,
Grown gray in glory's quest,
Now long for rest.
Their great and noble story
Is like a legend hoary
That by the hearth's pale light
Is told at night.
i8o
THÉODORE DE BANVIL^LE
A clown now wears the cluster
Of jevvels rare vvhose lustre
Once showered from soûls profound
Their radiance round.
Brave Hamlet stands dejected,
Discrowned, forlorn, neglected,
Even on the friendly shore
Of Elsinore.
Farewell, Romance star-crownëd !
But not one link renovvnëd
O' the antique chain forgo,
Asselineau !
As Homer's muse rehearses,
In skilled and sounding verses,
The galleys and their freight
Of kings in state,
With deeds of famé refresh us !
Those volumes quaint and precious
In Renduel's rubric rare*
Rehearse with care ;
Marshal them in their order
From border unto border,
Con page and picture well
Back to Borel :
* Pierre-Eugène Renduel (1798- 1874) was the principal éditeur of the
Romantic period. He published Victor Hugo's and Heine's earlier works }
also the celebrated translation in twenty volumes of Hoffmanu's Fantastic
Taies by the writer known as Loewe-Weimars or Loëve-Veimars.
181
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
For thou their annals gleanest
So close that scarce the meanest
Of many nanties obscure
Escapes thy lure.
So, since thy blazon names thee
Our herald and proclaims thee
Guardian of glorious rhyme
LT^nto ail time,
Tell us of EIGHTEEN HUNDRED
. And THIRTY, year that thunderëd
With storm and stress of fight
And splendours bright,
A glorious révélation
On which the loud oblation
Of hoarse Thérésa's lips
Now casts éclipse !
Thine be the tongue that clameurs,
In days whereon the glamours
Of gilded gauds prevail,
' Ye Vanquished, Hail ! '
For though the fortress tumble,
Though stone by stone may crumble
Those moss-grown tovvers, no spell
Can ever quell
The good old Rhineland giant,
Romantic and défiant,
Whose shattered walls environ
A heart of iron !
L'Aube romantique.
{Nouvelles Odes funambulesques^
zxjuly, 1866.
182
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Banville's Souvenirs and Esquisses reflect the freshness
and healthfulness of his intellectual life. His criticisms
give évidence of an appréciative rather than a censorious
attitude towards letters and art. He considered Victor
Hugo and Heinrich Heine the two best poets of this
century, and loved better to bestow too much praise on
a minor bard than to disparage the glory of a great name.
He was familiar with the entire range of French verse,
but he had little or no knowledge of contemporary EngHsh
literature. His ovvn verses stamp him as the most truly
lyrical of ail French poets. In his return to the sources of
classical inspiration he followed and developed Victor de
Laprade and preluded Leconte de Lisle. He had a pro-
digious variety of rhymes and successfully attempted
almost every form of verse. His Sonnets, his Ballades^
and his Rondels after the fashion of Charles d'Orléans, are
triumphs of fanciful learning and lyrical grâce. His
colouring îs warm and luminous. He displays more esprit
than humour, and in gênerai his imagery is more copious
than his ideas. He is never prosy, never pedantic and
never profound ; but the elasticity and ease of his style, his
felicity of illustration and his fine sensé of verbal melody
give wings to a verse vvhich is always radiant and joyous.
Banville saw the sensuous rather than the spiritual side
of things, and no poet was ever so little troubled with
the problems of life and the mysteries of death. To him
the world was full of beauty and sweetness and light. He
was one of those whom the gods love, for although the
days of his years were nearly three-score-and-ten he died
young.
183
THEODORE DE BANVILLE
Home-Sickness.
When trivial volumes roll before my sight
In endless panorama,
When tired Thalia travails every night
With a new meiodrama ;
When journalists dispense their Attic sait
In columns analytic,
And with each dose in divers keys exalt
The function of the critic ;
When pallid lecturers to flocks that faint
Discourse on dying ' niggers ',
When tawdry actresses daub ail their paint
On lank and bony figures ;
When in the market-place provincîals crowd,
Grown greedy with digestion
Of filthy lucre, and in conclave loud
Discuss the sugar question ; *
When sorry playwrights, with mahogany gaze,
Flatter their flimsy model,
Write Victor Hugo down, sing d'Ennery's praise,
And in vile farces twaddle ;
* In England, to-day, the silver question.
184
THEODORE DE BANVILLE
When the cold winds that haggard rhymesters haunt
Give Pegasus the imposthume,
When shameless painters in the Salon flaunt
Women that pose in costume ;
When at Miss Prue's, between two cups of tea,
A full-blovvn genius blossoms,
When queens of beauty, crowned for gallantry,
Display their half-blown bosoms ;
When between painted trees on greeQ baize swards,
Ogled by rake and dullard,
Dolls stuffed vvith cotton dance for English lords,
And frisk their limbs flesh-coloured ;
O could I, Paris (city sore decayed)
On foot light as a leopard's
Fly far, where the woods cast a pleasant shade,
And dwell with Vergil's shepherds !
Watch wanton kids that browse on the wild vine,
Or, in the plain between us,
Stray with Mnasyllos whither, drowsed with wine,
Lies jovial old Silenus ;
Neath bending willows glimpse the bosom warm
Of buxom Amaryllis,
And see the nymphs that round Alexis swarm
Filling their laps with lilies ;
On flowery swards dream, while the flight of Time
Is lulled by murmuring waters,
Weaving a song in amœbean rhyme
To charm Apollo's daughters ;
185
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Mourn Daphnis, ravished by a cruel fate,
Or, when the dance dishevels,
Like blithe Alphesibœus imitate
The satyrs in their revels !
Nostalgie.
{Les Cariatides^
February, 1842.
Idolatry.
Heavenly-rhythm, through the âges victorious,
Whence to new days a new bard is the bringer,
Horace of yore was thy champion and glorious
Sappho thy singer !
Bend thou, enamoured, the nymph for whose beauty
Burns my désire, be love's pleader between us,
Though her heart, vowed to Diana's cold duty,
Scorns me and Venus !
Since every night the fair sisters, the Grâces,
Tuning their steps to thy heavenly numbers,
Kiss her white bosom, where, wooing embraces,
Lydia slumbers.
If in the chace, loosely clad and with tresses
Streaming, she runs to your reeds from the meadow,
Give her, G naiads, your warmest caresses
In the cool shadow !
Help, thou that wieldest the lyre, oh ! inspire in me,
Thou whose fleet chariot the flying winds follow,
Songs that are filled with the amorous fire in me,
Phœbus Apollo!
186
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Wilt thou, too, Cypris, to help me, ensnare lier?
Then will I give thee, with myrtle in blossom,
Turtle-doves white as the snow is, or fairer
Lily's pure bosom.
Idolâtrie.
{Les Cariatides^
June, 1842.
A Love-Song.
Si je Tdis à V alouette,
V alouette le dira.
La violett' se double, double,
La violetf se doublera.
Who, ère daylight breaks above,
Since I faint with love and languish,
Will to him, my soul's dear love,
Bear the secret of my anguish ?
How, my heart, when ail is dark,
Shall my secret send him warning ? —
If I breathe it to the lark
She will tell it to the morning.
Love, that in my breast doth burn,
Thrills me with what pang he pleases
If the wave my secret learn
She will tell it to the breezes.
Fear my tremulous lip turns pale,
Sleepless pain my lid uncloses : —
If I tell the nightingale
She will tell it to the roses.
187
Tuly, 1844.
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
How shall I beseech my love
Respite from the woes that follow ? —
If I tell the turtie-dove
She will tell it to the swallow.
Like a reed I bend and dream,
Cold neglect my beauty shadows : —
If I tell the azuré stream
She will tell it to the meadows.
You that see my soul's despair,
Wings and waves and winds of summer l'-
If my glass the secret share
She will tell each curious corner.
Yet, because I faint with love,
You that see my swooning anguish —
Fly and find, abroad, above,
Him for whom my soûl doth languish !
Chanson d'Amour.
{Les Stalactites)
A Boat-Song.
Et vogue la nacelle
Qui porte mes amours.
The waves on the lagoon
Drowse and swoon ;
With breath that balm dîscumbers
The zéphyrs softly creep :
The ripple lulls our slumbers,
Let us sleep !
188
Jîtîy, 1844.
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Svveet lips with mélodies
Swell the breeze,
The wind flings on their numbers
Our kisses to the deep.
The ripple lulls our slumbers,
Let us sleep !
In vain thy jealous lord,
Spouse adored,
Each haunt of love encumbers ;
This sheltered bower we keep.
The ripple lulls our slumbers,
Let us sleep !
Ah ! while the starlight pale
Neath her veil
Swathes us in faint penumbers
Cling close to me and weep !
The ripple lulls our slumbers,
Let us sleep !
What reck we if the night,
Swift of flight,
With cloudy spindrift lumbers
The elemental sweep !
The ripple lulls our slumbers,
Let us sleep 1
Chanson de Bateau.
{Les Stalactites.)
189
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
The Blacksmiths.
With rhyme and chime of sounding hammer
Lo, how the smiths in song rejoice !
Rising towards the dawn their clamour
Rings louder than the clarion's voice.
JOHN and JAMES.
See the bellowing fiâmes that lighten
Our foreheads by the north-wind tanned !
They glimmer through the haze and frighten
The hungry ravens from the land.
Feast-day, fast-day, one with another,
In fires of hell we toil and sing.
JAMES.
My brother John . . .
JOHN.
And you my brother .
JAMES.
The bellows blow !
JOHN.
The hammer swing !
JAMES.
Iron, rough as earth thy neighbour,
In the hearth's black shadow thrown,
Ere the close of this day's labour
On our anvil thrill and groan !
190
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
JOHN.
Once obscure, through changes growing,
Fate shall snatch thee, bright as Famé,
From the fiery furnace glowing
In a shovver of golden flame !
JAMES.
Thou shalt be the plough that burrows
Deep in earth, whence smiling rise
Harvests fair that clothe the furrows,
Hailed by light-winged butterflies !
JOHN.
Thou shalt be the fearless courser
In whose flanks of flaming coal
Moves a spirît that murmurs hoarser
Than the distant thunders roU !
JAMES.
Thou shalt be the sweeping sickle,
Reaper of the ripened wheat
Like a living sea whose fickle
Waves the wind doth bend and beat !
JOHN.
As the dawn from darkness rushes
In the sun's resplendent flood,
Thou shalt be the blade that blushes
With the crimson bloom of blood 1
JAMES.
Now for justice thou descendest !
Whether wrapped in gloom or gleam,
Svvord or ploughshare, still thou blendest
With the moving human stream !
191
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
JOHN.
Thou dost wield the warrior's thunder !
JAMES.
Thou dost tear the bosom true
Of thy Mother Earth asunder !
JOHN.
Fighter thou !
JAMES.
And worker too !
Les Forgerons.
{Les Exilés.)
October, 1S59.
The Nightingale.
See how the violets shimmer,
With pearls of night bedewed,
Fresh drops that glance and glimmer !
Hark ! in the sombre wood
That shivers with her wings
The nightingale now sings !
O linger, half-reveah"ng
Thy naked charms so near :
Beneath thy window kneehng,
Tell me thou holdest dear
Words whispered once or twice
Of yore in Paradise !
192
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
The moon unveils her splendeur ;
The sea's vast bosom throbs :
The tuneful sea is tender,
And heaves with long-drawn sobs
Of fond désire and fear,
As I, when thou art near !
Nay, hush ! Again thy lover
Kneels near thee to adore
Those lids black lashes cover,
Those Hps that sigh once more !
O yesterday . . . those curls
My wanton touch unfurls !
O coronal ! O caresses
On locks of love forlorn !
Nymph of the golden tresses,
Thou canst not be forsvvorn ;
Lost angel now redeemed ! —
'Twas madness ! I hâve dreamed !
/une, 1860.
Le Rossignol.
{Améthystes.)
A Starry Night.
Night throws a royal splendour
Of diamonds on the dune.
Her face, beneath the moon,
Like thine is pale and tender.
Thine eyes, O Sorceress ! mingle
Their heaven of cloudy hue
With the unrelenting blue
That laves the Tyrrhene shingle.
N 193
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
A thousand roses blossom
Around her smiling bed,
Even as the wild-flowers shed
Their sweetness on thy bosom.
Thou knowest, O queen of wonder,
Enchanted, holy Night !
With what entranced afifright
My soûl is torn asunder.
O sapphire ! veilless azuré !
O calm ! O ecstasy !
The sea is like the sky
And shines with starred emblazure.
Thy flowery lips'unsealîng,
To calm this wounded soûl,
Breathe in a word : Be whole !
And in a kiss love's healing.
Nuit d'étoiles.
February, 1861. {Améthystes^
Herodias.
Her eyes are clear as Jordan's wave serene.
On daînty neck and ear droops pearly lustre ;
She seems more sweet than the grape's trellised cluster
And shames the wild-rose with her dusky mien.
She laughs and wantons like a scornful queen,
Baring the wondrous beauty of her bosom.
Her luscious lips are like a scarlet blossom,
And her white teeth outshine the lily's sheen.
194
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Lo ! now she cornes, with charms voluptuous glowing !
A black page holds her robe of draperies flowing
That proudly sweep the floor in ample folds.
Sapphire and topaz flash and rubies ruddy
Flame on her hands : her golden charger holds
The head of John the Baptist, pale and bloody.
Hérodiade.
{Les Princesses.)
/u7ie, 1854.
Medea.
Medea, in whose heart love swells at height,
Sings with the wave obscure ; and the swift river,
In which her long look sees the starlight shiver,
Dimly reflects her naked beauty white.
Her wan charms spell the Phasis in its flight,
And, as she sings, the wandering winds deliver
Her voice, blent with the sound of lyres that quiver,
And spread her tresses like a stream of light.
Fixing her gaze on gloomy skies, aglimmer
With sanguine flame, she sings. Her white limbs
shimmer
Like snowy gleams athwart the dusky swards.
On sombre mountain-slopes she culls the tender
And mystic herb whose sap fell poison hoards,
And on her bosom shines the moon's pale splendeur.
Médée.
{Les Princesses.)
September, 1865.
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
Remembrance.
O Gautier ! thou a sage among the sages
With looks sublime and bland,
Even thou whose spirit lived in ail the âges
And dwelt in every land,
Thou wert a Greek indeed, now haply gazing
With thine immortal eyes
On temples tall, harmonious profiles raising
In pure blue gulfs of skies.
Of those soft sword-bearers thou wert the lover
(Theirs more than sorrow's power)
For in thy dreams, whenas the sap boiled over
Of ail thy thought in flower,
Thou wert a bard, and now, to charm the leisure
Of many stranger kings,
In heaven's high dwelling thy melodious measure
Of swift Achilles sings.
Naught was unknown to thee. His art unfolded
Antique Polycletes ;
And forms athletic by thy finger moulded
The Dorian sculptor sees.
On the green swards, made glad with laughing daisies,
Such as the Gods désire,
Theocritus now hears the herdsman's praises
He taught thy child's clear lyre.
Loving, with Pindar, the serene dominions,
Like fowlers loosing flight
Thou sendest forth thine Odes on eagle-pinions
Towards the red sun's light.
196
THÉODORE DE BANVILLE
And there, by Aristophanes, thou scoffest,
With words for scourging-rods,
The impious and intolérable sophist,
Vile scorner of the Gods.
So while on earth, with tears more sait than sorrel,
Sadly we make our moan,
Thou greetest, under wreaths of rose and laurel,
Those once thy fellows known.
The craving of thy lips at last thou cloyest
In feasts whereto they throng,
And, tasting things ambrosial, enjoyest
Their converse sweet and long.
Round thee the sun makes vvarm with his caresses
The laughing landscape wide,
And Helen, grave, with beautiful bright tresses,
Sits smiling at thy side ;
She, of that chainless scourge the dreadful sender
On kings and heroes old.
Radiant with beauty now and starry splendour
Thou dost in heaven behold !
Ressouvenir.
{Le Tombeau de Théophile Gautier.*')
Novembery 1872.
* Reprinted under the title  Théophih Gautier in the définitive édition of
les Exilés.
197
André Theuriet.
Born in Marly-le-Roi (Seine-et-Oise) 1833.
André Theuriet received his éducation in Bar- le -Duc,
to which place his family belonged ; and his youth was
spent among the hills and woods of Western Lorraine.
He aftervvards studied for the law in Paris, but on taking
his degree in 1857 his attention was turned to literature,
and with this vocation in view he became a clerk in the
offices of the Ministry of Finance. From that time his
life has been almost entirely and unostentatiously devoted
to letters. His long catalogue of work is composed of
four volumes of verse, a multitude of novels and plays
and innumerable contributions to periodical literature.
He seems to hâve sacrificed poetry to romance, for he is
better known as a novelist than as a poet.
Theuriet's first poetical effusion, In Menioriam^ appeared
in the Revue des Deux Mondes in 1857. Le Chemin des
Bois was published in 1867 and crowned by the French
Academy in 1868. Le Bleu et le iVl^zV followed in 1873 ;
then le Livre de la Payse ; and the Jardin d'automne in
1894. As may be gathered from the titles of thèse
volumes, André Theuriet is pre-eminently a poet of the
country. He excels in the delineation of delicately-
coloured scènes of rural life. His song is fuU of birds and
flowers and the charms of idyllic love. To his delight
in natural beauty he adds a contemplative melancholy
which enhances the poetry of his simple pictures. The
198
ANDRÉ THEURIET
wind-swept landes and ruined tovvers of Brittany seem to
hâve fascinated his fancy more than the ancestral fields
and forests of fertile Lorraine. There is nothing of
Parisian sensuality or disappointed cynicism in his healthy
love of rustic enjoyment.
The poetical range of this bucolic bard is not a wide
one. His latest volume of verse gives only a fuller and
richer expression to the sentiment which inspired his
youthful muse. In his prose taies, which hâve a large
circle of readers, he displays the same tender and
observant study of human character in humble life and
dwells on the same exquisite descriptions of pastoral
scenery, without intruding those voluptuous and violent
éléments which so many French novelists love to handle.
Once or twice only has he allowed himself a little licence,
but the author of les Œillets de Kerlaz needs no such
meretricious accessories to relieve the unaffected freshness
of his narrative talent.
199
ANDRÉ THEURIET
The Song of the Willow-Weaver.
Willow wands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
You shall be the cradle where the mother rocks her child,
Soothed by luUabies of love that breathe some old
refrain ;
Nestling in the frail couch, by happy dreams beguiled,
When closing lips still white with milk he goes to sleep
again.
Willow wands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
You shall be the basket brimmed with berries ripe and red,
Gathered by the girls that roam in copses clothed with
fern ;
Fragrant on the fresh air a balmy breath is shed,
When laughing to the homestead in the twilight they
return.
Willow wands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
You shall be the riddle in the buxom peasant's arms,
Whence the barley beaten from the flail overflows,
While upon the threshing-floor the sparrows pounce in
swarms,
And skirmish for the golden grain she sprinkles as she
goes.
200
ANDRÉ THEURIET
Willow vvands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
When the grapes in autumn grow purple on the vine,
When the labourers on the slopes trail their weary
limbs ;
You shall clasp with strong hoops the casks that burst
with wine,
Oozing through the reddened staves and bubbling at
the brims.
Willow wands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
You shall be the cage wherein the captive linnets sing,
You shall be the treacherous weir, hidden in the reeds,
Where the nimble trout, as he darts from spring to spring,
Prisoned in the sudden snare vainly writhes and bleeds.
Willow wands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
You shall be the humble bier on which the weaver lies,
When worn with âge he falls and is laid at last to sleep,
Waiting for the grave, while the evening zéphyr sighs
Through willows on the river-bank that bend their
heads and weep.
Willow wands, wicker bands,
Let your supple withies bend beneath the weaver's hands.
La Chanson du Vannier.
{Le Chemin des Bois.)
20I
ANDRÉ THEURIET
The Kingfisher.
When from dewy dawn to night
Fiâmes the dog-star's fiery Hght
In a heaven of cloudless glow,
Let us haunt those hollow nooks
Where on rock-strown bed the brooks
Under channelled arches flow.
There, in coverts cool as dusk,
Honeysuckle, thyme and musk
Blossom in the fresh sweet air ;
There, on green and azuré wing,
Like an arrow from the string,
Darts the glittering kingfisher.
Swift of flight he skims the stream,
Shines, and like a fading dream
Lures the vision as he Aies ;
But his plume of purfled blue,
Bright with many a changing hue,
Lingers in the dazzled eyes.
Le Martin-pêcJieur : Chansons d'oiseaux.
(^Jardin dautomne.)
On the Water.
The willows shiver. On the stream
The pale moon spreads her silvery beam,
Blue gazing from the gulf of stars ;
Beneath broad branches black as night
We glide along the waters, white
With nénuphars. . . .
202
ANDRÉ THEURIET
The fresh cool dews of evening shed
Among the dense leaves overhead
Melt, drop by drop, in mystic tears ;
Showered on the waves that thrill and throng
They seem to kill us with a song
From heavenly sphères. . . .
O friends, the night serene and clear !
Laugh, yet so low we scarce can hear
Your laughter . . . trembling lest it rouse
The sad reality of things
That in the shadow fold their wings
And fain would drowse ! . . .
Sing ! . . . hère beneath the weeping skies,
Heedless of time, with half-closed eyes,
My thought shall flow while flows the stream,
Even as a nurse, of rest beguiled,
Fondles and soothes her weary child
To sleep . . . and dream. . . .
Protnenade sur l'eau : Paysages d'autrefois.
(^Jardin d'automne^
203
Armand Silvestre.
Born in Paris, 1837.
Paul -Armand Silvestre (known also in letters as Paul
Forestier) was a pupil of the École polytechnique in Paris,
and found employment, like André Theuriet, in the offices
of the Ministry of Finance. He began his literary career
as a poet under the vving of the Parnassian group. His
first poems were published with a commendatory préface
by George Sand, and he thereupon took a prominent place
among the lyrical writers of his day. The verse was rich
in ideas and imagery, harmoniously moulded, and furnished
from a wide knowledge of classical, legendary and mytho-
logical lore. Several collections of verse followed at
intervais ; notably la Chansoîi des Heures (new and enlarged
édition in l'èZ'j) les Ailes d' or {iZZo) le Pays des Roses {\ZZl)
le Chemin des Étoiles (1885) Roses d^ octobre (1890) and
V Or des Couchants (1892). Silvestre's models are Gautier,
Banville and Baudelaire, but he has a highly-coloured
voluptuous style of his own.
The turning-point in Armand Silvestre's literary life was
his accession to the Gil Blas in 1880. Without forsaking
altogether the higher walks of literature he essayed a
résurrection of Rabelais in his coarser and broader vein,
and revelled in that species of pleasantry which is so well
characterised as gaidoiserie. In les Malheurs du comman-
datit Laripète, les Farces de mon ami Jacques, Contes
pantagruéliques et galants, Contes grassouillets and Nouvelles
gaudrioles he gave free scope to his libertine fancy and
204
ARMAND SILVESTRE
riotous humour, often lightened up with flashes of rcal
learning and vvit, and interlarded with charming descriptive
passages vvhich are worthy of a more refined environment.
Silvestre has not carried this wanton gaiety into his verse,
and the excellent poet of Golden Wings and Starry Ways
will alvvays find readers willing to forget the frolics of his
earthy Muse.
Armand Silvestre has written a number of robust plays
and libretti ; among the latter being Dimitri for Victorin
Joncicres and Henry VIII for Camille Saint-Saëns.
Musicians hâve always admired his verses because their
graceful cadence lends itself so naturally to modulation
and melody. He is also an éloquent orator and knows
how to infuse an almost lyrical émotion into his vivid
and virile speech. According to Paul Verlaine he is one
of the few who hâve succeeded in untying the Gordian
knot, that is to be a lyrical poet and live by the profession.
It is not unlikely, however, that Silvestre owes his good
fortune rather to Momus than to Erato.
205
ARMAND SILVESTRE
To One by the Sea.
Lo ! the new season on the meadow flings
Her robe of purple, hyacinth and blue,
Pure in her nakedness, with sprouting wings
That on the air a breath of jasmine strew.
She leaves a joyful furrow where she leaps ;
A Sound of kisses springs beneath her tread :
Round her the broken bonds of heavy sleeps
In the freed sether float like silken thread.
Endless enchantment, ecstasies of birth !
On mount, in meadow, and on bosky bank
Of the blue ri vers, every where the earth
Feels living germs pierce through her quickened
flank.
Hard by the barren sea, the sea whose breast
Bears scentless flowers and trees of bitter leaf,
Thou dwellst alone, while, with the sea's unrest,
My heart roUs at thy feet an endless grief!
A Celle qui est au bord de la Mer: IV.
{Les Ailes d'or.)
