SIX FRENCH POETS
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 
 
 TORONTO
 
 /i^ ^c^^^. 
 
 'OKe^e-d^
 
 SIX FRENCH POETS 
 
 STUDIES IN CONTEMPORARY 
 LITERATURE 
 
 BY 
 
 AMY LOWELL 
 
 AUTHOR OF "A DOME OF MANY-COLOURED GLASS" 
 AND "SWORD BLADES AND POPPY SEED" 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 1920 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 Copyright, 1915, 
 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1915. Reprinted 
 May, 1916; May, 1920. 
 
 NorSnooTj ^rrss 
 
 J. S. Gushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
 
 Norwood, Ma&i., U.S.A.
 
 •^ 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 In the Spring of 19 14, I was invited to deliver a series 
 of lectures on modem French poetry in Boston dining 
 the following wnnter. This book consists of those lec- 
 tures, rewritten and arranged for the press. 
 
 It is a strange thing that while so many Americans and 
 English repair every year to France, so few of them, in 
 either country', realized what a serious and self-sacri- 
 ficing people the French were making of themselves, 
 before the present war brought the fact to their notice. 
 To students of French Hterature, this was no matter for 
 surprise. They understood that the earnest and single- 
 minded endeavour appHed to the arts must have its 
 counterpart in other branches of the national hfe. That 
 this was the case, is now abundantly proved. We, in 
 the Enghsh-speaking cotmtries, are asking oiu-selves how 
 we could have so misunderstood the French people. 
 But to be misunderstood has been the lot of Frenchmen 
 when dealing -^-ith Anglo-Saxons from time immemorial. 
 
 The bar of language has something to do M,-ith it, un- 
 doubtedly. Another reason is the unfortunate attitude 
 of oiu" schools and colleges, which always assume that 
 everything worthy to be called Hteratiu"e, and therefore 
 studied, ceased, in even,' cotuitry, a generation or two 
 ago. This has prevented the mass of English-speaking
 
 vi Preface 
 
 people from realizing that France has just been passing 
 through one of the great poetical epochs of her career — 
 one of the great poetical epochs of the world. 
 
 It may be argued that during this period she has pro- 
 duced no poet of the first order. No poet to rank with 
 Homer, or Shakespeare, or Dante. That would indeed 
 seem to be true ; but we speak of the time of Wordsworth, 
 and Coleridge, and Shelley, and Keats, as being one of 
 England's great poetic periods; and we speak of Ger- 
 many in the same way, during the time of Goethe and 
 Schiller. Beginning with Lamartine and Victor Hugo, 
 France has been having a succession of remarkable poets 
 for eighty years. The war will end this period, perforce. 
 For whatever great poets may arise after the war will 
 belong to a new era. So titanic an upheaval as the present 
 war must snap the period which preceded it off short. 
 
 It seems a fitting moment, then, to stop and take our 
 bearings; and it seems a fitting moment to introduce 
 to those EngHsh-speaking readers not already familiar 
 with them the last poets of an era just closing. 
 
 The poets I have chosen for this volume belong to the 
 generation immediately succeeding that of Verlaine and 
 Mallarme. They are, with the exception of one, all 
 ahve to-day. But they are in no sense to be ranked with 
 les jeunes. They are men of middle age and undisputed 
 fame, and, were French taught as it ought to be, their 
 names woiild be household words with us as they are in 
 their native land. 
 
 So far, however, is this from being the case, that few 
 libraries contain all their works, and of the mass of criti- 
 cal writings which has sprung up about them, only a
 
 Preface vii 
 
 scattered voliime here and there is obtainable. These 
 facts have been brought to my notice again and again, 
 and it is because of them that the present volume has 
 seemed to fill a need. 
 
 I am farther emboldened by the very kind reception 
 which the lectures received, and by the fact that, to my 
 knowledge, there is no other English book which covers 
 the same ground. Mr. Edmund Gosse's "French Pro- 
 files" contains brief critical essays on Regnier, Verhaeren, 
 Samain, and Fort, but with no biographic material, and 
 does not include Gourmont or Jammes ; and Mr. Vance 
 Thompson's "French Portraits" was written fifteen years 
 ago, before some of these poets had produced their best 
 work, and makes no pretence at being more than a pleas- 
 ant, anecdotic account of the writers he mentions. 
 
 In the following essays, I have pursued a slightly dif- 
 ferent arrangement from the one usual in such cases. 
 Instead of first giving a biographical account of the man, 
 and then a critical survey of his work, I have followed 
 his career as he lived it, and taken the volumes in the 
 order in which they were written. I have tried to give 
 the reader the effect of having known the man and read 
 his books as they were published, commenting upon 
 them as they came along. The biographies are slight, as 
 must always be the case while their subjects are still 
 living, but they have been taken from reliable sources. 
 
 I have made no attempt at an exhaustive critical 
 analysis of the various works of these authors. Rather, 
 I have tried to suggest certain things which appear to the 
 trained poet while reading them. The pages and pages 
 of hair-splitting criticism turned out by erudite gentle-
 
 viii Prejace 
 
 men for their own amusement, has been no part of my 
 scheme. But I think the student, the poet seeking new 
 inspiration, the reader endeavouring to understand another 
 poetic idiom, will find what they need to set them on 
 their way. 
 
 I have given many quotations — as the best way to 
 study an author is to read him — and for the convenience 
 of those readers, well versed in French prose but not yet 
 fully at home in French poetry, translations of the poems 
 will be found in an appendix. The translations are in 
 prose. Verse translations must always depart somewhat 
 from the original, on account of the exigencies of rh5rtne 
 and metre. As my desire was not to make English poems 
 about a French original, but to make the French poems 
 in the text understandable, I have sacrificed the form 
 to the content. The translations are exact, and in every 
 case reproduce, as far as is possible in another language, 
 the "perfume" of the poem. By reading them, and then 
 turning to the original and reading it aloud in French, 
 those least versed in the tongue will get an idea of the 
 music of the poem, while at the same time understanding 
 it. In order not to tease those readers perfectly ac- 
 quainted with French, no figures nor asterisks appear in 
 the text, but each translation is accompanied by the 
 number of the page on which the original is to be found. 
 
 Another appendix contains bibliographies of the works 
 of each author and a bibHography of books upon the 
 subject, for the use of those who wish to pursue it farther. 
 
 In preparing this volume my thanks are due to M. 
 Alfred Vallette, editor of the Mercnrc de France, for 
 courteously permitting me to reproduce the portraits of
 
 Preface ix 
 
 Emile Verhaeren, Albert Samain, Henri de Regnier, 
 and Francis Jammes, and to quote freely from all books 
 published by the Mercure ; to MM. Remy de Gourmont * 
 and Paul Fort, for sending me, one a drawing, and the 
 other a photograph, for reproduction; to Mrs. Arthur 
 Hutchinson (Mile. Magdeleine Garret) for invaluable assis- 
 tance and information, — to her intimate knowledge of her 
 own language, unerring taste, and trained critical faculty, 
 I owe all that I have been able to acquire of the French 
 tongue; to Mile. Jeanne Charon, for valuable suggestions 
 of technical detail ; and to Mr. F. S. Flint, whose wide 
 reading and critical articles on modem French poetry in 
 " Poetry and Drama " have been of great service to me, 
 for lists of books and expert knowledge. 
 
 AMY LOWELL. 
 Jime 24, 1915. 
 
 * It is with a profound sense of personal loss that I record the 
 death of M. de Gourmont on September 28th. The news was re- 
 ceived while this book was passing through the press, too late to be 
 incorporated in the text. I wish here to express my great admira- 
 tion for his work, and my gratitude for an encouragement which 
 even under the heavy weight of illness he did not stint to give. By 
 his death France loses one of the greatest and most sincere artists of 
 his generation.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 Emile Verhaeren . . . . , 
 
 I 
 
 Albert Samain 
 
 . 49 
 
 Remy de Gourmont 
 
 . 105 
 
 Henri de R^nier .... 
 
 . 147 
 
 Francis Jammes 
 
 211 
 
 Paul Fort 
 
 . 269 
 
 Appendix A : Translations 
 
 • 327 
 
 Appendix B : Bibliography 
 
 . 467 
 
 n
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 £mile Verhaeren 
 Albert Samain . 
 Remy de Gourmont 
 Henri de Regnier 
 Francis Jammes . 
 Paul Fort . 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 49 
 
 105 
 147 
 
 211 
 
 269 
 
 XIU
 
 EMILE VERHAEREN
 
 EMILE VERHAEREN 
 
 When I planned this book, I realized that the 
 name of Emile Verhaeren would be the best known 
 of my group of six French poets. And I felt that 
 I had a right to include him among French poets 
 since he wrote in French. Now, the name of 
 Emile Verhaeren is not only the best known name of 
 my group, but a very well known name indeed. 
 Newspapers and magazines are full of his fame, 
 various publishers are issuing translations of his 
 poems, and a translation of a German biography 
 of him appeared a year ago. But the most impor- 
 tant thing which time has effected in his regard is 
 to divorce him forever from the stream of French 
 literature. He ranks now, not only as the prophet 
 of a new era, but as the authentic voice of a dead era. 
 The Belgium he portrays has been devastated by 
 war, and so completely crushed that at the moment 
 it can hardly be said to exist. And even if in time 
 the invaders are driven out, and Belgium is able 
 to continue herself politically, it will be long before 
 
 3
 
 4 Six French Poets 
 
 she will have leisure to devote her energies again to 
 the arts. When that time does come, we may be 
 very sure that It will be a different civilization with 
 which the arts will have to deal. The pathetic 
 splendour of circumstance, therefore, must always 
 hang over Verhaeren's work, and enhance Its natural 
 greatness still farther. Future ages will not only 
 study him as a great poet, but as an accurate por- 
 trayer of life In Belgium before the war. His 
 artistic value, for many years at least. Is bound to 
 be overshadowed by his historic value. He stands 
 out as the finest flower of a ruined country, and as 
 such can never again be contemplated as merely 
 walking step by step with the writers of any other 
 country, no matter how great. At present, however, 
 the war Is still too new to be regarded in this per- 
 spective ; to us who are living not only to-day, but 
 in such close relation to yesterday, it Is enough to 
 point out what must be Verhaeren's future position, 
 and then return and consider him as he has hitherto 
 appeared to our own generation. 
 
 To-day, Verhaeren is a man sixty years old, with 
 twenty-three volumes of poems, three volumes of 
 plays, and four volumes of prose to his credit. He 
 has been writing for over thirty years, and has had 
 a great Influence upon young writers all over the 
 world. It Is in this connection which we shall con- 
 sider him here. What future work he will do will 
 belong to that after- the- war period which we can
 
 Entile Verhaeren 5 
 
 only dimly foresee. At the actual time of writing, 
 Verhaeren has fled to England, where he has found 
 an asylum and sympathetic friends. Vigorous as he 
 is, the poems which he may write there will belong 
 to a new epoch in his career, and with them future 
 students of his work will have to deal. Our con- 
 sideration of him ends with the war. 
 
 In understanding Verhaeren, one must first under- 
 stand the conditions into which he was born. 
 One of the great interests in his poetry is the 
 effect it has had In changing and modifying 
 those conditions. In 1868, Hippolyte Taine wrote — 
 in his chapter on "The Painting in the Low Coun- 
 tries" in his "Philosophy of Art" — "to-day this 
 literature hardly exists." Since then, Belgium has 
 given us Verhaeren and Maeterlinck, in company 
 with a host of lesser writers. Such fecundity is 
 astonishing, and has called out a large number of 
 volumes devoted to the study of so remarkable a 
 phenomenon. And all since 1880, a period of little 
 more than thirty years ! In his Mouvement Lit- 
 ter aire Beige d' Expression Frangaise, M. Albert 
 Heumann points out that "a fecund and independent 
 literature commonly exists in a country of perfect 
 material prosperity, and of an absolute political 
 autonomy." That this is true, witness the ages of 
 Pericles, the Emperor Augustus, and Louis XIV^ ; 
 the period of the Renaissance in Italy ; or the 
 England of Elizabeth, Queen Anne, or George IV ;
 
 6 Six French Poets 
 
 and we see the fact again in France at the present 
 day. 
 
 Since 1831, when Belgium forced herself upon the 
 Powers as a separate nation and elected a king to 
 suit herself, she has enjoyed extraordinary prosperity. 
 The enormous energy of the people has developed 
 their unusual natural facilities to the fullest extent. 
 There are the coal fields in the Boisinage district 
 near Mons, and in the neighbourhood of Liege. 
 There are iron mines, and iron and steel works, at 
 Charleroi and Liege. There are quarries of marble, 
 granite, and slate. Ghent is the capital of a vast 
 textile industry ; and lace is manufactured all over 
 the country, Brussels point being famous throughout 
 the world. But this is not all, Belgium carries on 
 (or, alas ! carried on) an enormous commerce. 
 Antwerp is one of the largest and most important 
 ports in the world. And again, this is not all, for 
 Belgium is an agricultural country chiefly, and 
 where everything is on so superlative a scale, 
 "chiefly" means a great deal. In fact, it has 
 about six and one-half millions of acres under cul- 
 tivation. In this little bit of a country, less than 
 half as big as the state of Maine, such an acreage 
 is enormous. 
 
 But side by side with this booming modernism 
 lives the other Belgium — mystic, superstitious — 
 where moss-grown monasteries stand beside sluggish 
 canals, and the angelus rings across flat, wind-blown
 
 Etnile Verhaeren 7 
 
 fields. Belgium is a strange mixture of activities, 
 races, and opinions. Roman Catholics and Socialists 
 dispute for control of the government, and authors 
 write and publish in German and French, some 
 fanatics even insist on doing so in Flemish, and 
 agitate to have Flemish taught in the schools, a 
 desire with which the Celtic movement in Ireland 
 has made us familiar. 
 
 In the little town of Saint-Amand in East Flan- 
 ders, southwest of Antwerp and east of Ghent, on 
 the river Escaut, Emile Verhaeren was born on the 
 twenty-first of May, 1855. His father, Gustave 
 Verhaeren, was the son of a cloth merchant of 
 Brussels. His mother was a Mile. Debock, a na- 
 tive of Saint-Amand, where her brother was pro- 
 prietor of an oil plant. And presumably Gustave 
 Verhaeren chose to live in Saint-Amand on account 
 of his wife's connection in the country. The Ver- 
 haerens were probably of Dutch extraction, but the 
 Debocks were certainly French (some centuries 
 before, it is needless to say, as both families can be 
 traced to different parts of Belgium in the eighteenth 
 century). Curiously enough, only French was 
 spoken in Gustave Verhaeren's household, and the 
 servants all came from Liege. Emile Verhaeren has 
 never known Flemish, although he took some lessons 
 in it from the schoolmaster in the village, when he 
 was seven years old. 
 
 Saint-Amand stands in a country of wide hori-
 
 8 Six French Poets 
 
 zons, where windmills stretch out their arms to the 
 sky, and broad clouds sweep over it, trailing their 
 shadows on the fiat plain below. It is a grey, 
 northern country, of fogs and strong winds. All 
 these things impressed themselves upon the little 
 Verhaeren's brain, and became a natural part of his 
 consciousness, and the objects of his greatest love. 
 As the boy Constable is said to have grown familiar 
 with clouds, and to have acquired a love for them, 
 in tending his father's windmill, so the boy Ver- 
 haeren must have got his knowledge of weather and 
 skies while wandering along the level, paved roads 
 of East Flanders, buffeted by the wind and washed 
 by the sun, or while lying in bed listening to the 
 rain splash on tiled roofs, and patter against the 
 shutters. His poems are full of weather. They 
 are almost a "line-a-day" book of temperatures and 
 atmospheres. Take this of a violent wind, for in- 
 stance : 
 
 Un poing d'effroi tord les villages ; 
 
 Les hauts clochers, dans les lointains, 
 
 Envoient I'echo de leurs tocsins 
 Bondir de plage en plage. 
 
 or this, of a gentle one : 
 
 Le vent chante, le vent babille 
 avec pinson, tarin, moineau, 
 le vent sififie, brille et scintille 
 k la pointe des longs roseaux,
 
 Bmile Verhaeren 9 
 
 le vent se noue et s'entrelace et se denoue 
 et puis, soudain, s'enfuit jusqu'aux vergers luisants, 
 la-bas, ou les pommiers, pareils a des paons blancs, 
 — nacre et soleil — lui font la roue. 
 
 Take this, of clouds : 
 
 Et Septembre, la-haut, 
 
 Avec son ciel de nacre et d'or voyage, 
 
 Et suspend sur les pres, les champs et les hameaux 
 
 Les blocs etincelants de ses plus beaux nuages. 
 
 Or this, of a Httle river : 
 
 L'entendez-vous, I'entendez-vous 
 Le menu flot sur les cailloux ? 
 
 II passe et court et glisse, 
 Et doucement dedie aux branches. 
 Qui sur son cours se penchent, 
 
 Sa chanson lisse. 
 
 Gustave Verhaeren, his wife and little son, lived 
 in a cottage of their own, with a garden blazing full 
 of flowers. Behind it stretched the fields of yellow 
 wheat, and close beside it ran the slow river. In 
 one of his last books, Verhaeren has described his 
 childhood. He tells us how he played in the great 
 barns, and climbed steeples, and listened to the 
 maids singing old Flemish songs at their washing. 
 He describes himself sitting with the watchmaker 
 and marvelling at the little wheels of the watches,
 
 lo Six French Poets 
 
 and standing on the bank of the river and looking 
 at the heavy cargo boats sail by. 
 
 Je me souviens du village pres de I'Escaut, 
 D'ou Ton voyait les grands bateaux 
 Passer ainsi qu'un rdve empanache de vent 
 Et merveilletix de voiles. 
 Le soir en cortege sous les etoiles. 
 
 By and by, he was sent to school in Brussels for 
 two years, at the Institute Saint Louis ; and when 
 he was thirteen or fourteen, he entered the Jesuit 
 College of Sainte-Barbe in Ghent. Here, a few 
 years later, came Maeterlinck also, but whether the 
 boys met there I have not been able to find out. 
 
 It had been decided in the family that Emile 
 should enter his uncle's oil works, and succeed to 
 the business. In the pleasant way of families from 
 time immemorial, this had apparently been arranged 
 without consulting Emile's wishes in the matter. 
 At twenty, the boy had finished his college course, 
 and he did come back to Saint-Amand and go into 
 the oil works for a year. But the life was most 
 distasteful to him ; he needed to see the world, to 
 measure himself intellectually with other young 
 men, and there is no reason to suppose that he 
 showed the slightest taste or ability for business. 
 In order, however, to find some plausible reason for 
 his dislike of the work, he pleaded to be allowed to 
 study law. Whether he had tried writing at this
 
 Emile Verhaeren ii 
 
 period and felt any desire to become a poet, I do not 
 know. But to persuade a practical father and 
 uncle to consent to his giving up a lucrative business 
 in order to become a poet, would not be a simple 
 task. And certainly in asking to become a lawyer, 
 Emile stood more chance of having his wish granted. 
 
 It was granted. And young Verhaeren left home 
 again to study law at the University of Louvain. 
 
 At Louvain, Verhaeren really did study law, 
 strangely enough, and was graduated in 1881. But 
 he did many other things also. He danced at 
 Kermesses, drank beer, got drunk, and generally 
 overdid things with the true Flemish ardour, whether 
 for work or play. Among his fellow students there 
 were various other tentative poets. Together they 
 got up a little paper called La Semaine, and Ver- 
 haeren published several pieces in it, under the 
 pseudonym of "Rodolph." That various of the 
 traits which later distinguished the work of this 
 new generation of Flemish writers were already in 
 evidence, is apparent from the fact that the paper 
 was suppressed by the University authorities in 
 1 88 1, fifteen months after its foundation. 
 
 Here was Verhaeren, a full-fledged barrister, enter- 
 ing the office of Edmond Picard in Brussels. But 
 his heart was not in the work, and he conducted the 
 one or two quite unimportant cases he had to plead 
 so half-heartedly, that Maitre Picard, himself, 
 advised him to give up the law.
 
 12 Six French Poets 
 
 During this time, an intellectual ferment had been 
 going on in the young poet. Brought up as a 
 Roman Catholic, educated in a Jesuit college, he 
 had been ardent and devout. Yet, even then, the 
 Jesuits had failed to persuade him to become a 
 priest. Now, with every year, his zest for living 
 grew, his mind expanded and dared, and Catholicism 
 dropped away from him forever. The mystic side 
 of the Flemish character was to show itself in quite 
 a different form, and only much later. 
 
 In Brussels, Verhaeren found a set of young men, 
 eager like himself, anxious to stamp themselves into 
 literature. Zola's realistic novels were just begin- 
 ning to be discussed in Belgium, and Camille Le- 
 monnier was the interpreter of this new naturalism. 
 And just as a whole generation of younger writers 
 in France adopted Zola's theories, so did they attract 
 the younger writers of Belgium. And really the 
 protest was necessary to down that long set of sen- 
 timental hypocrisies known in England as " Victo- 
 rian." For France and Belgium had their "Vic- 
 torian" periods, too, although under different names. 
 
 In order to flaunt the banner of free, realistic art, 
 with no taboos (as the current slang of the reviews 
 calls it), a remarkable and intelligent young man. 
 Max Waller, poet and writer of short stories, got 
 up a review entitled La Jeune Belgique. In its 
 effect on Belgian letters, this review has been com- 
 pared to the Mercure de France and its place in
 
 Emile Verhaeren 13 
 
 French literature. The early death of the founder 
 of La Jeune Belgique kept it from becoming the 
 world-famous periodical it might have been. While 
 it existed, it gave an opening for many remarkable 
 young men, among others, Verhaeren. 
 
 A pleasant anecdote is told of him at this time, 
 how one rainy day he clumped into Lemonnier's 
 lodgings (never having met Lemonnier, by the way) , 
 and blurted out, "Je veux vous lire des vers!" 
 And what he read was the manuscript of his first 
 book, Les Flamandes. 
 
 Lemonnier encouraged him, criticised him, and, 
 shortly after, the book was published. Then the 
 storm broke, and howled about Verhaeren. The 
 book was strong, vivid, brutal. It was as violent, 
 as coarse, as full of animal spirits, as the pictures of 
 Breugel the Elder, Teniers, or Jan Steen. As one 
 of the critics said, **M. Verhaeren pierced like an 
 abscess." The critics were horrified, his own quite 
 orthodox family was deeply shocked. The battle 
 waged furiously. All those adherents of the old 
 order of sentimental idealization fell upon the book, 
 and in the columns of V Europe Lemonnier strongly 
 defended it. 
 
 And really it is a startling book, written with a 
 sort of fury of colour. The red, fat flesh tints of 
 Rubens have got into it, and the pages seem hot 
 and smoky with perspiration. The desire to paint 
 seems engrained in the Flemish character; M. Heu-
 
 14 Six French Poets 
 
 man declares that all Belgian writers, whether of 
 poetry or prose, are painters. But, also, it must 
 not be forgotten that they are Flemish painters, 
 and their palettes are hot and highly coloured. In 
 his poem, Les Vieux Mattres, Verhaeren speaks of 
 these old masters as painting "les fureurs d'estomac, 
 de ventre et de debauche." The description applies 
 equally well to his own poems in this book. They 
 are marvellously done, blazing with colour and bla- 
 tant with energy. 
 
 Metrically, Les Flamandes is not particularly in- 
 teresting, being written in the ordinary French 
 alexandrine. The interest of the book lies in its 
 treatment of subjects. Many of the m^ost remark- 
 able poems must be read in their context, but there 
 is a series of interiors, little Flemish genre pictures, 
 which show the vivid style in which the whole is 
 written. This is one of them : 
 
 LA CUISINE 
 
 Le seuil de la cuisine etait vieux et fendu. 
 Le foyer y brillait comme une rouge flaquc, 
 Et ses flammes, mordant incessamment la plaque, 
 Y rongeaient un sujet obscene en fer fondu. 
 
 Le feu s'ejouissait sous le manteau tendu 
 Sur lui, comme I'auvent par-dessus la baraque, 
 Dent les clairs bibelots en bois, en cuivre, en laque, 
 Cr^pitaient moins aux yeux que le brasier tordu.
 
 Emile Verhaeren 15 
 
 Les rayons s'echappaient comme un jet d'emeraudes, 
 Et, ci et la, partout donnaient des chiquenaudes 
 De clarte vive aux brocs de verre, aux plats d'email. 
 
 A voir sur tout relief tomber des etincelles, 
 
 On eut dit — tant le feu s'emiettait par parcelles — 
 
 Qu'on vannait du soleil a travers un vitrail. 
 
 Notice how wonderfully bright and sparkling it all 
 is, — "the snapping of light in the glasses" and the 
 fire "crumbling itself into sparks." How excel- 
 lently the word "crumbling" gives the up and 
 down efifect of firelight ! 
 
 Les Flamandes appeared in 1883, and it was not 
 until 1886 that Verhaeren's next book, Les Moines, 
 published by quite a different firm, came out. Why 
 Verhaeren changed his publisher, we do not know. 
 Why he changed his whole manner of writing can be 
 guessed. 
 
 I have said that the Flemish character is made 
 up of two parts, one composed of violent and brutal 
 animal spirits, the other of strange, unreasoning 
 mysticism. This is shown by the fact that along 
 the line of material prosperity the Belgians have 
 advanced with leaps and bounds, while on the line 
 of abstract ideas, of philosophical or scientific en- 
 lightenment, they have contributed almost nothing 
 to the world. Their aspirations toward a broader 
 point of view led them only to the Utopia of the
 
 1 6 Six French Poets 
 
 materialistic socialist. Verhaeren himself, with all 
 his effort and achievement, can never quite free 
 himself from the trammels of the material. Because 
 the idealistic side of the Belgian mind is feeble and 
 poor, and cannot get along without the swaddling 
 clothes of superstition, Belgian mysticism is charm- 
 ing, poetic, but — gets us nowhere. 
 
 Whether Verhaeren wrote Les Moines to satisfy 
 the need of expression for this gentler side of his 
 nature, whether his painter's eye was fascinated by 
 the pictorial value of old monasteries and quiet 
 monks, or whether he wished to prove to the world 
 that he could do things that were not violent, it is 
 impossible to say. None of his biographers has 
 suggested the last reason. Presumably they would 
 consider it beneath him, but I see no cause to sup- 
 pose so great a man as Verhaeren to be in any way 
 inhuman. And certainly to show the world that he 
 has more than one string to his lute is a very natural 
 desire in a young poet. 
 
 Les Moines is a sad book, a faded book. The 
 monasteries are here, but bathed in the light of a 
 pale sunset. As a boy, Verhaeren used often to go 
 to the Bernhardine Monastery at Bornhem with his 
 father. In order to renew his impressions of cloister 
 life before writing this book, he passed three weeks 
 at the monastery of Forges, near Chimay, and much 
 of the book was written there. 
 
 There is nothing in Les Moines to detain us here.
 
 Emile Verhaeren 17 
 
 It Is a book of delicate etchings, pensive and melan- 
 choly, and again written In French alexandrines. 
 In this book, more than In Les Flamandes, Verhaeren 
 seems to be feeling his way. 
 
 Then Verhaeren broke down. He had travelled 
 a great deal, had been to France, Germany, Spain, 
 and England. That he had been overdoing, over- 
 thlnklng, Is obvious. At any rate, he succumbed to 
 what seems to have been a bad attack of nervous 
 prostration, with gastric complications. Herr Zweig, 
 In his exhaustive biography, spends a great deal of 
 time In telling us how he had to have the door-bell 
 taken off because he could not bear Its ringing, and 
 how the people In the house had to go about In felt 
 slippers. Herr Zweig Is delighted with Les Soirs, 
 Les Debacles, and Les Flambeaux Noirs, published 
 respectively In 1887, 1888, and 1890, because he 
 considers them so remarkable a portrayal of an 
 unusual state of mind, and says they must be 
 "priceless to pathologists and psychologists." I 
 suspect that if Herr Zweig lived In America he would 
 not be so interested in the description of what is to 
 us quite a common occurrence. I do not suppose 
 there is a person who will read these lines, who has 
 not either been there himself or had a friend who has. 
 
 That Verhaeren should have written three books 
 during his illness is not surprising. Writers always 
 write, no matter how 111 they are. With them It is 
 so natural a function that It tires them less than to
 
 1 8 Six French Poets 
 
 do anything else. I could adduce a host of examples 
 to prove this point, but two will do : Francis Park- 
 man and Robert Louis Stevenson. 
 
 I will quote two poems from Les Soirs, not be- 
 cause of their interest to the pathologist and psy- 
 chologist, but because they are such remarkable 
 pictures, and because they show that wedding of 
 sound to sense which is to become one of Verhaeren's 
 most characteristic powers. 
 
 LONDRES 
 
 Et ce Londres de fonte et de bronze, mon ame, 
 Ou des plaques de fer claquent sous des hangars, 
 
 Ou des voiles s'en vont, sans Notre-Dame 
 Pour etoile, s'en vont, la-bas, vers les hasards. 
 
 Gares de suie et de fumee, ou du gaz pleuxe 
 
 Ses spleens d'argent lointain vers des chemins d' eclair, 
 
 Ou des b^tes d'ennui baillent a I'heure 
 Dolente immensement, qui tinte a Westminster. 
 
 Et ces quais infinis de lanternes fatales, 
 
 Parques dont les fuseaux plongent aux profondeurs, 
 
 Et ces marins noyes, sous les petales 
 Des fleurs de boue ou la flamme met des lueurs. 
 
 Et ces chaies et ces gestes de femmes soules, 
 Et ces alcools de lettres d'or jusques aux toits, 
 
 Et tout a coup la mort, parmi ces foules ; 
 O mon ame du soir, ce Londres noir qui traine en toi !
 
 Emile Verhaeren 19 
 
 See how long and slow the cadence is, and the heavy 
 consonants make the poem knock and hum like the 
 Westminster bells he mentions. It almost seems as 
 though Big Ben must have been striking when he 
 wrote the poem. 
 
 This intermixture of sound with pure painting Is 
 one of Verhaeren's most remarkable traits. In this 
 next poem, Le Moulin, we have another sombre 
 landscape, but the whole movement is different ; 
 from the first line we are conscious of sound, but it 
 is no longer the insistent beating which underlies 
 Londres; it is a sort of sliding, a faint, rushing noise. 
 Any one reading the first stanza aloud cannot fail 
 to be conscious of it. It is this presence of sounds 
 in his verse, quite apart from the connotations of 
 his words, which gives Verhaeren's work its strange, 
 magic reality, and makes it practically impossible to 
 translate. 
 
 LE MOULIN 
 
 Le moulin toume au fond du soir, tres lentement, 
 Sur un del de tristesse et de melancolie, 
 II tourne et tourne, et sa voile, couleur de lie. 
 Est triste et faible et lourde et lasse, infiniment. 
 
 Depuis I'aube, ses bras, comme des bras de plainte, 
 Se sont tendus et sent tombes ; et les voici 
 Qui retombent encor, 1^-bas, dans I'air noirci 
 Et le silence entier de la nature eteinte.
 
 20 Six French Poets 
 
 Un jour souffrant d'hiver sur les hameaux s'endort, 
 Les nuages sont las de leurs voyages sombres, 
 Et le long des taillis qui ramassent leurs ombres, 
 Les omieres s'en vont vers un horizon mort. 
 
 Autour d'un pale etang, quelques huttes de hetre 
 Tres miserablement sont assises en rond ; 
 Une lampe de cuivre est pendue au plafond 
 Et patine de feu le mur et la fenetre. 
 
 Et dans la plaine immense, au bord du fiot dormeur, 
 EUes fixent — les tres souff reteuses bicoques ! — 
 Avec les pauvres yeux de leurs carreaux en loques, 
 Le vieux moulin qui toume et, las, qui toume et meurt. 
 
 Before we leave these three books, I want to give 
 one more poem, La Morte, which Is a sort of end 
 dedication to Les Flambeaux Noirs. Here, at last, 
 Verhaeren begins to use that extraordinary vers libre 
 for which he is afterwards to be so noted. Some 
 poets seem capable of expressing themselves per- 
 fectly In the classic alexandrine, some can use both 
 old and new forms according to the content of the 
 poem. Verhaeren's Intimate friend, Henri de Re- 
 gnier, is remarkable for this. But the alexandrine 
 has never seemed to fit Verhaeren. His tumultuous 
 nature seems cramped by its limitations. Figure 
 the "Siegfried Idyl" played by an orchestra of flutes, 
 and harps, and tambourines, and you will see what
 
 Entile Verhaeren 21 
 
 I mean; or imagine Schumann's "Fantasie, Op. 
 17" spiritedly executed upon the harpsicliord ! 
 
 Verhaeren's vers libre is always rhymed. And in 
 a language so abounding in rhyme as the French, 
 that is no handicap to the free poet. Not only does 
 Verhaeren use end rhymes, he cannot resist the joy 
 of internal rhymes. But I am anticipating, for in 
 La Morte, as you will see, there are very few internal 
 rhymes, although his fondness for alliteration and 
 assonance begins to be noticeable. For the rest. 
 La Morte is a beautiful, foggy picture, sad, but with 
 a kind of sadness which is already beginning to 
 enjoy itself in a sombre sort of way. In other words, 
 Verhaeren is beginning to get well, but he is not 
 quite willing to admit it yet. 
 
 LA MORTE 
 
 En sa robe, couleur de fiel et de poison, 
 Le cadavre de ma raison 
 Traine sur la Tamise. 
 
 Des ponts de bronze, ou les wagons 
 Entrechoquent d'interminables bruits de gonds 
 Et des voiles de bateaux sombres 
 Laissent sur elle, choir leurs ombres. 
 
 Sans qu'une aiguille, k son cadran, ne bouge, 
 Un grand beffroi masque de rouge 
 La regarde, comme quelqu'un 
 Immensement de triste et de defunt.
 
 22 Six French Poets 
 
 Elle est morte de trop savoir, 
 De trop vouloir sculpter la cause, 
 Dans le socle de granit noir, 
 De chaque etre et de chaque chose, 
 Elle est morte, atrocement, 
 D'un savant empoisonnement, 
 Elle est morte aussi d'un delire 
 Vers un absurde et rouge empire. 
 Ses nerfs ont eclate, 
 Tel soir illumine de fete, 
 Qu'elle sentait deja le triomphe flotter 
 Comme des aigles, sur sa tSte. 
 Elle est morte n'en pouvant plus, 
 L'ardeur et les vouloirs moulus, 
 Et c'est elle qui s'est tu^e, 
 Infiniment ext6nu6e. 
 
 Au long des funebres murailles, 
 Au long des usines de fer 
 Dont les marteaxix tonnent 1' eclair, 
 Elle se traine aux funerailles. 
 
 Ce sont des quais et des casernes, 
 Des quais toujours et leurs lanternes, 
 Immobiles et lentes filandieres 
 Des ors obscurs de leurs lumidres : 
 Ce sont des tristesses de pierres, 
 Maison de briques, donjon en noir 
 Dont les vitres, momes paupi^res, 
 S'ouvrent dans le brouillard du soir ;
 
 Entile Verhaeren 23 
 
 Ce sont de grands chantiers d'affoleraent, 
 Pleins de barques demantelees 
 Et de vergues ecartelees 
 Sur un ciel de crucifiement. 
 
 En sa robe de joyaux morts, que solennise 
 L'heure de pourpre a I'horizon, 
 Le cadavre de ma raison 
 Trains sur la Tamise. 
 
 Elle s'en va vers les hasards 
 Au fond de I'ombre et des brouillards, 
 Au long bruit sourd des tocsins lourds, 
 Cassant leur aile, au coin des tours. 
 Derriere elle, laissant inassouvie 
 La ville immense de la vie ; 
 Elle s'en va vers I'inconnu noir 
 Dormir en des tombeaux de soir, 
 La-bas, on les vagues lentes et fortes ; 
 Ouvrant leurs trous illimites, 
 Engloutissent a toute etemite : 
 Les mortes. 
 
 In one line of this poem Verhaeren has given us 
 the real cause of his illness. His reason has died, 
 he says, " from knowing too much." Or, to para- 
 phrase this, his sanity has fled before the vision of 
 a more extended knowledge. The mystic and the 
 modern man have been struggling within him. It is 
 this struggle which has forced so many French poets 
 back to the Catholic Church. But Verhaeren was 
 made of more resisting stuff. The struggle downed
 
 24 Six French Poets 
 
 him, but did not betray him. He fell back into no 
 open arms ; by sheer effort he pushed himself up 
 on his feet. 
 
 I should have said that for some reason or other, 
 Verhaeren spent most of these years of illness in 
 London. His biographers imagine that the fog and 
 gloom, what one of them calls the "melancholy 
 scenery of industrial cities," was in harmony with 
 his mood. Perhaps this is true, and if so I think 
 we are right in believing that his state of mind had 
 more to do with his illness than the poor digestion 
 to which it is usually attributed. However that 
 may be, Verhaeren got better. He came out of his 
 illness, as is usually the case with strong people, a 
 sane, more self-reliant man. He left the obscurity 
 of London side streets to plunge into the stream of 
 active life in the cities of his native Belgium. 
 
 In 1891, Verhaeren published two volumes of 
 poems, with two different publishers. One, Les 
 Bords de la Route, is a collection of poems written 
 at the time of Les Flamandes and Les Moines; the 
 other, Apparus dans Mes Chemins, marks the begin- 
 ning of a new epoch. Verhaeren is feeling the zest 
 of life again, but it is a more spiritual zest than 
 before, if one can use the term for such a very 
 materialistic spirituality. Verhaeren is waking up, 
 as it were, like a man stretching his arms, not yet 
 fully awake. Saint Georges is probably the best 
 known poem of the volume ; it begins charmingly :
 
 Emile Verhaeren 25 
 
 Ouverte en large eclair, parmi les brumes, 
 
 Une avenue ; 
 
 Et Saint Georges, fermentant d'ors, 
 
 Avec des plumes et des ecumes, 
 
 Au poitrail blanc de son cheval, sans mors, 
 
 Descend. 
 
 L' equipage diamentaire 
 
 Fait de sa chute, im triomphal chemin 
 
 De la pitie du ciel, vers notre terra. 
 
 But it has too few of Verhaeren's peculiar excellen- 
 cies to be worth quoting in full. As my purpose in 
 this book is to show and study each poet's individual 
 characteristics, I shall only quote those poems which 
 most evidently illustrate them. 
 
 And now we have come to Verhaeren's great 
 period ; to the books which have made him the great- 
 est poet of Belgium, and one of the greatest poets 
 of the world. Les Campagnes Hallucinees appeared 
 in 1893, Les Villages Illusoires in 1895, and also in 
 1895, Les Villes Tentaculaires. In these three books 
 we have all Verhaeren's excellencies in rich profusion. 
 Here are the towns, with their smoking factories, 
 crowded streets, noisy theatres, and busy wharves ; 
 here are the broad, level plains of Flanders starred 
 with windmills, the little villages and farms, and the 
 slow river where fishermen come. And here are 
 painted a whole gallery of trades : cabinet-makers, 
 blacksmiths, millers, rope-walkers. We see the
 
 26 Six French Poets 
 
 peasants selling everything they possess to follow 
 the long, white roads to the city — white tentacles 
 for the swallowing city. And weather ! In these 
 volumes, Verhaeren first shows that remarkable 
 series of weather pieces to which I referred in the 
 beginning of this essay. Verhaeren had found him- 
 self. At a time when France was in the midst of 
 Symbolisme; when nature, divorced from the pa- 
 thetic fallacy, made little general appeal ; when 
 every-day life was considered dull, and not to be 
 thought about if possible; — Verhaeren wrote of 
 nature, of daily happenings, and of modern inven- 
 tions. He not only wrote, he not only sang ; he 
 shrieked, and cut capers, and pounded on a drum. 
 
 Writing in French, Verhaeren has never been able 
 to restrain himself within the canons of French 
 taste. His effervescing nature found the French 
 clarity and precision, that happy medium so 
 cherished by the Gallic mind, as hampering as he 
 would have found Greek artistic ideals had he lived 
 several centuries earlier. He must put three rhymes 
 one after the other if he felt like it ; he must have a 
 couple of assonances in a line, or go on alliterating 
 down half a page. There was nothing in his nature 
 to make the ideas of the Symbolistes attractive to 
 him ; he would none of them. The mysticism of 
 which I have spoken modified itself into a great 
 humanitarian realization. He believed in mankind, 
 in the future. Not precisely (nothing is precise
 
 Emile Verhaeren 27 
 
 with Verhaeren), but vaguely, magnificently, with 
 all the faith his ancestors had placed in the 
 Church. 
 
 A Frenchman would have felt constrained to put 
 some definiteness into these hopes. To give some 
 form to what certainly amounted to a religion. 
 Verhaeren was troubled by no such teasing diffi- 
 culty. He simply burned with a nebulous ardour, 
 and was happy and fecund. This is one of the 
 reasons why Verhaeren's poetry is so much better 
 understood and appreciated by Englishmen and 
 Americans — Anglo-Saxons in short — and by Ger- 
 mans, than any other French poetry. There is a 
 certain Teutonic grandeur of mind in Verhaeren 
 which is extremely sympathetic to all Anglo-Saxons 
 and Germans. Where the French intellect seems 
 coldly analytic and calm, Verhaeren charms by his 
 fiery activity. 
 
 One of the devices which Verhaeren employs with 
 consummate skill, is onomatopoeia, or using words 
 which sound like the things described. (This is at 
 once wedded to, and apart from, the sort of sound 
 I have mentioned above.) He carries this effect 
 through whole poems, and it is one of the reasons 
 for the vividness of his poems on nature. 
 
 An excellent example of this is La Pluie from Les 
 Villages Illusoires.
 
 28 Six French Poets 
 
 LA PLUIE 
 
 Longue comme des fils sans fin, la longue pluie 
 Interminablement, a travers le jour gris, 
 Ligne les carreaux verts avec ses longs fils gris, 
 Infiniment, la pluie, 
 La longue pluie, 
 La pluie. 
 
 EUe s'effile ainsi, depuis hier soir, 
 Des haillons mous qui pendent, 
 Au ciel maussade et noir. 
 EUe s'etire, patiente et lente, 
 Sur les chemins, depuis hier soir, 
 Sur les chemins et les venelles, 
 Continuelle. 
 
 Au long des lieues, 
 
 Qui vont des champs, vers les banlieues. 
 
 Par les routes interminablement courbees, 
 
 Passent, peinant, suant, fumant, 
 
 En un profil d'enterrement, 
 
 Les attelages, baches bombees ; 
 
 Dans les omieres regulieres 
 
 Paralleles si longuement 
 
 Qu'elles semblent, la nuit, se joindre au firmament, 
 
 L'eau degoutte, pendant des heures ; 
 
 Et les arbres pleurent et les demeures, 
 
 Mouilles qu'ils sont de longue pluie, 
 
 Tenacement, indefinie.
 
 Emile Verhaeren 29 
 
 Les rivieres, a travers leurs digues pourries, 
 
 Se degonflent sur les prairies, 
 
 Ou flotte au loin du foin noye ; 
 
 Le vent gifle aulnes et noyers ; 
 
 Sinistrement, dans I'eau jusqu'a mi-corps, 
 
 De grands bceufs noirs beuglent vers les cieux tors ; 
 
 Le soir approche, avec ses ombres, 
 
 Dont les plaines et les taillis s'encombrent, 
 
 Et c'est toujours la pluie 
 
 La longue pluie 
 
 Fine et dense, comme la suie. 
 
 La longue pluie. 
 
 La pluie — et ses fils identiques 
 
 Et §es ongles systematiques 
 
 Tissent le vetement, 
 
 Maille h. maille, de denilment, 
 
 Povu- les maisons et les enclos 
 
 Des villages gris et vieillots : 
 
 Linges et chapelets de loques 
 
 Qui s'effiloquent, 
 
 Au long de batons droits ; 
 
 Bleus colombiers coUes au toit ; 
 
 Carreaux, avec, sur leur vitre sinistre, 
 
 Un emplatre de papier bistre ; 
 
 Logis dont les gouttieres regulieres 
 
 Forment des croix sur des pignons de pierre ; 
 
 Moulins plantes uniformes et momes, 
 
 Sur leur butte, comme des comes ; 
 
 Clochers et chapelles voisines,
 
 30 Six French Poets 
 
 La pluie, 
 
 La longue pluie, 
 
 Pendant I'hiver, les assassine. 
 
 La pluie, 
 
 La longue pluie, avec ses longs fils gris, 
 
 Avec ses cheveux d'eau, avec ses rides, 
 
 La longue pluie 
 
 Des vieux pays, 
 
 Etemelle et torpide ! 
 
 The long sweeping I's of the first stanza give the 
 effect of the interminable lines of rain in an extraor- 
 dinary manner, and the repetition of 
 
 ... la pluie, 
 La longue pluie. 
 La pluie. 
 
 adds a continuous drawing out, a falHng — falling 
 — falling — as it were. Even apart from the beauty 
 and surprise of the rhymes, the movement of this 
 poem, and its pictorial quality, make it one of 
 Verhaeren's masterpieces. 
 
 He has done this same thing in a number of other 
 poems in this volume, such as La Neige, Le Silence, 
 Le Vent. I only wish I had space to give them all. 
 
 Two other poems in this book I cannot pass by. 
 They are pictures of village Hfe, full of feeling and 
 understanding, and rich in that pictorial sense which 
 never deserts Verhaeren. The first one, Le Meunier,
 
 Emile Verhaeren 31 
 
 is made up of the beauty of terror — terror worked 
 up, little by little, from the first line to the last. 
 Verhaeren is no mere descriptive poet. Neither is 
 he a surface realist. His realism contains the psy- 
 chologic as well as the physiologic. Spadeful by 
 spadeful, the earth rattles down on the cofifin, and 
 with each spadeful the grave-digger's terror grows, 
 with the silence of the night, and the gradual per- 
 vading, haunting, of the personality of the dead 
 miller, all about, till "the wind passes by as though 
 it were someone," and the grave-digger throws 
 down his spade and flees. After that, "total silence 
 comes." It is all, and it is enough. 
 
 LE MEUNIER 
 
 Le vievix meunier du moulin noir, 
 On renterra, I'hiver, tin soir 
 De froid rugueux, de bise aigue 
 En tin terrain de cendre et de cigues. 
 
 Le jour dardait sa clarte fausse 
 Sur la beche du fossoyeur ; 
 Un chien errait pres de la fosse, 
 L'aboi tendu vers la lueur. 
 
 La beche, a chacune des pellet6es, 
 
 Telle un miroir se deplagait, 
 
 Luisait, mordait et s'enfongait, 
 
 Sous les terres violentdes. 
 
 Le soleil chut sous les ombres suspectes.
 
 32 Six French Poets 
 
 Sur fond de ciel, le fossoyeur, 
 
 Comme un enorme insecte, 
 
 Semblait lutter avec la peur ; 
 
 La beche entre ses mains tremblait, 
 
 Le sol se crevassait 
 
 Et quoi qu'il fit, rien ne comblait 
 
 Le trou qui, devant lui, 
 
 Comme la nuit, s'elargissait. 
 
 Au village la-bas, 
 
 Personne au mort n'avait pret6 deux draps. 
 
 Au village la-bas, 
 
 Nul n'avait dit une pridre. 
 
 Au village la-bas, 
 
 Personne au mort n'avait sonne le glas. 
 
 Au village la-bas, 
 
 Aucun n'avait voulu clouer la bi^re. 
 
 Et les maisons et les chaumi^res 
 Qui regardaient le cimetiere, 
 Pour ne point voir, etaient 1^ toutes, 
 Volets fermes, le long des routes. 
 
 Le fossoyeur se sentit seul 
 Devant ce defunt sans linceul 
 Dont tous avaient gardd la haine 
 Et la crainte, dans les veines.
 
 Emile Verhaeren 33 
 
 Sur sa butte morne de soir, 
 
 Le vietix meunier du moulin noir, 
 
 Jadis, avait vecu d'accord 
 
 Avec I'espace et I'etendue 
 
 Et le vol fou des tempetes pendues 
 
 Aux crins battants des vents du Nord ; 
 
 Son coeur avait longuement ecout6 
 
 Ce que les bouches d'ombre et d'or 
 
 Des etoiles devoilent 
 
 Aux attentifs d'eternite ; 
 
 Le desert gris des bruy^res aust^res 
 
 L'avait cerne de ce myst^re 
 
 0\i les choses pour les ames s'eveillent 
 
 Et leur parlent et les conseillent ; 
 
 Les grands courants qui traversent tout ce qui vit 
 
 Etaient, avec leur force, entres dans son esprit, 
 
 Si bien que par son ^me isolee et profonde 
 
 Ce simple avait senti passer et fermenter le monde. 
 
 Les plus anciens ne savaient pas 
 
 Depuis quels jours, loin du village, 
 
 II perdurait, la-bas, 
 
 Guettant I'envol et les voyages 
 
 Et les signes des feux dans les nuages. 
 
 II effrayait par le silence 
 
 Dont il avait, sans bruit, 
 
 Tisse son existence ; 
 
 II effrayait encor 
 
 Par les yeux d'or 
 
 De son moulin tout a coup clairs, la nuit.
 
 34 -Six French Poets 
 
 Et personne n'aurait connu 
 Son agonie et puis sa mort, 
 N'etaient que les quatre ailes 
 Qu'il agitait vers I'inconnu, 
 Comme des suppliques eternelles, 
 Ne s'etaient, un matin, 
 Definitivement fixees, 
 Noires et immobilisees, 
 Telle une croix sur un destin. 
 
 Le fossoyeur voyait I'ombre et ses houles 
 
 Grandir comme des foules 
 
 Et le village et ses closes fenetres 
 
 Se fondre au loin et disparaitre. 
 
 L'universelle inquietude 
 Peuplait de oris la solitude ; 
 En voiles noirs et bruns, 
 Le vent passait comme quelqu'un ; 
 Tout le vague des horizons hostiles 
 Se precisait en frolements febriles 
 Jusqu'au moment ou, les yeux fous, 
 Jetant sa beche n'importe ou, 
 Avec les bras multiples de la nuit 
 En menaces, derriere lui, 
 Comme un larron, il s'encourut. 
 
 Alors, 
 Le silence se fit, total, par I'^tendue, 
 Le trou parut geant dans la terre fendue 
 Et rien ne bougea plus ;
 
 Emile Verhaeren 35 
 
 Et seules les plaines inassouvies 
 
 Absorb^rent, en leur immensity 
 
 D 'ombre et de Nord, 
 
 Ce mort 
 
 Dont leur myst^re avait illimite 
 
 Et exalte jusques dans I'infini, la vie. 
 
 Very different is Les Meules Qui BrMent. A 
 splendid impressionist picture, with the burning 
 hay-ricks starting up, one after the other, out of the 
 blackness. 
 
 LES MEULES QUI BRULENT 
 
 La plaine, au fond des soirs, s'est allumee, 
 Et les tocsins cassent leurs bonds de sons, 
 Aux quatre murs de I'horizon. 
 
 — Une meule qui biiile ! — 
 
 Par les sillages des chemins, la foule, 
 Par les sillages des villages, la foule houle 
 Et dans les cours, les chiens de garde ululent. 
 
 — Une meule qui briile ! — 
 
 La fiamme ronfle et casse et broie, 
 S'arrache des haillons qu'elle d^ploie, 
 Ou sinueuse et virgulante 
 S'enroule en chevelure ardente ou lente
 
 36 Six French Poets 
 
 Puis s'apaise soudain et se detache 
 Et ruse et se derobe — ou rebondit encor : 
 Et voici, clairs, de la boue et de Tor, 
 Dans le ciel noir qui s'empanache, 
 
 — Quand brusquement una autre meule au loin s'allume ! 
 
 EUe est immense — et comme un trousseau rouge 
 
 Qu'on agite de sulfureux serpents, 
 
 Les feux — ils sont passants sur les arpents 
 
 Et les fermes et les hameaux, ou bouge, 
 
 De vitre a vitre, un caillot rouge. 
 
 — Une meule qui briile ! — 
 
 Les champs ? ils s'illimitent en frayeurs ; 
 
 Des frondaisons de bois se levent en lueurs, 
 
 Sur les marais et les labours ; 
 
 Des etalons cabres, vers la terreur hennissent ; 
 
 D'enormes vols d'oiseaux s'appesantissent 
 
 Et choient, dans les brasiers — et des oris sourds 
 
 Sortent du sol ; et c'est la mort, 
 
 Toute la mort brandie 
 
 Et ressurgie, aux poings en I'air de I'incendie. 
 
 Et le silence apres la peur — • quand, tout k coup, 1^-bas 
 
 Formidable, dans le soir las, 
 
 Un feu nouveau remplit les fonds du cr^puscule ? 
 
 — Une meule qui brdle ! —
 
 Emile Verhaeren 37 
 
 Aux carrefours, des gens hagards 
 
 Font des gestes hallucines, 
 
 Les enfants orient et les vieillards 
 
 Levent leurs bras deracines 
 
 Vers les flammes en etendards. 
 
 Tandis qu'au loin, obstinement silencieux, 
 
 Des fous, avec de la stupeur aux yeux — regardent. 
 
 — Une meule qui brule ! — 
 
 L'air est rouge, le firmament 
 
 On le dirait defunt, sinistrement, 
 
 Sous les yevix clos de ses etoiles. 
 
 Le vent chasse des cailloux d'or, 
 
 Dans un dechirement de voiles. 
 
 Le feu devient clameur hurlee en flamme 
 
 Vers les echos, vers les la-bas, 
 
 Sur I'autre bord, ou brusquement les au-dela 
 
 Du fleuve s'eclairent comme un songe : 
 
 Toute la plaine ? elle est de braise, de mensonge, 
 
 De sang et d'or — et la tourmente 
 
 Emporte avec un tel elan. 
 
 La mort passagere du firmament, 
 
 Que vers les fins de I'epouvante, 
 
 Le del entier semble partir. 
 
 One strange thing about Verhaeren is his true 
 greatness. No matter how onomatopceic he be- 
 comes, no matter how much he alhterates, or what- 
 ever other devices he makes use of, he never becomes
 
 38 Six French Poets 
 
 claptrap. Every young poet knows how dangerous 
 the methods I am speaking of are, with what terrible 
 ease they give a poem a meretricious turn, and 
 immediately a certain vaudevillian flavour has 
 crept in. No matter what Verhaeren does, his work 
 remains great, and full of what Matthew Arnold 
 calls " high seriousness." The purists may rail, 
 that only shows how narrow the purists are. A 
 great genius will disobey all rules and yet produce 
 works of art, perforce. 
 
 Verhaeren's message has become so much a part 
 of our modern temper that we hardly realize how 
 new and original it was in poetry twenty years ago. 
 Jules Romain in La Vie Unanime has gone Ver- 
 haeren one better, but would he have been there at 
 all if Verhaeren had not preceded him ? Remy de 
 Gourmont, over-subtilized French intellect that he 
 is, thinks that Verhaeren hates the groaning towns, 
 the lonely villages. Which only proves that even 
 remarkable minds have their limitations. A brood- 
 ing Northerner, Verhaeren sees the sorrow, the 
 travail, the sordidness, going on all about him, and 
 loves the world just the same, and wildly believes in 
 a future in which it shall somehow grind itself back 
 to beauty. Les Villes Tentaculaires is full of this 
 sordidness, a sordidness overlaid with grandeur, as 
 iridescent colour plays over the skin of a dying fish. 
 But it is also full of the constant, inevitable pushing 
 on, the movement, one might call it, of change.
 
 Emile Verhaeren 39 
 
 One poem from Les Villes Tentaculaires will serve 
 as illustration : 
 
 LA BOURSE 
 
 La rue enorme et ses maisons quadrangulaires 
 Bordent la foule et I'endiguent de leur granit 
 CEille de fenetres et de porches, ou luit 
 L'adieu, dans les carreaux, des soirs aureolaires. 
 
 Comme un torse de pierre et de metal debout, 
 
 Avec, en son mystere immonde, 
 
 Le coeur battant et haletant du monde, 
 
 Le monument de I'or, dans les tenebres, bout. 
 
 Autour de lui, les banques noires 
 
 Dressent des lourds frontons que soutiennent, des bras. 
 Les Hercules d'airain dont les gros muscles las 
 Semblent lever des coffres-forts vers la victoire. 
 
 Le carrefour, d'ou il erige sa bataille, 
 
 Suce la fievre et le tumulte 
 
 De chaque ardeur vers son aimant occulte ; 
 
 Le carrefour et ses squares et ses murailles 
 
 Et ses grappes de gaz sans nombre, 
 
 Qui font bouger des paquets d'ombre 
 
 Et de lueurs, sur les trottoirs. 
 
 Tant de reves, tels des feux roux, 
 Entremelent leur flamme et leurs remous, 
 De haut en bas, du palais fou ! 
 Le gain coupable et monstrueux
 
 40 Six French Poets 
 
 S'y resserre, comme des nceucls, 
 
 Et son desir se dissemine et se propage 
 
 Partant chauffer de seuil a seuil, 
 
 Dans la ville, les contigus orgueils. 
 
 Les comptoirs lourds grondent comme un orage, 
 
 Les luxes gros se jalousent et r agent 
 
 Et les faillites en tempetes, 
 
 Soudainement, a coups brutaux, 
 
 Battent et chavirent les tetes 
 
 Des grands bourgeois monumentaux. 
 
 L'apres-midi, a tel moment, 
 
 La fidvre encore augmente 
 
 Et penetre le monument 
 
 Et dans les murs fermente. 
 
 On croit la voir se raviver aux lampes 
 
 Immobiles, comme des hampes, 
 
 Et se couler, de rampe en rampe, 
 
 Et s'ameuter et eclater 
 
 Et crepiter, sur les paliers 
 
 Et les marbres des escaliers. 
 
 Une fureur r^enflammee 
 
 Au mirage d'un pale espoir, 
 
 Monte parfois de I'entonnoir 
 
 De bruit et de fumee, 
 
 On Ton se bat, a coups de vols, en bas. 
 
 Langues s^ches, regards aigus, gestes inverses, 
 
 Et cervelles, qu'en tourbillons les millions traversent, 
 
 Echangent la, leur peur et leur terreur. 
 
 La h^te y simule I'audace
 
 Emile Verhaeren 41 
 
 Et les audaces se depassent ; 
 Des doigts grattent, sur des ardoises, 
 L'affolement de leurs angoisses ; 
 Cyniquement, tel escompte I'eclair 
 Qui casse un peuple au bout du monde ; 
 Les chimeres sont volantes au clair ; 
 Les chances fuient ou surabondent ; 
 Marches conckis, marches rompus 
 Luttent et s'entrebutent en disputes ; 
 L'air brule — et les chiffres paradoxaux. 
 En paquets pleins, en lourds trousseaux, 
 Sont rejetes et cahotes et ballottes 
 Et s'effarent en ces bagarres, 
 Jusqu'a ce que leurs sommes lasses, 
 Masses contre masses, 
 Se cassent. 
 
 Tels jours, quand les debacles se decident, 
 
 La mort les paraphe de suicides 
 
 Et les chutes s'effritent en mines 
 
 Qui s'illuminent 
 
 En obseques exaltatives. 
 
 Mais, le soir m^me, aux heures blemes, 
 
 Les volontes, dans la fievre, revivent ; 
 
 L'acharnement sournois 
 
 Reprend, comme autrefois. 
 
 On se trahit, on se sourit et Ton se mord 
 Et Ton travaille a d'autres morts. 
 La haine ronfle, ainsi qu'une machine, 
 Autour de -ceux qu'elle assassine.
 
 42 Six French Poets 
 
 On vole, avec autorite, les gens 
 
 Dont les avoirs sont indigents. 
 
 On m^le avec I'honneur I'escroquerie, 
 
 Pour amorcer jusqu'aux patries 
 
 Et ameuter vers Tor torride et infamant, 
 
 L'universel affolement. 
 
 Oh I'or ! 1^-bas, comme des tours dans les nuages, 
 
 Comme des tours, sur I'etagere des mirages, 
 
 L'or enorme ! comme des tours, la-bas, 
 
 Avec des millions de bras vers lui, 
 
 Et des gestes et des appels la nuit 
 
 Et la pri^re unanime qui gronde, 
 
 De I'un a 1 'autre bout des horizons du monde ! 
 
 La-bas ! des cubes d'or sur des triangles d'or 
 Et tout autour les fortunes celebres 
 S'echafaudant sur des algebres. 
 
 De l'or ! — boire et manger de l'or ! 
 
 Et, plus feroce encor que la rage de l'or, 
 
 La foi au jeu mysterieux 
 
 Et ses hasards hagards et tenebreux 
 
 Et ses arbitraires vouloirs certains 
 
 Qui restaurent le vieux destin ; 
 
 Le jeu, axe terrible, oii toumera autour de I'aventure, 
 
 Par seul plaisir d'anomalie, 
 
 Par seul besoin de rut et de folie, 
 
 L^-bas, ou se croisent les lois d'effroi 
 
 Et les supreraes desarrois, 
 
 EperdHment, la passion future.
 
 r 
 
 Emile Verhaeren 43 
 
 Comme un torse de pierre et de metal debout, 
 
 Avec, en son mystere immonde, 
 
 Le cceur battant et haletant du monde, 
 
 Le monument de Tor dans les tenebres bout. 
 
 The dramatic intensity of this poem equals that 
 of Le Meunier. And this is \'erhaeren's third great 
 gift : the dramatic. I have already spoken of his 
 visualizing gift, of his power of reproducing sound 
 in words ; the third side of his greatness is the sense 
 of drama. In spite of the decoration in La Bourse, 
 in spite of such lines, beautiful in themselves, as 
 
 La-bas ! des cubes d'or sur des triangles d'or, 
 Et tout autour les fortunes celebres 
 S'echafaudant sur des algebres. 
 
 ^b^ 
 
 — beautiful, but painfully prone to stick out of a 
 poem like knobs on an embossed wall-paper — the 
 poet has managed to keep them in their place, so 
 that they do not interfere, but rather add to the 
 drama of the whole. 
 
 Verhaeren is not a didactic poet. He does not 
 suggest a way out. He states, and hopes, and 
 firmly belie^^es ; that is all. And always remember, 
 in thinking of Verhaeren's work in the light of his 
 philosophy, that he is first of all an artist, a painter, 
 and he must always take a painter's delight in pure 
 painting. For those people who prefer a more clear, 
 more classic style of poetry, Verhaeren has no charm.
 
 ^^4 •^'^x: French Poets 
 
 He is nebulous and redundant. His colours are 
 bright and vague like flash-lights thrown on a fog. 
 But his force is incontestable, and he hurls along 
 upon it in a whirlwind of extraordinary poetry. 
 
 Of Verhaeren's life from now on, there is little to 
 say. He is a poet, and a poet's life is in creating 
 poems. On his return to Belgium, he threw himself 
 into active life and was immediately seduced by the 
 Socialist doctrines then just being felt in Belgium. 
 He seconded M. Vandevelde and others in starting 
 a democratic movement, and went so far as to be- 
 come a member of the "Comite de la Maison du 
 Peuple." How long he kept up this active life in 
 Belgium I have not been able to find out, nor why 
 he abandoned it ; but now he spends his Winters at 
 Saint Cloud, returning to Belgium for the Summers. 
 Of course, I mean that was what he did before the war. 
 
 That Verhaeren must have married sometime 
 before 1896 is clear, because Les Heures Claires, 
 published in that year, is the first of a series of love 
 poems, of which Les Heures de V Apres-midi, published 
 in 1905, and Les Heures du Soir, published in 191 1, 
 are the other volumes. 
 
 Verhaeren's love story has evidently been tran- 
 quil and happy. The poems are very sweet and 
 graceful, but it must be confessed not of extreme 
 importance. They are all written in regular metre, 
 which seems almost typical of their calm and un- 
 original flow. Verhaeren does not belong to the
 
 Entile Verhaeren 45 
 
 type of man to whom love is a divine adventure. 
 He has regarded it as a beneficent haven in which 
 to repair himself for new departures. No biographer 
 mentions who Madame Verhaeren was, or anything 
 about her, except to pay her the tribute of under- 
 standing and cherishing a great man. That she 
 has been a helpmeet to him in every way these poems 
 prove. 
 
 We have reached the last stage of Verhaeren's 
 career. The stage of powers ripening, growing, 
 solidifying. His part is taken ; he has learnt his 
 peculiar medium, and formulated his ideas. His 
 final volumes, many though they are, merely show 
 him writing still remarkable poems along the lines 
 he has chosen. There is no diminution of his 
 genius, and his fecundity Is extraordinary. In 
 1899, appeared Les Visages de la Vie ; in 1902, Les 
 Forces Tumidtueuses ; In 1906, La Multiple Splen- 
 deur ; in 19 10, Les Rhythmes Souverains ; and in 
 191 3, Les Bles Mouvants. Four volumes of poems 
 entitled Toute la Flandre, appeared at Intervals 
 from 1901 to 1909. And there are one or two other 
 small volumes. Remember, \'erhaeren has written 
 twenty- three volumes of poems, and to speak of 
 them all in detail would require an entire volume. 
 
 I only wish it were possible to give something 
 from each of these books. But I must content myself 
 with one more quotation from his last book, Les 
 Bles Mouvants, It will show that Verhaeren has
 
 46 Six French Poets 
 
 lost nothing of his great vigour, and that the rage 
 for justice which made him a socialist still burns in 
 him. 
 
 ALLEZ-VOUS-EN 
 
 Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en 
 L'auberge entiere est aux passants. 
 
 — Elle est a nous, elle est a nous, 
 Depuis bientot trois cents annees. 
 Elle est a nous, elle est a nous, 
 Depuis la porte aux longs verrous 
 Jusqu'aux faites des chemin^es. 
 
 — Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, 
 L'auberge entiere est aux passants. 
 
 — Nous en savons, nous en savons, 
 Les mines et les lezardes, 
 
 Mais c'est nous seuls qui pretendons 
 
 En remplacer les vietix moellons 
 
 Des bords du seuil jusqu'aux mansardes. 
 
 — Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, 
 L'auberge entiere est aux passants. 
 
 — Nous venerons ceux qui sont morts 
 Au fond de leurs cercueils de chene, 
 Nous envions ceux qui sont morts 
 Sans se douter des cris de haine 
 
 Qui bondissent de plaine en plaine.
 
 Emile Verhaeren 47 
 
 — Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, 
 L'auberge entidre est aux passants. 
 
 — C'est notre droit, c'est notre droit, 
 D'orner notre enseigne d'un Aigle ; 
 C'est notre droit, c'est notre droit, 
 De poSseder selon les lois 
 
 Plus qu'il ne faut d'orge et de seigle. 
 
 — Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, 
 Gestes et mots ne sont plus rien. 
 Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, 
 
 Et sachez bien 
 Que notre droit, c'est notre faim. 
 
 What Verhaeren has done for poetry is this. He 
 has made it realize the modern world. He has 
 shown the grandeur of everyday life, and made us 
 understand that science and art are never at variance. 
 He has shown that civic consciousness is not neces- 
 sarily dry and sterile, but can be as romantic as an 
 individual. And he has done all this without once 
 saying it directly, by force of the greatest and most 
 complete art.
 
 ALBERT SAMAIN
 
 ALBERT SAMAIN 
 
 This chapter will be very different from the last 
 one. Then we were engaged with a great poet. A 
 man of large and exuberant nature, whose work 
 was remarkable for its originality, force, dramatic 
 power, and fecundity. Now we are going to con- 
 sider a minor poet of delicate and graceful talent, 
 whose entire poetical output is contained in three 
 volumes. It is chamber-music, as tenuous and 
 plaintive as that played by old eighteenth century 
 orchestras, with their viole da gamba and haut- 
 bois d'amour. Albert Samain would seem to lack 
 his century, were it not that one cannot help feeling 
 that in no century would the shy, solitary, diffident 
 man have been at home. Centuries are strangely 
 alike for those living them, they only change their 
 values when their outlines are blurred by distance. 
 The qualities which make a man great are the same 
 in all ages. Samain would have been a minor poet 
 in the ninth century as he was in the nineteenth. 
 
 In the biography of the poet by Leon Bocquet, there 
 is a preface by Francis Jammes. He says : "Albert 
 
 SI
 
 52 Six French Poets 
 
 Samain's forehead wrinkled like my mother's — 
 from the bottom up. His arm had the elegant ges- 
 ture of a stork which moves its foot backward. His 
 face and body were slender. At times his blue 
 eyes, behind his glasses, became heavenly, that is 
 to say they looked up and whitened. . . . Albert 
 Samain was a swan. I am hardly expressing myself 
 figuratively here. He had the harmonious stiffness 
 and the gaze of a swan. Not the sharp, furious, 
 wounded gaze of the bird of prey, but the impassive 
 gaze of the sacred bird which flies, in high relief, on 
 the frieze of some temple, the gaze which only re- 
 flects the appearance of things floating away beneath 
 it in the water of the stream. He had the cold and 
 sad attitude of the swan too. Swan, the friend of 
 shade. I see him, sailing, spread out, over the lake 
 in Le Jardin de l' Infante. . . . He does not 
 listen to the whispers of this splendour which he 
 himself has created, nor to the rising sea of his 
 fame. He only listens to the bells of a church which 
 ring in the distance — I do not know where, in a 
 country which is not mine, in a country where the 
 things are which one does not see. He only hears 
 the chimes of this Flemish church, of this church in 
 which an old woman is praying." Whether by this 
 old woman Francis Jammes means Samain's mother, 
 to whom the poet gave a lifelong devotion, or 
 whether it is merely figurative, I cannot say. But 
 the whole description, fanciful though it is, gives a
 
 Albert Samain 53 
 
 better picture of the man than pages of biography 
 and straightforward analysis could do. 
 
 Samain is said to have looked like a Spaniard, 
 and certainly his photographs might be those of 
 some Spanish grandee ; there is the haughty, spare 
 figure of the Spaniard, and the sad, proud face of 
 slender lines. We must not forget that Flanders 
 was for some time owned by Spain, and that Lille 
 only became a part of France in 1667, when Louis 
 XIV besieged it and forced it to surrender. Now^, 
 Albert- Victor Samain was born in Lille on the third 
 of April, 1858. 
 
 His family were Flemish, and from time im- 
 memorial had lived in the town or its suburbs, so 
 that Samain's Spanish appearance was probably no 
 mere accident, but the result of a remote heredity. 
 His family belonged to the large class of the minor 
 bourgeoisie. At the time of his birth, his father, 
 Jean-Baptiste Samain, and his mother, Elisa-Hen- 
 riette Mouquet, conducted a business in "wines and 
 spirits" at 75 rue de Paris. Some distant ancestral 
 strain seems to have had more effect upon Samain 
 than his immediate surroundings ; certainly, the 
 ancestor who gave him his figure and colouring seems 
 to have given him his character also, for no trace of 
 the influences which usually mould the small shop- 
 keeper's son to fit his father's routine are visible in 
 him. 
 
 This is the more surprising, as all the ease and
 
 54 Six French Poets 
 
 assurance which he might have derived from his 
 father's owning his own business were promptly 
 swept away by the death of his father when he was 
 fourteen. At this time, Samain was in the third 
 class in the Lycee at Lille. His father's death found 
 him the eldest of three children, with a widowed 
 mother whom he must help to support the family. 
 Noblesse oblige, whether another trait of his Spanish 
 ancestor or merely derived from the fine thriftiness 
 of the French bourgeoisie, was always strong in 
 Samain. He left school and entered the office of a 
 banker, where he seems to have held the position of 
 errand-boy. From there he went into the business 
 of sugar-broking, in what capacity is not stated, 
 but it would seem to have been at the bottom of 
 the ladder, as was natural at his age. That the work 
 was very hard is evident, for Samain says : "I was 
 very miserable there for many years, working from 
 half-past eight in the morning until eight at night, 
 and on Sundays until two." 
 
 It was at this time that Samain began to lead 
 the life of a solitary, which after that he never suc- 
 ceeded in shaking off. In spite of his twelve hours 
 of work there were off times — the twelve other hours, 
 only some of which could be spent in sleep ; and the 
 Sunday afternoons. A provincial town offers very 
 little in the way of amusement to an intelligent 
 young man. Samain was hardly the sort of fellow 
 to enjoy cock-fights, or find pleasure in lounging in
 
 Albert Samain 55 
 
 cafes ogling the passers-by. There was the Museum, 
 but museums do not last forever as an inspiring 
 relaxation, and for a young fellow of eighteen or 
 thereabouts wandering round a museum is usually 
 a lonely joy. The boys with whom he had gone 
 to school had passed on to the University ; and 
 besides, what could they have to do with an under- 
 clerk in a business house ! Samain was too proud 
 to push against cold shoulders. He simply with- 
 drew more and more into himself, and laid the 
 foundation for that sadness from which he could 
 never afterwards entirely free himself. 
 