206
ARMAND SILVESTRE
Why should I weep?
Ah ! since thy loveliness brings hither
The beauties lost in time's éclipse,
Why should I weep if roses wither ? —
Their purple laughs upon thy lips.
Since ail the splendours shame doth banish
Sole in thy splendeur weave their spells,
Why should I weep if lilies vanish ? —
Their whiteness on thy forehead dwells.
Since in thy being love rekindles
The flame that fades from evening skies,
Why should I weep if sunlight dwindles ? —
Its beam sheds brightness from thine eyes.
And since thy living soûl incloses
The soûl of every dead delight,
Why should I weep for stars or roses ? —
Thou art my fragrance and my light !
Q importe ? : Vers pour être chantés.
{Les Ailes d'or.)
Judith.
Her sweet and fatal name of fear and wonder
Now like warm wine fills me with wild desires,
Now chills me and my echoing heart inspires
With far-off terrors of the Almighty's thunder.
Breathed in vast heaven her name awakes there-
under
Jehovah's eagle, winged with vengeful fîres.
And in my troubled soûl evokes the choirs
Of antique myths Christ smote and clove asunder.
207
ARMAND SILVESTRE
I see her, flushed as if from fierce caresses,
Rise up and shake the darkness of her tresses
Beneath the waning starlight clear and pale.
Grim as a sheeted ghost the grave delivers,
I see her stoop and swathe in the red veil
With Holophernes' head my heart that quivers.
Judith: Les Visions,
{Le Chemin des Étoiles^
Sonnet.
Flowerage of lilies opening to the Dawn
On the pale edge of Heaven's great garden-close,
Ye whom the keen wheel of Aurora mows
Beneath her car by ruddy coursers drawn ;
Snow, whose clear ermine mantle, cold and wan,
On granité flank of the vast mountain flows ;
Jasmines, sweet silvery bells aswing when blows
The wind of April brushing the soft lawn ;
Pearl, whereof Venus from the foamy crest
Fashioned the milky drop that gemmed her breast,
When cruel love forsook the sobbing sea ;
Marble, pure glory of the Parian isle,
Wherein the radiant shapes of heroes smile :
Lo ! ail your whiteness is less white than She.
Sonnets à l'Amie : VI.
{Roses d'octobre,)
208
ARMAND SILVESTRE
A Spring Thought.
Lo ! the new Year a fresh green raiment wears.
Undulant as the light wave fringed with foam
A misty veil floats on the emerald loam,
Fulfilling with white dreams our black despairs.
— Lo ! the new Year a fresh green raiment wears.
The subtile blood of flowers throbs through the earth;
The sweet soûl of the flowers is tired of sleep,
And in a vermeil kiss the soft skies weep,
Weaving the spell of mystical rebirth.
— The subtile blood of flowers throbs through the earth.
Glad sunlight sparkles in the clear-eyed stream
Whose icy lid now melts to the warm breeze ;
Through tender wreathings of the lithe young trees
A thrill of verdure shoots with délicate gleam.
— Glad sunlight sparkles in the clear-eyed stream.
Smile, clear-eyed stream! Smile, rosy-blossomed lips!
Spring, in her puissant and gracile flight,
Sweeps with sole stroke of wing from heaven's height
Like breath accurst the shadow of day's éclipse.
— Smile, clear-eyed stream ! Smile, rosy-blossomed lips !
Pensée de printemps : Paysages et Fleurs.
{Roses d'octobre.)
209
ARMAND SILVESTRE
Nature's Reflections.
Soft on thy dusky tresses dwell
The shadows of the twilight sphère,
A sheen, as of the pearly shell,
Shines in the hollows of thine ear.
The lily smooths thy velvet brow,
And on thy lips pale roses spring ;
So heaven each beauty doth endow
With colour of some lovely thing.
Yet is there none like to thine eyes.
They seem to mingle, glad or grave,
The changing hue of wondrous skies
Divinely mirrored in the wave.
Each charm of thine its colour wears
And weaves for me a spell suprême
But O thine eyes, say what is theirs ?
— The colour of my dearest Dream.
Rimes légères. IL
{Roses d'octobre.)
2IO
Léon DieVx.
Born in the Island of Réunion, 1838.
Baudelaire lias defined the literary character of the
Créole. ' No originality, no power of conception or ex-
' pression . . . women's soûls, whose genius is on a level
' with their fragility and gracility of form, their velvety
' eyes that gaze without scrutinising, and their singularly
* narrow foreheads, unfriendly to labour and thought '.
Leconte de Lisle was, as Baudelaire confessed, a brilliant
exception to this rule ; Léon Dierx is another, though in
considerably lesser degree.
Léon Dierx celebrated his literary apprenticeship by
the publication of some light verse and threw in his lot
with the Parnassian group of singers. Under the influence
of Leconte de Lisle, his poetry thenceforth took a more
solid and sober form. He has not been a voluminous
writer. His first volume oï Poèmes et Poésies {\^6^) con-
tains several fine versions of Hebrew, Egyptian and Celtic
legends, handled after the fashion of his great compatriot.
The same vein is worked in les Lèvres closes (1868) but in
one or two of the poems, particularly in Lazare, he sounds
a deeper and more individual note. This volume closes
with the Chorus of the Last Men, not unlike one of Camp-
bell's poems in conception, but much more elaborately
wrought out. And Dierx has neither the Northern poet's
firm faith nor the touch of pathos which vibrâtes in thèse
fine verses from The Last Man : —
211
LEON DIERX
' For ail those trophied arts
' And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
* Healed not a passion or a pang
' Entailed on human hearts '.
Léon Dierx supplies the want of émotion with sonorous
rhymes and splendid imagery. Although his verse is
modelled on that of Leconte de Lisle, he fails to achieve
the firm outline and luminous colouring of the master.
The peculiar characteristic which he has best reflected is
a mood of melancholy discontent, alike in the contempla-
tion of mankind and of external nature, but a certain
voluptuous élément of his own always wells up, and he
often displays the capriciousness of a dilettante. He is
apt to repeat his ideas and surcharge his images when
he ventures on a longer flight than he is accustomed to.
In les Amants {i^ygî) the tone becomes lighter again, but
there is little or no lyrical buoyancy. The poet, in returning
to his early love, seems to hâve been conscious of the effort
with which he sustained the weight of his more imitative
manner. He has never paralleled the perfection of Lazare.
In private life Léon Dierx has the réputation of a sober
and restrained talker. He lives out of the whirl of Parisian
literary and social life, is a pronounced republican in
politics, and occupies a post in the Ministry of Public
Education. He is a great friend of painters and has
himself essayed their art with some success. He has also
tried the drama in his dilettante fashion. La Rencontre^
a short theatrical scène with two characters only — a couple
of old lovers who meet again by chance at a nocturnal
festival al fresco and who finally take leave of each other
in a colloquy of élégant rhyme — was privately represented
in 1875. There are some admirable lines in this play, but
neither the dialogue nor the climax is dramatic.
212
LÉON DIERX
Lazarus.
When Jésus called him, Lazarus awoke ;
Livid, he rose erect in the cold gloom ;
Then, shivering in the vestments of the tomb,
Fared forth, grave and alone, nor turned nor spoke.
Alone and grave thenceforth, without a word,
He walked like one that seeks and cannot find,
Stumbling at every step, as he were blind,
Against the things of life and earth's vile herd.
Beneath his forehead, shining deathly pale,
No lightnings flamed from glassy eyeballs dim ;
Even yet the eternal splendeurs haunted him
As though he dared not look beyond the veil.
Frail as a child and with a madman's stare
He went. The crowd recoiled when he drew nigh.
None cared to question him, slow passing by
Like one that stifles in unwholesome air.
To him the murmur of dull things below
Was vain. Engulfed in his ineffable dream ;
Beneath that awful secret he did seem
Aghast, in silence wandering to and fro.
Sometimes he shuddered in his cold éclipse,
And half stretched forth his hand, as speech would
corne.
But still the unknown word of yore was dumb,
Hushed by a viewless finger on his lips.
213
LÉON DIERX
Then young and old in Bethany feared this man
And fled from him. He passed alone and grave.
And in their veins the blood, even of the brave,
Ran cold before his visage vague and wan.
Ah ! who can tell thy torment and strange pains,
Risen from the grave, where ail the world finds rest,
To live again and trail on paths unblest
The shroud girded like sackcloth on thy reins !
Phantasmal semblance of the man that died !
Couldst thou endure anew life's change and chance,
O thou, doomed to bring back in speechless trance
The knowledge to a hungering world denied ?
Scarce had Death yielded to the light her spoil,
When shadow swathed thee, a mysterious ghost
That calmly moved athwart the human host,
Knowing no more its joy, its grief, its toil.
Thy second life, passionless and profound,
Hath left to men a memory, not a trace,
Didst thou regain at last, in Death's embrace,
Those azuré deeps that ever wrapt thee round ?
How oft, when shadows filled the heavenly space,
With tall form reared against the golden sky,
With arms towards the Eternal raised on high,
Thou didst implore the lingering angel's grâce ;
How oft, thou, wandering where the rank grass grows.
Grave and alone, in dwellings of the dead,
Didst envy those that, on their stony bed
Once laid, should wake no more from deep repose !
Lazare.
{Les Lèvres doses.)
214
LÉON DIERX
Funeral March.
{Chorus of the Last Men.)
The tîme draws nigh, foretold by ancient sages !
The days of universal terror come !
Grovvn denser hour by hour the shades of âges
Lengthen on fear-crushed brows and Hps struck
dumb.
Our days are lives of agonies and spasms !
No more with a new dawn the East is crowned ;
Like the black bronze that shuts sepulchral chasms
The résonant soil sends forth a mournful sound.
Gross darkness round us folds her heavy curtaîn.
Forlorn of look or word the skies He furled.
Last sons of Gain ! the doom of things is certain,
Death cornes for ail time into the dead world.
Beneath the quenched stars and the wan sun's
burden
Funereal nîght winds her shroud wide and deep :
In Earth's cold bosom lies the sower's guerdon,
Her turn has come to seek the eternal sleep.
Now the last gods lie dead and no laws bind us,
Our prayers are hushed, our heroes are no more;
No hope before us shines : no light behind us
Shall bring to birth again the dreams of yore.
Wide o'er the universe Death spreads his pinion.
The chill hard ground rings hollow to our tread.
We vaunt not now the days of pride's dominion,
In thèse, as in our veins, the sap is dead.
215
LÉON DIERX
Men ! gaze on us, in hideous ruin cowering ;
O beams that shone clear in our fathers' sîght !
Our cavernous orbs, with grief and horror lowering,
From dead to dying things turn their duU light.
O Love, thou charming phantom, earth's consoler,
Love, whose delights deluded âges sung,
Thou hauntest not thèse twilights pale and polar,
Die, ancient ghost, inspired with lying tongue !
Our tears are dry, our veins are bloodless courses,
Our laughter douts thy fatal torch with spume ;
If ever man's heart throbbed beneath thy forces,
O Love, our empty soûls are now thy tomb!
No praise, no prayer, in temples swells the chorus ;
And, even as Love, Pleasure her slave lies dead.
No light glows in the heavens, no hope before us :
Let our wild laughter fill the gloom with dread !
Where is the pride of yore, O race that slumbers ?
Erst on your brows it cast a flaming light.
Pride struck the Gods down, reckless of their numbers,
And died in glory, yearning for the fight.
By the last glimmering of our fires, like cattle
That cringe with terror, huddling in vile herd,
We crouch ; our limbs are shrunk, our dry bones
rattle.
And scarce with puise of life our hearts are stirred.
Does any clutch for gold with shrivelled fingers ?
Or shiver in his flesh with shamed désire ?
No, in our wasted soûls no longing lingers,
Nor lightens from our looks one glimpse of fire.
2l6
LÉON DIERX
Flush of crîme's fever, thirst of blood fraternal,
At least ye spoke of vigour in the strife ;
Evil, that lured man's heart with charms infernal,
Haply with courage starred the gulf of life.
But strength and courage died in us with evil,
No leaven in our hearts the vices own.
Triumphing o'er our soûls the beast primeval
Moans on the verge of the imminent unknown.
Honour ! who follows thee, who hears thy clarion,
Or feels thy ferment raise his fury blind ?
Thy creeds beneath our dunghills rot like carrion.
The phantom Reason sleeps, time out of mind.
No knell echoes in graveyards lone and hoary.
Soundless oblivion gulfs the gods of Famé.
Who mourus them ? who remembers them, O Glory ?
Yet none like them worshipped thy lying name.
Thou, Sun that ripened Youth, crowned Beauty's
tresses,
Made the woods sing and Care with laughter led,
Save for thy dismal glare and dark caresses
We hâve not known thee, Sun of centuries dead !
And thou whose beauty filled the dawn with wonder,
Daughter of light, lover of things sublime,
Whose towering forests thrilled with tuneful thunder
And breathed green fragrance to heavcn's golden
prime ;
217
LÉON DIERX
Earth, that lies fated with man's doom to dwindle ;
Void, voiceless, ghastly as a naked skull,
Turn to thy sun again and haply kindle
New beauty at his fire, waxed cold and dull !
But may thy globe impure on his be shattered
And broadcast spill our countless bones, O world !
Lest some new earth receive their germins scattered,
Crush them, in one vast crater's ruin hurled !
Marche funèbre : Chœur des derniers Hommes.
{Les Lèvres closes.)
2i8
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam.
Born in Saint-Brieuc, 1838 . . . Died in Paris, 1889.
The glories ofour birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial thîngs.
Max Nordau, in his notable study of Dégénérescence, has
revived against the author of Axel the charge that he had
no title to the ancient earldom of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam,
the birthright of a family whose achievements are inter-
woven with the romance of French history as those of the
family of Douglas with Scottish history. No reader of
the admirable biography of the poet published by the late
vicomte Robert du Pontavice de Heussey can harbour
a shadow of doubt that the poet's claim to this dignity
was entirely authentic. Philippe-Auguste-Mathias de
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam was the son of the marquis Joseph
de Villiers de l'Isle-Adam and his wife Marie-Françoise
Le Nepveu de Carfort, who represented another old
Breton family.
When the famous grandmaster of the Order of Malta,
Philippe de Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, set out to défend
Rhodes against Sultan Soliman in 1521, he left behind
him not only the allegiance of an army of vassals but
the revenues of a vast estate in the Ile-de-France. Very
différent was the inheritance of his poetic descendant
in hapless quest of famé and fortune. The marquis
Joseph had ruined himself in searching for the hidden
treasures of a family tradition, amongst other fantastic
spéculations. The heir to this idéal wealth began in early
219
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
youth to plan great romances and dramas, and so much
did his parents believe in his vocation that they sold at
some sacrifice their small estate, with its ruined keep, and
removed to Paris.
At twenty years of âge, his pocket bulging with manu-
scripts and his brain full of visions, the young Count burst
on the circle of the Parnassians in Paris and was welcomed
by Catulle Mendès, Glatigny, Coppée, Alphonse Daudet
and the band of youthful men of letters who essayed to
keep alive the lingering traditions of the Romantic epoch
during Victor Hugo's exile. Though certainly endowed
with genius, Villiers de l'Isle-Adam was eminently unfitted
by tempérament and training for the conditions of civilised
life. Almost the only happy period of his literary exist-
ence was the beginning of his career in Paris, when he
was comparatively free from the cares of daily subsistence,
encouraged by some of the best men of the time and
sustained by the blind faith and affection of his kindred.
He was an excellent singer and pianoforte-player, and
enlivened the cénacle with his skill, but it was not in his
nature to follow any regular employment. If he had a
brief access of activity, and devoted himself to literary
toil, it was broken by a sudden plunge into debauchery
and idleness, followed by remorse and unavailing revolt
against the dégradation of his genius. Neither ambition,
nor self-interest, nor a sensé of duty, nor the need of
independence could teach him the value of time and
opportunity. His parents lived in extrême poverty, and
on the death of an aged aunt who helped them with her
annuity they were reduced to the direst distress. From
that time forth to the day of his tragic death the poet's
life was one long sordid struggle with misery. Not even
the pride of race interposed to save him, and he gradually
assumed the very look and gait of a vagabond of the
220
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
lowest class. 'This much is good in journalism ', wrote
Théophile Gautier, 'that it mixes you vvith the crowd,
' humanises you by perpetually giving you your own
' measure and préserves you from the înfatuations of
' solitary pride '. Villiers would hâve done better to accept
the veriest drudgery of daylong journalism, if only to
learn the lessons of discipline and steady diligence. Every
pittance earned in such a way would hâve had its value.
. . . ' If this is not glory, at least it is bread and butter '
said Rameau's dissolute nephew to Diderot. Villiers
succumbed to the foui atmosphère of Paris, from which
his only escape was an occasional visit to Switzerland or
Germany to see Richard Wagner, for whose music he had
an unbounded admiration.
Villiers had a first and last glimpse of good-fortune in
1888. He made a lucrative lecturing engagement in
Brussels, his books at last began to command a sale, and
he was being sought after by publishers. But while he
was trying to gain a little relief from the fatigues of Paris
at Nogent-sur-Marne a cruel cancerous disease suddenly
declared itself in his ravaged constitution. He was taken
into the retreat of the frères de Saint-Jean de Dieu in rue
Oudinot, and in this charitable refuge he ended his
wretched and vvasted life, comforted by the friendship of
two poets who had been peculiarly kind to him — Stéphane
Mallarmé and Léon Dierx. On his deathbed he married
a widow of humble estate, absolutely destitute of éduca-
tion, with whom he had lived for many years, and who
had consoled his sorrows with a constant affection.
Their son, Victor de Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, if he still
lives, is the sole inheritor of an ancient name and of the
degraded glory of a great race. The marquis Joseph and
his wife, who had vainly sacrificed everything for the poet,
died in 1883.
221
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
The character of Villiers de l'Isle-Adam was full of
contradictions, His youth overflowed with robust gaiety
and cheerfulness. He had abundant energy without the
capacity for sustained effort. Although a shrewd observer
of human frailties he was credulous to an extraordinary
degree when his enthusiasm was awakened. His man-
hood was deeply tinged with that cynical bitterness which
so easily surges up in the disappointed Celt. Through-
out his whole life he remained an ardent Catholic, but
he was deeply versed in occult lore and metaphysical
philosophy, Villiers was always a most careful writer, his
disordered life notwithstanding. He weighed and re-
weighed his sentences with the scruple of a real artist.
He refused to prostitute his pen for a price, even in the
days of his deepest poverty.
His first volume of poems, published, when he was little
more than twenty years old, by Scheuring of Lyons, is
one of the most remarkable ever written by so young a
poet. There is quite a masterly ease in the versification,
and at times the true touch of pathos. Had the promise
of thèse poems been fulfilled there is little doubt that
Villiers would hâve taken his place among the foremost
French poets of this century.
Much of his prose is spoiled by a flippant cynicism
which should perhaps be attributed in some measure to the
pernicious personal influence of Baudelaire during the
early years of the Breton poet's life in Paris. But he has
passages of the highest sublimity and beauty, some of
them not surpassed by the masters of impassioned prose.
His Contes cruels and Histoires insolites are collections of
short stories, some frivolous and satirical, others full of
poetical charm, with a vague groundswell of mysticism.
In Tribulat Bonhomet he has delineated one of the
types of the time, the self-seeking and purely practical
222
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
man. L'Eve future is a pseudo-psychological romance
inspired by the experiments of Edison in physical science,
and suffused with a strange and disquieting irony,
Morgane and Axel, superb prose poems in dramatic form,
are too discursive and too transcendental for successful re-
présentation on the stage, The great name of Shakespeare
has been pronounced by some French admirers of thèse
dramas, but, in spite of the flashes of pure poetry which
h'ghten them up, there is nothing in their artificial
passion and elaborate déclamation to justify such a com-
parison. Axel, his finest drama, was produced in Paris
after the poet's death, but it failed to impress the Parisian
pubh'c, although the literary beauty of the dialogue did
not escape the perception of discerning critics. A later
performance of El'cn — a moral tragedy which may be
described as an idealised version of George Barnwell — was
greeted with gênerai indifférence and occasional laughter.
Thèse are but a small portion of the extensive dramatic,
historical and metaphysical writings of Villiers. It is
much to be regretted that in his effort to accomplish
great things he neglected the vein of genuine lyrical
poetry which was in him.
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam was 'a grandiose mystifier',
says Jules Lemaître, who loves to dismiss with an epithet
the writers with whom he is not in sympathy. In this
case the epithet is just, but Villiers was more than that ;
he was a true singer, he had the suprême gift of imagina-
tion, and he was a subtle if often capricious and erratic
thinker.
223
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
Discouragement.
Athwart the unclean âges whirled
To solitary woods sublime,
Oh ! had I first beheld this world
Alone and free in Nature's prime !
When on its loveliness first seen
Eve cast her pure blue eyes abroad ;
When ail the earth was fresh and green,
And simple Man believed in God !
When sacred accents, vibrating
Beneath the naked sun and sky,
Rose from each new-created thing
To hail the Lord of Life on high ;
I would hâve learned and lived in hope
And loved ! For, in those vanished days,
Faith wandered on the mountain-slope . . .
But now the world has changed her ways.
Our feet, less free, less fugitive,
Tread beaten tracks from shore to shore . . .
Alas ! what is the life we live ?
— A dream of days that are no more !
Découragement : Les Préludes.
{Premières Poésies^
224
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
Twilight Witchery.
Night on the great mystery showers
Jewels from her cloud-veiled eye :
On the earth are many flowers,
Many stars are in the sky.
Many a h'ght, through sieeping shadow,
Sparkles on the dusky bar,
Novv from flowers that charm the meadow,
New from many a charming star.
But my night, with sombre bosom,
Knows for charm, for light above,
One sole star and one sole blossom :
There your beauty, hère my love !
Éblouissement.
{Poésies.)
The Gifts.
If thou dost seek to soothe, at vesper,
My heart that broods on secret wrong,
To move thy pitiés I vvill whisper
The burden of some antique song.
If thou, to share my grief, dost luU thee
With hopes deceived and dreams untrue,
For simple answer I will cull thee
A sheaf of roses starred with dew.
P 225
VILLIERS DE L'ISLE-ADAM
If, like the flower that blooms to brighten
The grave and death's dark exile loves,
Thy lips my soul's remorse would lighten
For offering I will bring thee doves.
Les Présents.
(^Poésies?)
Confession.
Since I hâve lost the woods, the flower
Of youth and the fresh April breeze . . .
Give me thy lips ; their perfumed dower
Shall be the whisper of the trees !
Since I hâve lost the deep sea's sadness,
Her sobs, her restless surge, her graves . . .
Breathe but a word ; its grief or gladness
Shall be the murmur of the waves !
Since in my soûl a sombre blossom
Broods, and the suns of yore take flight . . .
O hide me in thy pallid bosom,
And it shall be the calm of night !
LAveu.
{Poésies.)
226
Albert Glatigny.
Boni in Lillebonne (Lower Normandy) 1839* . . , Died in Sèvres, 1873.
Life' S . . . a poor player.
Albert Glatigny is one of the inheritors of unfulfiUed
renovvn. 'If you like antithesis' — says Théodore de
Banville — 'hère is one. This poor comedian, prompter
' at need, who played parts of twenty lines in vaudevilles,
' and because of his lank stature, like a dishevelled reed,
' took silent parts such as those of king and giant in
' melodrama ; this dreamer, who lodged in a garret and
' was clothed in a coat as thin as paper ; this reciter of
' nothings belonged to the aristocracy of intellect and in
' a spécial science of superior kind was in himself more
' learned and more accomplished than a whole Academy '.
Lillebonne is a small town with Roman remains and a
Norman castle. Albert Glatigny's mother was a peasant
girl. His father had been a carpenter by trade and be-
came the village policeman, They were married when the
husband was twenty-one and the wife eighteen years old.
The first-fruit of this humble union was a poet. Appren-
ticed in early youth to a letterpress-printer in Pont-
Audemer he ran away to join a company of strolling
players which had passed through the place.
* The published Extrait de naîssa^ice of Ernest-Albert Glatigny, born at
Lillebonne in 1843, must relate to some other person of the same surname.
The letters of invitation to the poet's funeral give his name as Albert-
Joseph-Alexandre and his âge as thirty-four. The surname Glatigny is a not
uncommon one in Normandy.
227
ALBERT GLATIGNY
Glatigny's poetîcal éducation began with a volume of
Ronsard's verse which he found in his father's house. A
copy of Banvîlle's Odes funambulesques fell into his hands
at Alençon and completed the initiation. His natural
aptitude was such that he blossomed ail at once into a
lyric artist. He had no other talent and neverlearned any
other trade. At verse he laboured day and night ; whether
he walked or drove or rested his thoughts were always
shaping themselves into poetry and weaving romances.
Neither cold nor hunger nor illness nor disappointment —
and he knew them ail — could freeze the génial current of
his soûl. Hence, as he modestly sang,
Thèse rhymes made in my wanderings
By chance or choice throughout the land,
As one drinks water from the springs
In the warm hollow of his hand.
Glatigny came to Paris at seventeen or eighteen, became
acquainted with Baudelaire, and published les Vignes folles,
a book of exquisite verse. The poet's life in Paris was a
poor one. He earned two francs a night as Third Senator
in Alfred de Vigny's version of Othello, and furnished
impromptu verse on rhymes proposed by the audience at
the Alcazar or some other café-chantant on the boulevards.
He was always famished and never sufficiently clad. It
seems ironical to say that this poor comedian was as
gênerons as a prince when he had anything, but it is true
nevertheless. He toiled diligently for his wretched
subsistence and from time to time travelled through the
pleasant land of France with ambulant companies of play-
actors.
During the Franco-German war Glatigny returned to
his native village. His health was broken and his poverty
228
ALBERT GLATIGNY
pitîable. In 1871 he married Emma Dennie, a young
girl of American parentage and French éducation who
was also a fugitive from Paris, and who, like the poet, was
a victim to consumption. Her resources were slender,
but they sufîfîced to keep the humble household until
Glatigny could earn something by means of his pen. He
practised his art sedulously, and contributed political pas-
quinades and poems to Parisian newspapers. Then he was
fortunate in getting a one-act pièce played at the Odéon.
It was le Bois, a jewel of poesy and fancy. His collected
poems were published by Lemerre, and one of his dramas
was accepted and produced in some provincial théâtre.
He gained the encouragement of several literary celebrities
in Paris ; he had sent a clever comedy, r Illustre Brizacier,
to the Odéo7i ; and he was meditating a translation of
Cymheline when his health gave way. During a visit to
Corsica in 1869 an officious gendarme had arrested this
harmless Bohemian in the belief that he was a notorious
brigand under ban of outlawry for the assassination
of a magistrate. Glatigny, bound hand and foot, was
thrown into a noisome dungeon infested with rats and
mice and such small deer. He lay there for a week,
riddled with cold and hunger, and came out crippled by
rheumatism, covered with sores and almost deprived of
sight. His constitution, feeble at the best, never recovered
from this calamity ; but the letters written during his
illness are full of courage and hâve a note of gaiety which
is pathetic. He went to Bayonne in hopes of a cure and
returned to Paris only to die. A few months later his
wife, who had been his good angel, followed him to the
grave.
Albert Glatigny is now recognised as one of the purest
and truest poets of his time in France. He was a
disciple but by no means a slavish imitator of Banville,
229
ALBERT GLATIGNY
and was influenced also by Victor Hugo and Leconte de
Lisle. Free from affectation, devoid of pedantry, full of
fresh images and fine touches of feeling, his verse has a
beauty of form and an unforced felicity which is remark-
able in view of his opportunities. It is true that he
laboured hke an artist and that the most perfect work is
that which shews the least trace of toilsome effort.
Glatigny had his brief hour of posthumous glory in the
enthusiasm of some young actors vvho hired a room in
the faubourg Saint-Honoré, hastily fitted it up with poor
scenery and in présence of some of the choicest spirits of
Paris played l'Illustre Brizacier^ which had been refused at
the Odéon. Such a homage in his Hfetime would hâve
been a godsend to Glatigny, for he was a man of the
simplest character and his ambition was easily satisfied.
The proper epitaph for this most amiable of poets has
been provided by the kindliest of critics. 'This poor
' devil ' — says Anatole France — ' had a good and great
heart '.
230
ALBERT GLATIGNY
Wild Vines.
Wild vines, cling close ! Climb round the monument !
Ye cannot climb too high, for even a child
May pass beneath the porch, with shoulders bent.
Fane built too low to fear the storm-winds wild !
The pilgrim scans thy height from base to crown,
Nor turns on thee again his glance beguiled.
And yet, ye Vines, in wanton tendrils grown,
Climb, and with leaves enwreathe those pillars frai!
Whose frieze records the names of starred renown.
Not mine on Parian marbles to prevail ;
But clay disdained of potter's hand I chose
And wrought therein with fingers weak and pale.
I planted near the threshold a wild-rose,
And, where the pathway winds, its fragrance shed
Is borne abroad by every breeze that blows ;
Some jasmines, also, mixed with amaranths red,
When the June sun, O Vines, appears at last,
Their radiant colours with your leaves shall wed !
With tears a Naiad sprinkled as she passed
Your tendrils light, that climbing seek the sun,
And pale charms in the crystal streamlet cast.
231
ALBERT GLATIGNY
This is the secret lodge whence my thoughts run
In ode and song, if supple art aright
With cadenced phrase the imperious web hath spun.
There, in the faint mysterious evening light,
They preen their wings, like youthful seraphim,
Soon to unfurl them for victorious flight.
And now, with the green dragon-flies that skim
And raze the restless surface of the streams,
They fly, perchance to dwell in régions dim.
O sobs and smiles ! Children of loves and dreams !
Where shall the wild winds waft you, O my heart ?
For you what island glooms, what pleasaunce gleams ?
See ! See ! In swarming myriads they départ ;
Cherish them, Spring, thou god of woods grown green,
Thou that with singing rills so charmëd art !
Lo, the bold pilgrims soar to lands unseen !
Alas ! how few shall scape the stormy swell,
How few behold the heavenly shore serene !
Yet shall no fears their fiery courage quell ;
For ever floats before them, even as now,
The infinité wonder of the luminous spell.
Thus flown so far, Muse of the lofty brow,
With passionless face and form of fluctuant lines,
Goddess before whose sovran grâce I bow,
Let me regain my roof, clothed with wild vines !
Les Vignes folles.
{Les Vignes folles.)
232
ALBERT GLATIGNY
Roses and Wine.
Versons ces roses en ce vin
En ce bon vin versons ces roses. . . .
Thrice-sacred Rose, lover of Venus' shrine,
Where trembling I adore her blood divine !
O Wine ! how purple glows thy gushing liquor,
Imprisoned sun, with magie fiâmes that flicker !
O Rose ! Spring breathes of thee, her blossomed queen,
On thy tall stalk the shady swards between ;
My lips in thy clear wave the Maenad presses,
O Wine ! sprinkler of rubies on her tresses ;
Thou bringest back the hopes of youth that sung,
Swathed in the fragrance from thy censers flung ;
Thou givest courage, swayed with kindly forces,
The soûl of one divine swells in thy sources !
For thee the nightingale, that shuns the Hght,
In sombre woodland swoons with love each night ;
Angel ! thy ruddy flagon is the giver
Of Joy and dead Beliefs that live for ever ;
Thee, to refresh their unappeased désire,
The zéphyrs kiss at dawn with lips of fire ;
Thy hoary clusters, curled in leaves that crinkle,
Our thirsty lips with tears exubérant sprinkle ;
233
ALBERT GLATIGNY
The dawn, thy lovely petals to bestrew,
Turns into myriad diamond-drops the dew ;
Lyaeus calls us, and the dusky léopards
Dance with the solitudes and listening shepherds ;
O Rose ! thou radiant chalice, the red wine
Tinges thy leaves delicious and divine ;
O Wine ! the light thy crystal cup encloses
Blooms with the délicate blushing of the roses.
Wed your bright hues, your blessëd perfumes wed,
O Rose and Wine, now pain and grief lie dead ;
With nuptial song, in love suprême and splendid,
O flood ! O foliage ! sensé and soûl are blended !
Les Roses et le Vin.
{Les Vignes folles.)
In the Arbour.
Green is the arbour, clothed with clematis,
That braves the golden arrows of the sun.
Tell me that on the morrow such a kiss
Shall yield me love again, O dearest one !
Thine eyes are blue, but in the light thereof
There seems a change, their look is dim and cold.
Yet, though thou liest, speak to me of love,
My heart is sad and fain would be consoled.
Sous la Tonnelle.
{Les Flèches d'or.)
234
ALBERT GLATIGNY
The Night is Corne.
The night is corne : like moonbeams clear and bland
Those charming eyes beneath long lashes gleam ;
The air is deUcate ; how swcet to dream
Along the sea-shore, on the soft sea-sand.
A song arises, with my heart in tune,
A song of love thy soûl exhales and breathes ;
Sad and so sweet, towards the sky where wreaths
Of flame would seem to melt in languorous swoon.
The sea is there. Her waves, with silvery crest,
Lisp, soft and low, words tender as our own ;
Hère, seated at thy knees, we two alone,
Thy two hands held in mine lie sweetly pressed.
Speak no more, dream no more, but let the long
Hours pass, and every glimmering star shine pale ;
The wind is cool to-night, draw down thy veil ;
I feel thy bosom's tremulous puises throng.
Voici le Soir.
{Les Flèches d'or.)
A Winter Walk.
Her garb of snow not yet does winter wear ;
A thin chill cloud sails shivering overhead.
The distant summit cleaves, with ridges bare,
A dense sky looming dull and gray as lead.
A yellow leaf floats slowly through the air,
Like a strange butterfly with wings outspread ;
As on the lone black pathway forth I fare
The ground rings hard and clear beneath my tread.
235
ALBERT GLATIGNY
The church, more distant, rears its pointed tower,
Crowned with a creaking old iron weathercock
That long has borne the brunt of storm and shower.
By this same footpath, climbing on the rock
To the poor belfry, once in summer mood
We went to pluck wild strawberries in the wood.
Menneval.
{Les Flèches d'or.)
Résurrection.
To-day I throw the Windows of my prison
Wide open to the sun's first radiant flood.
Rejoice ! Rejoice ! for now is Spring rerisen ;
From the rough bark bursts forth the rosy bud.
Hoar-headed winter dwindles to behold her,
His furry mantle falls to the earth, and lo !
The fresh white bosom and the rosy shoulder
And laughing virgin's eyes that glance and glow !
The gray sky turns to blue. Harmonious strophes
Sing in my heart and whisper words of love :
My dreams array themselves in brilliant trophies,
Coloured, like hope, with hues of heaven above.
No longer on the hearth the high flame dances,
Nor on the wall with shadows flickering ;
Home-keeping Muse, unveil thy mutinous glances,
Forth to the fields and hail the blue-eyed Spring !
Réveil.
{Les Flèches d'or.)
236
Sully Prudhomme.
Born in Paris, 1839.
Sully Prudhomme îs a finely-cultured and fastidious
artist whom it would be gross flattery to describe as a
great poet. He vvas trained in the École polytecJmique
and is well versed in science ; but his family designed
him for an industrial career and obtained a place for him
in the great ironworks of Le Creusot (Saône-et-Loire).
He left them to turn his attention to law, but had soon
to forsake his studies and go to Italy to recruit a some-
what sickly constitution. On his return to Paris, Sully
Prudhomme associated himself with the Parnassians and
was encouraged by Sainte-Beuve and Théophile Gautier.
He published his first volume of verse — Stances et Poèmes —
in 1866 and immediately became famous as the author of
le Vase brisé, a little pièce of twenty lines which reveals
the characteristic delicacy of his craftsmanship but leaves
the reader wondering why the poet ever gained so
much celebrity thereby. For many years the Muse of
Sully Prudhomme allowed no day to pass without a line.
Les Épreuves, les Solitudes (1866- 1872) les vaines
Tendresses, la Révolte des Fleurs, les Destins (1872- 1878)
la Justice (1879) le Prisme (1886) le Bojiheur {\%%Z) and
numerous other collections of poems gave invariable
évidence of his dévotion to art and his love of finished
form. It was doubtless this sensé of élégance and
shapeliness which in 1870 caused Théophile Gautier to
237
SULLY PRUDHOMME
single him out of the group of young poets as one of
exceptîonal promise.
Le Bonheur, the largest and most ambitious of Sully
Prudhomme's poems, is a sort of French Faust, in which
the author's avowed aim is ' simply to caress the noblest
' inspirations with a beneficent dreaminess which may
' cause us to forget awhile the silence and immorality
' of nature '. Faustus and Stella are translated to another
world (very much like this one) in which they taste the
pure pleasures of earthly love and speculate in fine philo-
sophical verse, with much delicacy of moral sentiment, on
the discoveries of science and the eternal problems of life
and death. French poetry, that of Victor Hugo always
excepted, had been running for a long time in somewhat
narrow channels, and le Bonheur was one of the longest
poems written since the middle of the century. But Sully
Prudhomme has not the imaginative sweep to carry him
over such a wide area. He is a thinker of no great depth
or individuality and a distiller of refined émotions. Devoid
of epic passion and lacking in lyrical swing, he is a master
of fragile expression, daintily cold and exquisitely trans-
parent ; and he handles the thinnest texture of ideas with
a féminine softness of touch. His feelings are chastened
by philosophy, his timid scepticism is modified by faith
and his good taste seldom gives way to excessive trans-
ports. One admirable characteristic of his verse is the
healthy note of cheerfulness which runs through it. He
is never rebellious, because he believes in labour and en-
durance. He shuns the purely voluptuous ; indeed he is
not ashamed to confess a lingering regard for * the duenna
' Virtue whom so many clever men hâve decried '.
Sully Prudhomme is a man of grave and calm de-
meanour, a deliberate speaker and a model of discrétion
in everything. He has written amiably and elegantly on
238
SULLY PRUDHOMME
aesthetics in two volumes of prose : F Expression dans les
Beaux-Arts and Réflexions sur l'Art des Vers. It seems
almost superfluous to add that he had scarcely passed his
fortieth year when he was cordially welcomed into the
French Academy, which Catulle Mendès and Paul Ver-
laine will never be permitted to enter, and which keeps
the foremost French writer of to-day in the position of
perpétuai candidate.
Let Jules Lemaître, who is full of indulgence and even
of admiration for Sully Prudhomme, sum him up : — ' He
' is the least sensuous and the most précise of poets ; he
' thinks and defines instead of feeling and singing'.
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SULLY PRUDHOMME
Where?
Soûls slain by love rise not in heaven to dwell :
There is no twilight path, no leafy screen ;
No sweetness known in that abode serene
The sweetness of earth's kisses can dispel.
Nor do they sink to everlasting hell :
On earth love burned them with lips purpurine,
And in the breast thrill démon claws less keen
Than cruel scorn and doubt incurable.
Then where? What griefs profound, what transports
high,
If in the grave hearts change not, can outvie
Griefs once endured and transports erst enjoyed ?
Since life for them held heaven's delight, hell's fire,
Love's infinité fear, love's infinité désire,
They die, even to the soûl ; they are destroyed.
Où vont-Us? : Amour.
{Les Épreuves!)
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SULLY PRUDHOMME
Saving Art.
If naught were blue save cloudless sky and sea,
Golden save grain and roseate save roses,
Or lovely, save vvhen Nature's breast reposes,
No bitterness in life's delight would be.
But earth and wave and air are full of thee,
Woman, vvhose love a dolorous charm discloses ;
The spell of looks and smiles and luring poses
Lies far too deep on soûls that would be free.
We love thee, knowing thence our griefs unended :
For God, that fashioned grâce with solace blended,
Made love that longs and gains no answering sigh.
Yet would I, clad with sacred art for armour.
Gaze on lips, eyes and golden hair, O charmer !
As on ripe grain and rose and sea and sky.
L'A rt sauveur : A niour.
{Les Épreuves.)
The Light of Truth.
As Christmas sees some vast Cathedral waken
With sudden glory in the winter gloom :
The crypt, from cold sepulchral slumbers shaken,
The redness of its iron lamps relume ;
Then higher, in the nave, where wreathing vapours
Ascend, the darkness round its pillars thrilled
With flames that, one by one, on kindling tapers
Tremble, and blaze from brilliant lustres spilled ;
Then the light, waxing ampler and more splendid,
Climb the great altar, whence high chandeliers,
Of rarer craft with richer substance blended,
Lift to the golden dôme a thousand tiers ;
Q 241
SULLY PRUDHOMME
So the whole earth, a temple with wide porches,
Sees light still brightening in her ancient shrines,
The flame-bearers whereof are living torches
Of thought that trembles, palpitâtes and shines.
Deep dawn of life, soûl of things universal,
Reason, in ceaseless quest of broader bourne,
Rises from form to form through Time's rehearsal,
Dark dream, pale image and clear thought in turn.
Her quenchless light, fanned by love's fiery pinion
From âge to âge athwart dense shadow grows,
Smiles on man's mightiest birth and meanest minion,
And beams and burns on ever loftier brows.
Following her lamp, whose light is sure and single,
On each new âge a brighter auréole,
In finer clay, wherewith more splendours mingle,
The whole world travails towards the suprême soûl.
But infinitely slow, as with dérision,
Drops in the hour-glass the old dust of years,
And still the eternal purpose is a vision
That shines awhile, then fades and disappears.
Ohwhen shall Thought on Truth touch herdeepplummet,
Then scale the height of Heaven with wings unfurled,
And sit enthroned for ever on Life's summit.
Star of mankind and Conscience of the world !
So many dreamers die and leave no traces !
Oh when, in native shape and true abode,
Shall the Prince, springing from the Beast's embraces
In man's idéal image, be as God !
Majora canamus. IL
{Le Prisme^
242
Catulle Mendès.
Born in Bordeaux, 1840.
This prolifîc and versatile writer is of Hebrew lineage.
He has the true Jewish love of bold outlines and brilliant
colours, with that sensibility to artistic impressions which
often takes the place of créative power in the finer minds
of his race.
Although his people were wealthy Catulle Mendès came
to Paris a poor man and had to gain his own livelihood
until he could convince his parents that he was fitted
for a literary career. He is a man of letters to the fibres
and roots of his being. His nature seems to be entirely
free from that vain and irritable jealousy which is said
to be the badge of ail the literary tribe, and he has been
a consistent friend of poets, artists and sinners.
The modem Parnassian group of poets, so notable in
number and talent, began to gather round Catulle Mendès
about 1860, when he founded his cénacle in rue de Douai and
established the Revue fantaisiste. Among the contributors
were Alphonse Daudet, Philoxène Boyer, Léon Cladel,
Jules Claretie, Albert Glatigny, Charles Monselet and
Jules Noriac (Cairon). Several of them conquered a con-
sidérable place in French literature. According to Emile
Zola they spent their evenings in admiring each other.
The Revue fantaisiste came to a sudden and violent end
by the condemnation of Catulle Mendès to a fine of 500
francs and one month's imprisonment in Sainte- Pélagie
for the publication of his reckless libertine comedy in
243
CATULLE MENDÈS
verse, le Roman d'une Nuit. A few years after his return
to liberty Catulle Mendès reorganised his Parnassus under
the aegis of Leconte de Lisle. Thenceforth Albert Mérat,
Léon Valade (the translater of Heine's Intermezzo) and
François Coppée, with a new swarm of aspiring poets,
frequented his poorly-furnished chamber in the liôtel du
Dragon bleu in rue DaupJiiné {quartier latin). The charming
conversation of Catulle Mendès, the amiable discourse of
Anatole France, the whimsical sallies of Paul Verlaine
and the impassible philosophy of Louis-Xavier de Ricard
gave an ever-changing delight to their symposium. The
men of this interesting set differed from those of the
Bohemia of Nerval and of Miirger inasmuch as most of
them had some steady employment (in the government
offices or elsewhere) which helped discipline, discouraged
idleness and debauch, and enabled them to live indepen-
dently until they could afiford to give their undivided
attention to literature.
Catulle Mendès is the author of several volumes of
verse. His first collection, entitled Philoméla, was followed
by les SérénadeSy in which there are some dainty lyrics of
love. His Contes épiques hâve a fine dramatic flavour
and are equal to anything of their kind in the French
language. He has mastered almost every variety of
rondel, chanson, canzonet and sonnet form and handles
his rhymes with a lyrical ease and delicacy worthy of
Théodore de Banville. In his new book of poems —
la Grive des Vignes: 1895 — he exhibits this dexterity of
touch in some of the most graceful and fanciful verses
ever penned by a French poet.
As a writer of short stories Catulle Mendès has few
rivais, His romances, not over rigid on the ground of
morals, are always fresh and sprightly. He has done a
good deal of work for the théâtre. His latest play, in
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CATULLE MENDÈS
five acts, la Reine Fiammetta, was first produced in the
Théâtre-Libre, and has since been refused at the Comédie-
Française. He is a fanatical admirer of Wagner's music,
and has published a remarkable study of that mastcr's
melodramas. Among other miscellaneous labours he has
edited one or two collections of the lieds and chansons of
France. Variegated and vivacious as his genius is, none
of his work bears traces of raw haste or forced labour.
He is alvvays an artist and readily responds to every form
of intellectual and emotional beauty.
The Personal fascination of Catulle Mendès is legendary.
He was * beautiful as an Apollo ' when he first appeared
in Paris, and the excitements of a very irregular life hâve
not destroyed his power of attraction. He is now a rich
man. In 1866 he married Théophile Gautier's charming
and accomplished daughter, known successively in French
literature as Judith Walter, Judith Mendès and Judith
Gautier. This richly-gifted couple has been long divorced.
245
CATULLE MENDÈS
The Curses of Hagar.
When Abraham's days a hundred years had burdened
(So falls a ripe sheaf on the threshing-floor)
With fruit at last old Sara's womb was guerdoned,
The Elohim having blessed her barren store.
' The Word of the Most High, O Lord of Camels !
' Nine months in my enlargëd flank did rest,
' But now thy race unnumbered bursts its trammels
' And wails in the child's cry that seeks my breast !
' A man being born of me, how canst thou cherish
' Henceforward the strange woman's seed impure ?
* She whose foui scorn o'erweenîng pride doth nourish,
* Whose green eyes leering haunt the shades obscure,
' Go ! with her son chase hence the Egyptian mother,
* As one flings the seared branch with cankered bud :
' m brooks the fruitful spouse that such another
* Should flaunt the opprobrium of her alien blood !
' Since still thou seest, beneath soft linen swelling,
' Her youth in ripened orbs of rounded grâce,
' Let her go hence, far from the nuptial dwelling,
* Nor fill thine eyes with love, with shame my face !
' Surely my handmaid's fawn, the hireling créature
' Of breasts unwithered and unwrînkled loins,
' Shares not with the man-child, born out of Nature,
' The inheritance reserved by God's designs ! '
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CATULLE MENDÈS
So spake the Old Mother, moved by cruel anger,
And, towards Beersheba's thirsty, treeless land,
Hagar, a hushed cry on her lips, with languor
Went sadly leading Ishmaël by the hand.
Driven by the wind, dawn's shifting clouds discovered
The star of night waned in the welkin calm,
As if o'er the wan Orient vaguely hovered
Vast undulations of a viewless palm.
In camp the distant tents shook like a vesture ;
On thresholds gray, with rosy vapours veiled,
Women drew back the screens with sluggish gesture
In which the sloth of récent slumber trailed.
Light tinklings rose from flocks in fold assembled,
Blending with song of birds, a shrill sweet strain
That in the broad-branched cedar lingering trembled
With floating fleece of fog risen from the plain.
Then, in a sudden burst of wakening glory,
Like a fîerce lion from his lair outrun,
With golden mane ablaze and flanks ail gory,
On the red sky-line rose the splendid sun.
With murmur like an ant-hill's marching millions,
The shining heavens beheld, alert and strong,
Forth from the hoary patriarch's blest pavillons
Contented toil and prospérons leisure throng.
Robust beneath their load tall handmaids ambled,
Poising, with pendant sleeves, the milk-brimmed jar ;
Among the white kids naked children gambolled :
And thèse the exiled twain watched from afar.
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CATULLE MENDÈS
Then Hagar :— ' Woe to them that chase me ! Smîling
* In the fat valleys safely they sojourn,
'Whilst I, to the arid désert backward toiling,
' Fly like the beateti hound their foot would spurn.
'While on fresh swards, where the stream glides and
drowses,
* They still shall share the loaves of honey and wheat,
' I, like an ox on the void air that browses,
' Shall drink my thirst, my hunger eat for méat
* And when, on the hard sand sinking aweary,
* I bite the wind in one long cry of drouth,
' My son, crawling to me, wan-eyed and dreary,
* With ravenous kiss shall menace my pale mouth.
* O centenary chief of tribes that wander !
* Since want and woe must feed my banishment
* I that, with wealth of beauty and youth to squander,
' Curbed my wild shame and to thy pleasure bent ;
* Tremble in thy twin hopes, sire of twin races !
' Twixt Sara's seed and Hagar's seed this day
' Undying hâte is born of thy embraces : —
' Sleek beasts full-fed to ravening wolves a prey !
' They shall be free, fierce and of bold endeavour
' Beneath the sun, thèse bastards of thy slave :
* From the antique crater of my flanks for ever
' Revenge shall roll, like lava's fiery wave.