 If circumstances separated him from his old 
 schoolfellows, his tastes (and also his taste) re- 
 moved him from his fellow clerks. A single friend 
 he made, however — a M. Victor Lemoigne. This 
 man not only was his friend, he believed in him, a 
 precious necessity to a young writer. For Samain 
 at last confided to him that he wrote verses. It 
 must have been the greatest comfort to tell some- 
 body, for Samain had been writing in silence and 
 solitude for some time. But he had not only been 
 writing, he had been training himself for a writer, 
 and in that best of all methods, studying foreign 
 tongues. 
 
 If there were no amusements in Lille, there was 
 at least a library. And in the absence of any other 
 distractions Samain spent long hours there. Per- 
 haps it was lucky that nothing else exerted a strong
 
 56 Six French Poets 
 
 enough pull to make his going there in the least 
 difficult. He studied, and endeavoured to complete 
 his arrested education. Of course, he read rather 
 vaguely, as people do without a teacher, but he 
 succeeded in perfecting himself in Greek and Eng- 
 lish so that he could read them both fluently. He 
 delighted in English, and afterwards liked to give 
 his poems English titles, and put English words 
 into the middle of them. Edgar Allan Poe was one 
 of his greatest admirations and inspirations. Years 
 after he wrote: "I have been reading Poe this 
 week. Decidedly, he must be classed among the 
 greatest. The power of his conceptions, the mag- 
 nificence of his hypotheses, the marv^ellous force of 
 his imagination, always contained and held in check 
 by an extraordinary will, make him an almost 
 unique figure in art. ... If the word perfection 
 can ever be used, it is in such a case." 
 
 Fortunately for Samain, and for us, Lemoigne 
 was sympathetic and enthusiastic. He liked the 
 poems which Samain showed him, and at once de- 
 cided that the young man was sure of a glorious 
 future. 
 
 There is no doubt that these over-confident and 
 admiring friends do a young wTiter as much good 
 as harm. Adverse or carping criticism often dis- 
 courages to the point of sterilization, while even 
 ill-judged praise gives confidence and the strength 
 to go on. In a man of Samain's diffident tempera-
 
 Albert Saniain 57 
 
 ment, such full-blooded encouragement must have 
 been of the greatest value. But, as the desire to 
 learn, to talk, to mix in an intellectual life, grew 
 upon him, more and more did Samain find the life 
 of a little clerk in the provinces insupportable. It 
 is truer of France than of any other country- that 
 its capital is the centre of its entire intellectual life. 
 Samain had paid a flying visit to Paris in 1878, to 
 see the Exposition. Even more than at ordinan,- 
 times, the Paris of an Exposition year dazzles, and 
 snaps, and glows. After his return to the wearisome 
 dulness of Lille, Samain thought of it as the Mecca 
 of all his dreams. It lured like the Pot of Gold at 
 the end of the Rainbow. As luck would ha\"e it. in 
 July, 1880, his firm decided to send him to its Paris 
 house. He was to be only a transient addition, 
 but he intended to stay if he could, and on express- 
 ing this wish to his superiors it was acceded to, and 
 his salary raised to 2400 francs a year. 
 
 It might seem now as though things were at last 
 coming Samain's way. Here he was. transplanted 
 to Paris, and with the exciting possibilitA' of having 
 some famous literar\' celebrity^ living just round the 
 comer. But in cities like Paris, "round the corner" 
 might just as well be across the Channel. Albert 
 Samain was living in Paris, which, as a thought, must 
 have given him considerable satisfaction ; but the 
 satisfaction began and ended in the realms of the 
 idea.
 
 58 Six French Poets 
 
 He knew nobody ; he had no introductions ; and 
 his hours were longer than in Lilie, Now, he was 
 at his office from nine in the morning until after 
 midnight. Only once or twice a week did he even 
 have some hours of freedom in the evening. And 
 then there was no energy left to do any good work. 
 
 So Samain lived in Paris more solitarily than he 
 had done in Lille, for there was no M. Lemoigne 
 there. And he could not work so well because he 
 had less time. They were not cheerful letters 
 which he sent back to M. Lemoigne. They were 
 bitter, discouraged letters. He must change his 
 business, there was no other way ; but to what ? 
 
 The faithful Lemoigne was instant in suggestion. 
 His friend must try journalism ; and, succeeding in 
 that, have leisure for greater literary effort. It 
 must have been a constant strain for Lemoigne to 
 push his friend along, and his patience and effort 
 were remarkable. Samain always held back, and 
 was discouraged before he began. But Lemoigne 
 firmly insisted. Poor Samain hastily wrote a paper 
 on Offenbach and took It to the Figaro. It was not 
 liked. Then he wrote to the editors of Gil Bias, 
 and the Beaumarchais. His letters were not an- 
 swered. So that seemed to be an end to journalism 
 in Paris. 
 
 Samain was willing to give it up. Lemoigne was 
 not. If Paris would not see his friend's genius, 
 Lille should. Really Lemoigne's unswerving faith
 
 Albert Samain 59 
 
 is very beautiful, and it is a satisfaction to realize 
 how abundantly it was justified. 
 
 There was at this time in Lille a weekly called 
 Le Bonhomme Flamand. It amounted to very little, 
 as, of course, Lemoigne knew, but Samain must be 
 printed. And two little stories of Samain's did 
 appear in it signed Gry-Pearl, for Samain was afraid 
 of the amusement of his friends if he signed his own 
 name. The quasi-English flavour of the pseudonym 
 is interesting. Shortly afterwards, Le Bonhomme 
 Flamand died a natural death. The editor of an- 
 other Lille paper annoyed Samain by chopping up 
 one of the latter's articles to suit himself, so Samain 
 refused to send any more, and forced M. Lemoigne 
 to approve. Here ended Samain's attempt to push 
 open the doors of journalism, if we except two 
 articles in an unknown gazette, and a little piece in 
 Ulllustration. Samain slipped back to his old 
 solitary life, writing for himself alone. 
 
 In July, 1 88 1, Mme. Samain joined her son in 
 Paris. And from this time on they were never 
 separated. Even among Frenchmen, whose affec- 
 tion for their mothers has become a proverb, Samain's 
 love for, and care of, his is extraordinary. For her 
 sake he never married ; his salary was not enough 
 to support two women. 
 
 Later, his youngest brother Paul joined them ; 
 Alice, his sister, remaining behind in Lille where 
 she had married. It was a quiet, family life they
 
 6o Six French Poeis 
 
 lived in the little apartment, rue des Petits-Champs. 
 It was a safe, excellent life for a rising young clerk, 
 sure of stepping up in his business from position to 
 higher position, and tinally attaining to a business of 
 his own. But for a poet, how petty, how exacting ! 
 How painful to wear\- the brain all da>" ^^ith figures 
 so that at night it cannot hnd words! Weak in 
 many wa\'s though Saniain was. he ne\"er \ya\'ered 
 in his hmi resolution to write. If he could only 
 gain enough to keep his mother he would be satished ; 
 for himself he only demanded a less fatiguing work, 
 with more leisure. He watched, and watched, until 
 he found something. And what he found was a 
 small clerkship in the third bureau of the Depart- 
 ment of Instrtiction. with a salary of iSoo francs a 
 ^•ear. In spite of suggestions and offers from his 
 firm, he took it without a moment's hesitation. 
 And it speaks excellently for Mme. SamaIn that she 
 apparently bore him no ill-\\-ill for so materially 
 cutting down their income. 
 
 The change was undoubtedly a good thing for 
 Samain. He was only obliged to be at his desk for 
 seven hours a day, his colleagues were men of better 
 education than those in the sugar house, and finding 
 a copy of Boileau open upon the table of his chief 
 gave him the feeling of being in a sympathetic 
 atmosphere. But still, taking ever\'thing by and 
 large. Samain could not feel very successful. He 
 had left Lille, true ; he had got rid of the detested
 
 Albert Samain 6i 
 
 sugar-broking ; he was definitely settled in Paris. 
 And there was an end to his achievements. In a 
 letter written much later, he says: "At twenty-five 
 years old, without the slightest exaggeration, I had 
 not a single literary friend or acquaintance. My 
 only relations were with young men belonging to the 
 business world." 
 
 He had made three wild da.shes into the world of 
 letters. The momentary, hazarding exploits of a 
 very young man. From his boyhood he had fed 
 upon the Romantics ; Lamartine, Hugo, and Musset 
 had been his gods. Two of these giants being un- 
 happily dead and the third a very old man, he wor- 
 shipped their belated shadows : Theodore de Banville 
 and Jean Richepin. He sent a letter with an en- 
 thusiastic ode to Banville, but the visit which Banville 
 invited him to make in return was unfortunate in 
 the extreme. Banville carped and criticised, and 
 Samain took flight never to go back again. Twice 
 more, Samain was so ill-judged as to tempt Fate in 
 this way. He sent letters to both Jean Richepin and 
 Octave Feuillet. Both asked him to call, possibly 
 the visits were repeated more than once, but they 
 had no result. Samain was tasting the bitter lesson, 
 that fecund intimacies fall from the lap of the gods, 
 and are never the result of painstaking endeavour. 
 
 Samain gave up seeking access to celebrities and 
 went back to his writing, still worshipping the dead 
 authors who had not snubbed him, and writing dans
 
 62 Six French Poets 
 
 le gout d'avant-hier. But, though Samain, alone in 
 the quiet lamplit evenings, still bowed before the 
 old shrines, other young men were more adventurous. 
 Various hot bloods got up a society, or rather they 
 organized a group, and called it Nous Autres. They 
 met at a cabaret in Montmartre, and drank bocks, and 
 disputed theories of art and letters, and undoubtedly 
 damned every one who was not themselves, after the 
 manner of young artists. By and by, they changed 
 cabarets, going to Le Chat Noir, and made it famous 
 by their presence. A kind of vaudeville show was 
 given there, and a series of silhouette plays, in a 
 little puppet theatre, by Henri Riviere had a great 
 vogue. On occasions, at the end of an evening, the 
 young writers read their poems aloud and had their 
 angles rubbed off by one another's criticism. A 
 friend took Samain to one of these gatherings, and 
 he soon became an habitue. He read a part of his 
 poem, Les Monts, there. He also read Tsilla, and 
 Laurent Tailhade and Jean Lorrain applauded him. 
 Le Chat Noir had a little paper, and in the copy of 
 it for December, 1884, Tsilla appeared on the front 
 page. Tsilla was apparently liked and praised by 
 the frequenters of Le Chat Noir, and Samain wrote 
 a satisfied and happy letter to M. Lemoigne on the 
 strength of it. Rather pathetically he tells how he 
 has been praised for the healthy quality of his 
 verses, and hopes that he will be able to avoid the 
 maladive contagion of the period.
 
 Albert Samain 63 
 
 To my mind, Tsilla is one of the dullest poems 
 that ever was written, and gives no hint of the 
 charm of some of his later work. It is the story of a 
 young girl of antiquity (that charming and con- 
 venient antiquity so beloved of poets, which never 
 existed anywhere, at any time), who loves an Angel. 
 In a crisis of adventurousness, she urges the Angel 
 to fly up in the sky, taking her with him, which he 
 does, and they go so near to the rising sun that her 
 black hair is turned to gold. Owing to which acci- 
 dent, she is the first woman in the world who ever 
 had blond hair. The verses are no more interesting 
 nor original than the story. 
 
 If praise of such an insignificant poem had been 
 all that Samain got out of his cenacle of young 
 poets, his frequenting it would have been a mere 
 waste of time. But it was not all. He got a com- 
 plete upheaval of ideas. He learnt that Lamartine 
 and Victor Hugo were vieux jeu, that Frangois 
 Coppee was not the last word in poetry to these 
 young iconoclasts. He learnt that Verlaine and 
 Mallarme were the proper objects of worship for an 
 up-to-date poet. Any one who has listened to a set 
 of young writers tearing down the generation which 
 has preceded them, showing up all the faults it never 
 knew it had, and sneering at the good points it 
 undoubtedly has, can reproduce these evenings 
 perfectly. But Samain was a young provincial. 
 All this talk disturbed him. This familiar scoffing
 
 64 Six French Poets 
 
 at names he considered the greatest in the world 
 unsettled him. What should he do ? Whom should 
 he follow? For Samain must follow, he was as 
 incapable of leadership as a man could well be. 
 He did follow a little way, but only a little way — 
 gingerly, lilce one stepping over a slippery bridge 
 and clinging tightly to a hand-rail. 
 
 It is easy to be an iconoclast in French poetry. 
 The classic metres are so exceedingly prescribed and 
 confined that the least little change lands one in 
 nonconformity. But for us, living more than thirty 
 years after the period I am speaking of, for us who 
 are accustomed to the innovations of the vers libristes, 
 Samain's tentative efforts at modernity of form have 
 become almost invisible. We can find them if we 
 hunt, but to the naked perception they are lost in 
 the general effect of conformity to metrical rules. 
 Yet, to Samain, his not always putting the caesura 
 in the middle of the line, or failing to alternate mas- 
 culine and feminine endings, or occasionally rhyming 
 plurals with singulars (all unalterable rules of 
 French classic metre), must have seemed violent 
 innovations indeed. 
 
 The meetings at Le Chat Noir did not only affect 
 Samain's technical habit, they affected his ideas 
 about everything, even, and most, his religion. 
 Brought up a Catholic, he had hitherto never 
 doubted his faith ; now it tumbled off him like a 
 shrivelled leaf. Scepticism, a state of mind pecul-
 
 Albert Samain 65 
 
 iarly unsulted to his temperament, swept over him. 
 The reaHzation that he had lost the support of 
 rehgion, that its" consolations could no longer com- 
 fort him, was agony. The idea, the resultant void, 
 preoccupied him. He could no longer write, he 
 could only worry and mourn. This was particularly 
 unfortunate as he was at the moment composing the 
 poems which afterwards made up Au Jardm de 
 V Infante, his first volume, which was not published 
 until six years later. The sapping of his vitality 
 by doubt naturally lasted longer with a man of 
 Samain's gentle and resigned disposition than it does 
 with people of bolder characters. 
 
 In his state of mind, the hilarious and not over- 
 refined pleasures of the literary cabarets were most 
 distasteful. He was too straightforward and simple 
 himself not to see through the poses and childish 
 debauches of his coterie. He withdrew from it, and 
 retired once more within himself. But he was lonely, 
 bitterly lonely. His brother Paul had been called to 
 his military service, and once more he and his mother 
 lived alone. His modest income of 1800 francs w^as 
 not sufficient to enable him to think of marriage 
 while he still had his mother to support. Whether 
 Samain ever had a definite love story is not known. 
 It seems hardly possible for him to have escaped such 
 a usual happening ; but, at any rate, whether it was 
 a particular woman whom he gave up, or whether he 
 merely resigned himself to bachelorhood in the ab-
 
 66 Six French Poets 
 
 stract, certain it is that Samain felt his life bor- 
 dered and arranged, and that he looked forward 
 to no bright happening to change it. Mme. 
 Samain adored him and was proud of him, but 
 from his reticence about his work at home, she 
 does not appear to have been fitted, either by edu- 
 cation or natural ability, to be much of a help to 
 him in it. 
 
 Only seven hours a day at the Hotel de Ville, and 
 the rest of the time his own! That "rest of the 
 time," which was to have been filled with the work 
 he could not do. It hung heavy on his hands, and 
 to distract himself he took to taking long walks 
 about Paris. He would stroll along the Seine, turn- 
 ing over the leaves of the books in the houquiniste s 
 boxes on the parapets of the quais, amusing himself 
 with the old engravings in the ten centimes boxes, 
 breathing in the sharp scent of the river and the 
 perfume of old, passed centuries ; he would wander 
 in the once fashionable quarters of the town, now 
 fallen from grace, and imagine the days when they 
 were full of sedan chairs and elegant ladies. His 
 love for the faded, the graceful, vanished past, grew 
 and solaced him. How many of his poems seem to 
 be merely efforts to reproduce it, and so dwell in it 
 for a few minutes ! 
 
 Side by side with these imaginative pleasures were 
 others. He began to see nature, real nature, as it is 
 even to-day. His walks in the suburbs gave him
 
 Albert Samain 67 
 
 many a picture which he turned to account later in 
 Aux Flancs du Vase. The splendid, differing sun- 
 sets gave him infinite pleasure ; sometimes he would 
 get into one of the bateaux mouches which go up and 
 down the river, and watch the yellows and reds of 
 the sunset repeat themselves in the water. He had 
 none of that modern spirit which enables one to see 
 beauties in tram-cars and smoking chimneys, so he 
 eliminated them from his thought. In love with 
 beauty as he conceived it, he took the changing 
 colours which all sorts of weather threw over Paris, 
 and, eternal as they are, lit his pictures of other 
 centuries with them. He speaks of "la suavite 
 supreme de Paris d'Automne;" the frail gold of 
 Autumn always pleased him. He describes dark 
 gardens where the fountains "font un bruit maigre, 
 frileux et comme desole dans I'abandon du crepus- 
 cule." He loved rainy days, and deserted streets, 
 the "melancolie vieillotte des rues ou quelque chose 
 est en train de mourir." Once he says: "II me 
 semblalt voir, sous mes yeux, 1830 — le 1830 de 
 Lamartine et de Hugo — toute mon adolescence 
 ivre d'enfant lyrique s'en aller la dans cette solitude 
 morne, silencieuse, provinciale." 
 
 A gentle soul ; when he was particularly depressed 
 he used to put a bunch of tuberoses, or a single pale 
 rose, in a glass on his desk. "Quand je me sens 
 devenir pessimiste, je regarde une rose," he used to 
 say. Flowers were the only luxury he permitted
 
 68 Six French Poets 
 
 himself. Except (and this is the great "except") 
 his imagination. 
 
 His room was as bare as a cell in a monastery, 
 neither painting nor engraving hung on the walls. 
 But listen to the room he would have had if — 
 evoking it to amuse himself on an Autumn even- 
 ing : "My room. Hung with velvet of steel- 
 coloured grey, with blue lights in it. The rose- 
 tinted ceiling fades off into mauve and has a large 
 decorative design — Renaissance — in old silver, 
 embossed at the corners. Hangings hide the door. 
 No windows ; the room only being used by artificial 
 light. Near the floor, forming a base-board, a 
 band of old silver openwork appliqued on the same 
 velvet as the hangings, a flower design, with knots of 
 pink pearl tassels at intervals. A carpet with a 
 silver nap ; against one side of the wall, a divan of 
 steel-grey velvet. No movable furniture. In one 
 corner, directly under the bosses of the ceiling, an 
 ebony table with silver lion's claws for feet ; the 
 table is covered with a cloth of steel-grey velvet, 
 with a great silver tulip with rose-coloured leaves 
 embroidered in the corner. An Etruscan armchair, 
 made entirely of ebony, with silver nails. Negli- 
 gently thrown over the armchair to soften the 
 sharpness of the angles and the hardness of the 
 wood, a grey bear skin. A lamp of old silver, mas- 
 sive and slender, with a long neck of a clear shape, 
 and without ornament. Shade of faded moss-rose
 
 Albert Samain 69 
 
 colour. Blotting pad of steel-grey morocco, with 
 a heraldic device ; a penholder of old gold. Books : 
 Corbiere, Mallarme, Fleurs du Mai, in small folios, 
 bound in white pigskin and tied with cords of rose- 
 colour and silver, edges of old gold, titles printed in 
 Roman letters, crude red on the top and on the left 
 side. A fireplace with a historical plaque over it — 
 Renaissance, and andirons of wrought steel termi- 
 nating in couched chimeras. Three sides of the 
 room are empty. In the corner opposite the table, 
 on the wall, two metres from the ground, a console 
 covered with steel-grey velvet supported by a Renais- 
 sance chimera in iron. . . . Upon the console, a 
 great horn of crystal, very tapering, in which are 
 two roses, one rose a sulphur yellow, one wine- 
 coloured. In an alcove hidden by a curtain is a 
 deep niche, bathed in the half-light of a gold altar 
 lamp hanging by a little chain. The globe of the 
 lamp is made of pieces of many-coloured glass cut 
 in facets so that they shine like great stones : ruby, 
 sapphire, emerald. In the niche, which is hung with 
 crimson velvet, on a column with a Doric capital, 
 stands the Young Faun of Praxiteles. ..." 
 
 Lacking this room, why bother with engravings ! 
 Yet Samain never complained of the ugliness and 
 meagreness of actual life. He only played his 
 games on windy nights in his bare room. 
 
 It would be unjust to Samain to represent him 
 as passing all his evenings wrapped in sugary
 
 70 Six French Poets 
 
 dreams. He studied science, history, philosophy. 
 It is a curious fact, that he was one of the 
 first men in France to recognize the genius of 
 Nietzsche. 
 
 In compensation for the many bitternesses of his 
 Hfe, beginning in 1884 came the happiness of two 
 friendships. Samain made the acquaintance, and 
 quickly became the intimate friend, of Paul Morisse 
 and Raymond Bonheur. Paul Morisse was a con- 
 stant traveller, and with him Samain made his first 
 considerable journey. The two friends went to 
 Germany. They saw the Rhine, Bingen, Mayence, 
 etc. Samain was charmed with all he saw. He 
 possessed the gift of wonder ; an inestimable pos- 
 session, by the way. Unfortunately it was hard to 
 find money for these excursions. Samain called 
 the lack of money "the defective side" of his life. 
 When the French Academy crowned his first book, 
 he gave himself the present of a month at Lake 
 Annecy. 
 
 So at last we reach his first book, privately printed 
 in 1893, when the poet had passed his thirty-fifth 
 birthday. 
 
 At this time the Mercure de France had just come 
 into existence, and Samain was one of its founders. 
 It was in the pages of the Mercure that most of -^ his 
 poems appeared. Samain never seems to have 
 seriously considered collecting them into a book. 
 Over-diffident and self-critical, he worked at them,
 
 Albert Samain 71 
 
 changed them, polished them. At rare intervals one 
 was printed. Samain was in love with perfection, 
 and very little that he did ever seemed to him worthy 
 to leave his hands. This excessi\^e scrupulousness 
 works both ways. A poem so treated gains in 
 beauty, but frequently loses in vitality. There is 
 great danger of its becoming a thing of mummied 
 splendour. That Samain's poems absolutely lost 
 vigour by this polishing, I cannot fairly say. The 
 poems I have seen in several states do seem to have 
 gained technically in their final one, and to have 
 parted with practically none of their original elan. 
 Elan is too strong a word. Samain's poems are 
 never dashing with life. Let us say rather, not that 
 his poems lost by his treatment of them, but that 
 the kind of man who could so treat them was of a 
 slightly depressed, unvital temper. How consider- 
 able a course of discipline he put them through can 
 be imagined when I mention that, in the four ver- 
 sions extant of a poem of twenty-eight lines, only 
 four which were in the first version appear in the 
 last. 
 
 But to return to that first volume. At the in- 
 stance of M. Bonheur, Samain consented to print it. 
 Not publish it, observe. It was issued in a charm- 
 ing, privately printed edition. This was in October, 
 
 1893. And in the Journal for the 15th of March, 
 
 1894, appeared a review of it by no less a person 
 than Frangois Coppee. How the volume came into
 
 72 Six French Poets 
 
 Coppee's hands I do not know, but he instantly 
 recognized its value and said so frankly. Five 
 months of reviewing and praise in the young reviews 
 had not been able to do for Samain what the hun- 
 dred lines from Francois Coppee did at once. It 
 was celebrity, almost fame. The little, privately 
 printed edition was quickly exhausted. Another 
 was called for, and at last the book, Au Jardin de 
 r Infante, was published. Still Samain was diffident, 
 and when a third edition was needed, he hesitated 
 again ; but the third edition came out three years 
 after the first. The edition I have is marked 
 "twenty- fifth," so it appears that Samain was un- 
 necessarily timid. The book was given a prize by 
 the French Academy, and Samain was one of the 
 poets of the hour. 
 
 There was nothing very new in Au Jardin de 
 rinfante, it is true. The metre was the classic 
 alexandrine, for the most part, varied by lighter, 
 gayer rhythms equally well sanctioned. But the 
 book was full of the shy, delicate personality of the 
 poet. Here were his sumptuous imaginings, and 
 the haunting sadness which never quite left him. 
 Here was his tenderness for lovely, fragile things ; 
 his preoccupation with the past. Finally here was 
 his love for English — the volume bore this motto 
 from Edgar Allan Poe : 
 
 Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight — 
 Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
 
 Albert S amain 73 
 
 That bade me pause before that garden-gate 
 
 To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses ? 
 ****** 
 
 (Ah ! bear in mind this garden was enchanted !) 
 
 The following poem is printed in italics as a sort 
 of dedication to the book : 
 
 Mon ame est une infante en robe de parade, 
 Dont I'exil se reflete, etemel et royal, 
 Aux grands miroirs deserts d'un vieil Escurial, 
 Ainsi qu'une galere oubliee en la rade. 
 
 Aux pieds de son fauteuil, allonges noblement, 
 Dexix levriers d'Ecosse aux yeux melancoliques 
 Chassent, quand il lui plait, les betes symboliques 
 Dans la foret du Reve et de I'Enchantement. 
 
 Son page favori, qui s'appelle Naguere, 
 Lui lit d'ensorcelants poemes a nii-voix, 
 Cependant qu 'immobile, une tulipe aux doigts, 
 EUe ecoute mourir en elle leur mystere . . . 
 
 Le pare alentour d'elle etend ses frondaisons, 
 Ses marbres, ses bassins, ses rampes a balustres ; 
 Et, grave, elle s'enivre a ces songes illustres 
 Que recelent pour nous les nobles horizons. 
 
 Elle est la resignee, et douce, et sans surprise, 
 Sachant trop pour lutter comme tout est fatal, 
 Et se sentant, malgre quelque dedain natal, 
 Sensible a la pitie comme I'onde a la brise.
 
 74 Six French Poets 
 
 EUe est la resignee, et douce en ses sanglots, 
 Plus sombre seulement quand elle evoque en songe 
 Quelque Armada sombree a I'etemel mensonge, 
 Et tant de beaux espoirs endormis sous les flots. 
 
 Des soirs trop lourds de pourpre ou sa fiertc soupire, 
 
 Les portraits de Van Dyck aux beaux doigts longs et purs, 
 
 Pales en velours noir sur I'or vieilli des murs, 
 
 En leurs grands airs defunts la font rever d'empire. 
 
 Les vieux mirages d'or ont dissipe son deuil, 
 Et dans les visions ou son ennui s'echappe, 
 Soudain — gloire ou soleil — un rayon qui la frappe 
 AUume en elle tous les rubis de I'orgueil. 
 
 Mais d'un sourire triste elle apaise ces fievres ; 
 Et, redoutant la foule aux tumultes de fer, 
 Elle ecoute la vie — au loin — comme la mer . . . 
 Et le secret se fait plus profond sur ses levres. 
 
 Rien n'emeut d'un frisson I'eau pale de ses yeux, 
 Ou s'est assis I'Esprit voile des Villes mortes ; 
 Et par les salles, oii sans bruit toument les portes, 
 Elle va, s'enchantant de mots mysterieux. 
 
 L'eau vaine des jets d'eau la-bas tombe en cascade, 
 Et, pale k la crois^e, une tulipe aux doigts, 
 Elle est 1^, refietee aux miroirs d'autrefois, 
 Ainsi qu'une galore oubliee en la rade. 
 
 Mon Ame est une infante en robe de parade.
 
 Albert Samain 75 
 
 Who, after reading that poem, could approach the 
 book in other than a sympathetic mood ? 
 
 Is it by chance that he figures his soul under the 
 guise of a Spanish Infanta ; or does he feel in him- 
 self something exotic, un-French, something which 
 is descended to him from those possible Spanish 
 ancestors ? 
 
 This poem seems almost a complete epitome of 
 Samain's soul. An old, magnificent splendour is 
 here, all about his seated, quiescent Infanta, "im- 
 mobile, une tulipe aux doigts." And again, 
 
 EUe est la, refletee aux miroirs d'autrefois, 
 Ainsi qu'une galere oubliee en la rade. 
 
 Yes, Samain has paraphrased himself in this poem 
 — the haughty, noble, anachronistic self, hidden 
 under the appearance of an insignificant government 
 employee. 
 
 This introduction is followed by a second motto 
 from Mallarme : " D'une essence ravie aux vieillesses 
 des roses," and then we come to the book itself. 
 This is the first poem : 
 
 HEURES D'ETE 
 
 I 
 
 Apporte les cristaux dor^>s, 
 Et les verres couleur de songe ; 
 Et que notre amour se prolonge 
 Dans les parfums exasperes.
 
 76 Six French Poets 
 
 Des roses ! Des roses encor ! 
 Je les adore a la souffrance. 
 EUes ont la sombre attirance 
 Des choses qui donnent la mort. 
 
 L'ete d'or croule dans les coupes ; 
 Le jus des peches que tu coupes 
 Eclabousse ton sein neigeux. 
 
 Le pare est sombre comme un gouffre . . . 
 Et c'est dans mon coeur orageux 
 Comme un mal de douceur qui souffre. 
 
 These poems are as fragile as the golden crystals 
 he speaks of. What do they give us? It is impos- 
 sible to sa}^ A nuance, a colour, a vague magnifi- 
 cence. Here is an evocation of that eighteenth 
 century, by which he was haunted : 
 
 MUSIQUE SUR L'EAU 
 
 Oh ! Ecoute la symphonic ; 
 Rien n'est doux comme une agonie 
 Dans la musique indefinie 
 Qu 'exhale un lointain vaporeux ; 
 
 D'une langueur la nuit s'enivre, 
 Et notre coeur qu'elle d^livre 
 Du monotone effort de vivre 
 Se meurt d'un trdpas langoureux.
 
 Albert Samain 77 
 
 Glissons entre le del et I'onde, 
 Glissons sous la lune profonde ; 
 Toute mon ame, loin du monde, 
 S'est refugi^e en tes yeux, 
 
 Et je regarde tes prunelles 
 Se pamer sous les chanterelles, 
 Comme deux fleurs surnaturelles 
 Sous un rayon melodieux. 
 
 Oh ! ecoute la symphonie ; 
 Rien n'est doux comme I'agonie 
 De la levre a la levre unie 
 Dans la musique indefinie . . . 
 
 The insistence of Autumn evenings with their 
 suggestion of melancholy is in Octobre: 
 
 OCTOBRE 
 
 Octobre est doux. — L'hiver pelerin s'achemine 
 Au ciel ou la derniere hirondelle s'etonne. 
 Revons . . . le feu s'allume et la bise chantonne. 
 R^vons . . . le feu s'endort sous sa cendre d'hermine. 
 
 L'abat-jour transparent de rose s'illumine. 
 
 La vitre est noire sous I'averse monotone. 
 
 Oh ! le doux "remember" en la chambre d'automne, 
 
 Ou des trumeaux d^funts I'ame se dissemine. 
 
 La ville est loin. Plus rien qu'un bruit sourd de voitures 
 Qui meurt, melancolique, aux plis lourds des tentures . . . 
 Formons des reves fins sur des miniatures.
 
 78 Six French Poets 
 
 Vers de mauves lointains d'une douceur fanee 
 Mon ame s'est perdue ; et I'Heure enrubannee 
 Sonne cent ans a la pendule surannee . . . 
 
 And here is a splendid one of a fete — eighteenth 
 century, of course — in the Palazzo Lanzoli at Ber- 
 gamo, and all done with a touch : 
 
 NOCTURNE 
 
 Nuit d'ete. — Sous le ciel de lapis-lazuli, 
 Le pare enchante baigne en des tenebres molles. 
 Les fleurs revent, Tamour se parfume aux coroUes. 
 Tiede, la lune monte au firmament pali. 
 
 Ce soir, fete a Bergame au palais Lanzoli ! 
 Les couples enlaces descendent des gondoles. 
 Le bal s'ouvre, etoile de roses girandoles. 
 Flutes et cordes, I'orchestre est conduit par LuUi. 
 
 Les madrigaux parmi les robes essaimees 
 Offrent, la levre en coeur, leurs fadeurs sublimees ; 
 Et, sur le glacis d'or des parquets transparents, 
 
 Les caillettes Regence, exquisement vieillotes, 
 Detaillent la langueur savante des gavottes 
 Au rhythme parfume des eventails mourants. 
 
 Notice how deftly the poet places his picture by 
 speaking of Bergamo and the Lanzoli Palace. And 
 bringing in Lulli as a rhyme, is a delightful thing.
 
 Albert Samain 79 
 
 But perhaps the prettiest one of that kind is 
 Vile Fortunee, undoubtedly suggested by Watteau's 
 picture, Le Depart pour Cythere. Not Verlaine him- 
 self has done a more beautiful eighteenth century 
 picture, nor one which sings more gracefully. 
 
 L'lLE FORTUNEE 
 
 Dites, la Bande Jolie, 
 J'ai I'ame en m^lancolie, 
 Dites-moi, je vous supplie, 
 
 Ou c'est. 
 Est-ce a Venise, a Florence ? 
 Est-ce au pays d'Esperance ? 
 Est-ce dans I'lle-de-France ? 
 
 Qui sait ? 
 
 Viens, tu verras des bergeres, 
 
 Des marquises bocageres, 
 
 Des moutons blancs d'etageres, 
 
 Et puis 
 Des oiseaux et des oiselles, 
 Des Lindors et des Angeles, 
 Et des roses aux margelles 
 
 Des puits. 
 
 Viens, tu verras des Lucindes, 
 Des Agnes, des Rosalindes, 
 Avec des perles des Indes, 
 Gardant
 
 8o Six French Poets 
 
 Sur I'index une perruche, 
 Le col serre dans la ruche, 
 Le grand eventail d'autruche 
 Pendant. 
 
 Les Iris, et les Estelles 
 En chaperons de dentelLj 
 R§vent pres des cascatelks 
 
 En pleurs, 
 Et fermant leurs grandes ailes 
 Les papillons epris d'elles 
 En deviennent infideles 
 
 Aux fleurs. 
 
 Unis d'une double etreinte 
 
 Les Amants rodent, sans crainte, 
 
 Aux detours du labyrinthe 
 
 Secret. 
 Sur le jardin diaphane 
 Un demi-silence plane, 
 Oti toute rumeur profane 
 
 Mourrait. 
 
 C'est la Divine Joum6e, 
 Par le songe promen6e 
 Sur I'herbe comme fanee 
 
 Un peu. 
 Avec des amours sans fraude, 
 Des yeux d'ambre et d'emeraude 
 Et de lents propos que brode 
 
 L'aveu.
 
 Albert Samain 8i 
 
 Le soir tombe . . . L'heure douce 
 Qui s' eloigns sans secousse 
 Pose a peine sur la mousse 
 
 Ses pieds ; 
 Un jour indecis persiste, 
 Et le Crepuscule triste 
 Ouvre ses yeux d'am^thyste 
 
 Mouilles. 
 
 Des cygnes voguent par troupes . . . 
 On goute sur I'herbe en groupes ; 
 Le dessert choque les coupes 
 
 D'or fin. 
 Les assiettes sont de Sdvres ; 
 Et les madrigaux, si midvres, 
 Caramelisent les levres 
 
 Sans fin. 
 
 L'apres-midi qui renie 
 L'ivresse du jour bannie 
 Expire en une infinie 
 
 Langueur . . . 
 Le toit des chaumieres fume, 
 Et dans le ciel qui s'embrume 
 L'argent des astres s'allume, 
 
 Songeur. 
 
 Les amants disent leurs flammes, 
 Les yeux fiddles des femmes 
 Sont si purs qu'on voit leurs §,mes 
 Au fond ;
 
 82 Six French Poets 
 
 Et, deux a deux, angeliques, 
 Les Baisers melancoliques 
 Au bleu pays des reliques 
 S'en vont. 
 
 Au son des musiques lentes, 
 Les Amoureuses dolentes 
 Ralentissent, nonchalantes, 
 
 Le pas . . . 
 Du ciel flotte sur la terre ; 
 Et, dans le soir solitaire, 
 L'angelus tinte a Cythere, 
 
 L^-bas ... 
 