' With looks askance thy satiate Isaacs, drooping,
* Shall gaze athwart the vapours of the feast,
Lest they discern out of the distance swooping
* Those famished horsemen of the hungry waste.
248
CATULLE MENDÈS
'Thence, numberless, through devastated régions,
* My vanquished sons, proud in defeat and fears,
' And ail earth's vagabonds and rebel légions,
' Shall people with my seed the ceaseless years.
' Fear them, ye conquerors ! By fierce frenzy driven,
' Or fiercer joy, their scorn shall rise to God !
* And man's proud temple, by their laughter riven,
' Shall crack from base to crown its fabric broad.
* Yet, more than thèse, my daughters shall hâve power !
* Spurned though she be that shamed thy shrivelled
flesh,
* Because her Hps were like a living flower
* And her breast, like a lily's, firm and fresh,
* Mother august, with many-peopled bosom,
* Boast not, too sure of his uncertain line,
* Thy first-born, like a worm in the rathe blossom,
' But mourn, O Sara . . . daughters shall be mine !
' White women, crowned with soft and floating tresses,
* In long loose robes, voluptuously sweet,
* That leave beneath the thrill of charmed caresses
* A perfumed furrow filled with amorous heat.
' For love of their bare breasts, with beauty dowered,
* And dainty bodies clothed with délicate down,
* The strongest man shall crouch, a nerveless coward,
* The purest stoop to infamies unknown.
* Thy sons, hiding the blush of fierce carouses,
* And jealous with regret of secret bliss,
' Shall drag to the dull couch of weeping spouses
' Hearts drained of blood by the avenging kiss ! '
249
CATULLE MENDÈS
Thus to the wind that flying cloud disperses,
Her wrongs on désert skies and sands outpoured,
Tall Hagar prophesied with bitter curses ;
Mother of harlots and the rebel horde.
And towards the distant solitudes, where Sions
And opulent Tyres and haughty Romes should rise,
The wild gusts fled, sowing in wide défiance
The sombre malédiction of her cries.
Les Imprécations d'Agar.
{Contes épiques^
The Mother.
When the Lord fashioned man, the Lord his God
Took not the human clay from one sole clod ;
But earth from the four corners of the world :
South, where on burning winds the sand is whirled ;
The green-leaved East ; the chill North, hoar with
frost ;
The West, where shattered oaks and ships are tossed
In whirlwind and éclipse and earthquake gloom ;
Lest anywhere the Earth, that is man's tomb,
Should say to him, the weary traveller
With drooping head, who fain would rest in her
* Away ! what man art thou, I know thee not ! '
But that his mother earth, in every spot
Where he would lay his heart, by hope beguiled,
Should say : ' Sleep in my bosom, O my child 1 '
La Mère.
{Contes épiques?)
250
CATULLE MENDÈS
The Disciple.
Withhands that touched his toesthe Bouddhadreamed.
Said Poorna : Like the winds are soûls redeemed,
Free as north winds in sky no clouds bedim ;
Therefore, o'er rocks l'U climb, through rivers swim
To furthest tribes beneath the furthest heaven ;
That soûls be comforted and sins forgiven,
Master, thy helpful creed l'il bear abroad.
— But if thèse tribes, ansvvered the Son of God,
Insuit thee, child beloved, what wilt thou say?
— That with a virtuous soûl endowed are they,
Since they hâve blinded not thèse lids with sand,
Nor raised, to smite me, either stone or hand.
— But if they smite thee, then, with hand or stone ?
— Thèse folk, l'Il say, to gentleness are prone,
Because their hands, thus filled with stones to fling
Against me, stave nor sword are brandishing.
— But if their steel doth reach thee ?
— I will say,
How soft their blows, that wound and do not slay.
— But if thou die ?
— Happy who cease to live !
— Go forth, said Bouddha, comfort and forgive.
Le Disciple.
{Contes épiques.^
251
Three Novelists.
Many excellent poets hâve succeeded in romance ; and
most novelists hâve occasionally dropped into poetry.
Walter Scott, Victor Hugo, Théophile Gautier and George
Meredith are among those who hâve achieved greatness
in both. Thackeray, Dickens, Daudet and Zola belong
to the order of those who hâve gone through a period of
poetry or thrown off verses in the course of their literary
career.
Emile Zola is among the poets as Saul among the
prophets. Large as the place is which he fills in French
literature he is a Frenchman only by his mother, His
father was an Italian of Venice and his maternai grand-
mother a Greek. The family had settled in Aix, and
Zola was born in Paris (1840) during a visit of his
parents to the capital. It was under the Provençal sun
that he composed his poems and sung the virginal charms
and chaste love of Nina, a différent idéal from the poison-
ous Nana of his mature manhood. This is not the place
todiscuss Zola's colossal labours as novelist, dramatistand
critic or as Samson Agonistes of the realistic school. He
is a man of overmastering intellectual power and a fierce
worker. If any one doubts the poetic faculty which he
has subordinated to a cruel analysis of vice and disease,
let him read la Faute de Vabbé Mouret, une Page d'Amour^
and many scattered passages of almost lyrical beauty in
that lurid epic of immorality and insanity, les Rougon-Mac-
quart. Zola, like Balzac and Flaubert before him, holds the
forty-first chair in the French Academy and seems likely
252
THREE NOVELISTS
to occupy it for a long time. But, whatever may happen,
he can never wholly deserve Piron's epitaph.
Alphonse Daudet (born at Nîmes in 1840) published in
1858 a delicious little volume of poems — Les Amoureuses
— which prove that he could hâve developed a lyrical style
of bis own. The verse is full of delicacy and fancy, often
touching on pathos, and for so young a man most original.
Every reader of French literature is familiar with Daudet's
crisp, clean, nervous, vivid, picturesque prose, a new and
charming incarnation of that incomparable language which
in Nodier, in Nerval, in Mérimée and in Miirger has
assumed so many fascinating forms. The novelist has
not returned to his first love, unless t Artésienne may be
taken as a tribute to his poetical instinct.
Fleuri-René-Albert-Guy de Maupassant was born (1850)
in the château of Miromesnil (Seine-Inférieure). He was
by choice and vocation a prose writer and became one
of the masters of that sober style which was established in
French literature by Flaubert. There is nothing of a
purely lyrical character in his sole volume of poems,
modestly entitled Des Vers, which was issued in 1880.
He makes the wilfully forced, the fantastic and the
grotesque take the place of spontaneous inspiration, His
verse is always deliberately cold and calm. La derfiière
Escapade is a good example of his method. A pair of
vénérable lovers revisit one evening the scène of their
youthful flirtations, endeavouring to redeem the delight
which had been theirs in the flush of life, and are dis-
covered in the cold dawn, their withered corpses clasped
in each other's arms. Maupassant is vigorous, incisive
and scrupulously faithful to human nature in his novels.
The man had a fresh healthy look which belied the early
collapse of his intellectual powers. He died in a private
asylum at Passy, near Paris, in 1893.
253
THREE NOVELISTS
My Wishes.
My wish would be . . . where uplands gleam
When sunny May shines on the meadow,
A little hut that throws its shadow
In the clear mirror of a stream.
A hidden nest among the myrtles,
To which no footpaths wind their tracks ;
A nest that ail companion lacks
Save only nests of snow-white turtles.
My wish would be . . . where vision ends
And the gray rock towers up to Heaven,
A bosk of pines whence breathes at even
A song that with the zéphyr blends ;
Far-widening thence, a chain of valleys,
Where sportive rivers wind and stray
And, wandering with capricious play,
Shine white across the green-leaved alleys ;
Or where dusk olive-trees that lean
In dreams their hoary heads discover,
Or wild vines, like a wanton lover,
Climbing 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 like a wild-flower's chalice :
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THREE NOVELISTS
A mossy carpet soft and svveet,
With lavender and thyme made gracious,
A dainty lordship, scarce so spacious
As garden spanned by children's feet.
My wish would be . . . in that lone shelter,
Filled with the forms my fancy vveaves,
To watch, beneath the clustering leaves,
My dreams around me float and welter.
But more than aWmy wish would be . . .
And lacking that I laugh at power . . .
A queen, to share the crown, with dower
Of golden tresses floating free ;
A queen of love whose voice is tender,
Whose pensive brow shades liquid eyes,
Fresh from whose tread the soft flowers rise,
Because her foot is light and slender.
Ce que je veux. ( Vers inédits^
EMILE ZOLA.
Aix : May, 1859.
Three Days of Vintage.
I met her one day in the harvest of vines,
Her dainty foot peeped neath the kirtle that swung,
Unconfined by the fillet her loose tresses hung :
Eyes pure as an angel's, lips rosy as wine's.
Pressed close to the arm of a lover she clung,
And the fields of Avignon they wandered among
In the harvest of vines.
* * *
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THREE NOVELISTS
I met her one day in the harvest of vines.
The plains lay aslumber, the sky shed no light ;
She wandered alone, as one trembling with fright ;
And her look was like wildfire that flickers and shines.
I thrill with the vision that rose on my sight
When I saw thee, dear phantom, so frail and so vvhite,
In the harvest of vines.
I met her one day in the harvest of vines.
And sad in my dreams is the memory thereof.
The pall was of velvet like plumes of a dove ;
Thus an ebony casket the pale pearl enshrines.
And the nuns of Avignon bent weeping above . . .
Too heavily clustered the grapes . . . and so Love
Reaped the harvest of vines.
Trois Jours de Vendanges. {Les Amoureuses.)
ALPHONSE DAUDET.
Passionless Nature.
When man mourned his first vision flown for ever,
Nature, less scornful than she is,
Felt her maternai breast with anguish quiver,
And longed to blend her tears with his.
The world grew dark. No star in skies beclouded,
On earth no flower unfurled her leaf.
The sun withdrew, the moon her beauty shrouded,
The trembling forests wrung their boughs with grief.
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THREE NOVELISTS
The luminous dusks, the dawns of bright vermillon,
Vanished in ghastly glimmerings pale.
Winter unfurled her vaporous pavilion ;
The plains put on their mourning veil,
Lakes washed their dusky shores with waves grown
grayer,
And in Our-Lady-of-the- Woods
Birds and the vvinds, the choir and organ-player,
Sung their first requiem in minor moods.
Sadness drew streams of woe from vast abysses ;
In angry rage volcanoes roared ;
With speech sublime sobbed the dark précipices ;
The weeping torrents foamed and poured.
' Fain would we share the weight of hum an sorrow '
Moaned the old deaf ravines in tears . . .
Man rose, forgetful of his grief, the morrow ;
But they still wept and throbbed a thousand years.
Long the great-hearted mother drank her chalice,
Till, shamed to shew the melting mood,
She smoothed with nimble hands her ruffled valleys
And donned once more her flowery hood.
Then she arose, radiant in ail her splendour,
And strewed with green each slope and plain.
But knowing thence how vain her love's surrender
She cried to man : * Ask not my tears again ! '
As for me, if the griefs that great soûls cherish
Assail and seize my heart in turn.
If lured by woman's loveliness I perish
With love her coldness loves to spurn ;
f' R 257
THREE NOVELISTS
Or if, by death bereaved of them that love me,
I die a thousand deaths, yet live,
Nature ! changeless smile around, above me ;
1 seek no pity such as thou canst give !
Colza and wheat along the slopes may blossom,
And barley ripen on the plain ;
I vviU not lay my sorrows on their bosom,
But bear in loneliness my pain.
Earth, thou shalt smile ; lakes, shine upon your shingle ;
And you, ye woods, with murmurs throng ;
Ail you may sing, nor fear lest I should mingle
My tears or curses with your sacred song !
Nature impassible. {Les Amoureuses.)
ALPHONSE DAUDET.
Desires.
The dream of one is to hâve wings and follow
The soaring heights of space with clamorous cries ;
With lissome fingers seize the supple swallow
And lose himself in sombre gulfs of skies.
Another would hâve strength with circHng shoulder
To crush the wrestler in his close embrace ;
And, not with yielding loins or blood grown colder,
Stop, with one stroke, wild steeds in frantic chace.
What I love best is loveliness corporeal :
I would be beautiful as gods of old ;
So from my radiant limbs love immémorial
In hearts of men a living flame should hold.
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THREE NOVELISTS
I vvould hâve women love me in wild fashion —
Choose one to-day and with to-morrovv change ;
Pleased, when I pass, to pluck the flower of passion,
As fruits are plucked when forth the fingers range.
Each leaves upon the lips a différent flavour ;
Thèse diverse savours bid their sweetness grow.
My fond caress would fly with wandering favour
From dusky locks to locks of golden glow.
But most of ail I love the unlooked-for meeting,
Those ardours in the blood loosed by a glanée,
The conquests of an hour, as swiftly fleeting,
Kisses exchanged at the sole will of chance.
At daybreak I would dote on the dark charmer,
Whose clasping arms cling close in amorous swoon ;
And, lulled at eve by the blonde siren's murmur.
Gaze on her pale brow silvered by the moon.
Then my calm heart, that holds no haunting spectre,
Would lightly towards a fresh chimaera haste :
Enough in thèse delights to sip the nectar,
For in the dregs there lurks a bitter taste.
Désirs. {Des Vers.)
GUY DE MAUPASSANT.
259
François Coppée.
Born in Paris, 1842.
François Coppée (more properly Francis and in full
Francis-Édouard-Joachim Coppée) is the most graceful
and génial of living French poets. His simplicity, his
purity, his exquisite sensé of verbal beauty and his idyllic
charm are such as must be appreciated by the lovers of
fine verse in any language. He resembles Sully Prud-
homme inasmuch as there is a notable absence of the
voluptuous élément in his poetry ; and he does not dis-
daîn to sing the short and simple annals of the poor.
Coppée is a typical Frenchman in aspect, in character
and in culture. The name is said to be Belgian, but his
parents were Parisians of humble position. François was
only fifteen years of âge when his father was struck down
by paralysis, after which the family had a struggle for
existence. He was nowise a robust child. His poetical
apprenticeship began in imitating Victor Hugo, Lamar-
tine and Baudelaire. His first verses were published when
he was a clerk in the offices of the Ministry of War and lived
quîetly with his mother and sister at Montmartre. For
his encouragement in literature he was indebted to Catulle
Mendès, the kind genius of so many living French poets.
By the good grâces of the Princess Mathilde he had the
appointment of assistant-librarian to the Senate, a post
which he held for two years until he became librarian in the
House of Molière. With such assistance to his labours in
260
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE
journalism he enfranchised himself from daily drudgery
and was enabled to dévote his talent solcly to literature.
He was elected to the Academy in 1884.
The earliest acknowledged poetical works of François
Coppée are entitled le Reliquaire (1866) and Intimités
(1868). Hardly a hundred copies of each were sold.
Poèmes modernes, in 1869, attracted more attention and
le Passant, a poetical comedy in verse which was played
at the Odéon in the same year, made him comparatively
famous. Like Alfred de Musset forty years earlier, he
became the favourite poet of women and the idol of the
younger génération of readers of verse. Some vigorous
utterances after the war of 1870 culminated in that beau-
tiful and touching appeal to humanity, le Pater. The
manuscript was unanimously accepted by the committee
ofthe Comédie- Française in January 1889 and interdicted
by an officiai decree in December. This ridiculous ukase
was inspired by the fear of a revival of the smouldering
embers of the Commune. There was great indignation
among literary men and Coppée himself protested in a
dignified letter. He appealed to his whole life for an
answer to those who would denounce him as a disturber
of the public peace, but his éloquence was lost on an
unimaginative Republican government.
Among the more important poetical works of François
Coppée are les Humbles, le Cahier rouge, les Récits et les
Elégies and Contes en Vers et Poésies diverses. He has
written at least a dozen comédies and dramas, of which
the most noticeable are perhaps le Luthier de Crémone
{Comédie- Français e : iSyô) Severo Torelli (Odéon : 1883 —
Comédie- Française : 1894) and les Jacobites {Odéon : 1885).
Pour la Couronne {Comédie- Française: 1895) is in ail re-
spects worthy of comparison with its predecessors and
deserves a place along with the finest poetical tragédies
261
FRANÇOIS COPPEE
in French literature. His prose writîngs are exquisitely
tender and full of pathos.
As a poet Coppée is never pedantic and seldom in-
volved. Any occasîonal lapse into triviality is palliated
by the freshness and clearness of his harmonious style.
Some of his poetry has the characteristics of so-called
vers-de-société \ but he is more at home when he touches a
truer and deeper note. In his more ambitious verse his
genius seems to be assimilative rather than profoundly
original. His idylls are superior to anything of the kind
ever written in French. A good example of his talent in
poetical narration is le Liseron, a mediaeval legend which
célébrâtes the miraculous growth of a convolvulus round
the sword of a warrior who had struck the blade into the
ground and sworn to destroy a certain convent unless the
weapon flowered before next day. It is charmingly and
delicately unfolded and is quite différent in flavour from
anything else in French poetry. Coppée excels in such
things, for he knows how to achieve artistic simplicity with
absolute ease and felicity of expression,
François Coppée has not the genius of a great singer
who sums up and expresses the profoundest émotions of
his âge, but he is a pure and beautiful soûl.
262
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE
An October Morning.
It îs the dim delicious hour
That blushes with a sudden dawn ;
Athwart the autumnal haze in shower
The leaves fall withered on the lawn.
Slow dropping, one by one, they pass,
Distinct to the discerning eye,
The oak-leaf, bright as burnished brass,
The maple-leaf of sanguine dye.
Anon, the serest leaves of ail
Last from the naked branches fall,
Though yet no winter winds do blow.
A white light, sprinkled everywhere,
Swathes the earth, and the rosy air
Is tremulous with a golden snow.
Matin d^ octobre.
{Le Cahier rouge.)
Pharaoh.
Thothmes the fourth is dead ; the guardians keep
His mummy, swathed for everlasting sleep :
Thothmes is with the Gods and on the throne
Of Egypt a new Pharaoh sits, his son
Amenophis, on whose dusk brow is bound
The golden pshent that mystic snake wreathes round.
With rigid flanks, stark hands, vague eyes that seem
Lost in the wonder of some distant dream
263
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE
And fleshy lips that wear a dull cold smile
He suffers, in the long close-columned aisle
O' the palace hieroglyphed with bird and beast,
Homage from warrior lord and Theban priest.
On brazen tripods incense smokes, and chant
And prayer arise, as the chief hierophant,
Kneeling, descants on things behind the veil.
' Hail, thrice-pure Pharaoh ! King of Chemith, hail !
' O thou, of life and Hght the all-kindling sun !
* Speak and forthwith thy holy will be done.
' For thee Phrah, Neph and Phtah, the guardians three,
' Bless the Nile's fertile stream from source to sea ;
' For thee the Sphinx and Cynocephalus raise
' In triumph to the dawn their clamorous praise !
' What wouldst thou, Pharaoh ? Bid and be obeyed !
' Thine are our harvests to the slenderest blade.
' Speak and the multitude is plunged in dearth.
' Beasts of the field are thine, fruits of the earth,
' Man, woman and the wide Egyptian land.
' Wilt thou hâve glory ? O puissant King, command !
' And armies huge shall rise and fleets shall swarm
' And slaughtered nations sink beneath thine arm,
' And behind thee their mightiest men of war
* Shall run, like greyhounds captive at thy car ;
' Thou shalt enlarge thy borders far and wide
' And on a thousand obelisks carve thy pride.
' If battle and its spoils thou dost disdain,
' Thine amorous soûl of art and pleasure fain,
' O sovereign ! whisper but the boon it craves :
' With perfumed limbs a hundred Asian slaves
' Whose dusky nakedness pale pearls adorn
' Shall, like the radiance of a summer morn,
' With tambourines and cymbals, wreathed in flowers,
' And Orient dances charm thy weary hours.
264
FRANÇOIS COPPEE
' Wilt thou in some great monument enshrine
' Thy name imperishable and divine,
' Huge fabric before which, grown dwarf and frail,
' Lake, Labyrinth and Pyramid shall pale ; —
' A dream colossal as thy soul's wide sphère ? —
' Son of the Gods ! a myriad hands shall rear
' In massy blocks innumerable dômes :
' For thine, O Pharaoh ! are the twenty nomes,
' The golden-helmëd warrior, cunning scribe,
* Circumcised priest, artisan and the tribe
' Of handicraftsmen to the meanest caste ;
' Nor can thy vvishes ever be too vast.
' Speak and ordain — 'tis ours to do thy will ! '
He ceased, and ail, with drooping brow, stood still.
Then, as a deep disgust his heart imbued.
And having asked himself : — How best prélude
This reign, so fated to blaze forth and bloom ? —
The young King answered slowly : ' Build my tomb ! '
Le Pharaon : Récits épiques.
{Les Récits et les Élégies?)
The Three Birds.
I said to the ringdove that fluttered above me :
' Fly farther than meadows and barley-fields are
' And bring me the flower that shall woo her to love me '
The ringdove said only : ' Too far ! '
I said to the eagle : ' I count on thy pinions;
' Help, help me to ravish the fire from yon sky !
' If haply the spell be in starry dominions ' :
The eagle said only : ' Too high ! '
265
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE
' Devour then ' — I said to the vulture that tare it —
' This heart that is full of her love, but if fate
' Hath left but one atom untouched thou shalt spare it '
The vulture said only : ' Too late ! '
Les Trois Oiseaux.
{L'Exilée.)
Persistency.
Say vvhat you will, do what you may,
Forgetfulness would be a hell ;
Her smile sheds ever on life's way
Love's farewell.
Do what you may, say what you will,
I can but love her, though in vain ;
If love be penance I would still
Bear the pain.
Say what you will, do what you may,
Though guiltless of my tears she sleep.
For her, true martyr, night and day
Must I weep.
Do what you may, say what you will,
My life lives only in her breath,
Yet would I, wearied of life's ill,
Welcome death.
Obstination.
{L'Exilée.)
266
FRANÇOIS COPPÉE
On a Tomb in Spring-Time.
The lone cross moulders in the graveyard hoary,
But April weaves again lier leafy bower ;
The redwing nestles there, and with sweet flower
A rosebush hides the sign of grief in glory.
No tear, no prayer, breathes such mémento mort
As sobbing nightingale and dewy shower.
Thèse scents, thèse songs, thèse splendeurs are the dower
Of Earth that thrills with Love's immortal story.
Dead and forgotten one ! whose human pride
Dreamed, doubtless, dreams of life's eternal tide
In Paradise, where the freed spirit reposes ;
Hast thou not hère to-day a lovelier doom
If now thy soûl, dififused about this tomb,
Sings with the birds, and blossoms in the roses ?
Sîir une Tombe au printemps.
{Contes en Vers et Poésies diverses^
267
José-Maria de Heredia.*
Born near Santiago-de-Cuba, 1842.
This Spanish poet, whose mother was of French extrac-
tion, belongs to a family which derived its wealth from
sugar- plantations in Cuba. French by éducation and
élection he has brought into French literature a reflex
of the idéal splendours of Spanish achievement in the
New World. Although he had the advantages of fortune,
and was somewhat fastidious in manners and dress,
Heredia became a familiar member of the new Parnassian
circle in which such diverse characters as Verlaine,
Coppée, Villiers and Mendès were gathered together in
common poverty and in a common love of letters and
art. His earliest verses appeared in the Revue de Paris
and he has since contributed to the Temps, the Journal
des Débats and the Revue des Deux Mondes.
Les Trophées, the volume in which Heredia's poems
were first collected, owed its publication to the encourage-
ment of François Coppée and was dedicated to Leconte
de Lisle. It was issued by Alphonse Lemerre in 1893
and soon reached twelve éditions. This sudden conquest
of famé preluded the Spanish poet's élection to the French
Academy. He is now a prominent figure in French
literary life and an acceptable spokesman at officiai
célébrations.
Heredia's sonnets are the admiration and delight of
connoisseurs. They dépend on none of the inner qualities
* The poet's surname, sometimes written Hérédia, should hâve no accents.
268
JOSÉ-MARIA DE HEREDIA
of émotion for their beauty, which is almost entirely out-
ward and visible. Like rich jewelry thcy blaze with colour
and reflect a dazzling light. Their intrinsic splendour is
often enhanced by a fine artistic setting. The range of the
author's intellectual expérience is indicated by the titles
under which each séries of sonnets is grouped : Greece and
Sicily, Rome and the Barbarians^ The Middle Ages and the
Renaissance, The Orient and the Tropics and Nature and the
Vision. Thèse Trophies are appropriately completed by
a Romancera in terza rima and a poem on the exploits
of Pizarro — Les Conquérants d Or — written in alexandrines.
On thèse diverse thèmes the poet has lavished the same
wealth of colour and the same pomp of illustration. His
descriptions are gorgeous, his décorative effects superb.