 The whole volume is full of delicate, almost arti- 
 ficial, light and shade; bells ring over still lakes, 
 roses in cut glass vases mirror themselves in the 
 marble tops of tables, silken skirts brush over 
 polished floors, but — in the distance, everything is 
 in the distance. The poet himself, kind, patient, 
 sad, is always by our side assuring us that it is only 
 his soul, "en robe de parade." Still, there are 
 sterner poems in this collection, such as Silence and 
 Douleur. No one understands better than Samain 
 how to give the emotion, the grandeur, or the tragedy, 
 of an epoch, in the confines of a sonnet. 
 
 VILLE MORTE 
 
 Vague, perdue au fond des sables monotones, 
 La ville d'autrefois, sans tours et sans ramparts,
 
 Albert Samain 83 
 
 Dort le sommeil dernier des vieilles Babylones, 
 Sous le suaire blanc de ses marbres epars. 
 
 Jadis elle regnait ; sur ses murailles fortes 
 
 La Victoire etendait ses deiix ailes de fer. 
 
 Tous les peuples d'Asie assiegeaient ses cent portes ; 
 
 Et ses grands escaliers descendaient vers la mer . . . 
 
 Vide a present, et pour jamais silencieuse, 
 Pierre a pierre, elle meurt, sous la lune pieuse, 
 Aupres de son vieux fleuve ainsi qu'elle eptuse 
 
 Et, seul, un elephant de bronze, en ces desastres, 
 Droit encore au sommet d'un portique brise, 
 Leve tragiquement sa trompe vers les astres. 
 
 Or this, which seems, in its fourteen lines, to give 
 both sides of Napoleon's character so that no more 
 need be said. Napoleon, sending to Corsica for his 
 old nurse, so that she might be present at his Coro- 
 nation, is one of those strange beauties which start 
 up along his career. 
 
 LE SACRE 
 
 Notre-Dame annongait I'apotheose pr^te 
 
 Avec la voix d'airain de ses beffrois jumeaux ; 
 
 Au loin les grands canons grondaient, et les drapeaux 
 
 Se gonflaient, frissonnants, sous I'orgueil de la fete.
 
 84 Six French Poets 
 
 L'Empereur s'inclina, les mains jointes, nu-tete, 
 Et le Pape apparut, dans 1' eclat des flambeaux, 
 Tenant entre ses doigts etincelants d'anneaux 
 La couronne portant la croix latine au faite. 
 
 Mon fils ! dit le pontife . . . alors I'orgue se tut. 
 Sur tous les fronts baisses un seul frisson courut, 
 Comme le battement soudain d'une aile immense ; 
 
 Et Ton n'entendit plus, 6 Cesar triomphant, 
 Dans la nef ou planait un auguste silence, 
 Qu'une vieille a genoux qui pleurait son enfant. 
 
 There are still two more poems which I must 
 quote. They tell more about his poetry than any 
 words of mine can do. The first is Dilection, and 
 enumerates the subjects he prefers : 
 
 DILECTION 
 
 J'adore I'indecis, les sons, les couleurs freles. 
 Tout ce qui tremble, ondule, et frissonne, et chatoie, 
 Les cheveux et les yeux, I'eau, les feuilles, la soie, 
 Et la spiritualite des formes greles ; 
 
 Les rimes se frolant comme des tourterelles, 
 La fum6e oil le songe en spirales tournoie, 
 La chambre au crepuscule, oii Son profil se noie, 
 Et la caresse de Ses mains surnaturelles ;
 
 Albert Samain 85 
 
 L'heure de ciel au long des levres calinee, 
 L'ame comme d'un poids de delice inclinee, 
 L'ame qui meurt ainsi qu'une rose fanee, 
 
 Et tel coeur d'ombre chaste, embaume de mj'-stere, 
 Ou veille, comme le rubis d'lm lampadaire, 
 Nuit et jour, un amour mystique et solitaire. 
 
 The second poem starts off without any title and 
 speaks of the technique he strives to attain : 
 
 Je r6ve de vers doux et d'intimes ramages, 
 De vers a froler l'ame ainsi que des plumages, 
 
 De vers blonds ou le sens fluide se delie, 
 Comme sous I'eau la chevelure d'Oph^lie, 
 
 De vers silencieux, et sans rythme et sans trame, 
 Ou la rime sans bruit glisse comme une rame, 
 
 De vers d'une ancienne etoffe, extenu^e, 
 Impalpable comme le son et la nuee, 
 
 De vers de soirs d'automne ensorcelant les heures 
 Au rite feminin des syllabes mineures, 
 
 De vers de soirs d'amour enerves de verveine, 
 Ou Time sente, exquise, une caresse a peine,
 
 86 Six French Poets 
 
 Et qui au long des nerfs baign^s d'ondes cilines 
 
 Meurent a I'infini en pamoisons felines, 
 
 Comme un parfum dissous parmi des ti^deurs closes, 
 
 Violes d'or, et pianissim'amorose . . . 
 
 Je r^ve de vers doux mourant comme des roses. 
 
 These two poems together are an excellent analysis 
 of his work. 
 
 Good fortune did not change Samain. He was 
 gentle, unaffected, painstaking, as before. He did 
 not rush into print as the result of his success ; on 
 the contrary, it was not until 1898 that his next 
 book, Aux Flancs du Vase, was published. 
 
 In the meantime, Samain and Raymond Bonheur 
 had been to Provenge in September, 1897, and 
 stopped at Orthez to see Francis Jammes. Between 
 this simple and great poet and Samain, two days 
 were enough to cement a friendship which lasted 
 for the rest of Samain's life. They only saw each 
 other for these few days, and once, later, when 
 Jammes came to Paris for a short stay, and wandered 
 about the park of Versailles with Samain, but the 
 memory of his friend has never left Jammes. One 
 of his most beautiful Elegies is to Samain. 
 
 These little journeys, including one to Italy, gave 
 Samain great pleasure, and showed him more kinds 
 of natural scenery than he had ever seen before.
 
 Albert Samain 87 
 
 The poems in his posthumous volume, Le Chariot 
 d'Or: Forets, Les Monts, Le Fleuve, are probably 
 the result of those journeys. 
 
 About this time, Samain's health began to give 
 way. He complains of discomfort. This is the 
 moment to follow up his success. M. Brunetiere 
 makes advances to him for the Revue des Deux 
 Mondes, and twice his poems are printed in it. But 
 he is indifferent. His health is failing. He is writing 
 Aux Flancs du Vase, and says that the idea of it 
 "me hante comme un cauchemar," and that he can- 
 not sleep for thinking of it. 
 
 Unhappily, the moment passes, and when the book 
 comes out in 1898, it goes almost unnoticed. Too 
 long a time had elapsed, Coppee was ill, and there 
 was no fashionable critic to do for this volume what 
 he had done for the other. 
 
 Yet Aux Flancs du Vase is not a whit behind 
 Au Jardin de V Infante in beauty of purpose or 
 technique. Twenty-five little poems, of a singu- 
 larly advised simplicity and charm. The scenes 
 are set in a conventional antiquity by means of 
 Greek names being given to the characters, and 
 the whole reminds one of a set of engravings by 
 Boucher, or Fragonard, or Watteau. Not paintings, 
 but engravings, each set in an oval, and faintly 
 coloured. 
 
 It is a little boy struggling with a goat ; or a mother 
 and child threading and bargaining their way through
 
 88 Six French Poets 
 
 a market; or a girl chasing and catching a frog. 
 But here are three of these Httle pieces : 
 
 LE REPAS prepare' 
 
 Ma fiUe, laisse 1^ ton aiguille et ta laine ; 
 Le maitre va rentrer ; sur la table de chene 
 Avec la nappe neuve aux plis etincelants 
 Mats la faience claire et les verres brillants. 
 Dans la coupe arrondie a I'anse en col de cygne 
 Pose les fruits choisis sur des feuilles de vigne : 
 Les p^ches que recouvre un velours vierge encor, 
 Et les lourds raisins bleus mgles aux raisins d'or. 
 Que le pain bien coupe remplisse les corbeilles, 
 Et puis ferme la porte et chasse les abeilles . . . 
 Dehors le soleil briile, et la muraille cuit. 
 Rapprochons les volets, faisons presque la nuit. 
 Afin qu'ainsi la salle, aux tenebres plongee, 
 S'embaume toute aux fruits dont la table est chargee. 
 Maintenant, va puiser I'eau fraiche dans la cour ; 
 Et veille que surtout la cruche, a ton retour, 
 Garde longtemps, glacee et lentement fondue, 
 Une vapeur legere a ses flancs suspendue. 
 
 LA BULLE 
 
 Bathylle, dans la cour ou glousse la volaille, 
 
 Sur I'ecuelle penche, souffle dans une paille ; 
 
 L'eau savonneuse mousse et bouillonne k grand bruit, 
 
 Et deborde. L'enfant qui s'^puise sans fruit 
 
 Sent venir k sa bouche une acrete saline. 
 
 Plus heureuse, une bulle a la fin se dessine.
 
 Albert Samain 89 
 
 Et, conduite avec art, s'allonge, se distend 
 Et s'arrondit enfin en un globe eclatant. 
 L'enf ant souffle toujours ; elle s'accroit encore : 
 Elle a les cent couleurs du prisme et de I'aurore, 
 Et reflate aux parois de son mince cristal 
 Les arbres, la maison, la route et le cheval. 
 Prete a se detacher, merveilleuse, elle brille ! 
 L'enfant retient son souffle, et voici qu'elle oscille, 
 Et monte doucement, vert pale et rose clair, 
 Comme un frele prodige etincelant dans I'air ! 
 Elle monte . . . Et soudain, I'ame encore eblouie, 
 Bathylle cherche en vain sa gloire evanouie . . . 
 
 PANNYRE AUX TALONS D'OR 
 
 Dans la salle en rumeur un silence a passe . . , 
 
 Pannyre aux talons d'or s'avance pour danser. 
 
 Un voile atix mille plis la cache tout entiere. 
 
 D'un long trille d'argent la flute la premiere 
 
 L'invite ; elle s'elance, entre-croise ses pas, 
 
 Et, du lent mouvement imprime par ses bras, 
 
 Donne un rythme bizarre a I'etoffe nombreuse, 
 
 Qui s'elargit, ondule, et se gonfle et se creuse, 
 
 Et se deploie enfin en large tourbillon . . . 
 
 Et Pannyre devient fleur, flamme, papillon ! 
 
 Tous se taisent ; les yeux la suivent en extase. 
 
 Peu k peu la fureur de la danse I'embrase. 
 
 Elle toume toujours ; vite ! plus vite encore ! 
 
 La flamme eperdument vacille aux flambeaux d'or ! . . . 
 
 Puis, brusque, elle s'arrete au milieu de la salle ; 
 
 Et le voile qui toume autour d'elle en spirale,
 
 90 Six French Poets 
 
 Suspendu dans sa course, apaise ses longs plis, 
 Et, se coUant aux seins aigus, aux flancs polls, 
 Comme au travers d'une eau soyeuse et continue, 
 Dans un divin eclair, montre Pannyre nue. 
 
 Little dramas, they are, sufficient each one to 
 itself with a perfect finality. And the delicacy with 
 which they are done defies analysis. They are trans- 
 parent, hardly printing themselves upon the atmos- 
 phere, like egg-shell china held to the light. And 
 yet what movement they have ! One can almost 
 hear the soft snap with which the soap-bubble 
 bursts, and Pannyre's dance makes one giddy with 
 its whirl ; and by what means he has given the 
 folding of the draperies to stillness — to such utter, 
 drooping heaviness — I do not know. But there it is. 
 
 While Samain was preparing this book for the 
 press, his mother was taken ill. Sick himself, 
 Samain nursed his mother and hung over her, 
 fearing the event he dared not realize. It came in 
 December, 1898, and Samain was alone. 
 
 His grief was desolating. His health, already 
 extremely feeble, became worse. Consumption de- 
 clared itself. He must be got away from Paris and 
 the five flights of stairs to his apartment. M. Ray- 
 mond Bonheur took him to Villefranche, but the 
 winds were too strong and he moved to Vence. 
 
 In the Spring he is back in Paris, but no better. 
 Still he starts to work again, and writes the little 
 play in verse, Polyplieme — attractive, insignificant —
 
 Albert Samain 91 
 
 which was published in the second edition of Aux 
 Flancs du Vase, in 1901. 
 
 The Winter was disastrous, his letters are full of 
 his suffering. In the Spring, he paid a visit to his 
 sister in Lille, but it rained all the time and he could 
 not leave the house. Paris again, and the five flights 
 almost impossible to negotiate. Then M. Bonheur, 
 generous and devoted as always, took him to his 
 own house at Magny-les-Hammeaux in the depart- 
 ment of Seine-et-Oise. But Samain feared to be a 
 burden on his friend, and after a few weeks as his 
 guest insisted upon hiring a house on the other side 
 of the road and moving into it, believing, with the 
 invincible optimism of the consumptive, that he 
 should get well, and that they would go to Italy 
 together in the Autumn. Albert Samain died on 
 the 1 8th of August, 1900, and was buried in his 
 native town of Lille. 
 
 In 1901, appeared his last volume of poems, Le 
 Chariot d'Or, and in 1903, a volume of prose stories, 
 entitled Contes, both collections due to the care and 
 affection of his friends. 
 
 Le Chariot d'Or is, if anything, superior to both 
 Au Jardin de V Infante and Aux Flancs du Vase. 
 Not so polished as the latter probably, nor so arti- 
 ficially captivating as the former. But many of 
 the poems seem to have a larger humanity. The 
 eighteenth century pieces are here, but more tenderly, 
 more regretfully done. This one, called Watteau,
 
 92 Six French Poets 
 
 might serve as a companion piece to Vile Fortunee, 
 but how differently executed : 
 
 WATTEAU 
 
 Au-dessus des grands bois profonds 
 
 L'etoile du berger s'allume . . . 
 
 Groupes sur I'herbe dans la brume . . . 
 
 Pizzicati des violons . . . 
 
 Entre les mains, les mains s'attardent, 
 
 Le ciel oil les amants regardent 
 
 Laisse un reflet rose dans I'eau ; 
 
 Et dans la clairiere indecise, 
 
 Que la nuit proche idealise, 
 
 Passe entre Estelle et Cydalise 
 
 L'ombre amoureuse de Watteau. 
 
 Watteau, peintre ideal de la Fete jolie, 
 
 Ton art leger fut tendre et doux comme un soupir, 
 
 Et tu donnas une ame inconnue au Desir 
 
 En I'asseyant aux pieds de la Melancolie. 
 
 Tes bergers fins avaient la canne d'or au doigt ; 
 Tes berg^res, non sans quelques fagons hautaines, 
 Promenaient, sous I'ombrage ovi chantaient les fontaines, 
 Leurs robes qu'efifilait derriere un grand pli droit . . . 
 
 Dans I'air bleuatre et tiede agonisaient les roses ; 
 Les coeurs s'ouvraient dans l'ombre au jardin apais6, 
 Et les levres, prenant aux levres le baiser, 
 Fiangaient I'amour triste k la douceur des choses.
 
 Albert Samain 93 
 
 Les Pterins s'en vont au Pays ideal . . . 
 La galore doree abandonne la rive ; 
 Et ramante a la proue ecoute au loin, pensive, 
 Une flute mourir, dans le soir de cristal . . . 
 
 Oh ! partir avec eux par un soir de mystere, 
 O maitre, vivre un soir dans ton r^ve enchante ! 
 La mer est rose. ... II souffle une brise d'ete, 
 Et quand la nef aborde au rivage argent e 
 
 La lune doucement se leve sur Cythere. 
 
 L'eventail balance sans treve 
 
 Au rythme intime des aveux 
 
 Fait, chaque fois qu'il se souleve, 
 
 S'envoler au front des cheveux, 
 
 L 'ombre est suave . . . Tout repose. 
 
 Agnes sourit ; Leandre pose 
 
 Sa viole sur son manteau ; 
 
 Et sur les robes parfumees, 
 
 Et sur les mains des Bien-Aimees, 
 
 Flotte, au long des moUes ramees, 
 
 L'^me divine de Watteau. 
 
 Take these four sonnets on Versailles. Again, 
 the artificiality has gone. The melancholy wears 
 its natural complexion as it were, unpalnted, and 
 in No. II is a fine irony, gentle, — the author is 
 Samain — but healthy and keen.
 
 94 Six French Poets 
 
 VERSAILLES 
 
 I 
 
 O Versailles, par cette apres-midi fanee, 
 Pourquoi ton souvenir m'obsede-t-il ainsi ? 
 Les ardeurs de I'et^ s'eloignent, et void 
 Que s'incline vers nous la saison surannee. 
 
 Je veux revoir au long d'une calme joumee 
 
 Tes eaux glauques que jonche un feuillage roussi, 
 
 Et respirer encore, un soir d'or adouci, 
 
 Ta beaute plus touchante au declin de I'annee. 
 
 Voici tes ifs en cone et tes tritons joufflus, 
 Tes jardins composes ou Louis ne vient plus, 
 Et ta pompe arborant les plumes et les casques. 
 
 Comme un grand lys tu meurs, noble et triste, sans bruit ; 
 Et ton onde epuisee au bord moisi des vasques 
 S'ecoule, douce ainsi qu'un sanglot dans la nuit. 
 
 11 
 
 Grand air. Urbanite des fagons anciennes. 
 Haut ceremonial. Reverences sans fin. 
 Crequi, Fronsac, beaux noms chatoyants de satin. 
 Mains ducales dans les vieilles valenciennes, 
 
 Mains royales sur les ^pinettes. Antiennes 
 Des 6v6ques devant Monseigneur le Dauphin.
 
 Albert Samain 95 
 
 Gestes de menuet et coeurs de biscuit fin ; 
 
 Et ces graces que Ton disait Autrichiennes . . . 
 
 Princesses de sang bleu, dont Tame d'apparat, 
 
 Des siecles, au plus pur des castes macera. 
 
 Grands seigneurs pailletes d'esprit. Marquis de s^vres. 
 
 Tout un monde galant, vif , brave, exquis et fou, 
 
 Avec sa fine ep^e en verrouil, et surtout 
 
 Ce mepris de la mort, comme une fleur, avix levres ! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Mes pas ont suscite les prestiges enfuis. 
 O psyche de vieux saxe ovi le Passe se mire . . . 
 C'est ici que la reine, en ecoutant Zemire, 
 R^veuse, s'eventait dans la tiedeur des nuits. 
 
 O visions : paniers, poudre et mouches ; et puis, 
 Leger comme un parfum, joli comme un sourire 
 C'est cet air vieille France ici que tout respire ; 
 Et toujours cette odeur penetrante des buis . . . 
 
 Mais ce qui prend mon coeur d'une etreinte infinie, 
 Aux rayons d'un long soir dorant son agonie, 
 C'est ce Grand-Trianon solitaire et royal, 
 
 Et son perron desert ou I'automne, si douce, 
 Laisse pendre, en revant, sa chevelure rousse 
 Sur I'eau divinement triste du grand canal.
 
 96 Six French Poets 
 
 IV 
 
 Le bosquet de Vertumne est delaisse des Graces. 
 Cette ombre, qui, de marbre en marbre gemissant, 
 Se traine et se retient d'un beau bras languissant, 
 Helas, c'est le Genie en deuil des vieilles races. 
 
 O Palais, horizon supreme des terrasses, 
 Un peu de vos beaut es coule dans notre sang ; 
 Et c'est ce qui vous donne un indicible accent, 
 Quand un couchant sublime illumine vos glaces ! 
 
 Gloires dont tant de jours vous futes le decor, 
 Ames etincelant sous les lustres. Soirs d'or. 
 Versailles . . . Mais deja s'amasse la nuit sombre. 
 
 Et mon coeur tout a coup se serre, car j'entends, 
 
 Comme un belier sinistre aux mur allies du temps, 
 
 Toujours, le grand bruit sourd de ces flots noirs dans I'ombre. 
 
 A new vigour, utterly foreign to the other volumes, 
 is here. Occasionally, something almost like humour 
 and animal spirits creeps in. Here are two little 
 sonnets called Paysages, in which Samain shows the 
 Flemish love of painting : 
 
 PAYSAGES 
 I 
 
 L'air est trois fois leger. Sous le ciel trois fois pur, 
 Le vieux bourg qui s'efifrite en ses noires murailles 
 Ce clair matin d'hiver sourit sous ses pierrailles 
 A ses monts familiers qui re vent dans I'azur . . .
 
 Albert Saniain 97 
 
 Une dalle encastree, en son latin obscur, 
 
 Parle apres deux mille ans d'antiques funerailles. 
 
 Cesar passait ici pour gagner ses batailles, 
 
 Un oiseau du printemps chante sur le vieux mur . . . 
 
 Bruissante sous 1 'ombre en dentelle d'un arbre, 
 La fontaine sculpt ee en sa vasque de marbre 
 Fait briller au soleil quatre filets d'argent. 
 
 Et pendant qu'a travers la marmaille accourue 
 La diligence jaune entre dans la grand 'rue, 
 La tour du Signador jette I'heure en songeant. 
 
 II 
 
 L'horloger, pale et fin, travaille avec douceur ; 
 Vagues, le seuil beant, somnolent les boutiques ; 
 Et d'un trottoir a I'autre ainsi qu'aux temps antiques 
 Les saluts du matin echangent leur candeur. 
 
 Panonceaux du notaire et plaque du docteur . . . 
 A la fontaine un gars fait boire ses bourriques ; 
 Et vers le catechisme en files symetriques 
 Des petits enfants vont, conduits par une sceur. 
 
 Un rayon de soleil darde comme une fleche 
 
 Fait tout a coup chanter une voix claire et fraiche 
 
 Dans la ruelle obscure ainsi qu'un corridor. 
 
 De la montagne il sort des ruisselets en foule, 
 
 Et partout c'est un bruit d'eau vive qui s'ecoule 
 
 De I'aube au front d'argent jusqu'au soir aux yeux d'or. 
 
 H
 
 98 Six French Poets 
 
 There is certainly humour in the yellow diligence, 
 and in the door-plates of the doctor and notary. 
 
 La Cuisine is the most Flemish thing that Samain 
 ever did. It is a whole palette of shouting colours, 
 and as realistic as Zola's still life pictures in Le 
 Ventre de Paris. 
 
 LA CUISINE 
 
 Dans la cuisine ou flotte une senteur de thym, 
 Au retour du marche, comme un soir de butin, 
 S'entassent pele-mele avec les lourdes viandes 
 Les poireaux, les radis, les oignons en guirlandes, 
 Les grands choux violets, le rouge potiron, 
 La tomate vernie et le pale citron. 
 Comme un grand cerf -volant la raie enorme et plate 
 Git fouill6e au couteau, d'une plaie ecarlate. 
 Un li^vre au poll rougi traine sur les paves 
 Avec des yeux pareils a des raisins creves. 
 D'un tas d'huitres vide d'un panier couvert d'algues 
 Monte I'odeur du large et la fraicheur des vagues. 
 Les cailles, les perdreaux au doux ventre ardoise 
 Laissent, du sang au bee, pendre leur cou brise ; 
 C'est un 6tal vibrant de fruits verts, de legumes, 
 De nacre, d'argent clair, d'ecailles et de plumes. 
 Un trongon de saumon saigne et, vivant encor, 
 Un grand homard de bronze, achete sur le port, 
 Parmi la victuaille au hasard entassee, 
 Agite, agonisant, une antenne cass6e. 
 
 One more quotation and I have done. It is a 
 poem with the title Nocturne Provincial, and it is
 
 Albert Safnain 99 
 
 modern — yes, modern, as we to-day understand 
 the term — in subject, in treatment, even in its 
 changing rhythms. 
 
 NOCTURNE PROVINCIAL 
 
 La petite ville sans bruit 
 
 Dort profondement dans la nuit. 
 
 Aux vietix reverberes a branches 
 Agonise un gaz indigent ; 
 Mais soudain la lune emergeant 
 Fait tout au long des maisons blanches 
 Resplendir des vitres d 'argent. 
 
 La nuit tiede s'evente au long des marronniers . . . 
 La nuit tardive, ou flotte encor de la lumi^re. 
 Tout est noir et desert aux anciens quartiers ; 
 Mon ame, accoude-toi sur le vieux pont de pierre, 
 Et respire la bonne odeur de la riviere. 
 
 Le silence est si grand que mon coeur en frissonne. 
 Seul, le bruit de mes pas sur le pave resonne. 
 Le silence tressaille au coeur, et minuit Sonne ! 
 
 Au long des grands murs d'un couvent 
 Des feuilles bruissent au vent. 
 Pensionnaires . . . Orphelines . . . 
 Rubans bleus sur les pelerines . . . 
 C'est le jardin des Ursulines.
 
 100 Six French Poets 
 
 Une brise a travers les grilles 
 Passe aussi douce qu'un soupir. 
 Et cette etoile aux feux tranquilles, 
 La-bas, semble, au fond des charmilles, 
 Une veilleuse de saphir. 
 
 Oh ! sous les toits d'ardoise a la lune pMis, 
 
 Les vierges et leur pur sommeil aux chambres claires, 
 
 Et leurs petits cous ronds noues de scapulaires, 
 
 Et leurs corps sans peche dans la blancheur des lits ! . 
 
 D'une heure egale ici I'heure egale est suivie, 
 
 Et r Innocence en paix dort au bord de la vie . . . 
 
 Triste et deserte infiniment 
 Sous le clair de lune electrique, 
 Voici que la place historique 
 Aligne solennellement 
 Ses vieux hotels du Parlement. 
 
 A I'angle, une fen^tre est eclairee encor. 
 Une lampe est 1^-haut, qui veille quand tout dort ! 
 Sous le irtXe tissu, qui tamise sa flamme, 
 Furtive, par instants, glisse une ombre de femme. 
 
 La fen^tre s'entr'ouvre un peu ; 
 
 Et la femme, poignant aveu, 
 
 Tord ses beaux bras nus dans I'air bleu , . .
 
 Albert Samain loi 
 
 O secretes ardeurs des nuits provinciales ! 
 Coeurs qui brulent ! Cheveux en desordre epandus ! 
 Beaux seins lourds de desirs, petris par des mains pales ! 
 Grands appels suppliants, et jamais entendus ! 
 
 Je vous evoque, 6 vous, amantes ignorees, 
 Dont la chair se consume ainsi qu'un vain flambeau, 
 Et qui sur vos beaux corps pleurez, desesperees, 
 Et faites pour I'amour, et d'amour devorees, 
 Vous coucherez, un soir, vierges dans le tombeau ! 
 
 Et mon ame pensive, a Tangle de la place, 
 Fixe toujours la-bas la vitre ou I'ombre passe. 
 
 Le rideau frele au vent frissonne ... 
 La lampe meurt . . . Une heure sonne. 
 Personne, personne, personne. 
 
 There are other parts to the book. Parts not so 
 interesting, not so different. We know that many 
 of the poems in the volume date from the time of 
 Au Jardin de V Infante. Which ones are they? I 
 wonder. Were the ones we think more modern 
 really written later, or did Samain, at one time in 
 his career, confuse art with artificiality, and elimi- 
 nate these poems as less good than others? Here 
 they are, beautiful works of art for us to speculate 
 upon, and proofs of the power of the modern world, 
 which imposes itself upon us whether we will or not.
 
 102 Six French Poets 
 
 In closing, I cannot help asking myself the ques- 
 tion : Have I evoked a man for you ? Have I 
 shown him as he was : a genius, graceful, timid, 
 proud, passionate, and reserved ? Let me end by 
 two quotations, descriptions, by men who knew him. 
 The first one is in a letter from the poet Robert de 
 Montesquiou ; he says: "I had occasion to meet 
 the author of Au Jardin de V Infante at the house of 
 a mutual friend. . . . The simplicity of his atti- 
 tude and manners, the dignity of his life, could 
 only add to the predilection his works had inspired. 
 But his life was shut like his soul, fastened as well. 
 One could only, one would wish only, to distract it 
 for brief moments. The rest resolves itself into the 
 pure, tender, penetrating songs which are his books. 
 I had the pleasure of meeting Albert Samain many 
 times. . . . He always showed himself reserved 
 without affectation, the result of his distinguished 
 and discreet nature." 
 
 The other quotation is Francis Jammes* elegy on 
 Albert Samain: 
 
 ELEGIE PREMIERE 
 A Albert Samain 
 
 Mon cher Samain, c'est k toi que j'ecris encore. 
 C'est la premiere fois que j 'envoie k la mort 
 ces lignes que t'apportera, demain, au ciel, 
 quelque vieux serviteur d'un hameau eternel. 
 Souris-moi pour que je ne pleure pas. Dis-moi : 
 "Je ne suis pas si malade que tu le crois."
 
 Albert Samain 103 
 
 Ouvre ma porte encore, ami. Passe mon seuil 
 
 et dis-moi en entrant : " Pourquoi es-tu en deuil ? " 
 
 Viens encore. C'est Orthez ou tu es. Bonheur iest 1^. 
 
 Pose done ton chapeau sur la chaise qui est la. 
 
 Tu as soif ? Void de I'eau de puits bleue et du vin. 
 
 Ma mere va descendre et te dire : "Samain ..." 
 
 et ma chienne appuyer son museau sur ta main. 
 
 Je parle. Tu souris d'un serieux sourire. 
 
 Le temps n'existe pas. Et tu me laisses dire. 
 
 Le soir vient. Nous marchons dans la limiiere jaune 
 
 qui fait les fins du jour ressembler a I'Automne. 
 
 Et nous longeons le gave. Une colombe rauque 
 
 gemit tout doucement dans im peuplier glauque. 
 
 Je bavarde. Tu souris encore. Bonheur se tait. 
 
 Voici la route obscure au declin de I'Ete, 
 
 voici I'ombre a genoux pres des belles-de-nuit 
 
 qui ornent les seuils noirs ou la fumee bleuit. 
 
 Ta mort ne change rien. L'ombre que tu aimais, 
 
 oti tu vivais, ou tu souffrais, ou tu chantais, 
 
 c'est nous qui la quittons et c'est toi qui la gardes. 
 
 Ta lumiere naquit de cette obscurite 
 
 qui nous pousse a genoux par ces beaux soirs d'Ete 
 
 ou, flairant Dieu qui passe et fait vivre les bles, 
 
 sous les liserons noirs aboient les chiens de garde. 
 
 Je ne regrette pas ta mort. D'autres mettront 
 le laurier qui convient aux rides de ton front. 
 Moi, j'aurais peur de te blesser, te connaissant. 
 II ne faut pas cacher aux enfants de seize ans 
 qui suivront ton cercueil en pleurant sur ta lyre, 
 la gloire de ceux-la qui meurent le front libre.
 
 104 "^^^ French Poets 
 
 Je ne regret te pas ta mort. Ta vie est 1^. 
 
 Comme la voix du vent qui berce les lilas 
 
 ne meurt point, mais revient apres bien des annees 
 
 dans les memes lilas qu'on avait cru fanes, 
 
 tes chants, mon cher Samain, reviendront pour bercer 
 
 les enfants que deja milrissent nos pensees. 
 
 Sur ta tombe, pareil k quel que patre antique 
 dont pleure le troupeau sur la pauvre coUine, 
 je chercherais en vain ce que je peux porter. 
 Le sel serait mange par I'agneau des ravines 
 et le vin serait bu par ceux qui font pille. 
 
 Je songe k toi. Le jour baisse comme ce jour 
 o\x je te vis dans mon vieux salon de campagne. 
 Je songe a toi. Je songe aux montagnes natales. 
 Je songe a ce Versailles ou tu me promenas, 
 ou nous disions des vers, tristes et pas a pas. 
 Je songe a ton ami et je songe a ta mere. 
 Je songe a ces moutons qui, au bord du lac bleu, 
 en attendant la mort belaient sur leurs clarines. 
 
 Je songe a toi. Je songe au vide pur des cieux. 
 Je songe a I'eau sans fin, k la clarte des feux. 
 Je songe a la rosee qui brille sur les vignes. 
 Je songe a toi. Je songe a moi. Je songe k Dieu. 
 
 It Is all in that one line : "Knowing you, I feared 
 to wound you."
 
 -. ■^'^i5;T 
 
 i¥ 
 
 iN 
 
 5^v 
 
 t#*^^ 
 
 
 -J;^^ 
 
 V'A 
 
 m4. 
 
 
 m. 
 
 
 i i 
 
 I i 
 
 jL. ' 
 
 
 M*^*i^ : 
 
 \ J 
 
 J?i ^*^ 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 7 i 
 
 Ji-f- 
 
 
 (J UjjUjv^ ^>^ \/^*^ -.^^'^ 1
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT 
 
 Of the six poets whom I have chosen for the sub- 
 jects of these essays, It is certain that the one for 
 whom Anglo-Saxon readers must feel the least sym- 
 pathy is Remy de Gourmont. He is also the one 
 who, considered strictly as poet, must be acknowl- 
 edged to be the least considerable. Out of the forty- 
 one, or so, volumes which he has published, his 
 poetry is easily contained in one volume and some 
 thirty pages of another. And nowhere among his 
 poems is there one which can be considered a master- 
 piece. As a masterpiece of pure poetry, I should 
 say, for of masterpieces of cunning verbal nuances 
 there are several. 
 
 Why then, it may very well be asked, include him 
 among my six poets? Because no one of the later 
 period of French literature has been more prominent 
 than he, and no one has had a greater influence 
 upon the generation of writers that have followed 
 his. He has had this influence directly, through his 
 poems ; and indirectly, by his critical writings and 
 philological studies. 
 
 107
 
 io8 Six French Poets 
 
 As it used to be said that Meredith was the 
 writer's writer, I might say that Gourmont is the 
 poet for poets. He is the great teacher of certain 
 effects, the instructor in verbal shades. No one 
 has studied more carefully than he the sounds of 
 vowels and consonants. Not even from his great 
 teacher, Mallarme, can more be learnt. As a 
 producer of colour in words, he cedes to no one ; 
 his knowledge of the technique of poetry is un- 
 surpassed. 
 
 "Poet, critic, dramatist, savant, biologist, philoso- 
 pher, novelist, philologian and grammarian," is 
 the way the editors of Poetes d'Aujourd'hui style 
 him. And really, the extent of his literary activity 
 take one's breath away. Of course, the danger to 
 such a man is in the almost inevitable Jack-of-all- 
 Trades result which such a multitude of avocations 
 trails along with it. It is heresy to whisper such a 
 thing, but it cannot really be denied that in only 
 one of these branches has Gourmont made himself 
 supreme. But in that he has no equal. The 
 aesthetic of the French language (to borrow one 
 of his own titles) ; there he is on absolutely indis- 
 putable ground. 
 
 Yet it would not be fair to give you the idea that 
 he has done merely well along his other lines. Can 
 a man so conversant with the art of writing ever 
 write merely well ? Gourmont's novels and tales 
 are among the best of the last twenty years, only
 
 Remy de Gourmont 109 
 
 others have surpassed him ; the same is true of his 
 poems. But the way he has written, no one can 
 surpass him there ; and we, who try to write, mull 
 over his pages for hours at a time, and endeavour to 
 < learn the lesson which he has analyzed and illus- 
 trated for us. Along with that is another lesson, 
 written as clearly in his pages, of what not to do, of 
 the necessity for singleness of purpose, of the terrible 
 pitfall looming always before the man who is at 
 once an artist and an insatiably curious person. 
 
 Great, excessively great, people can do it. Leo- 
 nardo da Vinci did it. He pulled the two characters 
 along side by side, to the profit of both. But Remy 
 de Gourmont has not quite done it, and it is natural 
 to suppose that the literary masterpieces he might 
 have made have wasted away while he dabbled in 
 science. Physique de f Amour is a most interesting 
 volume on the sexual instinct in animals. But 
 there are many books on the subject by others more 
 competent for the task. And I cannot help think- 
 ing it a little odd that this should be the only purely 
 scientific essay he has written. Interesting though 
 it is, contemplated in Its place among Gourmont's 
 work as a whole, should we not consider it as an- 
 other evidence of that preoccupation with sex which 
 has robbed his books of the large view they might 
 have had? It cannot be denied that a man who 
 plays perpetually upon an instrument of one string is 
 confining himself within a very small musical compass.
 
 no Six French Poets 
 
 Is Gourmont's work so diversified after all ? Yes, 
 and no. But let us work up to these considera- 
 tions gradually, and examine them in their proper 
 place. 
 
 Remy de Gourmont was born in the Chateau of 
 La Motte at Bazoches-en-Houlme, in Normandy, 
 on the fourth of April, 1858. He is the descendant 
 of a remarkable family of painters, engravers, and 
 printers, of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. 
 One of the family, Gilles de Gourmont, was the first 
 person in Paris to use Greek and Hebrew types in 
 printing. On his mother's side, Gourmont is directly 
 descended from the family of Frangois de Malherbe 
 — the great Malherbe, of whom Boileau said, "He 
 was the master of our great classic writers." 
 
 Of the youth of Remy de Gourmont I know noth- 
 ing, as the only real biography of him I have been 
 unable to get. But, in 1883, he came up to Paris, 
 like all energetic young Frenchmen with intellectual 
 tendencies, and obtained a position in the Biblio- 
 theque Nationale. Here he remained until 1891, 
 when an article of his called Le Joujou Patriotisme 
 was too much for the authorities, and he lost his 
 position. 
 
 His first book, a novel called Merlette, appeared 
 in 1886, and very little of his real originality ap- 
 peared in it, although it contained pleasant de- 
 scriptions of Normandy. His next book, Sixtine, 
 came out in 1890. Its second title was Roman
 
 Remy de Gourmont iii 
 
 de la Vie Cerebrale, and that might stand as sub- 
 title for all his work. Oh, the delightful book that 
 
 ' Sixtine is ! I remember reading it in a sort of 
 breathless interest. The hero is a writer, and every- 
 
 ( thing that happens to him he translates almost 
 
 ^ bodily into his work. Two stories are carried on 
 at the same time, the real one and the one he is 
 writing. The chapters follow each other with no 
 regular order, the reader only knows which story is 
 which by the context, and the incidents of the 
 written story are sometimes all he learns of the real 
 story, which is taken up again later at a point farther 
 on. 
 
 But what a childish way to tell of a book so full 
 of startling revolutionism ! Sixtine is indeed a 
 novel of the life of the brain. Gourmont wishes 
 to prove that the world is only a simulacrum, and 
 the perception of it hallucinatory. Sixtine is meta- 
 physics masking as a story, and Hubert d'Entrague 
 is the Gourmont of the period, with his knowledge, 
 his curiosity, and, too, his sensual side. But, incon- 
 ceivable undercurrent though it has, it has an appear- 
 
 • ance of firm ground. Paris is there, with its quais, 
 its Luxembourg, its boulevards, its Museum, its 
 Bibliotheque Nationale ; and Normandy is there, 
 with its fields and apple orchards. And here is that 
 wonderful writing, that gift of words. I will quote 
 two passages from it, both in prose. (A poem which 
 is also in the book I wish to keep until we reach his
 
 112 Six French Poets 
 
 poetry.) The first of these passages is about a sort 
 of ghostly apparition which appears in a mirror. 
 Notice the colours, and the way the figure is gradually 
 drawn out of the glass : 
 
 J'ai vu le portrait. La lune pMe et verte planait dans ma 
 chambre ; je venais de me reveiller et d'obscures et ophidiennes 
 visions me hantaient encore. L'oeil fievreux, je regardais autour 
 de moi avec defiance. . . . Etais-je dans ma chambre et dans 
 mon lit? . . . Peut-etre. Voila qu'au-dessus de la cheminee 
 la glace lentement change de teinte : son vert lunaire, son vert 
 d'eau transparente sous des saules s'avive et se dore. On dirait 
 qu'au centre de la lueur, comme sur la face meme de la lune, 
 des ombres se projettent avec des apparences de traits humains, 
 tandis qu 'autour de la vague figure une ondulation lumineuse 
 serpente comme des cheveux blonds denoues et flottants. 
 
 Vert lunaire — those words in ere are favourites 
 with Gourmont, we shall meet them many times. 
 Also, the green light of the moon is nice, and, inci- 
 dentally, true. 
 
 The other is the description of a Madonna over 
 the door of a church in Naples. In the names of the 
 unusual stones, we see an evidence of Gourmont' s 
 wide knowledge : 
 
 Une eglise de fuyants contreforts, ecrasee et lourde, attirait 
 d'abord le regard inexperimente et par la splendeur de sa Madone 
 enrubannee le fixait. Quand le soleil declinant allait au fond de 
 la niche ogivale la baigner de rayons, les rubis et les peridots de sa 
 tiare, les lepidolithes et les topazes, aureole etoilee, reverberaient 
 I'eclat d'autant d'astres et la figure aux yeux diamantes extasiait.
 
 Remy de Gourmont 113 
 
 Not only do we get the brilliance of the sunset 
 lighting up the church and its Madonna, the sound 
 is not sacrificed to the picture, extraordinarily vivid 
 though that is. Listen to the different vowel sounds 
 before the I's in aureole etoilee ; and the s's, and ai 
 sound, in the last line. 
 
 Properly speaking, these are not poems. They 
 are written as prose and Intended to be prose, but 
 Gourmont himself has said, "beautiful prose should 
 have a rhythm which makes one doubt If it be 
 prose. Buffon wrote only poems, and Bossuet and 
 Chateaubriand and Flaubert." 
 
 In an interview accorded to a representative of 
 the Echo de Paris, shortly after the publication of 
 Sixtine, Gourmont says, "They tell me that In my 
 recently published novel, Sixtine, I have produced 
 Symbolisme. Now behold my Innocence. I never 
 guessed It. Nevertheless, I learned it without great 
 astonishment : unconsciousness plays so large a part 
 in intellectual operations. I even believe it plays 
 the greatest of all." Certainly, Remy de Gourmont 
 had "produced Symbolisme,'' as unconsciously as 
 most of the Symbolistes produced It at first. 
 '* Symbolisme Is an attitude of mind, not a school," 
 as Tancrede de Visan very well says, in his V Atti- 
 tude du Lyrisme Contemporain, "a lyric Ideal in 
 conformity with other tendencies of modern life." 
 To understand what this lyric Ideal was, and how It 
 came about, we must go back a little. No study of
 
 114 •^'^^ French Poets 
 
 Remy de Gourmont can be complete without taking 
 him in connection with the Symboliste movement. 
 
 Poetry, Hke all art, is organic. It is endowed 
 with a life of its own, and must naturally carry within 
 it the seeds of evolution and change. Every true 
 artistic movement is a necessary movement toward 
 maturity. It is as silly to attempt to stop the 
 artistic clock, as it was for King Canute to forbid 
 the advance of the waves. It is the eternal penance 
 of the artist to be in advance of the people. Writ- 
 ing to be read (otherwise why write!), the true 
 artist can seldom write to suit the taste of the actual 
 public. If he lives to a reasonable age, the public 
 may come round to him, but his beginnings will 
 always be looked upon with suspicion. 
 
 Every artist knows this, and yet every artist rails 
 against the besotted ignorance of the public, as if 
 he were the only person who had ever experienced 
 the phenomenon, and his time the only one in which 
 it had appeared. 
 
 Remy de Gourmont, and the men of his age, came 
 along at the heels of the Romantic Movement. 
 Musset and Hugo were dead, so was Baudelaire, 
 who might be called the last of the Romantics. As 
 a protest against the somewhat turgid manner Into 
 which Romanticism had fallen, a small group of 
 men, notably Theophile Gautler, Leconte de Lisle, 
 and Jose-Maria de Heredia, took to writing poems of 
 severe, plastic beauty, deprived of over-rich orna-
 
 Remy de Gourmont 115 
 
 ment, and delighting by their sharp and beautiful 
 contours. Their verses were so cold as to be almost 
 frozen into immobility, but instead of Hugo's moral 
 preoccupations, they propounded the theory of 
 "art for art's sake," then a new and vigorous battle- 
 cry. These men form the Parnassian School. 
 Theirs was a protest against fantasticality. And 
 extraordinarily different though it appears to be, 
 this movement was prompted by the same protest 
 which in prose produced first Flaubert, then De 
 Maupassant and Zola: the Realistic School of 
 Fiction. 
 
 The poetry of the Parnassian School is very beau- 
 tiful, but it hardly lends itself to the expression of 
 all the phases of our complex modern life. Mal- 
 larme, in love with pure sound, could not content 
 himself within an art which was almost entirely 
 sculpture. Verlaine, choking with emotions, filled 
 with lyric despairs, found no relief in carving beau- 
 tiful cameos. These men broke away from the 
 Parnassian School, and each in his way attempted 
 to widen the scope of French poetry. 
 
 Mallarme is the great master of the later Sym- 
 bolistes. His was an original contribution to French 
 poetry. And original contributions, as we shall 
 see in a moment, were the foundation stones of the 
 Symholiste movement. Mallarme formed a theory 
 that poetry lies more in the sound of words than 
 in their sense. He did not break away from the
 
 ii6 Six French Poets 
 
 classic alexandrine, but made it more undulating and 
 tuneful. 
 
 Veriaine had no particular theory except to ex- 
 press himself (also a thoroughly Symbolistic point 
 of view) ; but he found this impossible in the shin- 
 ing ice of the alexandrine. He fell back to the old 
 ballad metres, and Ronsard. He, too, was pre- 
 occupied with sound. "De la musique avant toute 
 chose," he has said. 
 
 With Mallarme and Veriaine the SymhoUste move- 
 ment may be said to be fairly started. But Mal- 
 larme and Veriaine were not called Symbolistes, at 
 first, they were called Decadents, partly because 
 Mallarme was known to have studied and been 
 influenced by the Latin writers of the Decadence, 
 partly because these lines appeared in Veriaine' s 
 first book : 
 
 Je suis TEmpire a la fin de la decadence. 
 
 That did it, and the unfortunate and unfair 
 appellation was lanced. It was after hearing this 
 line recited in a cafe in the Quartier Latin, that Paul 
 Adam founded a little paper and bravely called it 
 La Decadence, and other young men followed with 
 another little sheet called Le Decadent. 
 
 It was a silly name. One of the greatest periods 
 of French poetry was the result of these so-called 
 Decadents. Never has there been a more fertile 
 moment in any literature. Talents rose to the
 
 Remy de Gourmont wj 
 
 surface every day. And the great Parisian public 
 went about its business quite unconscious, feted 
 its Coppees, and Octave Feuillets ; and if it 
 thought of these new men at all, thought of them 
 only to scoff. 'Twas ever thus, and we need not 
 be surprised that Paris, clever though she be, is 
 not entirely apart from the stream of common 
 humanity. 
 
 Naturally, their writings were not welcomed in 
 the regular reviews, and the poets were reduced to 
 printing little sheets of their own. One of these, 
 and one which Gourmont calls the most singular 
 of all, was named La Cravache. It was a ridiculous 
 little paper, where finance alternated with litera- 
 ture, and the printer cared very little what went 
 into it, provided that the first three pages were 
 filled. Georges Lecomte discovered this small 
 journal, and with Adolph Rette made it one of the 
 most curious literary gazettes which it is possible 
 to imagine. The contributors were Huysmans, 
 Moreas, Henri de Regnier, Kahn, Viele-Grifiin, 
 Paul Adam, Hennique, Charles Morice, Feneon, — 
 and finally, Verlaine. It was in the obscure Cravache 
 that the first version of his volume, Parallelement, 
 appeared. Verlaine had already published Sagesse, 
 but still no other journal in Paris was open to his 
 poems. In the Cravache also, Huysmans* study on 
 La Bievre was printed, and Viele-Griffin's transla- 
 tions of Walt Whitman's poems.
 
 ii8 Six French Poets 
 
 Gourmont remarks, with what seems to us, 
 aware of the conditions both here and in England, 
 a strange optimism : "I beheve that only in France 
 is such a thing possible. Ten writers and poets of 
 talent, of whom one is Verlaine and another Huys- 
 mans, to whom all the serious newspapers are closed, 
 and practically all the reviews." 
 
 La Cravache was not the only little review ; there 
 were a great many others, among them La Vogue, 
 La Pleiade, and Le Scapin, this last edited by a 
 young man named Alfred Vallette. Toward the 
 end of 1889, some one approached Gourmont and 
 asked him to collaborate in a little review to be 
 called Le Mercure de France and edited by this 
 same Alfred Vallette. He consented, and in so doing 
 became one of the founders of that now famous 
 publication, together with Samain, R^gnier, and 
 all the others of their group. Of course, there was 
 no money, and to meet this difficulty so-called 
 "Founders' Shares" were issued, at sixty francs a 
 share. The founders seem to have been able to 
 compass that, the richest man among them, Jules 
 Renard, buying four. 
 
 The Mercure de France instantly leapt into fame, 
 because of a series of satirical ballads by Laurent 
 Tailhade, Foil de Carotte by Jules Renard, and the 
 delicate verses of Albert Samain. Saint- Pol-Roux, 
 who called himself an "ideo-realiste," contributed a 
 series of short poems in rhythmic prose, notably
 
 Remy de Gourmont 119 
 
 Le Pelerinage de St. Anne. The Merciire also became 
 famous for its critics, not the least of these being 
 Remy de Gourmont himself. It is interesting to 
 note that, until 1914, no number had come out with- 
 out something from his pen, either poetry, novel, 
 tale, or criticism. 
 
 Since 1895, the Mercure has become the official 
 organ of the Symholiste School. But what is the 
 Symboliste School ? We have seen what the Deca- 
 dents were, and how they started. What changed 
 them into Symbolistes ? 
 
 Let me quote Gourmont himself, in the "Pref- 
 ace" to the first Livre des Masques: "What does 
 Symbolisme mean ? If one keeps to its narrow and 
 etymological sense, almost nothing ; if one goes 
 beyond that, it means : individualism in literature, 
 liberty of art, abandonment of existing forms, a 
 tending toward what is new, strange, and even 
 bizarre ; it also may mean idealism, disdain of the 
 social anecdote, anti-naturalism, a tendency to take 
 only the characteristic detail out of life, to pay 
 attention only to the act by which a man distin- 
 guishes himself from another man, and to desire only 
 to realize results, essentials ; finally, for poets, 
 Symbolisme seems associated with vers libre.'" And 
 farther on in the same "Preface," contradicting 
 Nordau, who believes that only when conforming to 
 existing standards is art sane, Gourmont says : 
 "We differ violently from this opinion. The capital
 
 120 Six French Poets 
 
 crime for a writer is conformity, imitation, the sub- 
 mission to rules and teaching. The work of a writer 
 should be, not merely the reflection, but the enlarged 
 reflection, of his personality. 
 
 "The sole excuse which a man can have for writ- 
 ing is to write down himself, to unveil for others 
 the sort of world which mirrors itself in his individual 
 glass ; his only excuse is to be original ; he should 
 say things not yet said, and say them in a form not 
 yet formulated. He should create his own aesthetics 
 — and we should admit as many aesthetics as there 
 are original minds, and judge them for what they 
 are and not what they are not. Admit then that 
 Symbolisme is, even though excessive, even though 
 tempestuous, even though pretentious, the expres- 
 sion of individualism in art." As the organ of "the 
 expression of individualism in art," the Mercure is 
 as up to date to-day as it was the year it was 
 founded. 
 
 Remy de Gourmont is one of the foremost Sym- 
 bolistes then, from every point of view. He has aided 
 the movement and flaunted its banner, first uncon- 
 sciously, as we have seen, later consciously. Indi- 
 vidualism, not only in art, but in everything else, 
 has been his creed. He has welcomed young men 
 of talent, and been their encourager and adviser. 
 For himself, his novels are all "remans de la vie 
 cerebrale," they are pictures of the intimate life of 
 his own brain and personality. He is an intellec-
 
 Remy de Gourmont 121 
 
 tual ; and his novels, and tales, and poems, are 
 intellectual tours de force. Let us stop for a moment 
 and consider this personality, so strangely diverse, 
 and yet so unified. 
 
 In an article in the "Weekly Critical Review," M. 
 Louis Dumur says of Remy de Gourmont: "With 
 him there is nothing which tells of the particularity 
 of a province. ... He is neither Southern, nor 
 Breton ; nor is he Parisian. He is a Frenchman of 
 France, and even of old France. He belongs a little, 
 if you like, to the North, that North which was the 
 cradle of the Langue d'Oil, the section which ex- 
 perienced most intimately that fusion of Roman, 
 Celt, and Frank, from which has come the his- 
 tory, the language, and the spirit, of this country 
 (France) . 
 
 "One must be lettered to fully appreciate M. de 
 Gourmont. His work does not impress itself im- 
 mediately upon the simple and ignorant public. 
 Nobody, certainly, is more modern than he ; but 
 his modernity presupposes the past. . . . He is of 
 the great literary line ; he takes his place naturally 
 there, in his own time — traditionalist, because his 
 race sparkles in him ; innovator, because there is no 
 pleasure in, nor reason for, existing, except in the 
 evolution of ideas, of trend, of temperament. If 
 one wished to draw the genealogical tree of M. de 
 Gourmont, it would not be an absolutely vain 
 amusement. To my mind, there would be, in their
 
 122 Six French Poets 
 
 legitimate order of ascent, Renan, Balzac, Stendhal, 
 Chateaubriand, \ oltaire, Fenelon, IMontaigne ; one 
 could even put, in spite of his probable protestations, 
 Boileau and X'augelas. This tree would plunge its 
 roots on all sides of the Middle Ages, the tap-root 
 would be anchored upon scholasticism and theology ; 
 the deep soil of Latin antiquity would bear it ; . . . 
 the light foreign infiltration would be represented 
 first by Italy, and next by the Germany of Nietzsche ; 
 on the margin one could add the title to debatable 
 quarterings: Villiers de ITsle Adam, Gerard de 
 Nerval, Chamfort . . . and perhaps the Marquis de 
 Sade." 
 
 I have quoted M. Dumur at length because I 
 thought he presented the many sides of this brilliant 
 personality better than I could do. 
 
 Sixtine was followed, in 1892, by Le Latin Mys- 
 tique, with a preface by J.-K. Huysmans. This book 
 is a study of the Latin writers of the Middle Ages, 
 who greatly attracted Gourmont, as they had 
 Mallarme and Huysmans. In the poem which 
 appeared in Sixtine, and which I did not quote when 
 we were considering that book, the influence of the 
 Latin mediaeval writers is very evident. It is even 
 written in one of their favourite forms called a Se- 
 quence. It is an extraordinary- thing in its virtuosity. 
 Notice the prevalence of the ere sound so beloved by 
 him, and the alliterations :
 
 Remy de Gourmont 12;^ 
 
 FIGURE DE RE\"E 
 
 Sequence 
 
 La tr^ chere anx yeux clairs apparait sous la liine, 
 
 Sous la lune ephem^re et mere des beaux reves. 
 
 La lumiere bleuie par les brumes cendrait 
 
 D'lme poussiere aeriemie 
 
 Son front fleiiri d'etoiles, et sa legere chevelure 
 
 Flottait dans Tair derriere ses pas legers : 
 
 La chimere dormait au fond de ses prunelles. 
 
 Sur la chair nue et frele de son cou 
 
 Les stellaires sourires d'un rosaire de perles 
 
 Etageaient les reflets de leurs pales eclairs. Ses poignets 
 
 Avaient des bracelets tout pareils ; et sa tete, 
 
 La couronne incrustee des sept pierres mystiques 
 
 Dont les fiammes transpercent le cceur comme des glaives, 
 
 Sous la lune ephemere et m^re des beaux reves. 
 
 Perhaps it was his stay at the Bibliotheque 
 Nationale, perhaps it was his fondness for things 
 beautiful and recherche inherited from those old 
 engravers and printers of the sixteenth centur\% at 
 any rate Gourmont pubhshed many of his early 
 books in limited editions in extremely small format, 
 and with special paper and type. His poems, Fleiirs 
 de Jadis and Hieroglyphes, came out in that way, 
 and also some of his prose books. Fkurs de Jadis 
 is called an edition elzhnrienne, and the forty-seven 
 copies on Holland paper were each numbered and 
 signed by the author. Le Chateau Singidier, a prose
 
 124 Six French Poets 
 
 tale, is "ornamented with thirty- two vignettes in 
 red and blue;" a third, VYmagier, in "grand 
 quarto" with "nearly three hundred engravings, 
 reproductions of ancient woodcuts of the fifteenth 
 and sixteenth centuries, great coloured pictures, 
 pages of old books, miniatures, lithographs, wood- 
 cuts, drawings, etc. by Whistler, Gauguin," etc., etc., 
 etc. It will be seen that Gourmont was something 
 of a bibliographical dandy. And it is a sort of 
 literary dandyism which principally appears in these 
 early poems. They are extremely interesting, but, 
 it must be admitted, a bit precious. At the same 
 time that he was publishing these special editions, 
 in the early nineties, various others of his books 
 were being issued in the ordinary way. Among 
 them, the strangest and most successful of his poems. 
 Litanies de la Rose. 
 
 A strange thing with Latin writers, and one which 
 we, here in America, can never quite accustom our- 
 selves to, is the great hold which Catholicism has 
 on them. When they are believers, professing 
 allegiance to the Church, we can understand it. 
 But when they have ceased to believe, we expect 
 them to cease to think of the Church at all. On 
 the contrary', all the French sceptic writers I have 
 read scream their scepticism from the house tops, 
 and "go and bang it against the front door." They 
 delight in what I am forced to consider a very 
 childish form of sacrilege. For Gourmont to call
 
 Remy de Gourmont 125 
 
 his poem a "litany" evidently gave him a piquant 
 thrill. We see the same thing in the half-shivering 
 delight which Huysmans takes in describing the 
 Black Mass in Ld-Bas. But Huysmans ended by 
 tumbling back into the arms of the Church, so it is 
 evident that its hold upon him had never really been 
 lost. With Gourmont, profound believer in natural 
 science that he was then, and that he has gone on 
 being in a constantly increasing ratio ever since, 
 this pleasure in being audaciously impertinent to 
 holy things is a little hard to explain. To commit 
 the crime of lese-majesty there must be a "Majesty" 
 first. To profane a holy thing, you must first admit 
 it to be holy ; if you deny the holiness, where is the 
 sacrilege? And without the sacrilege, where is the 
 fun? The truth seems to be that, to most French- 
 men, Catholicism is more of a superstition than a 
 religion. I hardly believe religion, as we conceive 
 the term, to be possible to the Latin mind. They 
 throw off the superstition violently and flauntingly, 
 but, like small boys and their proud denial of the 
 existence of the bogey-man, there is always the 
 underlying fear that this thing you do not believe in 
 may put out a huge claw, some dark night, and 
 scrape you in. Gourmont has his little sacrilegious 
 pleasures quite frequently, notably in the poem, 
 Oraisons Mauvaises, and in various of the stories. 
 
 But I only paused here to note a curious trait in 
 the Latin character, and one which is often mis-
 
 126 Six French Poets 
 
 understood, and always thoroughly disliked, by 
 Anglo-Saxons. It appears so often In Gourmont 
 and others of the Symbolistes, particularly the prose 
 writers, that It seemed necessary to take cognizance 
 of It, and put It where It belonged. 
 
 I wish I could quote the whole of Litanies de la 
 Rose. Here the author has given roses of fifty-seven 
 colours. Nowhere else Is his wonderful manipula- 
 tion of words so apparent, and his gift for perceiv- 
 ing and describing colours so displayed. The poem 
 is an astounding profusion of sounds, of pictures, of 
 colours, of smells. It Is a mixture of artifice and 
 spontaneity, "of Heaven and Hell," as a critic has 
 said. Each rose is supposed to be a woman, and the 
 kind of women can best be shown by the two lines 
 with which the poem begins : 
 
 Fleur hypocrite, 
 Fleur du silence. 
 
 That Gourmont has not much opinion of women, 
 this poem would seem to prove. But that need not 
 matter to us. Some poems are beautiful because 
 of what they say, some because of the way they say 
 it. Gourmont describes these unpleasant women, 
 compounded of lies and deceits, in a way to make 
 one weep with the beauty of the presentation. 
 We have : 
 
 Rose aux yeux noirs, miroir de ton neant, rose aux yetix noirs, 
 fais-nous croire au mystere, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. . .
 
 Remy de Gourmont 127 
 
 Rose couleur d'argent, encensoir de nos reves, rose couleur 
 d'argent, prends notre coeur et fais-en de la fumee, fleur hypo- 
 crite, fleur du silence. . . 
 
 Rose vineuse, fleur des tonnelles et des caves, rose vineuse, 
 les alcools fous gambadent dans ton haleine : souffle-nous 
 I'horreur de I'amour, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 
 
 We have: "Rose en papier de sole," "Rose 
 couleur de I'aurore, couleur du temps, couleur de 
 Hen," "Rose incarnate," "Rose au coeur virginal," 
 "Rose couleur du soir," "Rose bleue, rose iridine," 
 "Rose escarboucle, rose fleurie au front noir du 
 dragon," and this whole stanza again : 
 
 Rose hyaline, couleur des sources claires jaillies d'entre les 
 herbes, rose hyaline, Hylas est mort d'avoir aime tes yeux, fleur 
 hypocrite, fleur du silence. 
 
 The poem ends with this stanza : 
 
 Rose papale, rose arrosee des mains qui benissent le monde, 
 rose papale, ton coeur d'or est en cuivre, et les larmes qui perlent 
 sur ta vaine coroUe, ce sont les pleurs du Christ, fleur hypocrite, 
 fleur du silence. 
 
 Fleur hypocrite, 
 
 Fleur du silence. 
 
 A strange ending for a poem which sets out to be 
 audacious and sacrilegious. An odd pitiful tender- 
 ness is here, and an irony as fine and sad as mist. 
 
 Fleur s de Jadis and Le Dit des Arbres, are the two 
 other poems in this pattern. Again they are women, 
 but the bitter jabbing is not here. Fleur s de Jadis
 
 128 Six French Poets 
 
 is built round this beautiful, melancholy beginning : 
 "Je vous prefere aux coeurs les plus galants, coeurs 
 trepasses, cceurs de jadis." Here again Gourmont 
 shows his erudition, his observation, and his love 
 for nature. His flowers are beautiful, believable : 
 "Jonquilles, dont on fit les cils purs de tant de 
 blondes filles;" "Aconit, fleur casquee de poison, 
 guerriere a plume de corbeau;" "Campanules, 
 amoureuses clochettes que le printemps tintinna- 
 bule" (that last has a touch of Heine) ; "Belle-de- 
 nuit qui frappas a ma porte, il etait minuit, j'ai 
 ouvert ma porte a la Belle-de-nuit et ses yeux 
 fleurissaient dans I'ombre ; " " Lavande, petite seri- 
 euse, odeur de la vertu, . . . chemise a la douzaine 
 dans des armoires de chene, lavande pas bien me- 
 chante, et si tendre;" "Alysson, dont la belle ame 
 s'en va toute en chansons." Delicate, lovely, is it 
 not? 
 
 It is the same with the trees: "Bouleau, frisson 
 de la baigneuse dans I'ocean des herbes folles, pen- 
 dant que le vent se joue de vos pales chevelures;" 
 "Sorbier, parasol des pendeloques, grains de corail 
 au cou dore des gitanes;" "Meleze, dame aux 
 tristes pensees, parabole accoudee sur la ruine d'un 
 mur, les araignees d'argent ont tisse leurs toiles a 
 tes oreilles ;" " Maronnier, dame de cour en paniers, 
 dame en robe brodee de trefles et de panaches, dame 
 inutile et belle." 
 
 Undoubtedly these three are Gourmont's finest
 
 Remy de Gourmont 129 
 
 poems. They, and particularly Litanies de la Rose, 
 are the ones to which Gourmont's admirers chiefly 
 refer. I am an admirer of Gourmont's myself, and 
 I prefer these poems to his others. They contain 
 more of his original and peculiar qualities. But 
 Gourmont has left them out of a collection of 
 his poems called Divertissements , which was pub- 
 lished in 1 9 14. He has underscored this volume 
 Poemes en Vers, w^hich I suppose means poems in 
 regular metres. This is what he says about it in 
 the "Preface:" "In this collection there are very 
 few purely verbal poems, those dominated by the 
 pleasure of managing the obliging flock of words ; 
 it can easily be understood that forcing such 
 obedience has discouraged me in the exact measure 
 that I assured myself of their excessive docility. 
 Perhaps it will be found that I have ended by con- 
 ceiving the poem under a too despoiled form, but 
 that was perhaps permitted to the author of Litanies 
 de la Rose, which poem has been rejected for a col- 
 lection that I wished representative of a life of 
 sentiment rather than a life of art." The rest 
 of the sentence we need not quote, it is very sad, 
 and shows Gourmont at fifty-seven considering 
 himself an old man, and rightly so I fear, with wan- 
 ing powers. 
 
 What does that mean ? That vers libre, which he 
 himself considers as one of the most indigenous 
 qualities of the Symboliste poet, as we saw in his
 
 130 Six French Poets 
 
 Preface to the Livre des Masques, has been with 
 him not a conviction, but an experiment? Or that 
 this extremely French Frenchman finds himself, now 
 that his energies are weakening, atavistically return- 
 ing to the traditions of his race ? We can only say 
 that whatever his theories, vers litre has never seemed 
 an irresistible form with him. 
 
 But I am suffering the common lot of biographers 
 and writers about Remy de Gourmont, I am get- 
 ting side-tracked by first one phase of his genius 
 and then another. It is impossible to follow him 
 coherently. His life has been a congestion of intel- 
 lectual activities. 
 
 Let us come back to 1893, or thereabouts. In 
 1894, appeared Histoires Magiques, prose stories, and 
 in 1894 also, Hieroglyphes, a collection of poems. In 
 this book appears the Sequence from Sixtine I read 
 you a little while ago, and this poem, Ascension : 
 
 ASCENSION 
 
 Un soir, dans la bruy^re delaissee, 
 Avec I'amie souriante et lassee . . . 
 , O soleil, fleur cueillie, ton lovird corymbe 
 
 Agonise et descend tout pale vers les limbes. 
 Ah ! si j'etais avec I'amie lassee, 
 Un soir, dans la bruyere delaissee ! 
 
 Les rainettes, parmi les reines des pres 
 Et les roseaux, criaient enamour^es.
 
 Remy de Gourmont 131 
 
 Les scarab ees grimpent le long des preles, 
 Les geais bleus font flechir les branches freles. 
 On entendait les cris enamoures 
 Des rainettes, parmi les reines des pres. 
 
 Un chien, au seuil d'lme porte entr'ouverte, 
 La-haut, pleure a la lune naissante et verte 
 Qui rend un peu de joie au ciel aveugle ; 
 La vache qu'on va traire s'agite et meugle, 
 Un chien pleure a la lune naissante et verte, 
 La-haut, au seuil d'une porte entr'ouverte. 
 
 Pendant que nous montons, I'ame inquiete 
 Et souriante, vers la coiu-be du faite, 
 Le Reve, demeure k mi-chemin, 
 S'assied pensif, la tete dans sa main, 
 Et nous montons vers la courbe du faite, 
 Nous montons souriants, I'ame inquiete. 
 
 The following years saw the publication of a num- 
 ber of books, all in prose, and his first volume of con- 
 temporary criticism, Le Livre des Masques. That 
 Gourmont is a poet in his prose, this description 
 of Maeterlinck's plays will abundantly prove : 
 
 II y a une He quelque part dans les brouillards, et dans I'ile 
 il y a un chateau, et dans le chateau il y a une grande salle eclai- 
 ree d'une petite lampe, et dans la grande salle il y a des gens 
 qui attendent. lis attendent quoi ? lis ne savent pas. lis at- 
 tendent que Ton frappe h. la porte, ils attendent que la lampe 
 s'eteigne, ils attendent la Peur, ils attendent la Mort. Ils
 
 1^2 Six French Poets 
 
 parlent ; oui, ils disent des mots qui troublent un instant le si- 
 lence, puis ils ecoutent encore, laissant leurs phrases inachev^es et 
 leurs gestes interrompus. Ils ecoutent, ils attendent. EUe ne 
 viendra peut-etre pas ? Oh ! elle viendra. EUe vient toujours. 
 II est tard, elle ne viendra peut-6tre que demain. Et les gens 
 assembles dans la grande salle sous la petite lampe se mettent k 
 sourire et ils vont esp^rer. On frappe. Et c'est tout ; c'est 
 toute une vie, c'est toute la vie. 
 
 More novels and tales, a second Livre des Masques, 
 and in 1899, another book of poems, Les Saintes 
 du Paradis. Gourmont has succeeded in throwing 
 off the superstition. Les Saintes du Paradis might 
 have been written by a believer, or by an artist 
 using Catholicism merely as decoration. Gour- 
 mont has assured us that with him this latter 
 is the case. With simplicity, with charm, these 
 saints pass before us. Here are nineteen saints 
 stepped out of some old missal, each with her legend 
 carefully detailed, and each painted in the beautiful, 
 bright colours so dear to the mediaeval illuminator. 
 In the following "Dedication," they file past us in 
 some country of clear pinks and greens, painted by 
 Fra Angelico. 
 
 DEDICACE 
 
 O peregrines qui cheminez songeuses, 
 Songeant peut-^tre a des roses lointaines, 
 Pendant que la poussiere et le soleil des plaines 
 Ont briile vos bras nus et votre ^me incertaine,
 
 Remy de Gourmont 133 
 
 peregrines qui cheminez songeuses, 
 Songeant peut-etre a des roses lointaines ! 
 
 Voici la route qui m^ne k la montagne, 
 
 Voici la claire fontaine ou fleurissent les baumes, 
 
 Voici le bois plein d'ombre et d'anemones, 
 
 Voici les pins, voici la paix, voici les domeg, 
 
 Voici la route qui m^ne ^ la montagne, 
 
 Voici la claire fontaine ou fleurissent les baumes ! 
 
 peregrines qui cheminez songeuses, 
 
 Suivez la voix qui vous appelle au ciel : 
 
 Les arbres ont des feuillages aussi doux que le miel 
 
 Et les femmes au coeur pur y devierment plus belles. 
 
 O peregrines qui cheminez songeuses, 
 
 Suivez la voix qui vous appelle au ciel. 
 
 Here are the poems on Saint Agatha, martyred 
 for her chastity, for refusing the proposals of the 
 Sicilian Governor, Quintarius ; on Saint Collette, 
 foundress of seventeen convents of the strict obser- 
 vance, and terrible sufferer from her own rigours ; 
 on Jeanne d'Arc ; and on Saint Ursula, the English 
 saint and teacher, who preferred death at the hands 
 of the Hun to violation : 
 
 AGATHE 
 
 Joyau trouve parmi les pierres de la Sicile, 
 Agathe, vierge vendue aux revendeuses d'amour, 
 Agathe, victorieuse des colliers et des bagues.
 
 134 '5'^x French Poets 
 
 Des sept rubis magiques et des trois pierres de lune, 
 
 Agathe, rejouie par le feu des fers rouges, 
 
 Comme un amandier par les douces pluies d'automne, 
 
 Agathe, embaumee par un jeune ange vetu de pourpre, 
 
 Agathe, pierre et far, Agathe, or et argent, 
 
 Agathe, chevaUere de Malte, 
 
 Sainte Agathe, mettez du feu dans notre sang. 
 
 COLETTE 
 
 Douloureuse beaut e cachee dans la pri^re, 
 
 Colette, dure a son coeux et plus dure a sa chair, 
 
 Colette prisonniere dans les cloitres amers 
 
 Ovi les colliers d 'amour sont des chaines de fer, 
 
 Colette qui pour mourir se coucha sur la terre, 
 
 Colette apres sa mort restee fraiche comme une pierre, 
 
 Sainte Colette, que nos coeurs deviennent durs comme des pierres. 
 
 JEANNE 
 
 Bergere nee en Lorraine, 
 
 Jeanne qui avez gard6 les moutons en robe de futaine, 
 
 Et qui avez pleure aux miseres du peuple de France, 
 
 Et qui avez conduit le Roi k Reims parmi les lances, 
 
 Jeanne qui etiez un arc, vme croix, un glaive, un coevir, une lance, 
 
 Jeanne que les gens aimaient comme leur pere et leur mere, 
 
 Jeanne blessee et prise, mise au cachot par les Anglais, 
 
 Jeanne brulee a Rouen par les Anglais, 
 
 Jeanne qui ressemblez a un ange en colere, 
 
 Jeanne d'Arc, mettez beaucoup de colere dans nos coeurs.
 
 Remy de Gourmont 135 
 
 URSULE 
 
 Griffon du nord, b^te sacree venue 
 
 Dans la lumiere bleue d'un r^ve boreal, 
 
 Ursule, flocon de neige bu par les levres de Jesus. 
 