He manifests a rare mastery of original rhymes. The
verse is always finely moulded, but there is little in it
that attests thought, deep feeling or imagination.
Heredia's daughter published (anonymously) some
admirable verses in the Revue des Deux Mondes of i
February, 1894. They exhibit in ample measure the
father's love of brilliant imagery and dénote the same
fine pictorial instinct.
The prose works of Heredia are a wonderful French
translation of The Veracious History of the Conquest of
New Spain by Bernai Diaz del Castillo, and la No7ine
alferez, a new version of the fantastic story of that
notorious Spanish adventuress ; both enriched with
critical, philological and topographical notes, which are
a tribute to the poet's ripe culture and learning.
269
JOSÉ-MARIA DE HEREDIA
Sunset.
The glittering furze that crowns their granité crest
Gilds rugged summits that in twih'ght loom ;
Remote, though shining still with fleecy plume,
Where the land ends heaves endless the sea's breast.
Beneath me night and silence lie. The nest
Is hushed, on thatches curls a thin blue fume ;
Only the Angélus, shivering through the gloom,
Blends with the murmuring Ocean's vast unrest.
Then faint, as from a deep ravine, arise
On waste and wold and down the distant cries
Of shepherds mustering their belated clan.
Dense shadow swathes the welkin like a shroud ;
And the sun, sinking in empurpled cloud,
Furls up the splendeurs of his golden fan.
Soleil Couchant : La Nature et le Rêve.
{Les Trophe'es.)
The Shell.
Through what cold seas, what wilderness of waves
Unknown to man, O frail and pearly shell !
Hâve tidal surges and deep underswell
Rolled thee in hollow gulfs of their green graves ?
270
JOSÉ-MARI A DE HEREDIA
Now, in the sun, no bittcr rcflucncc laves
The golden-sanded bcd wherc thou dost dvvell.
Yet from thy hollows, like a hopeless spcll,
The vast voice of the sea moans in her caves.
Like thee, my soûl is a sonorous prison ;
And ever weeps and wails in dirges risen
With echoing clameurs of old griefs profound :
So from its depths this heart, too full of Her,
Slow, sullen, as the sea's eternal stir,
Groans with a thunderous and distant sound.
La Conque : La Nature et le Rêve.
{Les Trophées.)
On a Broken Statue.
'Twas pious moss that closed those eyes forlorn.
For vainly would they seek in this bare shrine
The Virgin pouring forth pure milk and wine
On the famed earth within its sacred bourne.
Now tangled ivy and hops and trailing thorn
Impleaching round this ruined form divine,
Heedless if Pan or Faun or Hermès, twine
To weave on battered brows a wreathëd horn,
See ! the slant beam those hollow Hds absorb
Relûmes on the flat face each golden orb ;
There laughs the wild vine as with ruddy lips ;
And, wondrous sign, the wind that stirs abroad,
Leaves thrilled, and flickering shade o' the sun that dips,
Shape in the crumbled stone a living god !
Sur un Marbre brisé: La Nature et le Rêve.
{Les Trophées^
271
Stéphane Mallarmé.
Born in Paris, 1842.
He der-refines, the scholar^ s fault.
The master of the modem school of symboHst poets in
France belongs to a family which has held since the
Révolution an unbroken succession of important posts
in the National Registration Office. Several of his more
immédiate ancestors had dabbled in letters. Stéphane
Mallarmé was destined to the traditional career, but his
prédilection for English literature brought him over to this
country at the âge of twenty. He learned our language
thoroughly, witness his translation of Poe's Raven and
other poems into perfect French prose — 'bold and beauti-
• * fui in its literalness ' — says Jules Lemaître, who is not too
tender to the décadents of French poetry.
On his return to Paris, Stéphane Mallarmé qualified for
a preceptor's post in the provinces, and in thus accepting
the daily drudgery which is necessary to a healthy
development of the individual literary character he gave
himself the one thing lacking in the lives of such men
of genius as Villiers and Verlaine. From his obscure
retreat the poet contributed to the Parnasse contemporain
some of those exquisitely-wrought pièces which hâve
given him a place of his own in French literature and
which are acknowledged as models by the new génération
of French artists in verse. Since he resumed his résidence
in the capital Stéphane Mallarmé has continued to lead a
272
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
sequestered and studious existence. There is nothing of
the vagabond Bohemian in him ; his chief récréations are
stage-ballets and organ-recitals, with an occasional excur-
sion on the Seine along the solitary boundaries of the
forest of Fontainebleau.
Stéphane Mallarmé is a man of simple and unassuming
character and his discourse is full of fascination. It
vvould scarcely be believed, in face of the elaborate
achievements of his maturer muse, that he had the boyish
ambition to emulate Béranger as a singer of chansons. His
first effusions were nevertheless inspired by the popular
song. In his later poems symbol is linked to symbol so
closely that it is hard to seize the sensé on a superficial
reading and a difficult task to translate them. Every idea
has been distilled through an intellectual alembic until a
degree of subtilised expression is reached which has no
rival in French poetry and which seems almost alien to
the natural lucidity and simplicity of the language. Hence
the charge of 'obscurity' which has been levelled at
Mallarmé as persistently as it was agaînst Browning, who
attained to a similarly intense concentration of poetical
utterance. Curions involutions, abnormal punctuation,
the employment of the absolute image instead of the
metaphor and an îndividual vigour of expression which
seems almost independent of the recognised articulation
of language give character to a poetical style which is
perhaps more nearly akin to that of Sordello than to any
other type in English or French literature. This designed
'obscurity', which is the cynosure of the super-spiritual
school of verse, is naturally the aversion of the common-
sense critic, whose scientific analysis has stripped Baude-
laire almost bare and attempted to polarise the brilliant
light of Victor Hugo.
The work of Stéphane Mallarmé is somewhat scattered
S 273
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
abroad in unfamiliar reviews and periodicals, He has
edited a reprint of Beckford's Caliph Vathek in the original
French, with an admirable préface. He is said to be
assiduously engaged on a vast scheme of poetry which
has occupied his attention for fifteen years and of which
some considérable fragments hâve already been published.
Other spécimens of his verse hâve been given to the
world by Paul Verlaine and Catulle Mendès. In Vers et
Prose there are several sonnets of exquisite workmanship
and of abstruse metaphysical significance. When the
poet limits himself to 'rich rhyme', for which he has an
artist's love, the resuit approaches perfection. U après-midi
d'tm Faune and Hérodiade are superb spécimens of his
peculiar style. A Faun's Afternoon opens thus : —
The Faun.
I would perpetuate those nymphs.
So clear
Their flesh-tint that it floats i' the atmosphère
Drowsy with tangled sleeps.
Were they a dream ?
My doubt, night's ancient hoard, exhausts its stream
In many a subtile branch, which, left the true
Woods themselves, proves, alas, I lent my view
For triumph the idéal fault of roses !
Now think . . .
or if the nymphs thy fancy glozes
Body to fabulous sensé a wish that lies !
Faun, this illusion bursts from the blue eyes
And cold, a spring in tears, of the most chaste :
But one ail sighs, now say, doth she contrast
274
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
As day-breeze blowing in my fleece warm boon !
No! Through the immovable and languorous swoon,
Choking with beats the fresh morn in her throes,
Murmurs no stream more than my flûte bestows
On the tune-sprinkled bosk ; and the sole wind
Prompt to exhale itself from reed-pipes twinned,
Ere Sound disperses in an arid rain,
Is, in the smooth unwrinkled air-domain,
A visible breath serene, shaped by the sighs
Of inspiration, that regains the skies
and so forth through a labyrinth of symbols bewildering
to the unaccustomed eye.
It is a notable fact that not one of the critics of this so-
called obscurity seems to hâve remembered that the
symbolic language of Mallarmé is nearly akin to the
metaphor of common-place speech, albeit endowed with
new and unfamiliar images. The manufacturer is forsooth
a symbolist when he '■engages a hand* and the merchant
when he ^ventures on a new branch of business'. Whether
the effect of language thus tormented out of its conven-
tional forms is equal to the labour bestowed upon it may
nevertheless be reasonably doubted. It is perhaps a pity
that any great artist should diverge so far from that direct
simplicity of speech which is the mark of the master-
minds of humanity, but if he prefers fit audience though
few to the admiration of the gênerai he may surely
exercise the right to choose his own way.
275
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
Flowers.
From golden avalanches of heaven's blue
And primai snows of everlasting stars
Thou didst shape splendid chalices to strew
This fresh young earth, virgin of woes and wars.
The tawny iris, by the rank pool's rim,
And laurel, dear to soûls on alien lawns,
Ruddy as the pure heel of seraphim
Still blushing with the shame of trampled dawns.
Myrtle and hyacinth, glory of love's bower,
And, fair as woman's flesh, the cruel rose,
Herodias of the garden-bed with dower
Of bloody dew, that fierce and radiant glows.
Thine is the sobbing lily's splendour pale,
Afloat on seas of sorrows, thence in swoon
Athwart the waning air blue vapours veil
Dreamily wafted towards the weeping moon !
Hosannah ! censers smoke and citherns sing !
Fraise, O our Father, from thèse dim purlieus !
Their écho, in heavenly twilights vanishing,
Let looks entranced and shining auréoles lose !
Thou didst create, with just and subtile breath,
Thèse cups that charm the vials of our fate,
O Father ! Flowers inwoven with balmy Death
For weary soûls by life made desolate.
Les Fleurs.
( Vers et Prose)
276
STÉPHANE MALLARMÉ
Sonnet.*
My tomes reclosed upon the Paphian name,
I laugh, when on sole spirit-sense émerges
A ruin, blessed with foam of myriad surges
Beneath the hyacinth, in days of famé.
Cold with scythe-silences outstrips the flame ;
Yet shall I ululate no hollow dirges
If such mère virgin-sport, that earthward verges,
Balk every site of the false landscape's claim.
My hunger that no fruits of earth appease
Finds in their learnëd lack the savour of thèse :
Burst, one of human flesh with fragrance blent !
Some snake, stirred by our love, I tread upon,
Long pondering and perchance with ravishment
The burned breast of an antique amazon.
( Vers et Prose.)
* Mes bouquins refermés sur le nom de Paphos,
Il m'amuse d'élire avec le seul génie
Une ruine, par mille écutnes bénie
Sous r hyacinthe, au loin, de ses jours triomphaux.
Coure le froid avec ses silences de f aulx,
Je ny hululerai pas de vide nénie
Si ce très vierge ébat au ras du sol dénie
A tout site r honneur du paysage faux.
Ma faim qui d'aucuns fruits ici ne se régale
Trouve en leur docte manque une saveur égale :
Qu'un éclate de chair humain et parfumant l
Le pied sur quelque guivre où notre amour tisonne,
Je pense plus longtemps peut-être éperdûment
À Fautre, au sein brûlé d'une antique amazone.
277
Paul Verlaine,
Born in Metz, 1844.
The poet Verlaine lias taken up his winter-quarters in ihe
Bichat Hospital {Daily Newspaper : Decemder, 1 894).
Paul Verlaine, the only son of a military officer and
the spoiled darling of an indulgent mother, was left an
orphan when very young. Brought up at Batignolles by
a poor widow of highly-refined character he received his
éducation at the lycée Bonaparte in Paris, associated him-
self with the Parnassian group, and wrote his first verses
while engaged at work in some municipal office. On the
publication of Poèmes saturniens, as little noticed at the
time as Coppée's Reliquaire, which was issued on the same
day, he made himself known to the discerning few as a
new poet of strangely original genius. Sainte-Beuve and
Nestor Roqueplan gave him some good counsel, but there
is no évidence that he ever took it to heart.
Verlaine had always a nomadic disposition. When he
lived in Paris his leisure was spent in Sunday excursions
along the Seine and in the country round. After he
broke loose from the restraints of civilised society he
travelled a good deal in England, Belgium and France ;
and perhaps no living poet has had a more intimate
acquaintance with the seamy side of life. In his nature
the éléments are unkindly mixed. Too capricious, too
excessive and too rebellious to be schooled into the
ordered ways of men, he is a créature of impulse and
imagination ; one who throws himself into the mood of the
278
PAUL VERLAINE
moment and follows no fixed purpose. With the coun-
tenance of a satyr and the instincts of a savage he has
lived a vagabond life from his youth upwards, oscillat-
ing between the brothel and the cabaret and tossed
from prison to hospital. And yet, with ail his faults,
Verlaine is one of the most fascinating figures in con-
temporary literature. He is the Villon of the nineteenth
century.
Verlaine vaunts Lamartine and Baudelaire as the
greatest poets of this âge, and, diverse in character as
thèse two singers were, he has an artistic affinity with
each. Lamartine's love of nature and large melodious
line, Baudelaire's lucid vision and closely-woven harmony,
hâve both had an influence on his poetical style, but he
brings into French verse a profound and powerful note of
his own. Sometimes his work is disfigured by conceits
and subtleties which are due to the wilful application of a
vicions theory of art ; too often he has stooped to sing
the perversities of passion and to disclose the morbid
imaginations of a mind diseased ; but, at his best, no
living singer can touch him in fervour and sincerity of
accent and at times he has a tone of pathos, as rare as
it is exquisite, to which there is no parallel in con-
temporaneous French poetry. He is a master of modula-
tion and rhyme and he handles ail the musical éléments
of verse with consummate craft.
The theory of the artist's impassibility, which was
promulgated by Gustave Flaubert and his friend Louis
Bouilhet and eloquently preached to the Parnassians by
Louis-Xavier de Ricard, is applicable to poetry only in
the sensé that it is applicable to every other form of art.
It is simply Diderot's Paradoxe sur le Comédien in a new
guise. Let the poet be ever so cool and deliberate in the
carving of verse his ideas, like those of the painter or the
279
PAUL VERLAINE
composer, must hâve been conceived in the very heat and
fever of the brain. Verlaine seems to imagine that the
problem has been solved when he triumphantly exclaims :
' Est-elle en marbre ou non, la Vénus de Milo ? ' — as if
such cold and hard material could be endowed with beauty
unless the artist possessed the vision and the faculty
divine. And in spite of theory the verse of Paul Verlaine,
more often than that of any French poet of his time,
thrills with true émotion and records the expérience and
passion of the man himself. Verlaine is also in the right
sensé a symbolist and impressionist, that is, he seizes
quickly the essential spirit and the characteristic outline
of things ; and he excels in that vague appeal to the
feelings which is the fonction of music rather than poetry.
Observation and reflection hâve taught him more than
individual study, for his classical and romantic lore seems
to be derived chiefly from the works of other French poets.
Yet he has used his hospital and prison leisure to extend
his literary acquaintance and he tells us how he read the
whole of Shakespeare's plays in the original, with English
and German notes and commentaries, during an imprison-
ment in Brussels. He professes boundless love and ad-
miration for Shakespeare, but in his heart of hearts he
prefers Racine.
Poèmes saturniens was the first as it is the freshest and
in some respects the finest of Verlaine's volumes of verse.
He now affects to regard it with some disdain, as dis-
playing too conspicuously the influence of two great
models, Baudelaire and Leconte de Lisle. It appeared in
i866 and was followed two years X^X^xhy Fêtes galantes,
an entirely novel collection of tender and sensuous idylls
swathed in the sentiment of the seventeenth century.
La bonne Chanson (1870) is a pure and joyous song of the
one calm period in Verlaine's life, when love led him into
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PAUL VERLAINE
a sweeter atmosphère. After his marriage he was mixed
up with the Commune. Thereupon he took refuge in
England and lived an obscure and chequered existence
for about ten years. His Romances sans paroles (1874) are
the only poems belonging ostensibly to this period, which
was probably one of wasteful excess, for in 1881 he
published Sagesse, a volume of pious verse inspired by
remorse and filled with a longing for better things than
the husks that the swine do eat. Jadis et naguère (in
1884) was a return to his earlier ideals of the poetic art,
and Amour (in 1888) renewed the note of Sagesse. His
next volume, Parallèlement, was a palinode to this devo-
tional access, and hère the poet sang in voluptuous verse
the praises of Sapphic passion. In mould and manipula-
tion this work is worthy of Baudelaire. Since then the
vitality of Verlaine's créative power has been evinced by
a séries of poetical effusions named Bonheur, Chansons
pour Elle, Liturgies intimes. Odes en Son honneur. Élégies,
Invectives, Dédicaces and Dans les Limbes ; to be followed
by Varia. Though first and always a poet, Paul Verlaine
has published several works written in a peculiarly
capricious and tormented form of prose, which is often
relieved by picturesque description. Thèse hâve evidently
an autobiographical basis : Mes Hôpitaux and Mes Prisons
expressly so. Louise Leclercq and les Mémoires d'un Veuf
are less directly personal. Les Poètes maudits is a plea for
several singers who hâve been left a little in the shade
by their contemporaries. ' Pauvre Lelian ' himself is in
certain sensés a poète maudit, and one of those to whom
much must be forgiven because he has loved much.
Among a thousand broken lights and shapes there
are always glimpses of the true in his song. And in
spite of ail his doubts, his dégradation, his despair
and the vagaries of his life and language there is much
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PAUL VERLAINE
invitation to sympathy in his brief testament, so full of
bitter irony : —
My wilL I leave nothing to the poor, because I am myself
one of the poor. I believe in God.
PAUL VERLAINE.
Nothing is more curious than the attitude of the
'sensible and lucid Latin' critic towards the poetry of
Paul Verlaine. Where an English reader sees beauty and
hears melody, he avers that he can find only ' a vexatious
medley and uncouth dissonances '. Even the verbal
examples which he gives of thèse faults seem to be just
the things of which the boldness, the vividness and the
felicity would be most admired in a northern poet. Much
of the contemporary criticism of France is strangely blind
to the beauty of fresh forms of art. Whether the criticism
proceeds from formulas established on the methods of the
earlier masters of French verse or from the sesthetic ideals
developed by the individual its practical resuit is always
the same. Even when captivated by the genius of such a
poet as Paul Verlaine the critic is strangely mystified by
something novel or abnormal in the mode of expression.
Anatole France has faced the problem with characteristic
sympathy and pronounces Paul Verlaine the creator of
a new art. Jules Lemaître, after a severe and sarcastic
censure of the syntax, the sentiments, the symbolism and
the spiritual expression of the poet's style is constrained
to say that Paul Verlaine is *a barbarian, a savage, a
child . . . only this sick child has music in his soûl, and
on certain days he hears voices which none ever heard
before him '. The truth is that in respect of those essential
qualities which are among the highest in poetry Paul
Verlaine is incomparably the greatest living master of
French verse and perhaps one of the greatest in this
century. He has given a new colour to the language of
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PAUL VERLAINE
émotion and a new turn to the subtleties of idéal thought.
In striving to enfranchise himself from certain narrow
moulds of poetical expression he has achieved by sheer
instinct the suprême triumph of the art of the nineteenth
century — that subordination of conventional forms to the
individual vision and voice which was the work of Turner
in painting, of Wagner in music and of Carlyle in letters.
So far from initiating the décadence of French verse, it is
not unHkely that the impassioned and spiritual poetry of
Paul Verlaine will usher in a new era and vindicate afresh
the indefeasible privilège of genius.
Note. — A translation of The Death of Philip the Second \% given among
the sélections from Poèmes saturniens as a single spécimen of modem French
realistic verse. It must not be imagined, however, that such bold and naked
realism is anywise characteristic of Verlaine's style. Unlike Richepin and
Rollinat, he employs it only as an occasional device. He never heaps up foui
images or revels in loathsome détails, and if he employs a répulsive natural
fact for purposes of poetical contrast or illustration no excuse should be
necessary. For as Ruskin says in (for him) an amazingly uneuphonious
sentence of Modem Painters : — ' Unideal works of art (the studious pro-
duction of which is termed Realism) represent actual existing things, and are
good or bad in proportion to the perfection ofthe représentation '.
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PAUL VERLAINE
Résignation.
Even as a child I dreamed of thee, Light-blender,
Kohinoor ! Of Persian pomp and Papal splendeur,
Heliogabalus and Sardanapâl !
Beneath the golden dômes my fancy haunted
Were perfumes rare and mélodies enchanted
In harems built for pleasures sensual.
And now, more calm, though not with colder heart,
But knowing life and prone to melancholy,
Late hâve I learned to curb my youthful foUy,
Yet not too much resigned to play this part.
My soûl, since the sublime will not unbend,
Spurn élégance, the lees of ail things human !
Still, as erewhile, I hâte the pretty woman,
The facile rhyme and eke the prudent friend.
Résignation : Mélancholia.
{Poèmes saturniens!)
Weariness.
For battles of love afield o/down.
Soft, soft, I pray, sweet heart that pants and presses !
Oh calm awhile those feverish ecstasies !
Even at the height of transport she is wise
Whose warmth a sister's tranquil love confesses.
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PAUL VERLAINE
Be languishing ! And lull me with your sighs,
As with your slumberous looks and slow caresses ;
Not the fierce clasp nor the spasm that possesses
Is worth one lingering kiss, even one that lies !
But, in your golden heart, you say, dear child,
Love blows her oliphant with longings wild ! . . .
There let the gipsy trumpet in her fashion !
Lay on my brow your brow, your hand in mine,
Breathe vows, to break them with the morrow's shine,
And let us weep till dawn, O soûl of passion !
Lassitude : Mélancholia.
{Poèmes saturniens.)
Anguish.
Nature, thou movst me not at ail, nor fields
That nurse mankind, nor rosy echoes tender
Of Southern pastorals, nor auroral splendour,
Nor saddening calm that solemn sunset yields.
I laugh at Art, I hold man in dérision,
Verse, song, Greek temples, towers whose spirals rise
Wreathed in the void of vast cathedral skies ;
And good and ill to me are one vain vision.
I hâve no faith in God. Thought I despise
And spurn, and as for that old taie of lies,
Love, let them speak of it to me no more !
Life-wearied, fearing death ; like a lost vessel,
Light plaything tossed betwixt wild surge and shore,
My soûl with fate's last storm prépares to wrestle.
L'Angoisse: Mélancholia.
{Poèmes saturniens.)
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PAUL VERLAINE
An Autumn Song.
The long-drawn sighs,
Like violin-cries,
Of autumn wailing,
Lull in my soûl
The languorous shoal
Of thoughts assailing.
Wan, as whom knells
Of funeral bells
Bemoan and banish,
I weep upon
Days dead and gone
With dreams that vanish ;
Then helpless swing
On the wind's wing ;
Tossed hither and thither
As winter sweeps
From swirling heaps
Worn leaves that wither.
Chanson d'automne : Paysages tristes.
{Poèmes saturniens^
The Lover's Hour.
The red moon moves along the misty hill ;
Swathed in a tremulous haze the drearaing meadow
Drowses ; the frog croaks hoarsely in the shadow
Of green reeds, stirred when the faint zéphyrs thrill ;
The marsh-flowers furl their heads, hidden in rushes ;
In dwindling line tall poplars cleave the gloom,
Serried and straight, and gaunt as vague ghosts loom ;
Slowly the glow-worms wander towards the bushes.
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PAUL VERLAINE
The screech-owl wakens and in noîseless flight
Winnovvs the swarthy air with lazy pinion ;
Dim glimmerings fîll the dusky cloud-dominion :
Venus émerges pale, and lo ! the Night.
V Heure du Berger : Paysages tristes.
{Poèmes sattirniens.)
The Nightingale.
With noisy flight of birds that seek the tree
AU my stirred memories swoop down on me,
Swoop down on my sere heart's once leafy pillow
Whose withered boughs, glassed like a bending
willow,
Gloom in the violet waters of Regret
That flow beneath in sullen rivulet ;
Swoop down, ère yet the breath of vaporous breezes
Risen in the dusk their clamorous sound appeases.
And in the tree it dies away, until
The moment comes when ail is hushed and still,
Ail save thy voice, hymning the Absent Lover,
Ail save thy voice — O tremulous sighs that hover ! —
Sweet bird, soûl of my First Love, ever young.
And singing as on the first day she sung ;
And now beneath a moon whose sorrowing splendour
Waxes in solemn sadness, wan and tender,
The mournful night, heavy with summer heat,
Full of dim shadows, fuU of silence sweet,
Lulls in blue air, wherethrough a soft wind shivers,
The bird that weeps and the worn tree that quivers.
Le Rossignol: Paysages tristes.
{Poèmes saturniens.)
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PAUL VERLAINE
The Death of Philip the Second.
The red September sunset bathes in blood
The sullen plain, the sharp sierra-rims
And drowsy mists that in the distance brood.
On smooth sands the Guadarrama o'erbrims
Her restless wave, reflecting hère and there
Dwarf olive-trees that writhe their shrivelled limbs.
The ravenous hawks, in high flight angular,
Cleave the dun sky and from the dusky west
Their hoarse cry grates athwart the spacious air.