 Ursule, etoile rouge vers la tulipe de pourpre, 
 
 Ursule, sceur de tant de coeurs innocents, 
 
 Et dont la tete sanglante dort comme une escarboucle 
 
 Dans la bague des arceaux, 
 
 Ursule, nef, voile, rame et tempete, 
 
 Ursule, envolee sur le dos de I'oiseau blanc, 
 
 Sainte Ursule, emportez nos ames vers les neiges. 
 
 In 1890, appeared the first of Gourmont's philo- 
 logical works, Esthetique de la Langue Fraiigaise, 
 followed, in 1900, by another, La Culture des Idees. 
 Between them was another novel, Le Songe d'une 
 Femme, and in 1900, the last of his poems came out. 
 It is entitled, Simone, Poeme Champetre. There is 
 nothing very astounding about Simone, but there is 
 a great deal that is very delightful. Gourmont 
 is doing something more than play with words. 
 Here he makes h's words subordinate themselves to 
 feeling, to sentiment. We no longer have the arti- 
 ficial and learned vers libre of Litanies de la Rose and 
 Fleurs de Jadis, nor the long, quiet, uneven lines of 
 Les Saintes du Paradis — eleven, thirteen, some- 
 times nineteen syllables in length. For the first 
 time, Gourmont tries more tripping metres, metres 
 of a sharp, light rhythm. It seems as though
 
 136 Six French Poets 
 
 a greater interior calm had left him room for simpler, 
 gayer-hearted joys. 
 
 I have chosen a great many poems from Simone 
 to print. They almost say themselves, and as you 
 read you can see the clouds sailing over the trees 
 under which we are sitting, and hear " the shepherd's 
 clapping shears," as Leigh Hunt has it. Notice, in 
 Les Cheveux, how, under the guise of a love poem, 
 Gourmont has given us all the flora of his coun- 
 tryside, and with the same matter-of-fact, and yet 
 somehow bewitching, statement, which is a pecul- 
 iarity of the old herbals : 
 
 LES CHEVEUX 
 
 Simone, il y a un grand myst^re 
 Dans la for^t de tes cheveux. 
 
 Tu sens le foin, tu sens la pierre 
 
 Ou des b^tes se sont poshes ; 
 
 Tu sens le cuir, tu sens le ble, 
 
 Quand il vient d'etre vanne ; 
 
 Tu sens le bois, tu sens le pain 
 
 Qu'on apporte le matin ; 
 
 Tu sens les fleurs qui ont pousse 
 
 Le long d'un mur abandonne ; 
 
 Tu sens la ronce, tu sens le lierre 
 
 Qui a ete lave par la pluie ; 
 
 Tu sens le jonc et la fougere 
 
 Qu'on fauche a la tombee de la nuit ;
 
 Remy de Gourniont 137 
 
 Tu sens le hovix, tu sens la mousse, 
 
 Tu sens I'herbe mourante et rousse 
 
 Qui s'egrene a Tombre des haies ; 
 
 Tu sens I'ortie et le genet, 
 
 Tu sens le trefle, tu sens le lait ; 
 
 Tu sens le fenouil et I'anis ; 
 
 Tu sens les noix, tu sens les fruits 
 
 Qm sont bien mlirs et que Ton cueille ; 
 
 Tu sens le saule et le tilleul 
 
 Quand ils ont des fleurs pleins les feuilles ; 
 
 Tu sens le miel, tu sens la vie 
 
 Qui se promdne dans les prairies ; 
 
 Tu sens la terre et la riviere ; 
 
 Tu sens I'amour, tu sens le feu. 
 
 Simone, il y a un grand myst^re 
 Dans la for^t de tes cheveux. 
 
 It is the same in this next poem, only here the 
 presence of Simone has become more a part of 
 the beauty. In spite of the quite usual temper of 
 the poem, where only April, first throwing down the 
 violets and then thrusting them under the brambles, is 
 in the least new, it has a feeling of complete freshness : 
 
 LE HOUX 
 
 Simone, le soleil rit sur les feuilles de houx : 
 Avril est revenu pour jouer avec nous. 
 
 II porte des corbeilles de fleurs sur ses epaules, 
 
 II les donne aux epines, aux marronniers, aux saules ;
 
 138 Six French Poets 
 
 II les s^me une a une parmi I'herbe des pr6s, 
 
 Sur le bord des ruisseaux, des mares et des fosses ; 
 
 II garde les jonquilles pour I'eau, et les pervenches 
 Pour les bois, aux endroits ou s'allongent les branches ; 
 
 II jette les violettes k I'ombre, sous les ronces 
 
 Ou son pied nu, sans peur, les cache et les enfonce ; 
 
 A toutes les prairies il donne des p&querettes 
 
 Et des primevdres qui ont un collier de clochettes ; 
 
 II laisse les muguets tomber dans les for^ts 
 Avec les anemones, le long des sentiers frais ; 
 
 II plante des iris sur le toit des maisons, 
 Et dans notre jardin, Simone, ou il fait bon, 
 
 II repandra des ancolies et des pensees, 
 Des jacinthes et la boime odeur des giroflees. 
 
 Le Brouillard is a pure lyric. It is not highly 
 original in either thought or expression. But its 
 simplicity is so sincere that its lack of originality 
 makes really no difference. Here are the first two 
 verses : 
 
 LE BROUILLARD 
 
 Simone, mets ton manteau et tes gros sabots noirs, 
 Nous irons comme en barque a travers le brouillard.
 
 Remy de Gourmont 139 
 
 Nous irons vers les iles de beaute ou les femmes 
 
 Sont belles comme des arbres et nues comme des ames ; 
 
 Nous irons vers les iles oii les hommes sont doux 
 
 Comme des lions, avec des cheveux longs et roux. 
 
 Viens, le monde incree attend de notre reve 
 
 Ses lois, ses joies, les dieux qui font fleurir la seve 
 
 Et le vent qui fait luire et bruire les feuilles. 
 
 Viens, le monde innocent va sortir d'vm cercueil. 
 
 Simone, mets ton manteau et tes gros sabots noirs, 
 Nous irons comme en barque a travers le brouillard. 
 
 Nous irons vers les iles ou il y a des montagnes 
 
 D'ou Ton voit I'etendue paisible des campagnes, 
 
 Avec des animaux heureux de brouter I'herbe, 
 
 Des bergers qui ressemblent k des saules, et des gerbes 
 
 Qu'on monte avec des fourches sur le dos des charrettes : 
 
 II fait encore soleil et les moutons s'arretent 
 
 Pres de I'etable, devant la porte du jardin, 
 
 Qui sent la pimprenelle, I'estragon et le thym. 
 
 Simone, mets ton manteau et tes gros sabots noirs, 
 Nous irons comme en barque k travers le brouillard. 
 
 Much more unusual, much more important, is Les 
 Feuilles Mortes, with its wistful refrain. How 
 beautiful is the line of the dead leaves which "font 
 un bruit d'ailes ou de robes de femme!"
 
 140 Six French Poets 
 
 LES FEUILLES MORTES 
 
 Simone, allons au bois : les feuilles sont tombees ; 
 EUes recouvrent la mousse, les pierres et les sentiers. 
 
 Simone, aimes-tu le bruit des pas sur les feuilles mortes ? 
 
 Elles ont des couleurs si douces, des tons si graves, 
 EUes sont sur la terre de si fr^les epaves ! 
 
 Simone, aimes-tu le bruit des pas sur les feuilles mortes? 
 
 Elles on I'air si dolent a I'heure du cr^puscule, 
 
 Elles orient si tendrement, quand le vent les bouscule ! 
 
 Simone, aimes-tu le bruit des pas sur les feuilles mortes ? 
 
 Quand le pied les ecrase, elles pleurent comme des ames, 
 Elles font un bruit d'ailes ou de robes de femme. 
 
 Simone, aimes-tu le bruit des pas sur les feuilles mortes ? 
 
 Viens : nous serons un jour de pauvres feuilles mortes. 
 Viens : deja la nuit tombe et le vent nous emporte. 
 
 Simone, aimes-tu le bruit des pas sur les feuilles mortes ? 
 
 Truly, in reading these poems, we go from one 
 pleasant country scene to another, and step from 
 season to season of the bucolic year. Not the least 
 interesting part of them is the new side they show
 
 Remy de Goiirmont 141 
 
 us of Gourmont's complex character. Here is the 
 river, which sings "un air ingenu." One can almost 
 hear its clear rippling over a pebble bottom, so flow- 
 ing is the movement of the poem ; and what a 
 youthful, happy line he has given us in "Et moi, je 
 verrai dans I'eau claire ton pied nu." 
 
 LA RIVIERE 
 
 Simone, la riviere chante un air ingenu, 
 Viens, nous irons parmi les joncs et la cigue ; 
 II est midi : les hommes ont quitte leur charrue, 
 Et moi, je verrai dans I'eau claire ton pied nu. 
 
 La riviere est la m^re des poissons et des fleurs, 
 Des arbres, des oiseaux, des parfums, des couleurs ; 
 
 EUe abreuve les oiseaux qui ont mange leur grain 
 Et qui vont s'envoler pour un pays lointain ; 
 
 EUe abreuve les mouches bleues dont le ventre est vert 
 Et les araignees d'eau qui rament comme aux galeres. 
 
 La riviere est la mere des poissons : elle leur donne 
 Des vermisseaux, de I'herbe, de I'air et de I'ozone ; 
 
 Elle leur donne I'amour ; elle leur donne les ailes 
 Pour suivre au bout du monde I'ombre de leur femelles. 
 
 La riviere est la mere des fleurs, des arcs-en-ciel, 
 De tout ce qui est fait d'eau et d'un peu de soleil :
 
 1^2 Six French Poets 
 
 Eile nourrit le sainfoin et le foin, et les reines 
 Des pres qui ont I'odeur du miel, et les molenes 
 
 Qui ont des feuilles douces comme un duvet d'oiseaux ; 
 EUe nourrit le ble, le trefle et les roseaux ; 
 
 EUe nourrit le chanvre ; elle nourrit le lin ; 
 EUe nourrit I'avoine, I'orge et le sarrasin ; 
 
 Elle nourrit le seigle, I'osier et les pommiers ; 
 Elle nourrit les saules et les grands peupliers. 
 
 La riviere est la mere des f orets : les beaux chenes 
 Ont puise dans son lit I'eau pure de leurs veines. 
 
 La riviere f econde le ciel : quand la pluie tombe, 
 C'est la rividre qui monte au ciel et qui retombe ; 
 
 La riviere est une mere trSs puissante et tres pure, 
 La riviere est la mere de toute la nature. 
 
 Simone, la riviere chante un air ingenu, 
 Viens, nous irons parmi les joncs et la cigue, 
 II est midi : les hommes ont quitte leur charrue, 
 Et moi, je verrai dans I'eau claire ton pied nu. 
 
 But of all of these poems, I prefer Le Verger. The 
 metre is irresistible, and lilts along like a gay tune. 
 One can hardly resist the pleasure of reading it 
 aloud, and then — reading it again. The tune gets
 
 Remy de Gourmont 143 
 
 into one's head, and one goes about for half a day, 
 
 murmuring : 
 
 Allons au verger, Simone, 
 
 Allons au verger. 
 
 Yes, Remy de Gourmont is a many-sided man 
 indeed ! 
 
 LE ^'ERGER 
 
 Simone, allons au verger 
 Avec un panier d'osier. 
 Nous dirons a nos pommiers. 
 En entrant dans le verger : 
 Voici la saison des pommes, 
 Allons au verger, Simone, 
 Allons au verger. 
 
 Les pommiers sont pleins de gu^pes, 
 Car les pommes sont tres m<lres : 
 II se fait un grand murmure 
 Autour du vieux doux-aux-v^pes. 
 Les pommiers sont pleins de pommes, 
 Allons au verger, Simone, 
 Allons au verger. 
 
 Nous cueillerons la calville, 
 Le pigeonnet et la reinette, 
 Et aussi des pommes k cidre 
 Dont la chair est un peu doucette. 
 Voici la saison des pommes, 
 Allons au verger, Simone, 
 Allons au verger.
 
 144 -^^^ French Poets 
 
 Tu auras I'odeur des pommes 
 
 Sur ta robe et sur tes mains, 
 
 Et tes cheveux seront pleins 
 
 Du parfum doiix de rautomne. 
 
 Les pommiers sont pleins de pommes, 
 
 Aliens au verger, Simone, 
 
 Aliens au verger. 
 
 Simone, tu seras mon verger 
 
 Et mon pommier de doux-aux-v^pes ; 
 
 Simone, ecarte les guepes 
 
 De ton coeur et de mon verger. 
 
 Voici la saison des pommes, 
 
 AUons au verger, Simone, 
 
 Aliens au verger. 
 
 Following Simone in Divertissements, is a group of 
 poems called Paysages Spirituels. The one I am 
 going to quote bears the date 1898, and although it 
 therefore precedes the publication of Simone, it does 
 not really precede it, for Simone was written in 1892. 
 
 CHANSON DE L'AUTOMNE 
 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est I'autemne, 
 L'automne humide et monotone, 
 Mais les feuilles des cerisiers 
 Et les fruits murs des eglantiers 
 Sont rouges comme des baisers, 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est l'automne.
 
 Remy de Gourmont 145 
 
 Viens, mon amie, le rude automne 
 
 Serre son manteau et frissonne 
 
 Mais le soleil a des douceurs ; 
 
 Dans I'air leger comme ton coeur, 
 
 La brume berce sa langueur, 
 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est Tautomne. 
 
 Viens, mon amie, le vent d'automne 
 Sanglote comme une personne. 
 Et dans les buissons entr'ouverts 
 La ronce tord ses bras pervers, 
 Mais les chines sont tou jours verts, 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est I'automne. 
 
 Viens, mon amie, le vent d'automne 
 Durement gronde et nous sermonne, 
 Des mots sifflent par les sentiers, 
 Mais on entend dans les halliers 
 Le doux bruit d'ailes des ramiers, 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est I'automne. 
 
 Viens, mon amie, le triste automne 
 Aux bras de I'hiver s'abandonne, 
 Mais I'herbe de I'et^ repousse, 
 • La derniere bruyere est douce, 
 Et on croit voir fleurir la mousse, 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est I'automne. 
 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est I'automne, 
 Tout nus les peupliers frissorment, 
 
 L
 
 146 Six Fre?ich Poets 
 
 Mais leur feuillage n'est pas mort ; 
 Gonflant sa robe coulcur d'or, 
 II danse, il danse, il danse encor, 
 Viens, mon amie, viens, c'est I'automne. 
 
 Almost a return to the old ballad form, you see. 
 So he works out his destiny, at once modern and 
 rooted to the past. 
 
 After Simone came more philology. Le Chemin 
 de Velours, and Le Probleme du Style. Then his one 
 scientific essay, Physique de V Amour, in which if 
 there were space I could show that he is always a 
 poet, as well in science as in criticism. Then follow 
 the four volumes of literary essays. Promenades 
 Litteraires, and the three volumes of Promenades 
 Philosophiques. Four volumes of Epilogues, which 
 are reflections on current topics, and two more novels, 
 Une Nuit au Luxembourg and Un Cceur Virginal. 
 
 What can one say of such a man ? How classify 
 him? How measure the extent of his accomplish- 
 ment, of his influence? In one short chapter it is 
 impossible. I have only considered him as a poet. 
 And in spite of his tales, his novels, his plays, his 
 criticisms, and his essays, I believe him to be first 
 of all a poet. He has said somewhere, "I write to 
 clarify my ideas." The artist has been crowded 
 out by the thinker, the seeker after truth. Has 
 that been a misfortune? Who knows.
 
 JwmLM^t(^^ 
 
 •If
 
 HENRI DE REGNIER
 
 HENRI DE REGNIER 
 
 Henri de Regnier Is universally considered the 
 greatest of the Symholiste poets. And if we exclude 
 Emile Verhaeren from the list, as having stepped 
 beyond the school and into a newer age, and exclude 
 Jammes and Fort, as belonging to a younger genera- 
 tion, there is no doubt about it. Who are the other 
 Symbolistes, strictly speaking? Verlaine and Mal- 
 larme were the starters, the masters ; but who were 
 the men who looked up to them, and followed them, 
 and became the Symholiste School, so-called ? They 
 are Viele-Griffin, Stuart Merrill (both, amusingly 
 enough, Americans), Gustave Kahn, Albert Samain, 
 Remy de Gourmont, Jean Moreas, Saint-Pol-Roux, 
 etc., etc. Clearly, Henri de Regnier is far above 
 them all. But he is even more than that, he is 
 one of the great poets of France ; no greater than 
 his master, Mallarme, be it granted, but as great. 
 Only, and here comes in the strangest thing about 
 him, he is an even greater novelist. Such a novelist 
 as there can be only a dozen or so in any nation's 
 history. Hugo, Stendhal, Balzac, Flaubert, Zola, 
 
 149
 
 150 Six French Poets 
 
 Anatole France, is he inferior to any of these ? Per- 
 haps we are too near him to be able to tell definitely, 
 but the general opinion of critics would seem to be 
 that he is their equal. 
 
 Yet, so far as I know, none of his books have been 
 translated into English. Is this because of a cer- 
 tain Rabelaisian gusto in some of them, and a 
 thoroughly Gallic quality in all ? Perhaps. The 
 educated public can read them in French ; the un- 
 educated public, possibly, would not understand 
 them in any language. But the "Gallicisms" are 
 no more in number, and hardly more audacious, 
 than those of Anatole France. Still, Anatole France 
 is known to everybody, while Regnier's name is 
 only vaguely familiar. Yet this man is one of the 
 Immortals, having been elected to the Academy 
 in 191 1, and is an acknowledged master of French 
 prose, receiving the mantle slowly dropping from 
 the shoulders of Anatole France ! 
 
 Henri de Regnier is still a comparatively young 
 man ; although perhaps I should qualify that, as 
 poetry seems to be, for some strange reason, a young 
 man's job, and say that he is only on the edge of 
 middle age, having just passed his fifty-first birth- 
 day. For Henri-Frangois-Joseph de Regnier was 
 born at Honfleur on the twenty-eighth of December, 
 1864. 
 
 The R6gniers are an old aristocratic family, 
 and Henri de Regnier is the product of a race, if
 
 Henri de Regnier 151 
 
 ever a man was. The lives and exploits of his 
 ancestors seem like a page out of one of his own 
 seventeenth century novels. And the polish and 
 reserve which characterize all his books have as 
 certainly descended to him, as has his cold and 
 somewhat haughty expression, and his exceedingly 
 delicate features. In 1585, a certain Crespin de 
 Regnier was a Seigneur of Vigneux in Thierache, 
 and as captain of a company of fifty men-at-arms, 
 he served under the Due de Bouillon and Marshal 
 de Balagny in the wars of the Ligue. In 1589, this 
 gentleman married Yolaine de Fay d'Athies, a 
 daughter of Charles de Fay d'Athies, one of the 
 Hundred Gentlemen of the King's Household. The 
 grandson of Crespin, Charles de Regnier, also had 
 the title, and seems beside to have been an equerry 
 at the Court. In the eighteenth century, Frangois 
 de Regnier was a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Regi- 
 ment of Touraine, and Brigadier in the King's army, 
 and a Chevalier of Saint Louis. {Le Bon Plaisir, 
 one of Henri de Regnier's novels, which deals with 
 this period, is dedicated to him.) In the eighteenth 
 century also, there is a Gabriel-Frangois de Regnier, 
 who was Brigadier of Light Horse in the King's 
 Guard ; and his son, Francois de Regnier, who was 
 Captain in the Regiment of Royal Dragoons. Both 
 these men were Chevaliers of Saint Louis. When 
 the Revolution came, Francois de Regnier emigrated 
 and served in the Army of the Princes. His son
 
 152 Six French Poets 
 
 (the grandfather of the poet) returned to France 
 in 1820, and was made a ChevaHer of the Legion 
 of Honour. The poet's father, Henri-Charles de 
 Regnier, held various posts under the government, 
 among others Inspector of Customs at Honfieur, and 
 Receiver at Paris ; and (and this is an odd thing) 
 he was the boyhood companion of Gustave Flaubert. 
 
 On his mother's side, Henri de Regnier's lineage 
 is no less distinguished, his mother being descended 
 from a certain Yves de Bard, who lived in the six- 
 teenth century. The great-grandson of this Yves 
 de Bard married, in 1662, Marie de Saumaise de 
 Chassans, who was the great-grandniece of a cele- 
 brated savant, Claude de Saumaise, and of Charlotte 
 de Saumaise, who became Comtesse de Bregy, and 
 was lady-in-waiting to Anne of Austria. This lady, 
 although only a many-times-grandaunt of Henri de 
 Regnier, seems to have counted for something in his 
 inheritance, as she wrote "Letters" and "Poems," 
 and was a precieuse of distinction. The De Bard 
 family continued, throughout the seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries, accruing to themselves lands 
 and surnames, and the great-great-grandfather of 
 the poet, Benigne du Bard de Chassans, was a 
 Counsellor of the Parliament of Dijon. 
 
 I have dwelt so long upon these fatiguing genea- 
 logical details, because no one can really under- 
 stand Henri de Regnier out of his frame — that 
 frame of noble, honourable, virile, cultivated sol-
 
 Henri de Regnier 153 
 
 diers, courtiers, and gentlemen, which surrounds 
 him on all sides, and which he, himself, seems to be 
 so atavistically conscious of. One of his novels, 
 Le Passe Vivant, deals with the strong, almost 
 terrible, impulsion of the past. And objective as all 
 Henri de Regnier's work is, I cannot help thinking 
 that in Le Passe Vivant we have an acknowledgment 
 of a condition of which he is perfectly conscious in 
 himself, although, of course, in a lesser degree than 
 he has portrayed it in his characters. But it is not 
 only in Le Passe Vivant that we feel the importunate- 
 ness of the Past ; it vibrates like a mufifled organ- 
 point through all his work. 
 
 Yet I must be careful not to give the impres- 
 sion that Regnier is merely the result and echo of 
 dead generations. So many people are that ; and 
 here, in America, in spite of the generations being 
 still so few, we see it eating through the present 
 like a disease. This old French, decadent aristoc- 
 racy, as we are wont to consider it, seems to main- 
 tain itself with extraordinary ease and success. 
 After four hundred years, not of steady rising, but 
 (much more difficult problem) continued arisen, 
 this family has produced one of the greatest poets 
 and novelists which its country has known. Seven 
 volumes of poetry, fifteen volumes of novels and 
 stories (and all, mind you, works of the very first 
 rank), one play, and three volumes of essays, is his 
 tally up to date. And the man is only fifty-one !
 
 154 ^'^^ French Poets 
 
 Why ! No stevedore could work so hard ! It is 
 colossal. And this man is a scion of an old aristo- 
 cratic family ! 
 
 Until he was seven years old, Henri de Regnier 
 lived at Honfleur. In one of his stories, Le Trefle 
 Blanc, he has given some of his early recollections. 
 "This time of my Hfe," he says, "has remained 
 singularly present to my memory, and I feel it still 
 in a quite particular way. It is as though it were 
 in suspense within me, and forms an indissoluble 
 whole." He remembers the minutest details. For 
 instance, he went with his mother to stay with his 
 grandfather who was dying. Being left much to 
 himself, he wandered about and initiated himself 
 into all the mysteries of the old house. He tells of 
 "the walls scaling;" of "the bulging of the canvas 
 of an old portrait, the cracks in the console, a sliver 
 of the parquet floor which gave under the foot, 
 all the imperceptible nothings which I have never 
 forgotten, all the noises of life and silence to which 
 I was attentive." 
 
 In 187 1, Henri-Charles de Regnier, the poet's 
 father, was appointed Receiver at Paris. And the 
 family moved there. Three years later, in 1874, 
 Henri entered the College Stanislas, and he seems 
 to have written his first poem in 1879. Fifteen 
 years old is not young to attempt writing, and we 
 may feel at ease in the knowledge that Regnier 
 was not an infant phenomenon. There is a tale
 
 Henri de Regnier 155 
 
 that one of his professors, catching him writing a 
 poem, at once confiscated it. Schoolmasters would 
 seem to be the same brilliant, sympathetic lot all 
 over the world. But, thank Heaven, our minds do 
 get fed somehow, in spite of the schools. In 
 Regnier's case, there were the quais, with their rows 
 of green boxes full of books — delightful, hetero- . 
 geneous masses of books, classified only by their 
 state of dilapidation. Trees blowing, blue river, 
 spots of bright sunshine, and books ! Going to 
 school and coming back, Regnier read them, any 
 of them that happened. There was a reading-room 
 in the rue de Sevres where he went also, and again 
 read everything: Hugo, Musset, Flaubert, the 
 tragedies of the eighteenth century, and Voltaire's 
 plays. He says now that in those days he liked 
 bad poetry better than good, and perhaps he did. 
 But all nourished him, and helped him over that 
 most dangerous period for a possible writer — his 
 school-days. 
 
 He graduated in 1883, and to please his family 
 studied law, and passed an examination for the 
 Diplomatic Service. But that was the end of all 
 thought of, or endeavour about, any career other 
 than letters. During this time he had been writing, 
 and his first verses appeared in a little review, 
 Lutece, under the pen-name of Hugues Vignix, so 
 turning his admiration for Victor Hugo and Alfred 
 de Vigny into a sort of monogram.
 
 156 Six French Poets 
 
 Another young man made his Hterary debut in 
 Lutece with Henri de Regnier. This was Francis 
 Viele-Griffin. There was a fencing gallery next 
 door to the office of Lutece, where the young con- 
 tributors used to disport themselves. An amusing 
 joke of the period had it that they learnt to fight 
 in order to kill their predecessors. For, as we saw 
 in the last essay, these young writers were firmly 
 against the established order, and the established 
 order took it out by not acknowledging their 
 existence. 
 
 Regnier, like Samain, had a desire to meet great 
 men, to wear himself smooth by contact with mature 
 minds. Timidly, but firmly, he hazarded a call 
 upon Sully-Prudhomme. He was courteously re- 
 ceived, and continued in pleasant relations with 
 the elder poet until Regnier's adherence to vers 
 libre separated them. 
 
 It was a very quiet, retired life that Regnier led 
 at this time. Reading, studying, learning how. 
 He was thoroughly serious in his work, in his art. 
 He read much Victor Hugo, a master soon to be 
 deserted by his generation. He also read Baude- 
 laire, Vigny, Mallarme, and the sonnets of Jose- 
 Maria de Heredia, not yet published, but appearing 
 from time to time in journals and reviews. Another 
 side of his character drew him to memoirs, novels, 
 books which depicted and analyzed life. He has 
 explained himself as he was then, by saying, " I was
 
 Henri de Regnier 157 
 
 in some sort double, Symboliste and Realiste, loving 
 symbols and anecdotes at the same time, a poem 
 of Mallarme's or an idea of Chamfort's." De 
 Regnier has remained Symboliste and Realiste, neither 
 side of his character has entirely dominated the 
 other, but time has strengthened the realism until 
 it makes a strong and correct base on which the 
 light form of Symbolisme can safely stand. 
 
 In spite of his realistic leanings, Henri de Regnier 
 was principally Symboliste and poet, in these youth- 
 ful days. If he did not begin writing extraordinarily 
 young, he certainly began publishing in the very 
 green leaf. He left college as we have seen, in 1883, 
 at the age of nineteen, and his first book, Les Lende- 
 mains, was published in 1885, when he was twenty- 
 one, and in 1886, a second collection of poems, 
 Apaisement, came out. 
 
 There is nothing very remarkable in these early 
 poems ; they show good masters, careful study, and 
 a pleasant imagination. Considering the extreme 
 youth of their author, they gave excellent promise. 
 The theory that a man should serve his apprentice- 
 ship in silence, and not give his early work to the 
 public, is a disputable one. The Paris of Regnier's 
 youth was full of young men of remarkable talent ; 
 it was full of little reviews publishing the work 
 of these young men. If their circulation was 
 small, at least it was select. It consisted of all the 
 other revolutionary poets, young and old. Printing,
 
 158 Six French Poets 
 
 publishing, a young man made friends and opened 
 doors. Had Regnier kept his early work shut up 
 between the covers of his portfolio, he might have 
 leapt from his obscurity a few years later armed 
 cap-d-pie like Minerva from the head of Jove, but 
 his future would have been harder to make. Co- 
 teries would have been formed without him, places 
 he might have had would have been given to others, 
 bands of early friendships would have kept him 
 outside as a late comer. No, we must admit that 
 Regnier did well to publish these two little vol- 
 umes and the two which succeeded them : Sites, 
 in 1887, and Episodes, in 1888. But why his 
 publishers keep them in print is more difficult 
 of comprehension. Yet these poems suggest the 
 Regnier of later years. Take this, for instance : 
 
 J'ai reve que ces vers seraient comme des fleurs 
 Que fait tourner la main des maitres ciseleurs 
 Autour des vases d'or aux savantes ampleurs. 
 
 It was not a bad prophecy. His poems are like the 
 flowers of master carvers. And the words, "gold 
 vases," are almost the keynote of his work. Remy 
 de Gourmont, in the first Livre des Masques, men- 
 tions his fondness for the words or and mart. And 
 whether we take vases d'or as sound or as sense, it 
 might almost stand as a device in front of any 
 volume of his poems. 
 
 The point of view of his group, and his particular
 
 Henri de Regnier 159 
 
 place in it, has been excellently rendered by M. Jean 
 de Gourmont, one of De Regnier's biographers. 
 Speaking of the Symboliste group, he says, "all the 
 poets of this group, shut up within their particular 
 symbols, described . . . the interior of their prison. 
 M. de Regnier's prison is a palace with onyx columns ; 
 he walks up and down the length of galleries wain- 
 scoted with gold. Large windows open upon nature 
 and life ; he leans out and looks at the spectacle," 
 
 That palace with onyx columns we shall see again, 
 and again, and again. It is one of the truest things 
 ever said about Henri de Regnier. 
 
 At this time, Stephane Mallarme was becoming 
 every moment more certainly the acknowledged 
 master of these younger writers, soon to be known 
 as Symbolistes. He held a sort of salon on Tuesdays, 
 and received his disciples and admirers. He sat in 
 a/' rocking-chair," under his own portrait by Manet, 
 and talked. (I believe a rocking-chair to be a purely 
 American invention, and it must be a matter of 
 national pride for us to feel that we have not only 
 given the French poets Poe and Walt Whitman, 
 whom they understood and admired before we did, 
 but that we have given one of them at least a 
 "rocking-chair.") Sitting in comfortable and rhyth- 
 mic ease — rocking, in fact — and smoking a little, 
 cheap, red clay pipe, Mallarme would hold forth ; 
 and on all the poets who heard him, these Tuesdays 
 stamped an indelible mark.
 
 i6o Six French Poets 
 
 The Tuesdays were in full swing when Regnier 
 began to publish in the little reviews. Soon his 
 work attracted the attention of some of the men 
 who frequented them, and soon Regnier, too, was 
 among the constant visitors to the rue de Rome. 
 For many years he went there practically every 
 week. There is a story that one day, full of emotion, 
 he turned to the Master and said, " I am beginning 
 my tenth year." M. Stuart Merrill informs us that 
 at these meetings Regnier acted as a sort of leader 
 of the chorus ; that he always occupied the same 
 place, on a sofa at Mallarme's right, and whenever 
 the great poet's monologue languished a little, he 
 would put in the happy word which started it going 
 again. 
 
 There is no doubt that these long conversations 
 count for much in the education of an artist. Per- 
 haps that is one reason the French succeed so mar- 
 vellously in Art ; they talk so well. 
 
 In 1887, a new review was started under Rene 
 Ghil, called Les Ecrits pour VArt. Mallarme and 
 Villiers de ITsle-Adam were its Great Masters. 
 Beside them, were Emile Verhaeren, Stuart Merrill, 
 Viele-Griffin, and Henri de Regnier. 
 
 It was sometime about 1888, that Regnier made 
 the acquaintance of Jose-Maria de Heredia, whose 
 receptions at the Bibliotheque de I'Arsenal were 
 crowded with all the literary celebrities of the day. 
 Regnier met Leconte de Lisle there, and Mau-
 
 Henri de Regnier i6i 
 
 passant — a Maupassant already sinking, and a 
 prey to auditory hallucinations. 
 
 Heredia had three daughters, all fond of poetry, 
 and perfectly au courant with the literary work of 
 the day. His second daughter, Marie, even wrote 
 verses herself, and now as "Gerard d'HouvIlle" Is 
 known as a poet of much talent. Henri de Regnier 
 was Introduced to Mile. Marie de Heredia at one 
 of the gatherings at her father's house. Mutual 
 interests naturally brought them together, and in 
 1896 they were married. I mention this now, be- 
 cause it seems to follow naturally after Regnier's 
 meeting with Heredia, and there is nothing to cause 
 us to remember it at the proper time. Regnier is 
 evidently very reticent about his private life. He 
 has the aristocrat's natural love of privacy. Jean 
 de Gourmont says in his little monograph, "Of M. 
 de Regnier's life I only know some episodes, some 
 facts, which he has discreetly revealed to me." We 
 must not forget that R6gnier is still living, and that 
 he Is doing so in a country where privacy is both 
 honoured and respected. 
 
 A younger brother of the Mercure de France, Les 
 Entretiens Politigues et Litteraires, with VIele-Grlfhn 
 as editor, was started somewhere about 1890. 
 Regnier became one of its most enthusiastic con- 
 tributors. Most of the stories, later collected under 
 the title, La Canne de Jaspe, appeared in It, and 
 various essays and criticisms which are now to be
 
 1 62 Six French Poets 
 
 found in the volume, Figures et Caracteres. Regnler 
 also contributed to a number of other reviews, 
 among them La Wallonie, of which he, Albert 
 Meckel, and Pierre-M. Olin were the editors. 
 
 Up to this time, Regnier's life may have been 
 said to be in the experimenting stage. He was 
 laboriously shaping himself into a writer, as it were, 
 working with that indefatigable assiduity which 
 has always characterized him. From 1890, with the 
 publication of Poemes Anciens et Romanesques, his 
 life , enters upon another period, the period of 
 constantly increasing accomplishment. In Poemes 
 Anciens et Romanesques, Regnier steps out of the 
 shell of which his four previous volumes were only 
 chippings, and is hatched a full-grown poet. He 
 attempts other metres than the alexandrine, he even 
 essays the uneven vers lihre, built not upon metre 
 but upon cadence, which is to be his most charac- 
 teristic form, and in which he surpasses every other 
 French writer. Viele-Griffin and Stuart Merrill 
 were Americans, Verhaeren was a Belgian, and one 
 of the retorts flung at the vers libristes used to be, 
 that the reason they could find this form agreeable 
 was that they were foreigners and therefore had not 
 the peculiar sensitiveness of the native ear. And 
 behold, here was a Frenchman even among French- 
 men, who not only understood and liked it, but 
 wrote it better, more delicately, more audaciously, 
 than any one else. Not even Verhaeren could
 
 Henri de Regnier 163 
 
 more variously manipulate it, more certainly guide 
 it. 
 
 But it is not in the Poemes Anciens et Roman- 
 esques that I first wish my readers to encounter 
 Regnier's vers libre. I shall keep that for a later 
 volume, where it is in its magnificent maturity. 
 
 Henri de Regnier is "a melancholy and sumptuous 
 poet," as Remy de Gourmont has said. In the first 
 Livre des Masques appears the following description : 
 "This man " (Regnier) "lives in an old Italian palace, 
 where emblems and figures are written on the walls. 
 He dreams, passing from room to room ; toward 
 evening he descends the marble staircase and 
 wanders about the gardens, which are paved like 
 courts, to dream among the basins and fountains, 
 while the black swans seek their nests, and a pea- 
 cock, solitary as a king, seems to drink superbly 
 of the dying pride of a golden twilight." 
 
 You notice that this is really the palace with the 
 onyx pillars again ! It is strange how the same idea 
 seems to occur to every one about Regnier. Per- 
 haps it is because he, himself, has described so many 
 beautiful old houses, so many formal gardens d, la 
 Frangaise. 
 
 Henri de Regnier is the poet of sadness, of gentle 
 melancholy, particularly in his early books. He is 
 also the poet of the nude. He almost attains the 
 chaste and cool treatment of Greek statues. Prob- 
 ably it is this similarity of point of view which makes
 
 164 Six French Poets 
 
 him so often choose mythological subjects. But I 
 am far from suggesting that his attitude is really 
 Greek, in the historical and pedantic meaning of that 
 term, but neither is it the sort of Angelica Kauffmann ^ 
 pastiche of Samain's Aux Flancs du Vase. Rather 
 it is the attitude of certain of our English poets in 
 treating classical subjects. Beaumont and Fletcher 
 in "The Faithful Shepherdess," for instance, or 
 Keats in "Endymion" and "The Grecian Urn." 
 This little poem will illustrate what I mean : 
 
 L'eau des sources ou choit, le soir, 
 La mort unanime des roses 
 Etait heureuse de nous voir 
 Feigner nos chevelures fauves . . . 
 
 Un peu de cette eau nos miroirs ! 
 
 Les Fontaines etaient sonores 
 En les bois de Lune et de Nuit ; 
 Cristal ou se mire et s'isole 
 Quelque astre qui du ciel a fui . . . 
 
 L'onde est tarie en nos amphores ! 
 
 Les escaliers courbaient leurs rampes . . . 
 Oh, les pieds froids sur les paves ! . . . 
 Les portes et les hautes chambres 
 Pour le sommeil nu des Psyches . . . 
 
 L'huile est figee au fond des lampes !
 
 Henri de Regnier 165 
 
 That is from a poem entitled "The Vigil of the 
 Sands." Here is the first section of another poem 
 called Le Fol Automne : 
 
 LE FOL AUTOMNE 
 
 Le fol automne epuise aux guirlandes ses roses 
 Pales comme des levres et des sourires ; 
 Et le mal est d'avoir vecu parmi les roses, 
 Les masques, les glorioles, les delires ! 
 
 Les ^gypans rieurs buvaient aux outres neuves 
 Le vieux vin ou survit I'ardeur des Etes ; 
 Les vignes, ^grenant les grappes dans les fleuves, 
 Gonflaient I'ambre clair de leurs maturit^s. 
 
 Les roses ont fleuri les coupes et les thyrses 
 
 Et le pan des robes pueriles ; I'ame 
 
 Des fontaines pleurait dans I'ombre ; autour des thyrses 
 
 Les pampres semblaient un sang de torche en flamme. 
 
 L'automne fol s'epuise en supremes guirlandes, 
 Les satyres roux rodent par les bois, 
 Et Ton suspend les masques vides par guirlandes 
 Ou le vent rit aux trous des bouches sans voix. 
 
 There are many poems in this book which I should 
 like to put in, but there are more Important ones 
 waiting in other books. The names of the sections 
 into which the volume is divided will show its trend. 
 Two of them I have already given you. The others
 
 1 66 Six French Poets 
 
 are: "Greeting to the Stranger," "Motifs" (this is 
 taken from the leit-motifs of Wagner, whose in- 
 fluence was then at its strongest), "Of Legend and 
 Melancholy," "Scenes at Twilight," and "The 
 Dream of the Forest." 
 
 In 1892, appeared another volume of poetry, Tel 
 Qu'en Songe. The book begins with the following 
 Exergue, as a sort of dedication or motto : 
 
 EXERGUE 
 
 Au carrefour des routes de la foret, un soir, 
 Parmi le vent, avec mon ombre, un soir, 
 Las de la cendre des atres et des annees, 
 Incertain des heures predestinees, 
 Je vins m'asseoir. 
 
 Les routes s'en allaient vers les jours 
 
 Et j'aurais pu aller avec elles encor, 
 
 Et toujours. 
 
 Vers des terres, des eaux et des songes, toujours 
 
 Jusques au jour 
 
 Ou, de ses mains magiques et patientes, la Mort 
 
 Aurait ferme mes yeux du sceau de sa fleur de paix et d'or. 
 
 Route des cMnes hauts et de la solitude, 
 
 Ta pierre dpre est mauvaise aux lassitudes, 
 
 Tes cailloux durs aux pieds lasses, 
 
 Et j'y verrais saigner le sang de mon pass^, 
 
 A chaque pas, 
 
 Et tes chenes hautains grondent dans le vent rude 
 
 Et je suis las.
 
 Henri de Regnier 167 
 
 Route des bouleaux clairs qui s'effeuillent et tremblent 
 
 Pales comme la honte de tes passants pales 
 
 Qui s'egarent en tes fanges tenaces, 
 
 Et vont ensemble, 
 
 Et se detoument pour ne pas se voir face a face ; 
 
 Route de boue et d'eau qui suinte, 
 
 Le vent h. tes feuilles chuchote sa plainte, 
 
 Les grands marais d'argent, de lunes et de givre 
 
 Stagnent au crepuscule au bout de tes chemins 
 
 Et 1 'Ennui a qui veut te suivre 
 
 Lui prend la main. 
 
 Route des frenes doux et des sables lagers 
 
 Ou le vent efface les pas et veut qu'on oublie 
 
 Et qu'on s'en aille ainsi qu'il s'en va d'arbre en arbre, 
 
 Tes fieurs de miel ont la couleur de Tor des sables, 
 
 Ta courbe est telle qu'on voit a peine ou Ton devie ; 
 
 La ville ou tu conduis est bonne aux etrangers 
 
 Et mes pas seraient doux sur le seuil de ses portes 
 
 S'ils n'etaient pas restes le long d'une autre vie 
 
 Ou mes Espoirs en pleurs veillent des Ombres mortes. 
 
 Je n'irai pas vers vos chenes 
 
 Ni le long de vos bouleaux et de vos frenes 
 
 Et ni vers vos soleils, vos villes et vos eaux, 
 
 O routes ! 
 
 J'entends venir les pas de mon passe qui saigne, 
 
 Les pas que j'ai cms morts, helas ! et qui reviennent, 
 
 Et qui semblent me pr^ceder en vos echos, 
 
 routes,
 
 1 68 Six French Poets 
 
 Toi la facile, toi la honteuse, toi la hautaine, 
 Et j'ecoute 
 
 Le vent, compagnon de mes courses vaines, 
 Qui marche et pleure sous les chenes. 
 
 O mon ime, le soir est triste sur hier, 
 mon ame, le soir est mome sur demain, 
 O mon kme, le soir est grave sur toi-meme ! 
 
 The last three lines show his point of view at this 
 time. The melancholy is undoubtedly sincere, but 
 it is the melancholy of a very young man, half in 
 love with his own state of mind. But whatever the 
 idea may be, however adolescent the feeling, there 
 is no mistaking the masterly quality of the verse. 
 Here is no immaturity, no hesitating. It is Regnier 
 in the full tide of his perfect vers libre. The flow 
 of the poem is exquisite. There is not a single 
 skip-step in the cadence, and never once the dull, 
 pedestrian plodding of a prose line. 
 
 The titles of some of the poems are very peculiar. 
 We are in the heyday of Symbolisme, remember. 
 And very characteristic are these titles : "Some One 
 Dreams of Dawn and Shadow," "Some One Dreams 
 of Evening and Hope," "Some One Dreams of Hours 
 and Years," "Some One Dreams of Shade and For- 
 getfulness." Here is the beginning of "Dawn and 
 Shadow :"
 
 Henri de Regnier i6q 
 
 QUELQU'UN SONGE D'AUBE ET D'OMBRE 
 "J'ai cm voir 
 
 Ma Tristesse debout sous les saules, 
 J'ai cm la voir — dit-elle tout bas — 
 Debout aupres du doux misseau de mes pensees 
 Les memes qu'elles tout un soir 
 Qu'au cours de I'eau passaient sumageantes des roses, 
 Epaves du bouquet des heures blessees. 
 Le temps passait avec les eaux passees ; 
 EUe pensait avec mes pensees 
 Si longtemps que le bois de bleuatre fut mauve, 
 Puis plus sombre et noir." 
 
 J'ai cm voir ma Tristesse — dit-il — et je I'ai vue 
 
 — Dit-il plus bas — 
 
 EUe etait nue. 
 
 Assise dans la grotte la plus silencieuse 
 
 De mes plus interieures pensees ; 
 
 Elle y etait le songe morae des eaux glacees, 
 
 L'anxiete des stalactites anxieuses ; 
 
 Le poids des rocs lourds comme le temps. 
 
 La douleur des porphyres rouges comme le sang ; 
 
 Elle y etait silencieuse, 
 
 Assise au fond de mon silence. 
 
 Et nue ainsi que s'apparait ce qui se pense. 
 
 Beautiful as this is, it strikes a slightly discordant 
 note to a modern ear. The desertion of the sym- 
 bol to plunge into plain allegory is old-fashioned — 
 was old-fashioned even in the days of the Symholistes,
 
 lyo Six French Poets 
 
 who attempted a greater subtilty. It is one of De 
 Regnier's worst faults, and one which, Httle by 
 Httle, he has dropped. 
 
 I will quote one more poem from Tel Quen Songe. 
 We still have allegory, but more lightly, more in- 
 definitely done. And how cleverly the scene is 
 sketched in, and all with a sort of pathetic tenderness ! 
 It is one of the divisions of Quelquhm Songe d'Heures 
 et d'A nnees : 
 
 Les fruits du passe, nUirs d'ombre et de songe. 
 
 En leur ecorce ou jutent des coulures d'or, 
 
 Pendent et tombent, 
 
 Un a un et un encor, 
 
 Dans le verger de songe et d'ombre. 
 
 Le crepuscule doux decline et se ravive 
 
 Parfois d'un soleil pale a travers les arbres, 
 
 Et I'heure arrive 
 
 Ou, un k un, arbre par arbre, 
 
 Le vent touche les beaux fruits qui oscillent 
 
 Et heurtent leurs tiedes ors pales 
 
 Et tremblent encor 
 
 Quand le vent a passe et que I'ombre est tranquille, 
 
 Et tombent, un a un et un encor. 
 
 La Tristesse a muri ses fruits d'ombre 
 
 Aux doux vergers de notre songe 
 
 Ou le passe sommeille, tressaille et se rendort, 
 
 Au bruit de ses fruits mfirs qui tombent, 
 
 A travers I'oubli dans la mort, 
 
 Un a un et tm encor.
 
 Henri de Regnier 171 
 
 The first of his prose stories, Contes ci Soi-meme, 
 came out in 1894; and another prose story, Le 
 Trejic Noir, appeared in 1895. The Contes d Soi- 
 meme are written in a learned and over-stylized 
 prose, very unlike the flowing, rapid manner of his 
 present prose writing. It is evident, indeed we 
 know it from his publications, that at this time 
 Regnier was much more practiced as a poet than 
 as a prose writer. Prose and poetry are different 
 arts, and have to be studied quite separately. 
 Words, ideas, have to be used in almost opposite 
 ways. A man who can succeed in both branches of 
 the difficult art of writing is happy indeed. Few 
 people have done it, and Henri de Regnier is emi- 
 nent among the few. Both Contes d Soi-meme, and 
 Le Trhfle Noir, with various other poems added 
 to them, were later published under the title. La 
 Canne de Jaspe, of which I shall speak when I 
 come to it. 
 
 At the moment, poetry still held first place in his 
 interest, and in 1895 also, a new poem, Arethuse, was 
 published, which was included two years later in 
 Les Jeux Rustiques et Divins. 
 
 Let me deflect a moment to mention the ex- 
 traordinary charm of Regnier's titles, particularly 
 those of his poetry volumes: "Rustic and Divine 
 Games," "Medals of Clay," "The City of Waters," 
 "The Winged Sandal," "The Mirror of the Hours."
 
 172 Six French Poets 
 
 In reading these over in a catalogue, one would 
 know that one had to do with a Symboliste poet, and 
 also with a poet of rare grace and elegance. 
 
 Les Jeux Rustiques et Divins is divided into parts, 
 as all Regnier's volumes of poems are. The first 
 part, Arethuse, is subdivided again into three sec- 
 tions; the first and last are called "Flutes of April 
 and September," and the middle part is called "The 
 Man and the Siren." The next large division is 
 "The Reeds of the Flute," followed by " Inscriptions 
 for the Thirteen Gates of the Town," "The Basket 
 of the Hours," and "Divers Poems." I think my 
 contention that Regnier has the gift of titles is 
 fully borne out by these. This, Le Faune au Miroir, 
 is one of Regnier's most beautiful pseudo-classical 
 pieces, and written in the alexandrine, which, in 
 spite of its lesser originality, it must be admitted 
 he manages lightly and with ease. 
 
 LE FAUNE AU MIROIR 
 
 Tristesse, j'ai bati ta maison, et les arbres 
 
 Melangent leur jaspure aux taches de tes marbres ; 
 
 Tristesse, j'ai bati ton palais vert et noir 
 
 Ou I'if du deuil s'allie aux myrtes de I'espoir ; 
 
 Tes fen^tres, dans le cristal de leurs carreaux, 
 
 Refletent des jardins de balustres et d'eaux 
 
 Ou s'encadre le ciel k leur exactitude ; 
 
 L'echo morne y converse avec la solitude 
 
 Qui se cherche elle-meme autour de ses cypres ; 
 
 Plus loin c'est le silence et toute la foret.
 
 Henri dc Regnier 173 
 
 La vie apre, le vent qui rode, I'herbe grasse 
 
 Oii se marque, selon la stature qui passe, 
 
 Un sabot bestial au lieu d'vin pied divin ; 
 
 Plus loin, c'est le Satyre et plus loin le Sylvain 
 
 Et la Nymphe qui, nue, habite les fontaines 
 
 Solitaires o\x pres des eaux thessaliennes 
 
 Le Centaure en ruant ebr^che les cailloux, 
 
 Et puis des sables gris apr^s des sables roux, 
 
 Les monstres du Desir, les monstres de la Chair, 
 
 Et, plus loin que la greve aride, c'est la Mer. 
 
 Tristesse, j'ai bati ta maison, et les arbres 
 
 Ont jaspe le cristal des bassins comme un marbre ; 
 
 Le cygne blanc y voit dans I'eau son ombre noire 
 
 Comme la pale Joie au lac de ma memoire 
 
 Voit ses ailes d 'argent temes d'un crepuscule 
 
 Oti son visage nu qui d'elle se recule 
 
 Lui fait signe, k travers 1'^ jamais, qu'elle est morte ; 
 
 Et moi qui suis entre sans refermer la porte 
 
 J'ai peur de quelque main dans I'ombre sur la cl6 ; 
 
 Et je marche de chambre en chambre, et j'ai voile 
 
 Mes songes pour ne plus m'y voir ; mais de 1^-bas 
 
 Je sens encor roder des ombres sur mes pas, 
 
 Et le cristal qui tinte et la moire que froisse 
 
 Ma main lasse k jamais previennent mon angoisse, 
 
 Car j'entends dans le lustre hypocrite qui dort 
 
 Le bruit d'une eau d'argent qui rit dans des fleurs d'or 
 
 Et la stillation des antiques fontaines 
 
 Oil Narcisse buvait les levres sur les siennes 
 
 Par qui riait la source au buveur anxieux ; 
 
 Et je maudis ma bouche, et je maudis mes yeux 
 
 D'avoir vu la peau tiede et touche I'onde froide,
 
 174 "^^^ French Poets 
 
 Et, quand mes doigts encor froncent I'etoffe roide, 
 
 J'entends, de mon passe bavard qui ne se tait, 
 
 Les feuilles et le vent de la vieille foret ; 
 
 Et je marche parmi les chambres solitaires 
 
 Ou quelqu'un parle avec la feinte de se taire, 
 
 Car ma vie a des yeux de soeur qui n'est pas morte, 
 
 Et j'ai peur, lorsque j'entre, et du seuil de la porte, 
 
 De voir, monstre rieur et fantome venu 
 
 De Tombre, avec I'odeur des bois dans son poil nu, 
 
 Quelque Faune qui ait h. ses sabots sonores 
 
 De la boue et de I'herbe et des feuilles encore, 
 
 Et, dans la chambre tacitume, de le voir 
 
 Danser sur le parquet et se rire aux miroirs ! 
 
 V Homme et la Sirene is an allegory, but written 
 less flatly than many which our poet has perpe- 
 trated. And, strangely enough, it is not quite the 
 old story which Regnier has told here. His siren, 
 beautiful, naked, seductive, woos the man, who, 
 dreaming of giving her a soul and making her his 
 true companion, clothes her, covers her with jewels, 
 and awaits the change he expects. It does not 
 come. She, who was nature, simplicity, instinct, he 
 has tricked up into an artificial nothing. He has 
 not understood her, and she cannot reach him. 
 The sea receives her back into its arms, and the man 
 dies, crucified by his own blind prejudice. 
 
 Indeed, Henri de Regnier is a thinker as well as a 
 poet. And if his poems are usually merely an ex- 
 pression of a mood, it is because he has other ways
 
 Henri de Regnier 175 
 
 of clothing his larger conceptions. He is not tempted 
 to tell stories in verse after the manner of Jammes, 
 and Fort, and other moderns, because he has a 
 prose even more adequate in which to express them.. 
 Now we have arrived at what is undoubtedly 
 Regnier's poetic masterpiece : Le Vase. It is the 
 first poem in the division Les Roseaux de la FlUte. 
 I will not spoil Le Vase by describing or analyzing 
 it. Suffice it to say that it is the most perfect pres- 
 entation of the creative faculty at work that I 
 know of in any literature. 
 
 LE VASE 
 
 Mon marteau lourd sonnait dans I'air leger 
 
 Je voyais la riviere et le verger, 
 
 La prairie et jusques au bois 
 
 Sous le ciel plus bleu d'heure en heure, 
 
 Puis rose et mauve au cr opuscule ; 
 
 Alors je me levais tout droit 
 
 Et m'etirais heureux de la tache des heures. 
 
 Gourd de m'dtre accroupi de I'aube au crepuscule 
 
 Devant le bloc de marbre ou je taillais les pans 
 
 Du vase fruste encor que mon marteau pesant, 
 
 Rythmant le matin clair et la bonne journee, 
 
 Heurtait, joyeux d'etre sonore en I'air leger ! 
 
 Le vase naissait dans la pierre fagonnee. 
 Svelte et pur il avait grandi 
 Informe encor en sa sveltesse, 
 Et j'attendis.
 
 176 Six French Poets 
 
 Les mains oisives et inqui^tes, 
 
 Pendant des jours, toumant la t^te 
 
 A gauche, k droite, au moindre bruit, 
 
 Sans plus polir la panse ou lever le marteau. 
 
 L'eau 
 
 Coulait de la fontaine comme haletante. 
 
 Dans le silence 
 
 J'entendais, un k un, aux arbres du verger, 
 
 Les fruits tomber de branche en branche, 
 
 Je respirais un parfum messager 
 
 De fleurs lointaines sur le vent ; 
 
 Sou vent, 
 
 Je croyais qu'on avait parle bas, 
 
 Et, un jour que je revais — ne dormant pas — 
 
 J'entendis par dela les pr6s et la riviere 
 
 Chanter des flutes . . . 
 
 Un jour, encor, 
 
 Entre les feuilles d'ocre et d'or 
 
 Du bois, je vis, avec ses jambes de poil jaune, 
 
 Danser vm. faune ; 
 
 Je I'aperQus aussi, une autre fois, 
 
 Sortir du bois 
 
 Le long de la route et s'asseoir sur une borne 
 
 Pour prendre un papillon a I'une de ses comes. 
 
 Une autre fois, 
 
 Un centaure passa la riviere k la nage ; 
 
 L'eau ruisselait sur sa peau d'homme et son pelage ; 
 
 II s'avanga de quelques pas dans les roseaux, 
 
 Flaira le vent, hennit, repassa l'eau ;
 
 Henri de Regnier 177 
 
 Le lendemain, j'ai vu I'ongle de ses sabots 
 Marque dans I'herbe . . . 
 
 Des femmes nues 
 
 Pass^rent en portant des paniers et des gerbes, 
 
 Tres loin, tout au bout de la plaine. 
 
 Un matin, j'en trouvai trois k la fontaine 
 
 Dont I'une me parla. Elle etait nue. 
 
 EUe me dit : Sculpte la pieire 
 
 Selon la forme de raon corps en tes pensees, 
 
 Et fais sourire au bloc ma face claire ; 
 
 Ecoute autour de toi les heures dansees 
 
 Par mes soeurs dont la ronde se renoue, 
 
 Entrelacee, 
 
 Et toume et chante et se denoue. 
 
 Et je sentis sa bouche tiMe sur ma joue. 
 
 Alors le verger vaste et le bois et la plaine 
 Tressaillirent d'un bruit etrange, et la fontaine 
 Coula plus vive avec un rire dans ses eaux ; 
 Les trois Nymphes debout aupres des trois roseaux 
 Se prirent par la main et danserent ; du bois 
 Les faunes roux sortaient par troupes, et des voix 
 Chanterent par dela les arbres du verger 
 Avec des flutes en eveil dans I'air leger. 
 La terre retentit du galop des centaures ; 
 II en venait du fond de I'horizon sonore, 
 Et Ton voyait, assis sur la croupe qui rue, 
 Tenant des thyrses tors et des outres ventrues, 
 Des satyres boiteux piques par des abeilles, 
 
 N
 
 1 78 Six French Poets 
 
 Et les bouches de crin et les levres vermeilles 
 Se baisaient, et la ronde immense et frenetique, 
 Sabots lourds, pieds legers, toisons, croupes, tuniques, 
 Tournait eperdument autour de moi qui, grave, 
 Au passage, sculptais aux flancs gonfles du vase 
 Le tourbillonnement des forces de la vie. 
 
 Du parfum exhale de la terre murie 
 
 Une ivresse montait a travers mes pensees, 
 
 Et dans I'odeur des fruits et des grappes pressees, 
 
 Dans le choc des sabots et le heurt des talons, 
 
 En de fauves odeurs de boucs et d'etalons, 
 
 Sous le vent de la ronde et la grele des rires, 
 
 Au marbre je taillais ce que j'entendais bruire; 
 
 Et parrai la chair chaude et les effluves tiedes, 
 
 Hennissement du mufle ou murmure des levres, 
 
 Je sentais sur mes mains, amoureux ou farouches, 
 
 Des souffles de naseaux ou des baisers de bouches. 
 
 Le crepuscule vint et je toumai la tSte. 
 
 Mon ivresse etait morte avec la tache faite ; 
 
 Et sur son socle enfin, du pied jusques aux anses, 
 
 Le grand Vase se dressait nu dans le silence, 
 
 Et, sculptee en spirale a son marbre vivant, 
 
 La ronde dispersee et dont un faible vent 
 
 Apportait dans I'echo la rumeur disparue, 
 
 Tournait avec ses boucs, ses dieux, ses femmes nues, 
 
 Ses centaures cabres et ses faunes adroits, 
 
 Silencieusement autour de la parol, 
 
 Tandis que, seul, parmi, a jamais, la nuit sombre, 
 
 Je maudissais I'aurore et je pleurals vers I'ombre.
 
 Henri de Regnier 179 
 
 Inscriptions pour les Treize Fortes de la Ville are 
 always considered among the very finest poems 
 which Regnier has written. They are dedicated to 
 Brunetiere, which is a Httle stroke of maHce, for the 
 poems were first printed in the Revue des Deux 
 Mondes, of which Brunetiere was editor. He ac- 
 cepted them, acknowledged their beauty, but still 
 his conventional soul was severely wounded by cer- 
 tain liberties which their author had permitted 
 himself to take with the classic alexandrine. Finally 
 he consented to print them, with a note appended 
 exonerating the editors from all responsibility in 
 publishing them. Regnier was considerably an- 
 noyed by this suggestion at first, but when he 
 was told that this was only the third time that 
 such a thing had been done, and that the other 
 times were, once for Baudelaire, and once for La- 
 mennais, he consented to be labelled with the glo- 
 rious stigma. 
 
 I am going to quote four of these inscriptions ; 
 those on the Gates of the Warriors, the Merchants, 
 and the Comedians, and on the "Gate which goes 
 down to the Sea." 
 
 POUR LA PORTE DES GUERRIERS 
 
 Porte haute ! ne crains point 1 'ombre, laisse ouvert 
 Ton battant d'airain dur et ton battant de fer. 
 On a jet6 tes clefs au fond de la citeme. 
 Sois maudite a jamais si la peur te referme ; 
 Et coupe, comme au fil d'un double couperet,
 
 i8o Six French Poets 
 
 Le poing de toute main qui te refermerait. 
 
 Car, sous ta voute sombre ou resonnaient leurs pas, 
 
 Des hommes ont passe qui ne reculent pas, 
 
 Et la Victoire prompte et haletante encor 
 
 Marchait au milieu d'eux, nue en ses ailes d'or, 
 
 Et les guidait du geste calme de son glaive ; 
 
 Et son ardent baiser en pourpre sur leur levre 
 
 Saignait, et les clairons aux roses de leurs bouches 
 
 Vibraient, rumeur de cuivre et d'abeilles farouches ! 
 
 Ivre essaim de la guerre aux ruches des armures, 
 
 AUez cueillir la mort sur la fleur des chairs mures, 
 
 Et si vous revenez vers la ville natale 
 
 Qu'on suive sur mon seuil au marbre de ses dalles, 
 
 Quand ils auront passe, Victoire, sous tes ailes. 
 
 La marque d'un sang clair k leurs rouges semelles ! 
 
 POUR LA PORTE DES MARCHANDS 
 
 Sois b6ni, noir portail, qu 'entrant nous saluames ! 
 Les coffres durs pesaient a I'echine des anes ; 
 Nous apportions, pour les etaler dans les cours, 
 Ce qu'on taille la nuit, ce qu'on brode le jour, 
 La pendeloque claire et I'etoffe tissee. 
 Le plus vieux d'entre nous tenait un caducee ; 
 C'etait le maitre exact des trocs et des echanges, 
 Et la gourde bossue et les perles etranges 
 Se melaient dans nos mains poudreuses, et chacun, 
 Poxirvoyeur de denree ou marchand de parfum, 
 Vidait son etalage et gonflait sa sacoche ; 
 Car tout acheteur cede au geste qui I'accroche 
 Par un pan de la robe et le bout du manteau . . .
 
 Henri de Regnier igj 
 
 Les plus petits grimpaient sur de grands escabeaux, 
 
 Et le plus doucereux comme le plus retors, 
 
 Le soir, comptait et recomptait sa pile d'or, 
 
 En partant, et chacun, pour qu'a I'ombre des haies 
 
 Les detrousseurs d'argent qui guettent les monnaies 
 
 Ne nous attendent point sur la route deserte, 
 
 O porte ! et pour qu'un dieu fasse nos pas alertes, 
 
 Chacun, sans regarder celui qui va le suivre, 
 
 Cloue k ton seuil de pierre une piece de cuivre. 
 
 POUR LA PORTE DES COMEDIENNES 
 
 Le chariot s'arrgte k I'angle de mon mur. 
 
 Le soir est beau, le ciel est bleu, les bles sont murs; 
 
 La Nymphe tourne et danse autour de la fontaine; 
 
 LeFaunerit; I'Ete mysterieux ramdne 
 
 A son heure la troupe errante et le vieux char, 
 
 Et celles dont le jeu, par le masque et le fard, 
 
 Mime sur le treteau ou pose leur pied nu 
 
 La fable populaire ou le mythe ingenu 
 
 Et I'histoire divine, humaine et monstrueuse, 
 
 Qu'au miroir de la source, au fond des grottes creuses, 
 
 Avec leurs bonds, avec leurs cris, avec leurs rires. 
 
 La Dryade argentine et le jaune Satyre 
 
 Reprennent d'age en age k I'ombre des grands bois. 
 
 Venez ! I'heure est propice et la foule est sans voix, 
 
 Et I'attente sourit dej^ dans les yeux clairs 
 
 Des enfants et des doux vieiUards, et, k travers 
 
 Ma porte qui, pour vous, s'ouvrira toute grande, 
 
 Hospitaliere et gaie et lourde de guirlandes, 
 
 Je vous vois qui venez, une rose k la main.
 
 1 82 Six French Poets 
 
 Avec vos manteaux clairs et vos visages peints, 
 Toutes, et souriant, avant d'entrer, chacune 
 Met le pied sur la borne et lace son cothurne. 
 
 POUR LA PORTE SUR LA MER 
 
 Moi, le Barreur de poupe et le Veilleur de proue 
 
 Qui connus le soufflet des lames sur ma joue, 
 
 Le vent s'echevelant au travers de I'ecume, 
 
 L'eau claire de I'amphore et la cendre de I'ume, 
 
 Et, clart^ silencieuse ou flamme vermeille, 
 
 La torche qui s'embrase et la lampe qui veille, 
 
 Le degre du palais et le seuil du decombre 
 
 Et I'accueil aux yeux d'aube et I'exil aux yeux d'ombre 
 
 Et I'amour qui sourit et I'amour qui sanglote 
 
 Et le manteau sans trous que I'ipre vent fait loque 
 
 Et le fruit mtir saignant et la tete coupee 
 
 Au geste de la serpe ou au vol de I'epee, 
 
 Et, vagabond des vents, des routes et des flots, 
 
 De la course marine ou du choc des galops, 
 
 Moi qui garde tou jours le brtiit et la rtuneur 
 
 De la come du patre et du chant du rameur, 
 
 Me voici, revenu des grands pays lointains 
 
 De pierre et d'eau, et toujours seul dans mon destin 
 
 Et nu, debout encor a 1 'avant de la proue 
 
 Impetueuse qui dans I'ecume s'6broue ; 
 
 Et j'entrerai briale de soleil et de joie, 
 
 Carene qui se cabre et vergue qiu s'eploie, 
 
 Avec les grands oiseaux d'or pale et d'argent clair. 
 
 J'entrerai par la Porte ouverte sur la Mer !
 
 Henri de Regnier 183 
 
 The poems all purport to be written in the same 
 metre, but notice with what excellent art Regnier 
 varies the movement of each, so that "The Gate of 
 the Warriors" is almost as rhythmic and martial as 
 the steps of the legions passing through it. The 
 b's and d's in the line : "Ton battant d'airain dur et 
 ton battant de fer," give the heavy tread of the poem 
 at the outset ; while with the first line of "The Mer- 
 chants :" "Soit beni, noir portail, qu'entrant nous 
 saluimes" something suave, almost cringing, has 
 crept in. The merchants are timid people, or they 
 would not nail a copper coin on the sill of the gate 
 as an offering to the protecting gods that their steps 
 may be rapid and wary, and robbers be eluded. 
 The whole sound of the poem is succulent and syco- 
 phantic. Very different again is the light, advanc- 
 ing rhythm of "The Comedians." The two first 
 lines give a feeling of expectation, all the gaiety of 
 an evening of recreation after the day's work : 
 
 Le chariot s'arrete a Tangle de mon mur. 
 
 Le soir est beau, le del est bleu, les bles sont murs ... 
 
 The cutting of the last of these two lines into thirds, 
 has given it a skipping, tripping, care-free quality ; 
 and the end of the poem, where each comedian, 
 arrayed and made up for the play, puts her foot up 
 on the pedestal of the gate to be certain that her 
 sandal -lace is adjusted and will not trip her, is most 
 simple and charming. There is a certain fresh,
 
 184 Six French Poets 
 
 swirling, blowing movement about "The Gate of the 
 Sea," hard to define, but very evident, nevertheless. 
 We feel the proud, almost haughty lifting and falling 
 of the figurehead : 
 
 Avec les grands oiseaux d'or pale et d'argent clair. 
 J'entrerai par la Porte ouverte sur la Mer ! 
 
 Now we come to a form which Regnier invented 
 for himself, and called Odelette — Little Ode. It 
 is often spoken of as being his greatest contribu- 
 tion to poetry ; which is nonsense. His greatest 
 contribution is his vers litre as a whole, and these 
 Odelettes are merely short, evanescent poems in vers 
 litre, and should hardly be dignified by being called 
 a form. But they are as satisfying as they are 
 slight, and have a piercingly sweet little melody 
 that I can remember nowhere else. The first one 
 is perhaps the most successful of all he has done. 
 
 ODELETTE I 
 
 Un petit roseau m'a suffi 
 
 Pour faire fremir I'herbe haute 
 
 Et tout le pre 
 
 Et les doxix saules 
 
 Et le ruisseau qui chante aussi ; 
 
 Un petit roseau m'a suffi 
 
 A faire chanter la for^t. 
 
 Ceux qui passent I'ont entendu 
 Au fond du soir, en leurs pensees,
 
 Henri de Regnier 185 
 
 Dans le silence et dans le vent, 
 
 Clair ou perdu, 
 
 Proche ou lointain . . . 
 
 Ceux qui passent en leurs pensees 
 
 En ecoutant, au fond d'eux-memes, 
 
 L'entendront encore et I'entendent 
 
 Tou jours qui chante. 
 
 II m'a suffi 
 
 De ce petit roseau cueilli 
 
 A la fontaine ou vint I'Amour 
 
 Mirer, un jour, 
 
 Sa face grave 
 
 Et qui pleurait, 
 
 Pour faire pleurer ceux qui passent 
 
 Et trembler I'herbe et fremir I'eau ; 
 
 Et j'ai, du souffle d'un roseau, 
 
 Fait chanter toute la foret. 
 
 This is what he calls an ode. The difference in 
 weight and rhythm is very marked. 
 
 ODE III 
 Je t'ai connue, 
 Chere Ombre nue, 
 
 Avec tes cheveux lourds de soleil et d'or pale, 
 Avec ta bouche de sourire et de chair douce. 
 Du plus loin de mes jours, 1^-bas, tu es venue 
 Au bout des vieux chemins de bles et de mousses, 
 Le long des pres, au bord du bois, 
 Alors que je suivais la sente et le ruisseau,
 
 1 86 Six French Poets 
 
 Joyeux du ruisseau clair et de la sente fraiche, 
 
 Et qu'a mes mains, 
 
 Entre mes doigts, 
 
 La fleur cueillie a I'herbe epaisse 
 
 Etait toute moite de rosee 
 
 Et tremblante de Tor d'une abeille posee, 
 
 Au temps d'avril ou les roseaux 
 
 Chantaient d'eux-memes, 
 
 Aupr^s des eavix et des fontaines, 
 
 Au moindre vent, 
 
 Je t'ai connue, assise au porche sur le seuil 
 
 De la Vie et du Songe et de I'An, 
 
 Jadis, toi qui, du seuil, 
 
 Regardais venir I'aube et tressais des couronnes. 
 
 Je t'ai revue, 
 
 Chere Ombre nue, 
 
 Avec tes cheveux rouilles d'or roux, 
 
 Graves de tout le poids de leur automne ; 
 
 Le vieux vent d'Est pleure dans les haies, 
 
 Lourd d'avoir rode, I'aile basse ; 
 
 Le pampre se desserre au tronc qu'il desenlace 
 
 Et la terre s'eboule au talus qui I'etaie ; 
 
 La joie est breve et I'heure passe, 
 
 Et chacun marche vers un autre qui recule, 
 
 Et la fleur de I'aurore est fruit au crepuscule 
 
 Et le fruit d'or du soir est cendre dans la nuit. 
 
 Je t'ai revue, 
 Tu 6tais nue,
 
 Henri de Regnier 187 
 
 Comme a I'aube ou je vins par la route des bles, 
 
 Moi qui reviens vers toi par le chemin des chaumes 
 
 Avec le soir qui tremble et le pas de Tautomne 
 
 Aux echos de ma vie ou riait le printemps ; 
 
 Que vas-tu mettre aux mains que le retour te tend ? 
 
 Car j'ai perdu Tobole et la bague et la cle 
 
 Et la couronne en fleurs d'espoir d'ou j'ai senti, 
 
 Feuille h. feuille, tomber la rose et le laurier ; 
 
 L'opale s'est rompue k I'anneau desserti 
 
 Et ma voix de nouveau hesite a te prier, 
 
 Car, debout k jamais et le doigt sur la bouche, 
 
 Comme pour ecouter I'echo du temps qui fuit, 
 
 Ton silence obstine, patient et farouche 
 
 Regarde venir I'ombre et pleure vers la nuit. 
 
 La Canne de Jaspe, which I mentioned a few 
 moments ago, came out the same year as Les Jeux 
 Rustiques et Divins, in 1897. It is not my intention 
 to go into Henri de Regnier's prose books with any 
 minuteness. Here, we are deaHng with him as a 
 poet, and in that capacity alone he has given us 
 quite enough to do. But there is a Httle prose poem 
 in the Preface to La Canne de Jaspe which I can by 
 no means let pass. Speaking of the contents of his 
 book, he says: "There are swords, mirrors, jewels, 
 dresses, crystal goblets and lamps, with, sometimes, 
 outside, the murmur of the sea and the breeze of 
 forests. Listen also to the singing of the fountains. 
 They are intermittent and unceasing ; the gardens 
 which they enliven are symmetrical. The statue
 
 1 88 Six French Poets 
 
 there is either of marble or of bronze ; the yew is 
 trimmed. The bitter smell of box perfumes the 
 silence ; the rose blossoms next to the cypress. Love 
 and Death kiss each other on the mouth. The 
 water reflects the foliage. Make the round of the 
 basins. Go through the labyrinth ; wander about 
 the grove ; and read my book, page by page, as 
 though, with the end of your tall jasper cane, Solitary 
 Stroller, you turned over on the dry gravel of the 
 walk a beetle, a pebble, or some dead leaves." What 
 is this but the palace with the onyx pillars once 
 more ! It seems as though it were such an exact sim- 
 ile, that even Regnier himself could not escape it. 
 