Uprising to the stars, with granité breast
And brutal pile of towers octagonal,
The proud Escorial rears her lordly crest.
Pierced with funereal Windows the square wall
Stands sheer and white, with no device endowed
Save grille and crown carved at like interval,*
With clamours, rude as uncouth howlings loud
When, armed with axe and spade, the shepherd fells
A bear whose cries of anguish echoing crowd,
Rolling as on the rocks a torrent swells
Her waves, then sinks in murmurings long and deep,
Drearily on the night air clang the bells.
* In the original — 'grils sculptés qu'alternent des couronnes* — apparently
the portcullis and crown of heraldic blazon, as borne by John of Gaunt and
his descendants the Nevills of Abergavenny.
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PAUL VERLAINE
Through the hushed palace-courts, where shadows sleep
— So winds a sacred serpent's tortuous trail —
White-kirtled friars in slow procession creep,
By rule monastic ranked, like spectres pale,
Barefoot, with girdled loins, taper in hand,
Chaunting with awful voice a psalm of wail.
Who then lies dying? Why this ghostly band,
This pavement strown with straw ? Whose doom déplores
That cross, long-veiled as Roman rites demand ?
The room is vast and sombre. The wide doors,
Enamelled ebony, on their hinges turn
Noiseless, with locks oiled smooth as polished floors.
A vague gleam, sad as twilight thoughts that yearn,
Is filtered tremulous through the curtain-folds
From panes whereon the fires of sunset burn.
And, caught in angles on the corniced moulds,
Casts flickering on the roof, with shade embrowned,
A halo faint as some strange picture holds.
In the wan gloom, transparent and profound,
Clusters of men and women move dismayed
With furtive feet, like lynxes stealing round.
From lords and dames, in splendid garb arrayed,
A changeful symphony of colour flows
In velvet, frieze, silk, damask and brocade.
And piercing the dense shade, that deeper grows,
From brazen breastplates fîtful lightnings glanée
On guards ranged cunningly in ordered rows.
T 289
PAUL VERLAINE
A black-stoled leech, with vipérine 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 guise
An ebon dais, studded with the shine,
From point to point, of cold hard diamond eyes.
A gaunt old man, on the bed stretched supine,
Kisses and counts the beads between his frail
Long fingers, curled like tendrils of the vine.
His throat sends forth a shrill and hollow wail,
First of death's agonies on Hfe impinged, —
And his foui lips a fearful stench exhale.
In his beard, as with blighted amaranth tinged,
Through his white hair, streaked with a ruddier glow,
Beneath his yellowing lawn, with rich lace fringed,
Quick, cruel, hungry, swarming to and fro
To suck their sallow victim's blood unclean,
The lice in serried squadrons corne and go.
This is the King, writhing in pangs obscène.
Philip the Second, King of Spain — Ail Hail ! —
The Austrian eagle cowering seeks her screen
And mighty shields, on panels glimmering pale,
Shine, and on many a flag once borne in fight
The black bird's wings, thrilled vaguely, droop and
quail.
The doors unfold ... A flood of dazzling light
Bursts suddenly, unfurls, and soon is spread
Along the ample chamber broad and bright.
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PAUL VERLAINE
With looks sublime, bencath the torch-fires rcd,
Ten monks march in, then hait and pause in prayer.
One walks apart and stalks with stony tread
Towards the King's couch. He is tall, young and spare,
And the fierce transports of religion burn
In his dark orbs that through long lashes glare.
His footstep, weighty as the law and stern,
Upon the tapestried floor imperious rings.
Now to the King his eyes, cast downward, turn.
And each, in passing, an awed gesture flings,
Kneels, and thrice smites the bosom with clenched
hand ;
For he it is that Holy Unction brings.
With grave respect the leech aloof doth stand ;
The body's doctor, sooth, in such a case,
Must to the soul's physician yield command.
And, as the fray draws nigh, the King's shrunk face,
Furrowed with pain, reflects a calmer mood :
So comes Religion, big with hopes of grâce !
The monk, in whose now lifted looks a broad
Light of reproach and pardon blended dwells,
^ Stands, herald of the just decrees of God.
Drearily on the night air clang the bells.
Confession follows. On his flank half turned
The King, with muffled voice in low appeal,
Whispers of blood and fiâmes, Jews racked and burned.
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PAUL VERLAINE
' Wouldst thou, perchance, repent thee of thy zeal ?
' To burn the Jews was love and charity.
' So doing thou dîdst thy very faith reveal '.
And with arms crossed, head raised in ecstasy,
The Father seems, in proud pétrifie force,
The sculptured soûl of Papal cruelty.
Then gathering breath, in broken accents hoarse,
Painfully, as though his thoughts from deepest glooms
Plucked shred by shred a dolorous remorse,
The King, while ghastly in the torchlight looms
His haggard face and wan and faded brow,
Gasps ' Flanders ' — ' Alba ' — ' torments ' — ' deaths and
tombs '.
— ' The Flemings, to the church rebellious, thou
' Didst justly punish and that glory won,
' O King, now vainly wouldst thou disavow.
* Pursue ' — and the King murmured of his son,
Don Carlos, and two tears ran down his cheek
That quivered, clinging grimly to the bone.
— ' Thou dost déplore this deed ! — its praise I speak —
' Doubtless the Infanta, tainted with the schism
' Of English birth, was guiltier far than weak,
* That would hâve dragged Spain down to the abysm,
' Scrupling not to conspire — O craft accursed ! —
' Against his Sire, hallowed with Crown and Chrism '. —
Soon as the monk those sacred words rehearsed
Whereby is given remission of our sin,
He took the host, with hands that trembled first,
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PAUL VERLAINE
And set it on the King's longue. Then ail din
Was hushed, and every soûl, in anguish bowed,
Prayed pale and speechless, and none knows therein
If with true prayer or treacherous prayed the crowd.
— How tell the thoughts obscure that brooded deep
Beneath this silence like a friendly cloud ? —
Now shriven the King, plunged anew as in sleep
Mid ample pillows, with béatitude
Of Absolution won, seemed fain to steep
His soûl in the clear light of trust renewed,
That broke into a smile of strange delight,
With fever half, and half with faith imbued.
And while around pressed duke and earl and knight,
Whose mournful eyes peered into sombre deeps,
The King's soûl to the conquered heavens took flight.
Then in the dead man's breast, with furious leaps,
The weird death-rattle sounded once or twice,
— So through a ruin the wild whirlwind sweeps —
And from a thousand holes, sprung in a trice
Like clammy serpents from their foui abode,
On the cold corpse worms mingled with the lice.
King Philip was at the right hand of God.
La Mort de Philippe IL
{Poèmes saturniens^
293
PAUL VERLAINE
A Song at Sunrise.
Before the flood of day prevails,
O pale star of morning prime !
— A thousand quails
Are singing, singing in the thyme. —
Turn on me thy lingering spark,
Me whose eyes are filled with love ;
— Lo ! the lark
Flutters in the heavens above. —
Turn thy look, bathed in the bright
Blue splendeur of the shimmering morn ;
— What delight
Dwells in fields of yellow corn ! —
Till my thought shines through and through
Sweetest dreams . . . so far, so far !
— O the dew
On every blade of grass a star !
Sweetest dreams that dower the chaste
Slumbers of my dearest one . . .
— Haste, oh haste,
For yonder cornes the golden sun !
{La bonne Chanson : V.)
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PAUL VERLAINE
The Art of Poetry.
Oh music above everything !
And therefore take for choice the Uneven ;
Nothing that clogs or chains the wing
In vague and vaporous flight to Heaven !
Yet choose your words from the vocal throng
Not toc easily apprehended :
Nothing more dear than the gray song
In which the Cloudy and Clear lie blended.
Such is the tremulous flush of noon,
So through the veil bright eyes shoot lustre,
Such is the autumn sky aswoon
With stars that swim in a hazy cluster !
Tone we must hâve and ail else scorn ;
Only shade, no colour, no splendour :
O tone ! the tender sole love-blender
Of dream with dream and flûte with horn !
Far from the murderous Epigram fly,
From cruel Wit and unclean Laughter,
That bring the tears to Heaven's blue eye . . ,
Stale garlic from the kitchen-rafter !
Take Eloquence and wring his neck !
Right it is, when the Muses revel,
To keep thèse frolicsome jades in check,
Lest unawares they run to the devil !
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PAUL VERLAINE
Oh who can tell the wrongs of Rhyme ?
What deaf child was the first to chink it,
Tinsel that rings, to the true-gold-chime,
Hollow and false as a twopenny trinket ?
Oh music ever and evermore !
So let your verse take wings and follow
The soûl that seeks, on a sunnier shore,
Fresh climes, fresh loves, like the flying swallow.
So let your Muse, in the morning prime,
Fling to the cool crisp wind her fetters,
Flowered with the fragrance of mint and thyme . . .
And ail the rest is . . . only Letters !
Art poétique.
{Jadis et naguère?)
296
Paul Déroulède.
Born in Paris, 1846.
Paul Déroulède is the son of a lawyer, and a nephew of
the dramatist Emile Augier. He received a good éduca-
tion and was nursed in strong national sentiments. This
fiery soldier, versifier and politician has lived a stormy
life. After being trained for the law he travelled over a
great part of Europe in his youth and fought heroically
in the war of 1870. Taken prisoner at Sedan, he escaped,
ofifered his services to Gambetta, served under General
Chanzy on the Loire, and was badly wounded at a
barricade during the Commune. He has been an active
member of the Chamber of Deputies.
It is impossible not to admire the fine chivalrous
character of Paul Déroulède. Full of courage, uncompro-
mising in speech and direct in action; he is also an idealist
with more zeal than discrétion and is easily led away
by enthusiasm. When General Boulanger on his black
charger pranced into popularity Paul Déroulède was one
of those who welcomed the sham Csesar. He founded the
Patriots' League and a militant journal — Le Drapeau — to
propagate his opinions. He is a great advocate of physical
régénération and no man has done more than he, by
precept and example and in speech and pamphlet, to
revive ideals of national duty and dévotion in France.
Paul Déroulède is the author of a novel and three
spirited dramas, but his best work has been the lyrical
célébration of the soldier and the peasant. He is by no
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PAUL DÉROULÈDE
means a great singer, yet he has a note of hîs own and
touches a chord which is perhaps not so dormant in
French life as some superficial observers would like to
believe. His books of songs are called Chants du Soldat
(two collections . . . 1872 and 1875), Chants du Paysan^
Marches et Sonneries and Refrains militaires. They are
exceedingly popular, especially the earlier ones. In 1894
the French Academy awarded Ûi& prix Jean Reynaud oi
10,000 francs to the singer of thèse patriotic songs, al-
though he had announced his 'resolute refusai' of the
proposed honour.
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PAUL DÉROULÈDE
The Marseillaise.
Hâve pity on yourselves and cease that song ;
In silence, when the hour cornes, march along
Like vanquished heroes whose undaunted breath
Whispers one word : ' Revenge ! ' — or haply * Death ! '
Yet hear the accursëd story and be stirred :
Or if your ears in bygone days hâve heard
On many a trembling tongue the twîce-told taie
'Tis well ; no need drive home the hammered nail !
You love, no doubt you love, our people's hymn ?
You love its sacred rage, its transports grim :
And, like proud sons, you feel in its song-fires
The quenchless spirit of your puissant sires.
Its rousing voice recalls our flag unfurled,
Floating to the four corners of the world,
Nations struck dumb and kings that looked askance ;
You 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 greet —
Frenchmen, remember in that surge of woes,
When conquered France surrendered to her foes,
When in crushed soûls our soldiers bore unmanned
The mangled ghost of the poor fatherland,
When ail was lost and leaving the fought field
Our troops, disarmed, were forced at last to yield —
O unforgotten blow ! O worst of evil days !
Loud from the Prussian trumpets shrilled the Marseil-
laise !
La Marseillaise.
{Chants du Soldat)
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PAUL DÉROULÈDE
Credo.
I trust in God. The tîme is vile and troubled.
A breath of blasphemy blows soûls aflame ;
When wealth with honour plays the stakes are doubled ;
Sin 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 Christian is the butt of scornful passion ;
Every man claims his rights, his duties none.
I trust in God. Nor fails my fervent prayer,
Though evil-doers boast their triumphs blind !
Let Dante's hell hold circles of despair,
My heart, that enters, leaves not hope behind !
I trust in God. France, sunk in dégradation,
Is sick at heart and bears the oppressor's rod ;
But though in deadly sleep lies the Great Nation
The wakening hour will corne. I trust in God.
Credo.
{Chants du Paysan^
300
Maurice Rollinat.
Born in Châteauroux (Indre) 1846.
If Maurice Rollinat is not one of the greatest poets of his
time he has at least a style so individual and so vigorous
as to command attention.
The publication of les Névroses (1883) disclosed to con-
noisseurs in verse a genius of powerful character, prone to
a peculiarly morbid and even funereal realism. Rollinat
himself, with his expressive and fascinating features, was
for a season the object of a fashionable hero-worship.
Possessed of the rare faculty of reciting verse, he thrilled
and captivated with the créations of his sombre muse
the literary dilettanti and sensitive fair ones of the salons
of Paris. Les Névroses is a sinister study of ail that is
horrible and ghastly in life and death. Paul Verlaine
regards it as a vulgarisation of the Satanic élément in art
— Baudelaire brought within the range of the gênerai
reader — but he does scanty justice to the vital force and
originality of Rollinat's poetic tempérament and to the
masterly artistic treatment of a daring realism which he
himself has not disdained to handle on occasion.
A previous volume of Rollinat's verse — Dans les Brandes
— was in its own way quite as worthy of admiration.
Thèse poems and rondels of the Berry landscape (so dear
to George Sand) were exquisitely sung, with their quaint
rhymes and dainty devices. Two other volumes — V Abîme
in 1886 and la Nature in 1892 — displayed afresh the
ingenuity of Rollinat's lyrical gift without adding much
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MAURICE ROLLINAT
to the range of his earlier works. They might, indeed, be
regarded as exercises and variations on the thèmes already
employed in his verse.
Maurice Rollinat has a fine eye for nature, a rich fancy
and a large vocabulary. Even in les Névroses there are
épisodes of idyllic beauty and lyric grâce. Although he
is not endowed with the imagination that assimilâtes the
external to human moods and aspirations, he has given a
distinctly new chord to the French lyre, and along with
Verlaine, Richepin and Moréas he must be acknowledged
as one of the notable poets of thèse later days.
Like so many other French artists, musicians and men
of letters, Maurice Rollinat is a lawyer's son. He formerly
held an appointment in the Préfecture of the Seine. For
the last two years he has lived the life of a hermit at
Fresselines (Creuze) and his appearances in public hâve
been fevv and far between.
?02
MAURICE ROLLINAT
The Poppy Ravine.
Deep in a wild lone hollow hid,
Where never cornes the light-foot kid,
Nor cornflower opens her blue lid
In dusky coppice ;
Far from the track the mule's hoof makes,
Far from the noise that écho wakes,
In désert silence dreams and shakes
A bloom of poppies.
But there the sleepy lizards crawl
Round loathsome pools funereal
In which heaven's shadows when they fall
Their darkness sully ;
Between stark sprays of heather grim
And boxwood bushes cold and dim
That crowding creep along the rim
Of the red gully.
The sky, like coloured Windows dight,
Sheds only hère a crenelled light
Above their clustered coral bright
That so bewitches ;
Yet on the rocks and marsh below
They cast a fresh and ruddy glow,
Like those that in the valleys blow
And woodland ditches.
303
MAURICE ROLLINAT
They rustle in the thin light air
When signs of change the seasons wear
And forth the wandering breezes fare,
Their temples brushing ;
And fling about in furious mood,
Beneath the north-wind wild and rude,
As one might see a stream of blood
Rippling and rushing.
In vain the sullen cloud that lowers
From upland slopes and ridgy towers
The splendeur of thèse flaunting flowers
In shade would smother ;
The dragon-flies, on nimble wing,
Above their beauty vibrating,
Turn two by two in ceaseless ring
One round another.
Razed by the birds in warbling flight
And touched by starry glimmerings white
They flourish in the cool of night
And noonday svvelter ;
And, crowned with radiant diadem,
Like fireflies tremble on their stem,
As though the furrow fostered them
And gave them shelter.
Their brightness, like a furnace-fire,
Makes glad the willow and the briar,
The snake that coils its drowsy spire,
The shrub's bare bosom ;
The sombre crags, though shorn of sun,
Loom not so dark, look not so dun,
Because their shadow leans upon
That blaze of blossom.
304
MAURICE ROLLINAT
There scarlet glitters, crimson glows ;
The purple stream from crime that flows,
The ruby and the blood-red rose
Shine in their chalice ;
And so, when the soft foliage feels
The warmth that from the noontide steals,
It is the swarming cochineal's
Resplendent palace.
Le Ravin des Coquelicots.
{Les Névroses.)
The Chamber.
This room of mine my soûl resembles ;
So sleep and death seem even as one :
No flame in the dull fireplace trembles !
On the dull window shines no sun !
A melancholy pattern covers
The gray walls of the sombre room,
And where the green blind's shadow hovers
It flecks, like verdigris, their gloom.
Above my pillow gazes ever
A Christ, with innocent looks unblamed,
Who seems in the dense shade to shiver,
As of his nakedness ashamed.
My fate has a funereal fellow.
For on the chimney-mantel lies
A broken skull, worn smooth and yellow,
That haunts me with his hollow eyes.
u 305
MAURICE ROLLINAT
In heavy folds the ancient curtaîn
Clings round my bedstead like a pall ;
Fantastic creeping things uncertain
Athwart the ceiling dance and crawl.
When on my clock the hour cornes knelling
It fills me with a wild dismay ;
Each loud pulsation, strangely swelling,
Lîngers and slowly dies away.
The angel of my buried passion
Comes nightly, swathed in sable cloke,
And wails a dirge in ghostly fashion,
With tears that blind and sobs that choke.
Books, pictures, flowers seem phantoms rîsen
With poisonous airs from deepest hell,
And, like a shroud that wraps this prison,
Horror, that loves me, comes to dwell.
Sad chamber where, with mocking curses,
Care keeps her vîgil day and night,
Along thy wall I write thèse verses
And love thee for thy black delight ;
For as the gulf the torrent pleases,
And dear is darkness to the owl,
So thou dost charm my soul's diseases
Because thou art so like my soûl !
La Chambre : Les Spectres.
{Les Névroses.)
306
MAURICE ROLLINAT
The Song of the Speckled Partridge.
The song the speckled partridge sings,
Or shrill cicala sad and sweet,
From furrows rising cornes to greet
My soûl that loves melodious things.
Through the blue air it thrills and rings,
Blended with whirr of winglets fleet ;
The song the speckled partridge sings,
Or shrill cicala sad and sweet.
In vain would weary thought with stings
Assail me in this fresh retreat
Where, shielded from the noonday heat,
Comes wafted on the wind's soft wings
The song the speckled partridge sings.
La Chanson de la Perdrix grise.
{Dans les Brandes.)
307
Jean Richepin.
Born in Médéah (Algeria) 1849.
Jean Richepin is the son of a military surgeon and was
educated at the Normal Collège {École normale supérieure)
in Paris. He had a hard struggle to gain his place in
literature and published several works before a little play
— H Étoile — brought him into notice. It was written in
collaboration with André Gill and produced (1873) in a
small théâtre which has since been demolished, the École-
Lyrique in rue de la Tour-d'Auvergne, a street haunted with
memories of Chateaubriand, Béranger and Victor Hugo
and inhabited in later days by Francisque Sarcey, critic-in-
chief ofthe great school of common-sense.
Richepin's first real renown was due to the Chanson des
Gueux in 1876. This volume of bold and violent verse in
praise of vagabondage revealed a new poet, and brought
him also before the bench of criminal law. He was fined
500 francs and costs and sent to prison for thirty days.
Some of the pièces to which Justice took exception hâve
been suppressed in the définitive édition of his work. In
the new issue of 1891 Richepin claims for this volume of
verse * a superb and healthy immorality ' and déclares that
the popular indecency of proper terms and the désigna-
tion of things by their actual names never corrupted
anybody.
The Song of the Beggars was followed by a séries of
notable novels and plays, ail giving évidence of a frankly
original if sometimes riotous and uncontrolled genius.
308
JEAN RICHEPIN
La Glu (i88i) Miarka and Nana-Sahib (1883) and le
Flihistier {iZZZ) mark the principal points of his progress.
Par le Glaive^ a tragedy played at the Comédie- Française
in 1892, is a masterpiece of impassioned déclamation.
Vers la Joie^ a satirical comedy in verse, which was pro-
duced at the same théâtre in 1894, has an idiomatic vigour
of expression and an atmosphère of idealism which, for
a French play, are almost Elizabethan.
Les Blasphèmes burst on the literary world in 1884. It
had been the poet's work between twenty and thirty years
of âge and was intended to form part of a large scheme
of daring and aggressive verse. Richepin boldly declared
his Blasphemies to be 'the Bible of Atheism'. In his
magnificent invective he was sometimes like Ajax defying
the lightning ; sometimes more like the Gallic cock
on his dunghill crowing défiance to the Almighty. But
the everlasting revolt against authority has seldom been
clothed in such sonorous and splendid language. The
verse is full of novel rhymes and vivid images, and
abounds in bold neologisms borrowed from the popular
speech, in which Richepin is an adept. The recollection
of Songs before Sunrise would hâve dulled the effect of
such a book in this country, but it was the first outburst
of the kind in France. Its insolent bravado is a thorn in
the side of the décadent poets, with their pale colours
and délicate lines. ' This bitter wine ', said the author, * is
not for the cream-licking palates of children, but for
strong stomachs and powerful brains'.
There is no reason to doubt the sincerity of the Blas-
phemies. Richepin carried on a long campaign in the Gil
Blas in defence of his literary methods. He had pursued
his robust course across storms and scandais and passions
and protests ; even at the cost of some friendships
which were dear to him. But there is a visible abatement
309
JEAN RICHEPIN
of the fever-heat in his later works. La Mer (1886) is a
superb song of the sea in ail its changes and caprices.
Mes Paradis (1893) is a volume of comparatively calm
and reflective verse, and hère again the poet vindicates his
claira to be regarded as a virtuoso in harmony and rhyme.
He confesses that this work is very différent in exécution
from what he conceived it when he was ' burned with the
fever of pride and drunk with the wine of youth '. It has
not the rough sweep and dazzling colour of his earlier
verse, yet he shows by an occasional coarse phrase that
he retains his love of startling effects.
It is a strange paradox that Richepin, with his con-
summate mastery of the vernacular and his love for brilliant
and brutal images, should of ail contemporary poets be
the one who is most akin to the French classics in pré-
cision of sensé and distinctness of form. ' He is one of
those rare writers ' — says Jules Lemaître — ' to whom you
can listen always with a feeling of entire security ; you
are sure, at least, that he will not sin against grammar
nor against syntax nor against the genius of the language '.
This opinion is perfectly true in relation to the fact that
many of Richepin's lines are as bald as anything Voltaire
ever wrote, but it is also beyond a doubt that his finest
verse is modelled more on Victor Hugo's than on that of
any older poet. What other than the Romantic influence
could hâve inspired such a line as
' L'ululant hallali que clangorent les cors '
in Mes Paradis.
Whether Richepin in his sober period will send forth
any new verse equal to les Blasphèmes is doubtful. Thèse
fiery poets, when they cool down, are apt to become
extinct volcanoes.
310
JEAN RICHEPIN
The Death of the Gods.
See ! brothers, weak and weary hâve I striven
Against the Almighty Ones clothed round with fear ;
Glorying in impious pride my pledge was given,
And, having ransacked Heaven, lo, I am hère !
When I snuffed out the Gods, as one erases
A vvord, they thundered not nor reasoned why :
You, therefore, shall lift up your prostrate faces
And gaze on thèse great corpses where they lie.
You, searching Heaven, void as a pauper's fingers,
Shall scorn the phantoms that no more bewitch,
And, free to pluck from hope the flower that lingers,
Shall cast your terrors in the wayside ditch.
You shall tear down the veils of fraud and wonder,
Finding no Lord beyond Life's utmost bars,
And watch in brooding space, now cloven asunder,
Beneath the vving of Chance burst forth the Stars.
For you the Force of Things in wide dispersai
Streams, as a shoreless, soundless océan flows,
In endless whirlpools of life universal,
The whence and why whereof no mortal knows.
You, knowing your own soûls lost in infinité numbers,
Even as a dewdrop plunged in the deep stream,
Shall judge the Gods, those nightmares of man's slumbers,
In life's vast Ail as shadows of a dream.
311
JEAN RICHEPIN
Tranquil, as with a conqueror's calm elation,
Deceived no more by priests' and preachers' arts,
In this warm coign o' the world's blest habitation
You shall repose in peace your ransomed hearts.
Good shall be yours, though mixed with evil measure,
Even as the nursling, the poor vagrant's child
That sucks her breast, closes his eyes in pleasure,
Heedless of wrinkled teats and skin defiled.
Cleansing your soûls of every vague désire,
Your love, on wives' and mothers' flowery lips,
Shall soon forget youth's kiss of frenzied fire
On shadowy bosoms lost in dim éclipse.
By simple craving that like comfort pleases,
Renewed at ease and with each morning fresh ;
By hope drawn nigh, that small endeavour seizes,
Your spirits shall live free in the freed flesh.
Longings fulfilled and solace for ail sadness
Shall be your blissful lot, your wonted fare,
So shall ye drink the wine of holiest gladness
In boundless Beauty and Love that ail may share.
No longer shall your hearts dread pale-eyed Sorrow,
Misshapen Will, Remorse with choking curse ;
Living like children careless of the morrow,
Cradled on Nature's knees, your loving nurse.
Faith's agonies, the barren vows of âges,
Fantastic superstitions, cruel deeds.
Gospels, Korans, Vedas, those lying pages,
The time-worn wreckage of Beliefs and Creeds,
312
JEAN RICHEPIN
Like carrion vultures, hoarse and fierce and savage,
That hovered on your hearts six thousand years
And vvith your bleeding flesh glutted their ravage,
Fouling the air in mockery of your fears,
Baffled and blinded by the morning glory
And shrieking in the sun's remorseless light,
Shall whirl in confused flock, haggard and hoary,
As in their dismal swarm the birds of night.
And when at last, with clouds and darkness blended,
They speed their flight, like a funereal knell
Their ghosts shall hear your laughter vast and splendid
Exultant from earth's shivering bosom swell.
Then cornes the end. Climbing on fanes forsaken
Wild vines shall hide the doors, like grass on graves ;
Dead idol and dead priest no more shall waken,
Oblivion rolls them under her slow waves.
Alone lost legends live in hearts of lovers
That wander in the woods of old romance,
Charmed by an echoing voice, that vaguely hovers,
To linger there awhile in mystic trance.
Even they, losing the names dark générations
Gave to those bloody spectres, when day comes,
Shall hear their echoes, hushed to faint vibrations,
Die like the muffled roll of distant drums.
Then, when those names that filled the world's loud clarion
Sink like the memory of a vanished clan,
Man's pride shall spring, a rose from gods grown carrion.
For earth has one sole God, and he is Man !
La Mort des Dieux.
{Les Blasphèmes.)
313
JEAN RICHEPIN
The Wanderer.
When wandering on my waggon through the earth
I halted first and gazed on thèse abodes,
A City held within its antique girth
Towers, temples, workshops, palaces and gods.
And when, curious as one that homeless plods,
I cried : ' Whence rose this city's golden prime ? '
An answer came, in measured periods : —
' Our city stands established from ail time '.
Full five thousand years had flown
Ere I wandered there alone.
Towers, temples, palaces, gods, ail were gone.
No vestige there. With sunlit jewels red
The hard green blades of grass like javelins shone.
A poor old shepherd, grossly garmented,
Sole on the plain stood munching his brown bread ;
Now, when I sought to know how many days
On this new pasture flocks had strayed and fed,
With scornful look the shepherd spake : — * Always '.
Full five thousand years had flown
Ere I wandered there alone.
The plain was changed into a gloomy wood.
Through broad arcades lithe creepers in the breeze
Swung, like wreathed serpents in their knotty brood,
And, tall as masts, above those sombre seas
314
JEAN RICHEPIN
Of foliage towered the trunks of giant trees.
Then to the huntsman through the green leavcs whirlcd
I called : ' When did thèse woods first clothe the leas ? ' —
' Yon oaks ' — quoth he — ' are older than the world ! '
Full five thousand years had flown
Ere I vvandered there alone.
The sea, the vast sea, in her winding-sheet
Had shrouded the fresh sward and woodland wide.
A bark, on vvhose frail bulwarks the waves beat,
Swayed in the twilight winds from side to side.
I hailed the boatman : — ' Tell me when the tide
First swallowed thus earth's fields and forests green ' : —
' You jest ! ' — said he, and then more grave replied : —
' Since the sea was the sea, hère hath it been '.
Full five thousand years had flown
Ere I wandered there alone.
Where once light billows tossed their silvery plume,
Before me stretched a golden-furrowed strand —
The désert ! Not a tree rose through the gloom :
Sand hère, sand there, and nothing else save sand.
And while I looked askance on that bare land,
The Arab, as he checked his camers pace,
Spoke : — * Since life sprang on earth by Heaven's com-
mand
This waste has lain, eternal as our race '.
Full five thousand years had flown
Ere I wandered there alone.
315
JEAN RICHEPIN
And lo ! once more a city's stately form,
With walls, towers, temples, palaces and gods
Rose, boiling like a spring with life aswarm.
Then with loud voice I asked those insolent crowds :
' Where are the golden sands, green swards, blue floods,
And haughty walls of yore ? ' — ' Thus ' — said a wight —
' Were, are and ever shall be, thèse abodes ' :
And in that Arya's face I laughed outright.
Years shall flow as years hâve flown
Ere I wander there alone.
Le Bohémien : La Chanson du Sang.
{Les Blasphèmes?)
The Hun.
Fly swîft, my furious courser !
German and Goth and Frank
And Gaul and Roman rank
Roll back beneath thy flank.
Before my fiery courser.
Ha! Ha!
The old world réels and quivers
Like mist the tempest shivers,
Attila !
Attila !
316
JEAN RICHEPIN
Gallop full-blown and breathless !
I fly before the sun,
From naked uplands dun
By wild winds whirled and spun :
They breed the whirlwind breathless,
Ha! Ha!
That round my swift flight whistles
Light fleece from shaken thistles,
Attila !
Attila !
I plunge through limitless spaces
And leaping hill and dale
Swoop on those purlieus pale
Where horseless légions quail :
I revel in boundless spaces,
Ha! Ha!
Nor hait my flying eagles,
Swift in the chase as beagles.
Attila !
Attila !
With gallop proud and splendid
I pass, like hounds in cry,
And where my chargers fly
Wide-strown the corpses lie :
My swords are swift and splendid,
Ha! Ha!
The land with slain they scatter,
As flails the red sheaves shatter.
Attila !
Attila !
Le Hun : La Chanson dit Sang.
{Les Blasphèmes.)
317
JEAN RICHEPIN
Ballade of the Swallow.
The swallow, bird of stale romances
And trivial tag of tinkling rhyme,
Is régent of heaven's vast expanses.
But though she skims, in flight sublime,
A thousand worlds of Space and Time,
With sweep of wandering wings that follow
The far track of the season's prime,
She owns one only nest, the swallow.
Hère, there and everywhere she glances . . .
' She tumbles like a madcap mime ! '
' How light-o'-love she darts and dances
From Eden-bower to Niebelheim ! ' . . .
So worms and snails say, in their slime,
Be like her, libertines that wallow
In coverts of connubial crime ;
She owns one only nest, the swallow.
No doubt, when the chill tide advances
And soft fleece falls in snow and rime
Or hail that stings like little lances,
The swallow Aies our wintry clime.
But, back from lands of flowering thyme,
Faithful she seeks the same old hollow
Beneath bare eaves of straw and lime :
She owns one only nest, the swallow.
ENVOY.
Prince, leave your loves of diverse chime
And choose one lodge, like bright Apollo,
For rest from the day's weary climb.
She owns one only nest, the swallow.
Ballade de l'Hirondelle.
{Mes Paradis.)
318
Hervé-Noël Le Breton.
Bom in Nantes, 1851.
Leiz ar kalon ag arok.
The name of this Breton poet * is almost if not altogether
unknown in Parisian literary circles, He is descended
from a purely Celtic family ; not one of those, like
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, which became Breton by early
territorial acquisition or matrimonial alliance, but one
of the ancient and authentic Armorican race. The Le
Bretons were irretrievably ruined in the Vendean struggle
for Catholicism and Royalty. Since fighting was their
only vocation and the ranks of the Republican armies
were closed against them they fell into the deepest poverty.
The présent représentative of the family had a close
acquaintance with chill penury in his youth. To a
defective éducation he willingly attributes his 'profound
and déplorable ignorance ' of classical literature and the
exact sciences, Like most modem Frenchmen he was
* The other Breton poets of this century, among whom may be named
Auguste Brizeux, Hippolyte Lucas, Tristan Corbière and Charles Le Goffic,
hâve not found a place in this collection. Nor has space been provided for
the Provençal group of poets, notably Frédéric Mistral, Téodor Aubanel,
and Félis Gras ; the Parisian chansonniers Béranger, Dupont and Désaugiers ;
Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, Delphine Gay-Girardin, Amable Tastu, Louisa
Siefert and the singing-women of the nineteenth century ; Auguste Lacaus-
sade (who belonged, like Leconte de Lisle and Léon Dierx, to the island of
Bourbon or la Réunion) ; also Alfred de Vigny, Emile and Antony Deschamps,
Victor de Laprade, Joseph Autran, Auguste Vacquerie, Joséphin Soulary,
Albert Mérat, Léon Valade and many other remarkable poets.
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
nourîshed on Voltairean and Revolutionary ideas, to which
his traditional beliefs hâve so far succumbed that his politi-
cal prédilection is 'a Republic governed by an absolute
aristocrat ' and his religious creed * an unaggressive
Atheism, tempered by a profound belief in the Divine '.
Le Breton's natural inclination to literature was frus-
trated in youth by the prématuré death of his father and
the claims of a resourceless household, aggravated by his
own early marriage. He was compelled to turn his
attention to commerce and is now engaged in some
branch of the cotton-trade in Rouen. It is understood
that he seeks consolation in the unobtrusive culture of
belles-lettres. The poet for whom he professes most
admiration is Leconte de Lisle. Whether his own final
renunciation of the literary career is due to a préférence
for the flesh-pots of Egypt, to a lack of ambition or to a
justifiable distrust of his equipment and power cannot
be determined. His only answer to the remonstrance of
an indiscreet correspondent was the rejoinder of Naaman :
Are not Abanah and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better
than ail the waters of Israël ?
A few of Le Breton's prose compositions, and those of
little importance, hâve appeared in the leading journal of
the province in which he lives. Rêves et Symboles is an
unpublished volume of experiments in verse, mostly written
during that space of existence between boyhood and man-
hood, which has been described by Keats, when ' the soûl
is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life
uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted '. The spécimens
which hâve been translated for this collection were pro-
cured with some difificulty, but Le Breton's note is a little
différent from that of other French writers of the présent
period, and for that reason, if for no other, one or two of
his poems may not be eut of place hère.
320
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Sic itur ad Astra.
I pity not the man vvhose years
Are spent in sore and ceaseless toîl,
Even though his bitter bread with tears
Be wrung from a rebellious soil.
Nor him whose vigils shorn of sleep
And days forlorn of gladness find
Still labouring, brave of heart, to reap
The larger harvest of the mind.
For work alone can quench and quell
Ail feverish doubts, ail fierce desires ;
And idleness is instant hell
Kindhng on earth her pénal fires.
The luminous soûls that look with calm
Consummate from their suprême height
Won not the halo and the palm
In dreamful purlieus of delight.
The splendour of the rainbow dwells
Not in the clear but on the cloud ;
And Virtue less in cloistered cells
Than with the conflict and the crowd.
Labour can lull, with soothing breath,
Sorrow and shame and pain to sleep ;
Outstrip swift Time, laugh at duU Death,
And over gulfed Oblivion leap.
X 321
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Work, therefore, if no dawn should corne
To break against thèse prison-bars ;
Though Truth be dark and Fate be dumb . . .
For 50 they climb that reach the stars !
Vers les Étoiles.
{Rêves et Symboles^
The Burden of Lost Soûls.
This was our sin. When Hope, with wings enchanted
And shining auréole,
Hung on the blossomed steps of Youth and haunted
The chancel of the soûl ;
When we whose lips haply had blown the bugle
That cheers the wavering line,
And solaced those to whom the world was frugal
Of Love, the food divine ;
Whose hands had strength to smite men's chains asunder
And heal the poor man's wrong,
Whose breath was blended with the chords that thunder
Along the aisles of song ;
Whose eyes had seen and hailed the Light of Ages,
In cloudiest heavens a star,
Whose ears had heard, on ringing wheels, the stages
Of Freedom's trophied car : —
We turned, rebellions children, to the clamour
And tumult of the world ;
We gave our soûls in fee for Circe's glamour
And white limbs lightly whirled ;
322
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
We drank deep draughts of Moloch's unclean liquor
Even to the dregs of shame,
And blinded by the golden lights that flicker
From Mammon's altar-flame
We burned strange incense, bowed before his idol
Whose eucharist is fire,
And on the neck of passion loosed the bridle
Of fierce and wild désire : —
Till now in our own hearts the ashy embers
Of Love lie smouldering,
And scarce our Autumn chill and bare remembers
The glory of the Spring ;
While faith, that in the mire was fain to wallow,
Returns at last to find
The cold fanes desolate, the niches hollow,
The Windows dim and blind,
And, strown with ruins round, the shattered relie
Of unregardful youth,
Where shapes of beauty once, with tongues angelic,
Whispered the runes of Truth.
II.
This is our doom. To walk for ever and ever
The wilderness unblest,
To weary soûl and sensé in vain endeavour
And find no coign of rest ;
To feel the puise of speech and passion thronging
On lips for ever dumb,
To gaze on parchëd skies relentless, longing
For clouds that will not corne ;
323
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Thirsty, to drink of loathsome waters crawling
With nameless things obscène,
To feel the dews from heaven like fire-drops falling,
And neither shade nor screen ;
To fin from springs illusive riddled vessels,
Like the Danaïdes,
To grapple with the wind that whirls and wrestles,
Knowing no lapse of ease ;
To weave fantastic webs that shrink and crumble
Before they leave the loom,
To build with travail aëry towers that tumble
And temples like the tomb ;
To watch the stately pomp and proud procession
Of splendid shapes and things,
And pine in silent solitary session
Because we hâve no wings ;
To woo from confused sleep forlorn the dismal
Oblivion of despair ;
To seek in sudden glimpse of dreams abysmal
Sights beautiful and rare,
And waking, wild with terror, see the vision
Cancelled in svvift éclipse,
Mocked by the pallid phantoms of dérision,
With spectral eyes and lips ;
To turn in endless circles round thèse purlieus
With troops of spirits pale,
Whose everlasting song is like the curlew's,
One ceaseless, changeless wail.
324
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
III.
This is our prayer to God, the Lord and Giver
Of Life. If it be well,
Do Thou from penance ail too long deliver
Our soûls, immured in Hell ;
If in the flush of fever, in the twilight
Of doubt and dvvindling hopes,
Thee we denied, nor saw the dawn of Thy light
That glimmered on the slopes,
Remember not the sins of youth that wandered
In sinful ways apart,
Cast wide the gifts of heaven and rashly squandered
The treasures of the heart ;
Though bitter be the wage and hard the guerdon
Of wasted fire and force,
Make not too heavy for our soûls the burden
Of sorrowful Remorse :
Forgive Thy children ! Send sweet Peace, Thine
angel,
With anodyne and balm,
To soothe our anguish with the blest evangel
Of everlasting calm !
Let one pale gleam of consolation linger
On her starred coronal :
Carve not the judgment with Thy fiery finger
Along the darkened wall.
325
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Or if indeed our sin hath been too grievous
For pardon, even of Thee,
Plunge us in Lethe's pool profound. Tliere leave us,
And let us cease to be.
La Plainte des Dainnés.
{Rêves et Symboles^
A Poet's Grave.
This humble grave is holy ground,
For hère a poet lies,
Far from the turmoiled city's sound
Beneath the unruffled skies.
Across the still campagna cornes
The murmur of the sea,
And round the crimson clover hums
The golden-girdled bee.
Fit place of rest for one whose soûl
Fed most on silent things,
And let the world's vext surges roll
In tidal thunderings.
Cold are the puises once fulfilled
With living blood and breath ;
The heart that ail men's sorrows thrilled
Moulders in dusty death.
What is earth's famé or blâme to him
Who lies in dreamless sleep ?
He heeds not if love's light grow dim
And midnight shades are deep.
326
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Yet, ère I take my lonely way
Athwart the thickening gloom,
Sadly my révèrent thoughts shall lay
This tribute on the tomb ;
For I, too, hear behind me tread
The inexorable years
That soon shall lay me where the dead
Lie voiceless. — Hence thèse tears !
Le Tombeau du Poète.
{Rêves et Symboles.)
Hymn to Sleep.
Sommeil ! consolateur du monde.
Keeper of the keys of Heaven,
Lingering near the starry Seven !
Guardian of the gâtes of Hell,
Hushed beneath thy drowsy spell !
Fold thy wings and corne to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
When the pilgrim of strange lore
Haunts thy pale phantasmal shore,
Dreams and absolution grant,
Priestess thou and hierophant !
Fold thy wings and corne to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
327
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Builder 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 me
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
Thou dost soothe the virgin's fears,
Thou dost stanch the widow's tears,
Smooth the wrinkled brows of Care,
Still the cries of wild Despair :
Fold thy wings and come to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
Healer of the sores of shame !
Cleanser of the unholy flame !
Thou dost breathe béatitude
On the evil and the good :
Fold thy wings and come to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
When the cup that Pleasure sips
Turns to wormwood on the lips ;
When Remorse, with venomed mesh.
Frets and tears the writhing flesh :
Fold thy wings and come to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
Queller of the storms of Fate !
Quencher of the fires of Hâte !
In thy peaceful bosom furled
Lies the turmoil of the world :
Fold thy wings and come to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
328
HERVÉ-NOËL LE BRETON
Calm as noon's abysmal blue,
Soundless as the falling dcw,
Soft as snow with fleecy plumes,
Sweet as curling incense-fumes :
Fold thy wings and corne to me,
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
Keeper of the keys of Heaven !
(Cease your vigil, starry Seven)
Guardian of the gâtes of Hell !
(Loosen not the drowsëd spell)
Fold thy wings and corne to me
Sleep ! thou soul's euthanasy.
Hymne an Sommeil.
{Rêves et Symboles?)
329
Arthur Rimbaud.
Eorn in Charleville (Ardennes) 1854 . . . Died in Marseilles, 1891.
Fantastic beauty ; such as lurks
In some zvild Poet, when he works
Without a conscience or an aim.
The indiscriminating eulogy of a few indiscreet admirers
need not blind anyone to the real merits of this re-
markable poet. Arthur Rimbaud was of respectable
parentage and received a good middle-class éducation.
He developed a precocious faculty for making verse, along
with a certain bizarre fashion of looking at men and
morals. Throvvn too early into the whirlpool of Parisian
excitement he led a dissipated life in the company of
Paul Verlaine, and in his visits to Belgium, England and
Germany gave the rein to his wandering disposition.
When he was in Brussels with Paul Verlaine in 1873 a
drunken quarrel between the two vagabond poets had a
well-nigh tragical climax. There was a pistol-shot and a
wild pursuit through the streets, followed by the arrest of
Paul Verlaine, who was sent to prison for two years.
There is a characteristic and incohérent record of this
épisode in the elder poet's personal réminiscences.
Rimbaud's Saison en Enfer appeared at Brussels in
1873 and attracted scant attention. Les Illuviinatiofts,
another volume of obscure prose interlarded with capri-
cious verse (with a brief préface by Paul Verlaine) was
published in 1886. Thèse pièces were composed between
330
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
1873 and 1875. They may be read as a psychical autobio-
graphy burdened with the regret of a wasted youth.
Other poems by Rimbaud, giving glimpses of real genius
and singularly original in their eccentricity, hâve been
published hère and there, e.g. in the Poètes maudits of
Paul Verlaine. They shew a fine sensé of melody, vvhich
is sometimes squandered on fantastic and grotesque thèmes.
Now and then the verse is moulded by a master-hand.
Arthur Rimbaud seems to hâve continued his aimless
career, but the history of his pérégrinations is somewhat
obscure. After visiting Russia, he travelled towards Asia
Minor to assist in some officiai excavations or explora-
tions. It was rumoured that he had taken refuge in one
of the monasteries of Lebanon and his death was pre-
maturely announced from time to time. On his return to
France he died in the public hospital of Marseilles, where
he had submitted to a surgical opération for tumour on
the knee.
It is doubtful if Arthur Rimbaud could hâve conquered
an important place in French literature, although with
severe labour and discipline he might hâve produced some
durable work. He had a vast command of uncommon
imagery and a strange power of associating alien ideas.
His phrases are often extremely felicitous, but he loves
to spoil the harmony of his picture by the deliberate
violence of a monstrous climax. He blends flashes of
spiritual imagination with the crudest strokes of realism.
Sometimes he reminds the reader of Robert Browning or
Walt Whitman ; again he paints with the fidelity of a
Flemish master. His genius bordered on madness, and
so far as can be judged from his fugitive fragments he
represents a sort of anarchism in the poetic art.
331
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Love and Labour.
Four on the clock of a summer morn.
The sleep of Love still overpowers.
An odour, of festal evenings born,
Evaporâtes from the bowers.
In the world's vast workshop, ère the sun
Hesperidéan islands leaves,
The Carpenter, to work begun,
Is astir — in his shirt-sleeves — .
In virgin Wastes, with moss o'ergrown,
His craft he calmly plies
On precious panels, vvhich the town
Will dabble -with false skies.
O charm of the Labourers led in file
When a king in Babylon rose suprême !
Venus ! leave thy Lovers awhile
With soûls in a crownëd dream !
Queen of the Shepherds, bring
To the husbandmen barley-bree,
Their strength in peace replenishing
Before the bath in the noonday sea !
{Une Saison en Enfer.)
332
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
Wasted Youth.
Far from the birds and the herds and the meadows,
Kneeling I drank in the heather, aswoon
VVith a tender caress of the hazel-tree shadovvs
In the haze of a génial and green afternoon.
What could I drink from this young river welling —
Voicelesselms, flovverless swards, skies cloud-accurst! —
Drink in thèse green gourds, so far from my dvvelling ?
But some golden liquor that kindles the thirst.
Sinister signboard to swing on a tavern !
Storm in the welkin changed noon into night ;
Then were black islands, dark creek and dull cavern,
Stark pôles and bare columns athwart the blue light.
The wave from the woodland the virgin sands swallowed,
God's wind paved the pools with ice to the brink ;
'Twas gold-diver's, pearl-fisher's luck I had followed
For, fancy, I never bethought me to drink !
{Les Illuminations^
333
ARTHUR RIMBAUD
The Vowels.*
Black A, white E, red I, green U, blue O,
Vowels that écho like remote carillions :
A, sheen of black-haired corselet on winged millions
Round cruel stenches buzzing to and fro ;
Gulfs of gloom. E, clear vapours and pavilions,
White kings, thrilled blossoms, spears of frozen snow ;
I, purples, blood-dews, crimson lips aglow
With shame of rosy limbs on languorous pillions :
U, sphères, divine vibrations of green surges,
Calm of meads sown with beeves, aethereal verges,
Calm wreathed on furrowed foreheads of the wise ;
O, suprême clarion shrilling forth strange clamours.
Silences cloven of worlds and angels, glamours ;
Oméga, O the beam of Her blue eyes !
Les Voyelles.
{Poèmes inédits?)
* Those who wisli to understand the occult significance of this sonnet may
interpret for themselves the foUowing sentence from René Ghil's luminous
Traité du Verbe (Bruxelles : Edmond Deman : l888) : —
' dr= injlrumcntatioti plus haut qiCidiome 6^ que mufique &= que peinture
' que, lumineuje et tonnante ô^ difante, elle eft à la fois, àj' injlrutnenta-
' tion idéale, authentique ! en iavai)iment hors du kafard u/uel des
' glofjaires élifant les mots oîi le plus je multiplie la voyelle là iiijlru-
' mentalement déCirée, en raifon qti'elle s'' authentique de la loi mcine qui
' divulgue que va à le favoir en fe penj'ant, la matière : quand, en effet,
* fatalement et efjentiellement, &r' quant à fes fonoi-ités ! la parole efl lice à
' Vidée, &= qu'ainfi, logiques &" fans hafards, à!' à élire, l'ont les mots
' feulement, dont ont même valeur idéale le t'eus vtilgaire Cs' lafonorité'.
— O Voltaire !
334
Jean Moréas.
Born in Athens, 1856.
The roll of French poets in this century, as in the last,
ends with a Greek. But André Chénier was only half a
Greek and Jean Moréas is purely Hellenic. And if
Chénier helped to give a new impulse to true and natural
poetry Moréas has also the ambition to be a reformer,
more, perchance, in material than in spiritual things, He
has adopted most of the modem innovations in French
verse and introduced several of his own. Among them
are a deliberate disregard of the regular caesura and like-
wise of the enlacement of masculine and féminine rhymes ;
a violation of the rules which forbid rhyme between
singular and plural and masculine and féminine words of
similar sound ; a fréquent use of assonances instead of
pure consonances ; and the bold elision of the vowel before
a consonant. Moréas is also addicted to the employment
of lines of irregular length and verse of mixed rhythms.
Whatever the permanent influence of such experiments
may be, they hâve at least demonstrated that French verse
can be successfully freed from the verbal limitations which
custom has imposed upon it. Zola, who sympathises with
thèse efforts to give * more freedom and more music ' to
French verse, thinks that the new movement may give
birth to a Malherbe who will thence initiate 'a true
poetical Renaissance '.
Jean Moréas is a scrupulous and accomplished artist.
335
JEAN MORÉAS
He dififers from Jules Laforgue* inasmuch as he has
always something to say and does not dépend for his
effects on the violence of incongruous symbols and start-
ling neologisms. Much of his verse is novel, romantic
and picturesque. Many of his forms are singularly
felicitous. Although the leaders of the new school hâve
helped to mould him, he is thoroughly impregnated with
archaism and has borrowed from Villon, Ronsard and
other old poets many charming and expressive words
which should never hâve been allowed to become obsolète;
indeed, the influence of the sixteenth-century singers is
manifest in most of his work, It may be that his research
after rare and choice words is sometimes carried to excess
and even gives an air of labour to his lyrical style. But
he is modem in his substitution of spiritual impressions
for clearly-defined outlines, and this lends a vagueness to
his verse without destroying its archaic character. Hence
it is true, as Anatole France says, that ' he is one of the
seven stars of the new Pléiade and also the Ronsard of
symbolism '.
Jean Moréas is said to be descended from two Greek
heroes ; one the naval commander {navargué) Tombazis
and the other Papadiamantopoulos, a name for ever
associated with Missolonghi. But he has made Paris his
home and given himself to the serious study of letters.
* Jules Laforgue, author of les Complaintes {1885) V Imitation de Notre-
Dame la Lune (1886) and some rhapsodical prose essays, died in 1887 at
twenty-seven years of âge. He had a wonderful gift of rhyme, melody and
metaphor, and, like Arthur Rimbaud, the power of sudden poetical illumina-
tion without any cohérent purpose. One of his crazes was the création of
hybrid compounds, such as sexciproqties, sangsuelles, hymniclames, violuptés.
In his lucid intervais of inspiration he could throw oft" such a couplet as
' Où vont les gants d'avril, et les rames d'antan ?
' L'âme des hérons fous sanglote sur l'étang '.
JEAN MORÉAS
He was educated at Marseilles, the old Greek colony in
France. His principal volumes of poetry are Les Syvtes
(1883- 1884) written under the influence of Paul Verlaine
les Cantilènes (1886) in vvhich his imitation of Stéphane
Mallarmé is more marked, and le Pèlerin passionné {\%g\)
a work in vvhich he has given himself up almost wholly
to mediaeval attractions. Ail thèse volumes are published
by Léon Vanier, the famous ' éditeur of the modems '.
337
JEAN MOREAS
^ Tp vP
The leaves from the woodland
That whirl on the breeze,
Blown far on the headland,
The leaves from the woodland
That whirl on the breeze,
Will they ever corne back
To clothe . . . the same trees ?
The waves of the streamlet
That sparkles and pours
In the shade of the hamlet,
The waves of the streamlet
That sparkles and pours,
Will they ever come back
To bathe . . . the same shores ?
Conte d'Amour. XL
{Les Syrtes.)
Little Blue Bird.
Little blue bird, with time-coloured wings,
That sings, and sings :
To soothe with tenderness hearts that are torn
And scourged by the lashes of Scorn.
338
JEAN MORÉAS
Little blue bird, with time-coloured wings,
That sings, and sings :
To renevv as with force, to refresh as with fire,
The languorous limbs of Désire.
Little blue bird, with time-coloured wings,
That sings, and sings :
To breathe new life into Hopes that lie dead,
And banish the phantoms of Dread.
Little blue bird, with time-coloured wings.
Long hâve I sought thee by rivers and springs.
Long hâve I sought thee on mountain and plain.
In vain, in vain !
Oisillon bleu.
{Les Syrtes.)
Sweets to the Sweet.
III.
Bastion shadow,
Reddened where flickering lamplight looms,
Lakes profound, dense-frondaged glooms
When Hecate's chariot leaves the meadow,
Raven plumes
That love the gibbet, ebon braid
With gems arrayed ;
Ye are not the tresses of my Lady.
339
JEAN MORÉAS
Nor you, O sheaves of golden grain,
Shimmering star,
Tawny sunsets, splendorous dawns
That gild the lawns ;
Refinëd gold, your pride is vain,
And vain your symbols are !
Fragrant fraughtage of trirèmes
From Araby, how sweet meseems
The glorious auburn tresses of my Lady.
Be they pleachëd and dîspread
In simple fillets on her head,
Or curtained loose when she doth languish,
Yielding to a lover's anguish.
IV.
To crown her head I fain would bring
Flowers ail unnamed of lips that sing.
Lavender, marjoram, marigold red,
And the rose that breathed on lûtes enchanted ;
White flower-de-luce by Perdita vaunted
For sweet Prince Florizel's bed ;
Pink, pale primrose, iris, orris,
And ail the treasure of buxom Chloris :
Poor would the sheaf be, garlanded
To crown her head.
340
JEAN MORÉAS
VII.
Sooth, he had none like you to sing,
The King
Whose song was of woman more bitter than death.
For, pressed on your lips of languor,
Ail is sweet, and sweet the breath
Of your lips, love, even in anger.
And you, are not you
In sweetness the true
Month of Mary, sweet Virgin,
If your look brings the burgeon
To bloom in my pale-coloured soûl !
Étrennes de Doulce.
{Le Pèlerin passionné.)
341
Index.
^schylus, xxiv, 125, 126.
Anacreon, 2.
Aristophanes, 175.
Arnold (Matthew), xix.
Asselineau (Charles), 148, 175, 181.
Aubanel /Téodor), 319.
Augier (Emile), 297.
Aupick (General), 144.
Autran (Joseph), 319.
Baïf (Antoine de), French poet, 176.
Balkis or Belkiss (Qiteen ofSheba), 72.
Balzac (Honoré de), 26, 62, 82, 84,
109, no, 166, 178, 252,
Banville (Théodore de), xvi, xix, xxv,
xxvi, xxvii, xxx, xxxiv, xxxviii, 12,
25, 124, 145, 147, 148, 172-183,
204, 227, 228, 229, 244.
Barbara (Louis-Charles), 84.
Barbier (Auguste), xix, xxii, xxxviii, 9,
62-64, 178.
Baudelaire-Dufaïs (Charles), xvi, xvii,
xix, xxii, xxiii, xxv, xxviii, xxxviii,
3, 26, 81, 96, 106, 107, no, m,
124, 144-152, 173, 204, 211, 222,
228, 260, 273, 279, 280, 281, 301.
Beauvoir (Roger de), 72.
Beckford (William), 274.
Becq de Fouquières, xxvi.
Beddoes (Thomas Lovell), 28.
Béranger (Pierre-Jean de), 10, 51, 107,
166, 273, 308, 319.
Berlioz (Hector), xvi, xxxi, 62, 82, 179.
Bernai Diaz del Castillo, 269.
Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, 8.
Bertrand (Louis), 54, 84, 86, 106, 144,
175-
Biré (Edmond), 22.
Bonaparte (King Joseph), 22.
Bonnières (Robert de), i.
Borel (Petrus), xxxviii, 82-88, 106, 145,
181.
Borel d'Hauterivc, 82.
Borgias (the), 128.
Bouchardy (Joseph), 85.
Bouilhet (Louis), 279.
Boulanger (General), 297.
Boulanger (Louis), 85, 88, 179.
Bouquet, publisher, 87.
Bourbon, French faviily ^ 172.
Bourget (Paul), 151.
Bowles (William Lisle), 54.
Boyer (Philoxène), 243.
Brémont (L.), xxxii.
Brizeux (Auguste), 63, 319.
Brot (Alphonse), 85.
Browning (Elizabeth Barretl), xxxv.
Browning (Robert), xix, xxxvi, 126,
273, 33Ï-
Brunetière (Ferdinand), 151.
Buckley (Alban), 81.
Bugeaud (Marshal), 86.
Buloz (François), 93.
Burger, German poet, 71.
Byron (Lord), xix, 54, 92, 93, m, 126.
Cabanis, French philosopher , 144.
Cabanon (Emile), 175.
Cairon (Jules), 243.
Campbell (Thomas), 2n.
Carducci (Giosuè), 128.
Carlyle (Thomas), 88, 283.
Carnot (Lazare), xvi.
Carrington (Dean), xvii, 51.
Cary, English translator of Dante,
xxxvi.
Champfleury(JuIesFleury-Husson),i63,
164.
Chanzy (General), 297.
Charles d'Orléans, 183.
Chasles (Philarète), 88.
343
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
Chateaubriand (François-René, vicomte
de), 3, 8, 93, 126, 308.
Chatterton (Thomas), 144.
Chatto and Windus, publishers, 23.
Chaucer, xxx.
Chênedollé (Charles Liout de), 9.
Chénier (André), xvi, xviii, xxxvii,
xxxviii, 1-4, II, 62, 127, 335.
Chénier de Saint-André, 2.
Chénier (Louis), i.
Chénier (Marie-Joseph), 2.
Cifuentes (Count de), 22.
Cladel (Léon), 243.
Claretie (Jules), 12, 88, 243.
Coleridge (Samuel Taylor), xviii, 54.
Collé, Frcnch chansonnier^ 166.
CoUins (William), 144.
Colon (Jenny), 73.
Condorcet, French philosopher, 144.
Coppée (François), xxxviii, 220, 244,
260-262, 268, 278.
Corbière (Tristan), 319.
Corday (Charlotte), 2.
Corneille (Pierre), xxiv, xxxiii, xxxvii.
Cowper (William), 55, 75.
Dante, xv, 24, 126.
Daudet (Alphonse), 220, 243, 252, 253.
Daumier (Honoré), 180.
David d'Angers, French sculptor, 177.
David (Félicien), iio.
Defoe (Daniel), 88.
Delacroix (Eugène), 82, iio, 146, 180.
Delaroche (Paul), 82.
Delavigne (Casimir), 9, 70.
Delille (Jacques), 4, 24.
Delorme (Joseph), 3, 53-55.
Delvau (Alfred), 163.
Deman (Edmond), publisher, 334.
Dennie (Emma), 229.
De Quincey (Thomas), xxv, 150.
Déroulède (Paul), 297-298.
Deroy (Emile), 148, 173.
Désaugiers, French chansonnier, 9, 319.
Desbordes- Valmore ( Madame), 178,319.
Deschamps (Antony and Emile), 93,
179, 319-
Deschamps (Gaston), 12.
Desmoulins (Camille), 2, 87.
Devéria (Achille), 86, 88, 180.
Devéria (Eugène), 85.
Diane de Poitiers, 73.
Diaz del Castillo (Bernai), 269.
Dickens (Charles), 252.
Diderot (Denis), 221, 279.
Dierx (Léon), xxii, 125, 211 -212, 221,
Dobson (Austin), xvii.
Dondey de Santeny (Théophile), 85, 1 75.
Dorval (Marie), French actress, 179.
Douglas, Scottishfamily, 219.
Dovalle (Charles), 84.
Drouineau (Gustave), 84.
Du Camp (Maxime), 92, 145, 148.
Duffy (James), publisher, 81.
Dumas (Adolphe), French poet, 19, 21.
Dumas (Alexandre) the elder, 85.
Dupont (Pierre), 173, 319.
Duseigneur (Jean or Jehan), 85, 90.
Eckermann, 70.
Edison, 223.
Emerson (Ralph Waldo), xv.
Esquiros (Alphonse), 72, 86, 175.
Euripides, xxiv, 125.
Faullain de Banville (Théodore), 172.
Ferrière (Théophile de), 175.
Flaubert (Gustave), 107, 252, 253, 279.
Fleury-Husson (Jules), 163.
Forestier (Paul), pseudonym (t/" Armand
Silvestre, 204.
Fourier, 124.
France (Anatole), 151, 230, 244, 282,
336.
Gambetta (Léon), 297.
Gaspard de la Nuit, pseudonym of Louis
Bertrand, 84.
Gaunt (John of), 288.
Gautier (Judith), 245.
Gautier (Théophile), xvii, xviii, xix,
xxii, xxiii, xxxviii, 3, 71, 72, 84, 85,
86, 92, 96, 106-I12, 126, 145, 147,
148, 165, 175, 178, 197, 204, 221,
237, 245, 252.
Gavarni, 166, 180.
Gay (Delphine), 319.
Gérard de Nerval, xix, xxii, xxxviii,
27, 70-76, 81, 85, 86, 106, no, 179,
244. 253.
Ghil (René), 334.
Gilbert (Nicolas - Joseph - Laurent),
Frejich poef (i7Sl-i7So), 75, 144.
344
INDEX
Gill (André), 308.
Girardin (Emile de), 108.
Girardin (Madame Emile de), 319.
Glatigny (Albert), xxxviii, 27, 220,
227-230, 243.
Glatigny (Ernest), 227.
Goethe, xv, 70.
Gounod (Charles), xxx, xxxi.
Gozlan (Léon), 164.
Gras (Félis), 319.
Gray (Thomas), 150.
Gudula or Goule (Saint), 81.
Guerne (Vicomte de), 128.
Hachettes, ptiblishers, 10.
Heine (Heinrich), xxii, 71, 92, 94, 96,
109, 181, 183, 244.
Hemans (Felicia Dorothea), xxxv.
Heredia (José-Maria de), iio, 128, 268-
269.
Hesiod, 125.
Hetzel, pitblisher, 108.
Hoche (Lazare), xvi.
Hoffmann, German romancer, 71, 181.
Homer, xv, xxxvii, 2, 125, 126, 181,
Horace, 125, 176.
Houssaye (Arsène), 2, 72, 106.
Hugo (General), 22.
Hugo (Victor), xv, xvi, xvii, xix, xxii,
xxiv, xxviii, xxx, xxxiii, xxxviii, 3,
9, 10, 12, 22-28, 51, 52, 53, 54, 59,
62, 82, 85, 92, 93, 96, 107, 109, 112,
125, 150, 163, 173, 174, 175, 177,
178, 181, 183, 220, 230, 238, 252,
260, 273, 308, 310.
Hugo von Spitzemberg, 22.
Janin (Jules), xxviii, 92, 173.
Johannot (Tony), 179.
John of Gaunt, 288.
Joncières (Victorin), 205.
Karr (Alphonse), 178.
Keats (John), xviii, xix, xxi, xxxv, 320.
Klopstock, German poet, "ji.
Korner, German poet, 71.
La Brunie or Labrunie (Gérard), 70.
Lacaussade (Auguste), 319,
Lacroix and Verboeckhoven, piiblishers,
25.
Laforgue (Jules), xxix, 336.
Lamartine (Alphonse de), xvi, xix,
xxiv, xxxiii, xxxviii, 2, 3, 8-12, 25,
27, 54, 92, 93, 178, 260, 279.
Lamb (Charles), 54.
Lambert (yxaxiç\{), psetuionym ^Théo-
dore de Banville, 174.
Landor (Walter Savage), xviii, xxv, 62,
88, 150.
Lang (Andrew), xvii, 171.
Laprade (Victor de), 124, 183, 319.
Lassailly (Charles), 84.
Latouche (Henri de), properly Hya
cinthe Thabaud, 3.
Le Breton (Hervé-Noël), 319-320.
Lebrun-Pindare {properly Ponce-Denis
Escouchard Le Brun), 4.
Leconte de Lisle, xvi, xix, xxvi, xxxviii
116, 124-128, 183, 211, 212, 23a
244, 268, 280, 319, 320.
Le Goffic (Charles), 319.
Legouvé (Ernest), 11.
Lemaître (Frederick), Frenchador, 179
Lemaître (Jules), 12, 151, 223, 239
272, 282, 310.
Lemerre (Alphonse), piiblisher, 112
229, 268.
Le Nepveu de Carfort (Marie-Fran
çoise), 219.
Lermontoff (Mikhaïl-Uriévitch), Rus
sian poet, m.
Letourneur, French translator of Shakc
speare, 163.
Levavasseur, publisher, 87.
Limnander (Armand), 74.
Littré (Emile), 26.
Loewe-Weimars or Loëve- Veimars, 181.
Longfellow (Henry Wadsworth), xx,
xxxvi, 150.
Louis XV., 87.
Louis XVI., 2.
Louis XVIII., 8, 9.
Louis-Philippe, 10.
Lucan, xxxvii.
Lucas (Hippolyte), 319.
Lucilius, 4.
Lucretius, 4.
Lusignan, French cru sading family, i.
Mac-Keat (Augustus), pseudonytn of
Auguste Maquet, 85.
Maintenon (Madame de), 75.
Malherbe (François de), xvi, 5r, 335.
345
A CENTURY OF FRENCH VERSE
Mallarmé (Stéphane), xxiii, xxvi,
xxxviii, 125, 150, 221, 272-275, 337,
Maquet (Auguste), 85.
Marilhat (Prosper), iio.
Massenet (Jules), xxxi, 126.
Mathilde Bonaparte (Princess), 260.
Maupassant (Guy de), 253.
Mazarin, Fi-ench family , 172.
Mendelssohn-Bartholdy (Félix), 92.
Mendès (Catulle), xxii, xxiii, xxxvii,
87, 125, 220, 239, 243-245, 260,
268, 274.
Mendès (Judith), 245.
Mérat (Albert), 244, 319.
Meredith (George), xix, 252.
Mérimée (Prosper), 253.
Méry (Paulin), 71, 74, 173.
Meurice (Paul), 26.
Meyerbeer (Giacomo), xxxi, 179.
Michael-Angelo, 180.
Michelet (Jules), 178.
Millevoye (Charles-Hubert), 9.
Milton, xxi, 24, 88, 126.
Mistral (Frédéric), 319.
Molière, 50, 260.
Monkhouse (Cosmo), xvii.
Monselet (Charles), 243.
Moréas (Jean), xxix, 302, 335-337.
Moreau (Hégésippe), 54.
Morris (William), xix.
Mozart, 51.
Mlirger (Henry), xxxviii, 93, 163-167,
171, 244, 253.
Musset (Alfred de), xvi, xvii, xix, xxiv,
xxxviii, 3, 9, II, 27, 51, 54,92-96,
III, 163, 178, 261.
Musset (Paul de), 95.
Musset (Victor de) 92.
Musset de Pathay (Musset-Pathay), 92.
Nanteuil (Célestin), 86, 88, 179.
Napoléon l., 70, 83.
Napoléon m., 125, 165.
Napol le Pyrénéen, 175.
Naugeot, French artist, 148.
Nerval {see Gérard).
Nevills of Abergavenny, 288.
Nodier (Charles), 73, 166, 253.
Nordau (Max), 219.
Noriac (Jules), pseudonym of Jules
Cairon, 243.
Ollivier, publisher, 87.
O'Neddy (Philothée), pseudonym of
Théophile Dondey, 85.
O'Shaughnessy (Arthur), xvii.
Ourliac (Edouard), 27, 72, 84.
Ovid, 4.
Papadiamantopoulos, Greek liera, 336.
Pauvre Lelian, pseudonym of Paul
Verlaine, 281.
Payne (John), xxxvi, 112.
Perrin, publisher, 22.
Petrarch, 176.
Peyrat (Napoléon), 175.
Piron (Alexis), 253.
Pizarro, 269.
Poe (Edgar Allan), 150, 272.
Pompadour (Madame de), 87.
Pontavice de Heussey (Robert du),
219.
Pouschkin (Alexander Serguiévitch),
Russian poet, m.
Prat (Chevalier de), 8.
Préault (Auguste), 173, 179.
Privât d'Anglemont, 163, 173.
Prudhomme (Sully), xxvi, xxx, xxxviii,
237-239, 260.
Psichari (Jean), xxxi.
Pyat (Félix), 173.
Queen of Sheba, 72, 73, 75.
Quicherat (Louis), xxvi.
Rabelais, i66, 176, 204.
Racine, xxiv, xxxiii, 164, 280.
Rameau, 221.
Régnier (Mathurin), xvi.
Renduel (Pierre-Eugène), publisher,
181.
Reynaud (Jean), 298.
Ricard (Louis-Xavier de), 244, 279.
Richepin (Jean), xxix, 2S3, 302, 308-
310.
Richter (Jean-Paul), 71.
Rimbaud (Arthur), 330-331, 336.
Robespierre, 2.
Rogier (Camille), 106.
Rollinat (Maurice), 283, 301-302.
Ronsard (Pierre de), xvi, xxxvii, 176,
228, 336.
Roqueplan (Nestor), 278.
346
INDEX
Rossetti (Dante Gabriel), xix, xxxiv,
xxxvi, 8i, III, 150.
Rossini, 51.
Rothschild, 178.
Rousseau (Jean-Jacques), xvi, 8, 93.
Ruskin (John), 283.
Saint-Arnaud (Marshal), 26.
Sainte-Beuve, xix, 3, 4, 8, 53-55, 92,
93, 148, 151, 178, 237, 278.
Saint-Pierre (Bernardin de), 8.
Saint-Saëns (Camille), xxxi, iio, 205.
Saintsbury (George), xvii.
Sand (George), 92, 94, 17S, 204, 301.
Sandeau (Jules), 84.
Santi-Lomaca (Elisabeth), 1.
Sappho, 2.
Sarcey (Francisque), xxxi, xxxiii, 308.
Sarrazin (Gabriel), xviii, xxii.
Scheuring, piiblisher, 222.
Schiller, 71.
Scott (Sir Walter), 252.
Shakespeare, xv, xvi, xxi, 24, 28, 63,
85, 126, 150, 163, 176, 223, 280.
Shelley, xviii, xix, xxviii, xxxv, 28, 62,
71, 127.
Siefert (Louisa), 319.
Siguenza (Count de), 22.
Silvestre (Armand), 204-205.
Soliman (Sultan), 219.
Sophocles, xxiv, 125, 126.
Soulary (Joséphin), 319.
Stappers (Henri), xxi.
Swedenborg (Emanuel), xv, 71.
Swinburne (Algernon Charles), xvi, xix,
XXV, xxviii, xxxv, xxxvi, 23, 28, lio,
112, 127, 128, 148.
Taine (Hippolyte), xviii.
Talleyrand, 9.
Tastu (Amable), 319.
Tennyson, xv, xix, xx, xxiv, xxv, xxxvi,
III.
Thabaud (Hyacinthe), see Henri de
Latouche.
Thackeray, 252.
Theocritus, 125.
Thérésa, burlesque actress and singer,
182.
Theuriet (André), 198-199, 204.
Thomas (Napoléon), 88.
Thornbury (Walter), xxxvi.
Tobler (Adolf), xxvi.
Tombazis, Grcek hero, 336.
Tree (Beerbohm), 174.
Turner, Eni:;lish painter, 283.
Turquety (Edouard), 54.
Uhland, German poet, 71.
Vabre otherwise Vavre (Jules), 85.
Vacquerie (Auguste), 25, 26, 319
Valade (Léon), 244, 319.
Valmore (Madame Desbordes-), 178,
319-
Vanier CLéon), publisher, 337.
Vergil, 4.
Verlaine (Paul), xvii, xxiii, xxv, xxvii,
xxix, xxxviii, 150, 205, 239, 244, 268,
272, 274, 27S-283, 301, 302, 330,
331, 337-
Vigny (Alfred de), 3, 9, 124, 173, 228,
319-
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam (Joseph de),
219, 221.
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam (Philippe de),
219.
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam (Philippe-
Auguste de), xxii, 219-223, 268, 272.
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam (Victor de),
221.
Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, Frenchjamily,
219, 319.
Villon (François), xiv, xvi, xxix, xxxiv,
xxxvi, 279, 336.
Villon (François), pseudcnyvi of Théo-
dore de Banville, 174.
Vitu (Auguste), 163.
Voltaire, xvi, xxii, xxiv, xxxi, 26, 27,
164, 310, 334.
Wagner (Richard), 146, 221, 245, 283.
Walter (Judith), 245.
White (Henry Kirke), 54.
Whitman (Walt), 331.
Willem (Léon), publisher, 88.
Wordsworth (William), xvi, xviii, xix,
12, 54-
Zola (Emile), xxii, 243, 252, 335.
347
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at the EJinburgh University Press
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