 The strange haunting by the past is also here, in 
 the preface and in the book. Regnier's novels 
 are divided into two kinds. Those which picture 
 the past, and those where the scenes are laid in the 
 present. There is one novel which, like the Colossus 
 of Rhodes, spans the division, and has a foot in 
 either territory. That is Le Passe Vivant, which I 
 mentioned at the beginning of this essay. 
 
 The first of Regnier's long novels belongs to 
 the group of the past. It is La Double Afattresse, 
 and was published in 1900. This book has been 
 much admired, much abused, and widely read. My 
 copy is nine years old, and dates therefore only 
 from the sixth year of its publication, yet the title 
 page says "seventh edition." It is perhaps the 
 one of Regnier's novels in which the Rabelaisian
 
 Henri de Regnier 189 
 
 humour I have spoken of is most apparent. But 
 there is a great deal else in it. Among other things, 
 a tragedy, none the less terrible because it borders 
 on the ludicrous ; and an excellent and penetrating 
 psychology. Even in its coarseness there is some- 
 thing broad and sane — very different from the 
 perv^erted innuendoes and everlasting under-sugges- 
 tions of so much of Remy de Gourmont's work. 
 How it is possible for a man of Regnier's delicacy 
 to be so coarse, is a problem for the psychologist. 
 But it is undoubtedly true that this fastidious 
 gentleman enjoys a very loud laugh at times. La 
 Double Maitresse is certainly a masterpiece. Many 
 critics call it his finest novel. It is hard to say 
 "finest" where all are so fine. I content myself 
 with saying "one of them." 
 
 But Regnier was not done with poetry, nor has 
 he ever done with it. That is the most astonishing 
 thing about him. It is not as though the poet in 
 him had preceded the novelist merely. On the con- 
 trary, they both run along cheerfully and rapidly 
 side by side. The same year that saw the publica- 
 tion of La Double Maitresse, saw also a new volume 
 of Regnier's poems, Les Aledailles d'Argile. 
 
 Yes, Le Vase, which I quoted a little while ago, is 
 Regnier's best poem. And yet — and yet — there 
 is nothing finer than the Introduction to this new 
 book, or some of the sonnets to Versailles in La 
 Cite des Eaux.
 
 IQO Six French Poets 
 
 In Les Medailles d'Argile, the poet speaks of his 
 poems under the metaphor of clay medals, upon 
 which he models his gods. His gods, which he says 
 are the visible essences of the Thing which underlies 
 everything in Heaven or Earth. Pantheism, I sup- 
 pose some people would call it. Perhaps — does it 
 matter? It is all his philosophy in a nutshell, and 
 in this Henri de Regnier seems to be less a French- 
 man than a citizen of the world. At least, there is 
 no trace of the superstition which I mentioned in 
 the last chapter. This is the Introduction : 
 
 J'ai feint que des Dieux m'aient parle ; 
 
 Celui-la ruisselant d'algues et d'eau, 
 
 Cet autre lourd de grappes et de ble, 
 
 Get autre aile, 
 
 Farouche et beau 
 
 En sa stature de chair nue, 
 
 Et celui-ci tou jours voile, 
 
 Cet autre encor 
 
 Qui cueille, en chantant, la cigue 
 
 Et la pensee 
 
 Et qui noue a son thyrse d'or 
 
 Les deux serpents en caducee, 
 
 D'autres encor . . . 
 
 Alors j'ai dit : Voici des Mtes et des corbeilles, 
 
 Mordez aux fruits ; 
 
 Ecoutez chanter les abeilles 
 
 Et I'humble bruit 
 
 De rosier vert qu'on tresse et des roseaux qu'on coupe.
 
 Henri de Regnier 191 
 
 J'ai dit encor : Ecoute, 
 
 Ecoute, 
 
 II y a quelqu'un derriere I'echo, 
 
 Debout parmi la vie universelle, 
 
 Et qui porte Tare double et le double flambeau, 
 
 Et qui est nous 
 
 Divinement . . . 
 
 Face invisible ! je t'ai gravee en medailles 
 
 D 'argent doux comme I'aube pale, 
 
 D'or ardent comme le soleil, 
 
 D'airain sombre comme la nuit ; 
 
 II y en a de tout metal, 
 
 Qui tintent clair comme la joie, 
 
 Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire, 
 
 Comme I'amour, comme la mort ; 
 
 Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile 
 
 Seche et fragile. 
 
 Une a une, vous les comptiez en souriant, 
 Et vous disiez : II est habile ; 
 Et vous passiez en souriant. 
 
 Aucun de vous n'a done vu 
 
 Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse, 
 
 Que tout le grand songe terrestre 
 
 Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux 
 
 Que je gravais aux metaux pieux, 
 
 Mes Dieux, 
 
 Et qu'ils etaient le visage vivant 
 
 De ce que nous avons senti des roses,
 
 192 Six French Poets 
 
 De I'eau, du vent, 
 
 De la foret et de la mer, 
 
 De toutes choses 
 
 En notre chair, 
 
 Et qu'ils sont nous divinement. 
 
 Is anything in any language more lovely than 
 that ? If so, I do not know it. 
 
 True to his flair for divisions and titles, Regnier 
 has divided this book into "Votive Medals," "Love 
 Medals," "Heroic Medals," and "Marine Medals." 
 Then, deserting his metaphor, we have several 
 other sections of which only the last, "The Passers-by 
 of the Past," invites mention. In almost every 
 poem of the medal section, Regnier has kept to 
 the idea of the modeller. It is nearly always 
 brought in, as though he enjoyed the difficulty of 
 writing poems of many kinds and writing them by 
 this central symbol, and yet treating each one dif- 
 ferently, and avoiding any suggestion of monotony. 
 When I say that there are sixty-seven poems in the 
 medal section, it will be seen what a task this was. 
 This is one of the "Votive Medals : " 
 
 LA FILEUSE 
 
 Fileuse ! L'ombre est tiede et bleuatre. line abeille 
 Bourdonne sourdement dans le jour qui s'endort, 
 Et ton rouet se mele a cette rumeur d'or 
 Aile qui peu k peu s'engourdit et sommeille.
 
 Henri de Regnier 193 
 
 II est tard. C'est le soir. Le raisin a la treille 
 Pend et sa grappe est mure a Tessaim qui la mord, 
 Mais, pour la vendanger demain, il faut encor, 
 Avant que vienne I'aube et que le coq s'eveille, 
 
 Que j'aie en cette argile obeissante et douce 
 
 Arrondi de la paume et fagonne du pouce 
 
 Cette amphore qui s'enfle entre mes mains obscures, 
 
 Tandis que mon labeur ecoute autour de lui 
 Ton rouet imiter de son rauque murmure 
 Quelque guepe invisible eparse dans la nuit. 
 
 This is a " Marine Medal : " 
 
 ODE MARINE 
 J'entends la mer 
 Murmurer au loin quand le vent 
 Entre les pins, souvent, 
 Porte son bruit rauque et amer 
 Qui s'assourdit, roucoule ou siffle, a travers, 
 Les pins rouges sur le ciel clair . . . 
 
 Parfois 
 
 Sa sinueuse, sa souple voix 
 
 Semble ramper k I'oreille, puis recule 
 
 Plus basse au fond du crepuscule 
 
 Et puis se tait pendant des jours 
 
 Comme endormie 
 
 Avec le vent 
 
 Et je I'oublie . . .
 
 194 •^''^^ French Poets 
 
 Mais un matin elle reprend 
 Avec la houle et la maree, 
 Plus haute, plus desesperee, 
 Et je I'entends. 
 
 C'est un bruit d'eau qui souffre et gronde et se lamente 
 
 Derriere les arbres sans qu'on la voie, 
 
 Caknee ou ecumante 
 
 Selon que le couchant saigne ou rougeoie, 
 
 Se meurt ardent ou s'eteint tidde . . . 
 
 Sans ce grand murmure qui croit ou cesse 
 
 Et roule ou berce 
 
 Mes heures, chacune, et mes pensees, 
 
 Sans lui, cette terre crue 
 
 Et crevassee 
 
 Que ga et la renfle et bossue 
 
 Un tertre jaune ou poussent roses 
 
 De rares fleurs chetives qui penchent, 
 
 Sans lui, ce lieu apre et morose 
 
 D'ou je ne vols qu'un horizon pauvre 
 
 De solitude et de silence 
 
 Serait trop triste k ma pensee 
 
 Car je suis seul, vois-tu. Toute la Vie 
 
 M'appelle a son passe encor qui rit et crie 
 
 Par mille bouches eloquentes 
 
 Derriere moi, 1^-bas, les mains tendues, 
 
 Debout et nue ; 
 
 Et moi, couch 6 
 
 Sur la terre durcie k mes ongles en sang, 
 
 Je n'ai pour y sculpter mon rdve fr^missant
 
 Henri de Regnier iCf^ 
 
 Et le rendre ^temel en sa forme fragile 
 
 Qu'un peu d'argile, 
 
 Rien d'autre 
 
 Pour fapotmer mes m^iailles melodieuses 
 
 Oix je saLs dans la glaise ocreuse 
 
 Faire, visage d'ombre ou profil de clart^, 
 
 Scrurire la Douletir et pleurer la Beaate , . . 
 
 Mais dans mon ^me au loin I'amour gronde o^a roucoule 
 Comme la mer, la-bas, derriere les pins rouges. 
 
 Now I am going tx> skip over tx> "Passers-by of 
 the Past." These are wonderful little vignettes of 
 eighteenth century characters. Did writing Z>a 
 Double Maitresse put them into his head? Or are 
 they merely another sign of that urging of the past 
 upon him which we come across so often ? 
 
 The first picture is a battle scene, or rather a por- 
 trait with a battle scene for background : 
 
 TABLEAU DE BATAILLE 
 
 n est botte de cuir et cuirasse d'airain, 
 Debout dans la fumee ou flotte sur sa hanche 
 Le noeud ou pend I'epee k son echarpe blanche ; 
 Son gantelet se crispe au geste de sa main. 
 
 Son pied s'appuie au tertre oii, dans le noir terrain. 
 
 La grenade enflammee ouvre sa rouge tranche, 
 Et I'eclair du canon empourpre, rude et franche, 
 Sa face bourguignonne a perruque de crin.
 
 196 Six French Poets 
 
 Autour de lui, partout, confus et minuscule, 
 Le combat s'enchevetre, h^site, fuit, s'accule, 
 Escarmouche, m^lee et tuerie et haut fait ; 
 
 Et le peintre naif qui lui grandit la taille 
 Sans doute fut loue jadis pour avoir fait 
 Le h^ros k lui seul plus grand que la bataille. 
 
 This next one is of a pet monkey : 
 
 LE SINGE 
 
 Avec son perroquet, sa chienne et sa n6gresse 
 Qui lui tend le peignoir et s^che I'eau du bain 
 A son corps qui, plus blanc sous cette noire main, 
 Cambre son torse souple ou sa gorge se dresse, 
 
 EUe a fait peindre aussi, pour marquer sa tendresse, 
 Par humeur libertine ou caprice badin, 
 Le portrait naturel de son singe africain 
 Qui croque une muscade et se gratte la fesse. 
 
 Tr^s grave, presque un homme et singe en tapinois, 
 Velu, glabre, attentif, il epluche sa noix 
 Et regarde alentour, assis sur son seant ; 
 
 Et sa face pelee et camuse ou I'oeil bouge 
 
 Ricane, se contracte et fronce en grimagant 
 
 Son turban vert et jaune on tremble un plumet rouge.
 
 Henri de Rcgnier 197 
 
 Here is the most charming one of all : 
 
 L'AMATEUR 
 
 En son calme manoir entre la Tille et I'Ouche, 
 Au pays de Bourgogne ou la vigne fleurit, 
 Tranquille, il a vecu comme un raisin murit. 
 Le vin coula pour lui du goulot qu'on d^bouche. 
 
 Ami de la nature et friand de sa bouche, 
 
 II courtisa la Muse et laissa, par ^crit, 
 
 Po^mes, madrigaux, epitres, pot-pourri, 
 
 Et parchemins poudreux ou s'attestait sa souche. 
 
 En perruque de crin, par la rue, k Dijon, 
 S'il marchait, appuye sur sa canne de jonc, 
 Les Elus de la Ville et les Parlementaires 
 
 Saluaient de fort loin Monsieur le Chevalier, 
 
 Moins pour son nom, ses champs, sa vigne et son hallier 
 
 Que pour avoir regu trois lettres de Voltaire. 
 
 The three letters of Voltaire have a nice irony about 
 them. 
 
 I am going to give myself the pleasure of print- 
 ing just one more of this group. It is not a por- 
 trait, it is a thing. One of those bright, Dresden 
 china clocks, all painted porcelain flowers and twin- 
 ing bronze branches. Henri de Regnier has a pro- 
 found affection for what Voltaire calls, "ce superflu 
 si necessaire."
 
 198 Six French Poets 
 
 LA PENDULE DE PORCELAINE 
 
 Le jardin rit au fleuve et le fleuve soupire 
 Du regret ^ternel de sa rive qu'il fuit, 
 La glycine retombe et se penche vers lui, 
 Le lilas s'y reflate et le jasmin s'y mire. 
 
 Le liseron s'^Iance et le lierre s*6tire ; 
 Un bouton qui germait est coroUe aujourd'hui ; 
 L'heliotrope embaume 1 'ombre et chaque nuit 
 Entr'ouvre un lys de plus pour I'aube qui I'admire ; 
 
 Et dans la maison claire en ses tapisseries, 
 
 Une pendule de porcelaine fleurie 
 
 Contoume sa rocaille ou I'Amour s'enguirlande, 
 
 Et tout le frais bouquet dont le jardin s'honore 
 Survit dans le vieux Saxe oii le Temps pour offrande 
 Greffe la fleur d 'argent de son timbre sonore. 
 
 Gathering up his scattered essays contributed to 
 various reviews and particularly Les Ecrits pour 
 UArt, Regnier brought them out in 1901, in a 
 volume. With this book we have nothing to do. 
 The same year produced Les Amants Singuliers, a 
 harking back to the style of tales with which he 
 began ; and the next year, a long novel, Le Bon 
 Plaisir, with the seventeenth century for scenery, 
 and dedicated to his many- times-removed grand- 
 father, as I said before. Again, in the same year, 
 came another volume of poems. La Cite des Eaux.
 
 Henri de Regnier 199 
 
 The title of this book is taken from Michelet's 
 line: "Versailles, Cite desEaux." Henri de Regnier 
 is in love with Versailles. Here, as nowhere else, 
 can he solace his taste for old French garden archi- 
 tecture, for stately buildings, and for the melancholy 
 of vanished generations. With that feeling for style 
 which he has to so unusual a degree, with unerring 
 taste, he has chosen the formal sonnet, the classic 
 French alexandrine sonnet (a far inferior brand to 
 the Italian sonnet, be it said), for his tribute to Ver- 
 sailles. Versailles, model of formality and stately 
 etiquette ! 
 
 The dedication, Salut d Versailles, is too long to 
 print in its entirety. I will quote the first part 
 (of course it is in several parts), and let me hastily 
 add that it is not a sonnet. 
 
 SALUT A VERSAILLES 
 
 Celui dont Vkvae est triste et qui porte k I'automne 
 Son coeur briilant encor des cendres de I'et^, 
 Est le Prince sans sceptre et le Roi sans couronne 
 De votre solitude et de votre beaute. 
 
 Car ce qu'il cherche en vous, 6 jardins de silence, 
 Sous votre ombrage grave ou le bruit de ses pas 
 Poursuit en vain I'echo qui tou jours le devance, 
 Ce qu'il cherche en votre ombre, 6 jardins, ce n'est pas 
 
 Le murmure secret de la rumeur illustre, 
 
 Dont le si^cle a rempli vos bosquets toujours beaux,
 
 200 Six French Poets 
 
 Ni quelque vaine gloire accoudee au balustre, 
 
 Ni quelque jeune grice au bord des fraiches eaux ; 
 
 II ne demande pas qu'y passe ou qu'y revienne 
 Le h6ros immortel ou le vivant fameux 
 Dont la vie orgueilleuse, 6clatante et hautaine 
 Fut I'astre et le soleil de ces augustes lieux. 
 
 Ce qu'il veut, c'est le calme et c'est la solitude, 
 La perspective avec I'allde et I'escalier, 
 Et le rond-point, et le parterre, et I'attitude 
 De I'if pyramidal aupr^ du buis taille ; 
 
 La grandeur tacitume et la paix monotone 
 De ce melancolique et supreme sejour, 
 Et ce parfum de soir et cette odeur d'automne 
 Qui s'exhalent de I'ombre avec la fin du jour. 
 
 I should like to quote all these sonnets, one after 
 the other — and only in this way can you get the 
 whole effect — but as I cannot do that, I have 
 picked out a few here and there. The first is La 
 Fagade. 
 
 LA FAQADE 
 
 Glorieuse, monumentale et monotone. 
 
 La fagade de pierre effrite au vent qui passe 
 
 Son chapiteau friable et sa guirlande lasse 
 
 En face du pare jaune ou s'accoude I'Automne.
 
 Henri de Regnier 201 
 
 Au medaillon de marbre ou Pallas la couronne, 
 La double lettre encor se croise et s'entrelace ; 
 A porter le balcon I'Hercule se harasse ; 
 La fleur de lys s'effeuille au temps qui la moissonne. 
 
 Le vieux Palais, mire dans ses bassins deserts, 
 Regarde s'accroupir en bronze noir et vert 
 La Solitude nue et le Passe dormant ; 
 
 Mais le soleil aux vitres d'or qu'il incendie 
 
 Y semble rallumer interieurement 
 
 Le sursaut, chaque soir, de la Gloire engourdie. 
 
 Already the note is struck: mournful, echoing. 
 We are watching the dissolution of something beau- 
 tiful, fragile, but doomed. And yet, how lovely it 
 is in its decay, how much more sympathetic than 
 strident vigour ! Listen to this of Le Bassin Vert : 
 
 LE BASSIN VERT 
 
 Son bronze qui fut chair I'^rige en I'eau verdie, 
 Deesse d'autrefois triste d'etre statue ; 
 La mousse peu k peu couvre I'epaule nue, 
 Et I'ume qui se tait p^se k la main roidie ; 
 
 L'onde qui s'engourdit mire avec perfidie 
 L'ombre que toute chose en elle est devenue, 
 Et son miroir fluide ou s'allonge une nue 
 Imite inversement un ciel qu'il parodie.
 
 202 Six French Poets 
 
 Le gazon tou jours vert ressemble au bassin glauque. 
 
 C'est Ic meme carr6 de verdure Equivoque 
 
 Dont le marbre ou le buis encadrent I'herbe ou I'eau. 
 
 Et dans I'eau smaragdine et I'herbe d'emeraude, 
 Regarde, tour k tour, errer en ors rivaux 
 La jaune feuille morte et le cyprin qui r6de. 
 
 How the creeping of the moss up the shoulder of 
 the statue gives, in one Hne, the sense of decay ! 
 Here is another called La Nymphe. Notice how 
 slightly and yet certainly it is done. With how 
 little he gives the colours and reflections in the water. 
 
 LA NYMPHE 
 
 L'eau calme qui s'endort, d^borde et se repose 
 Au bassin de porphyre et dans la vasque en plcurs 
 En son trouble sommeil et ses glauques paleurs 
 Reflate le cypres et reflete la rose. 
 
 Le Dieu k la D^esse en souriant s'oppose ; 
 L'un tient le sceptre et Tare, I'autre I'urne et les fleurs, 
 Et, dans I'allee entre eux, melant son ombre aux leurs, 
 L' Amour debout et nu se dresse et s 'interpose, 
 
 Les talus du gazon bordent le canal clair ; 
 L'if y mire son bloc, le houx son cone vert, 
 Et I'obelisque alterne avec la pyramide ;
 
 Henri de Regnier 203 
 
 Un Dragon qui fait face a son Hydre ennemie, 
 
 Tous deux du trou visqueux de leiirs bouches humides 
 
 Crachent un jet d'argent sur la Nymphe endonnie. 
 
 Oh, they are beautiful, these poems ! I know noth- 
 ing more perfect in any language. 
 
 Now let us take an interior. He is no less happy 
 there, as you will see. And when it comes to the 
 smell of the box through the window, we must 
 admit that words can do no more. 
 
 LE PAVILLON 
 
 La corbeille, la pannetiere et le ruban 
 Nouant la double flute a la houlette droite, 
 Le medaillon ovale o\x la moulure etroite 
 Encadre un profil gris dans le panneau plus blanc ; 
 
 La pendule hative et I'horloge au pas lent 
 Ou I'heure, tour k tour, se contrarie et boite ; 
 Le miroir las qui semble une eau luisante et moite, 
 La porte entrebaillee et le rideau tremblant ; 
 
 Quelqu'un qui est parti, quelqu'un qui va venir. 
 
 La Memoire endonnie avec le Souvenir, 
 
 Une approche qui tarde et date d 'une absence, 
 
 Une fenetre, sur I'odeur du buis amer, 
 Ouverte, et sur des roses d'ou le vent balance 
 Le lustre de crista! au parquet de bois clair.
 
 204 Six French Poets 
 
 La Cite des Eaux has other divisions. And they 
 are interesting, if you have the fortitude to begin 
 the volume in the middle. But if you start with 
 Versailles, I predict that you will always remain 
 there. 
 
 La Cite des Eaux was followed, in 1903, by his 
 first modern novel, Le Mariage de Minuit, and again 
 in the same year by another, Les Vacances d'un Jeune 
 Homme Sage. This last is a delightful story of a 
 boy in his late school-days, and is done with com- 
 plete sympathy and seriousness. No vestige of a 
 sneer ever mars it. The author never patronizes 
 his creation, young boy though he is. By the 
 people who find La Double Mattresse a little too 
 extreme, Les Vacances d'un Jeune Homme Sage is 
 usually considered Regnier's best novel. 
 
 Les Rencontres de M. de Breot, published in 1904, 
 was a return to the seventeenth century, but in 
 rather a different manner. M. de Breot is a series 
 of scenes rather than a novel, and it is a very strange 
 mixture of realism and fantasticality. The two 
 sides of Regnier have each had a hand for a while, 
 and the result is a book which utterly defies classi- 
 fication. But when, in 1905, Le Passe Vivant ap- 
 peared, Regnier had flung a bridge over the chasm 
 in himself, and produced a book which rested upon 
 both of his personalities. 
 
 Le Passe Vivant is too big a book, a book with 
 too many overtones, to be discussed in a paragraph.
 
 Henri de Regnier 205 
 
 Perhaps the poetical side of Regnier comes out 
 more strongly in it than in most of his novels, 
 though they are all impregnated with poetry. It is 
 a tragic story of a young man who is so obsessed 
 by the past that he feels called upon to reproduce 
 in his own person, as much as possible, the ancestor 
 whose name he bears. The result is a series of cir- 
 cumstances which make life so hideous that the 
 duplicate ends by the young man killing himself on 
 the spot where his ancestor had died of a wound 
 received in battle. 
 
 It is easy to sneer at this book as a fairy story, or 
 a ghost story of an unusual kind. It is neither of 
 these things, but a profound study of a fact, which, 
 in a lesser, saner degree, I feel sure Henri de Regnier 
 knows from personal experience to be true. 
 
 La Sandale Ailee, a return to poetry again, ap- 
 peared in 1906. The quality of Regnier's verse 
 has not exactly deteriorated, and yet there is noth- 
 ing in this volume to equal Le Vase, the introduc- 
 tion in Les Medailles d'Argile, or the sonnets to Ver- 
 sailles. Yet there is one poem which is among the 
 poet's finest work. It is a new note of vigour, 
 almost a joy of living. The particular kind of 
 Symbolisme of his early books is fading out of these 
 last volumes. There is a greater robustness, a 
 dashing quality. But here let me print "Sep- 
 tember:"
 
 2o6 Six French Poets ^ 
 
 SEPTEMBRE 
 
 Avant que I'^pre vent exile les oiscaux, 
 Disperse la feuillee et s^che les roseaux 
 Ovi j'ai coup6 jadis mes filches et mes flfites, 
 Je veux, assis au seuil qu'encadre la lambrusque, 
 Revoir, avec mes yeux d^j^ demi fermes 
 Sur ces jours, un k un, que nous avons aimes, 
 La face que I'Ann^e, en fuyant, mois ^ mois, 
 Detoume, en souriant, de I'ombre qui fut moi. 
 
 Septembre, Septembre, 
 
 Cueilleur de fruits, teilleur de chanvre, 
 
 Aux clairs matins, aux soirs de sang, 
 
 Tu m'apparais, 
 
 Debout et beau, 
 
 Sur I'or des feuilles de la for6t, 
 
 Au bord de I'eau, 
 
 En ta robe de brume et de soie, 
 
 Avec ta chevelure qui rougeoie 
 
 D'or, de cuivre, de sang et d'ambre, 
 
 Septembre, 
 
 Avec I'outre de peau ob^se 
 
 Qui charge ton 6paule et p^se 
 
 Et suinte a ses coutures vermeilles 
 
 Ou viennent bourdonner les dernieres abeilles ! 
 
 Septembre ! 
 
 Le vin nouveau fermente et mousse de la tonne 
 
 Aux cruches ; 
 
 La cave embaume, le grenier ploie ;
 
 Henri de Regnier 207 
 
 La gerbe de I'Ete cMe au cep de rAutomne ; 
 
 La meule luit des olives qu'elle broie. 
 
 Toi, Seigneur des pressoirs, des meules et des ruches, 
 
 O Septembre, chante de toutes les fontaines, 
 
 Ecoute la voix du podme ! 
 
 Le soir est froid ; 
 
 L 'ombre s 'allonge de la for^t, 
 
 Et le soleil descend derridre les grands chenes. 
 
 Oh, how good that vers litre is, and how unerring 
 Rcgnier's judgment to know when it is indispen- 
 sable ! Could that movement of speed and delight 
 have been got in the alexandrine, do you think ? 
 No — "other times, other manners;" new metres 
 suit new minds. 
 
 Another volume of essays in 1906, a series of 
 Venetian sketches, also in 1906. A modern novel, 
 and a singularly successful one, in 1907, A play, 
 which it must be admitted amounts to very little, 
 in 1908. Another modern novel, L'Amphisb^ne, in 
 1912, and the year before, 191 1, the last collection 
 of poems that he has published so far, Le Miroir des 
 Heures. 
 
 Again, the poems retain their extraordinary tech- 
 nique, but to any one who knows his earlier books, 
 Le Miroir des Heures ofTers nothing either exception- 
 ally good like Septembre, in La Sandale Ailee, or 
 particularly new. For the first time, some of the 
 Rabelaisian quality of certain scenes in certain of 
 his novels has crept into his poems, in the section :
 
 2o8 Six French Poets 
 
 Sept Estampes Amour euses. Many of the poems are 
 records of travel in Turkey and Italy. They are 
 pleasant, adequate — but unarresting. I do not 
 think it necessary to quote anything from Le Miroir 
 des Heures. I prefer to leave Septembre as the last 
 quotation. 
 
 Another novel, Romaine MirmauU, came out in 
 the Summer of 19 14, and still another, which had 
 been running in a review, was to have been pub- 
 lished soon after. I suppose the war has de- 
 layed it. 
 
 The wonder in reading Henri de R^gnier's life is 
 how on earth he has been able to accomplish all he 
 has. His novels show him to be a man of the world, 
 observant, experienced, but the labour of producing 
 twenty-six books in exacdy twenty-nine years is 
 enormous. And the genius (when practically all 
 the books are masterpieces) is incalculable. Never 
 once in the fatigue of this constant production has 
 Regnier lowered his artistic standards. He has 
 told us how he writes his novels, re-writing them 
 entirely three or four times before they are ready for 
 publication. 
 
 In 191 1, Henri de Regnier was elected to the 
 French Academy, succeeding Melchior de Vogue. 
 
 Symholisme is over. The younger men are more 
 preoccupied with life, they need new tools to express 
 new thoughts. In the next essay we begin with the 
 Moderns. Henri de Regnier himself has said, "We
 
 Henri de Regnier 209 
 
 dreamed ; they want to live and to say they have 
 lived, directly, simply, intimately, lyrically. They 
 do not want to express man in his symbols, they 
 want to express him in his thoughts, in his sensa- 
 tions, in his sentiments." 
 
 Whether this great genius who Is Henri de Re- 
 gnier will ever renew himself in his poetry as he has 
 in his prose, remains for time to show. It is the 
 fashion at the moment to consider him only as a 
 novelist, and to disparage his poetry in the light of 
 his prose. But even taking that into consideration, 
 and admitting him to be, in poetry, the voice of a 
 vanishing quarter of a century, he is still the greatest 
 French poet alive to-day, and one of the greatest 
 poets that France has ever had.
 
 r^ydiiKM^
 
 FRANCIS JAMMES
 
 FRANCIS JAMMES 
 
 I SAID in the last chapter that, in this, we should 
 begin to study the Moderns. Perhaps it would be 
 well, at the outset, to inquire a little what is modern. 
 What is this modern spirit which distinguishes 
 Francis Jammes and Paul Fort from the men of 
 the Symboliste group ? If I were obliged to define 
 it in a word, I should say that it was "exteriority" 
 versus "interiority." 
 
 Since the days of Musset, a long line of poets 
 had been weeping their miseries in beautiful verse. 
 Baudelaire, Verlaine, Samain, Regnier, all of them, 
 had found life disillusion (or said they had), and 
 none of them hesitated to complain through the 
 length of charming volume after charming volume. 
 Romantics, Realists, Naturalistes, Symbolistes, were 
 all united by one common bond, they were con- 
 vinced that a man who did not find the world dust 
 and ashes was a philistine. They could be happy 
 for a few brief moments in some brasserie, provided 
 they were rather noisy and vulgar about it, but it 
 was quite understood between them and an indul- 
 
 213
 
 214 '^^^ French Poets 
 
 gent world that they were only spending a few mo- 
 ments in cheating the misery which was devour- 
 ing them, that the next morning they would be as 
 unhappy as ever. And the brasserie saw to it that 
 they were. 
 
 It was the convention that a poet loved rather 
 decrepit and faded things (how often we find the 
 word fane in their poems). Volupte is another word 
 they loved, and here we have the companion picture 
 to the brasserie. They were a pack of individualists, 
 egoists, living in a city, and inoculating one another 
 with the microbe of discontent. 
 
 I am far from saying that they were not great 
 poets — the foregoing chapters will have shown you 
 how much I admire their work — but these men 
 were born with a great talent. They would have 
 been poets no matter where they lived or what they 
 thought, for one feels with them that it is their 
 poetry which counts and not their ideas. (Of course, 
 I except Verhaeren from this statement. As I said 
 in the first essay, Verhaeren flew over the interven- 
 ing period, during those years of illness in London, 
 and emerged a fully developed modern, some years 
 ahead of anybody else.) 
 
 Neither do I wish to convey the Idea that none 
 of this long line of poets was a cynic by nature. 
 Musset, Baudelaire, and Verlaine had every reason 
 to be unhappy, both because of their temperaments, 
 and because of the events their temperaments led
 
 Francis Jammes 215 
 
 them into. But what was undoubtedly true of a few 
 men, was equally undoubtedly a convention with the 
 majority. " Interiority" was the fashion; a poet 
 examined his mental processes under a microscope 
 until he was like the gentleman in the story who had 
 everything but "housemaid's knee." 
 
 Such a state of things was really utterly insup- 
 portable. Musset drank himself to death ; Ver- 
 laine and Huysmans fell exhausted into the arms of 
 the Church ; Rimbaud took refuge in the Orient, 
 married a native wife, and wrote no more poems ; 
 and the greater number undoubtedly learned to 
 enjoy their little pleasures and comforts with agree- 
 able calm, although they continued to write as though 
 suicide were just round the corner. 
 
 Somehow, that fashion worked itself out, and 
 "exteriority," as I have called the characteristic 
 modern touch, came in. By this extremely awk- 
 ward word, "exteriority," I mean an interest in 
 the world apart from oneself, a contemplation of 
 nature unencumbered by the "pathetic fallacy." 
 It is the reason of the picture-making of the modern 
 poet. Picture-making these other men gave us, 
 but the Modern gives us picture-making without 
 comment. A somewhat old-fashioned editor once 
 said to me that poetry was losing its nobility, its 
 power of inspiration, because the young poets were 
 only concerned with making pictures. I longed to 
 ask him whether he would find a portrait by Van
 
 2i6 Six French Poets 
 
 Dyck or Romney more appealing, if there were a 
 little cloud issuing from the mouth of the sitter 
 upon which, somewhere in an upper corner, his or 
 her sentiments might be read, after the manner of 
 our comic papers. 
 
 Well, whether editors like it or not, this making 
 of pictures is one side of the modern manner. An- 
 other is a certain zest in seeing things and recording 
 them. {Chansons pour me Consoler d'Etre Heureux 
 is the title of one of Fort's books.) The "modern" 
 poet dares to be happy and say so. Still another 
 side of "modernity" is the feeling of unity. Una- 
 nisme, they call it in France. The knowledge that 
 the world is all interrelated, that each part of it is 
 dependent upon every other. That the butcher, 
 the baker, and the candlestick-maker are perform- 
 ing im.portant functions, of which he, the poet, is 
 merely performing another ; and that love is hardly 
 more necessary in making the world go round than 
 a host of other little shoves given by trade, and 
 science, and art, collectively. 
 
 Again let me ward off misunderstanding by re- 
 marking that I do not wish to imply that " Modems" 
 never write about themselves, nor that the elder 
 poets never wrote purely descriptive poems. It is 
 general temper which makes a type, not sporadic 
 departures from it. Any poet may feel sad and 
 write sad verses, it is only when he writes no others 
 that we are justified in calling it a mode.
 
 Francis Jammes 217 
 
 Francis Jammes is the poet of contentment, of 
 observation, of simplicity. He is the poet of hills, 
 and fields, and barns, not of libraries and alcoves. 
 His poetry blows across the scented verses of the 
 '90's like the wind from one of the snow-capped 
 peaks of his native Pyrenees. 
 
 In 1893, there drifted to Paris a little volume of 
 poems called simply Vers. It was privately issued, 
 and bore the name of a provincial printer : J. Goude- 
 Dumesnil, Orthez. The author's name was quite 
 unknown to the literati of Paris. Orthez was a little 
 town in the Basses- Pyrenees ; that seemed the only 
 tangible thing about the book. But the poems were 
 worthy of notice for their candour and simplicity, 
 and they piqued curiosity by what seemed to the 
 critics their anonymity. The Mercure de France for 
 December, 1893, contained a notice which said : 
 "This slim volume presents itself in a mysterious and 
 very particular manner. The name of the author is 
 unknown. Is it a pseudonym? And it seems as 
 though the spelling were not very careful : James 
 would be more exact. The book is dedicated to 
 Hubert Crackanthorpe and Charles Lacoste. M. 
 Hubert Crackanthorpe exists. He is a young Eng- 
 lish writer who has published a volume of stories, 
 which are, it appears, very remarkable, somewhat 
 in the manner of Maupassant, and entitled 'Wreck- 
 age.' The second name is unknown to me." 
 
 So the author must be an Englishman named
 
 21 8 Six French Poets 
 
 "James," or an English boy, for farther on this 
 astute commentator says, "The few words, written 
 by hand on the copy I have before my eyes, are in 
 the writing of an awkward Httle schoolboy." In his 
 dedication, Jammes had written, "My style stam- 
 mers, but I have told my truth." Of course he 
 stammered, because he was English and so writing 
 in a foreign tongue. The Pyrenees is one of the 
 favourite haunts of the English ; it was settled : the 
 author was English, and his name was James. 
 
 But Jammes was not English ; he was the descend- 
 ant of an old Pyrenean bourgeois family. His great- 
 grandfather was a notary in the town of Albi, and 
 the family were of enough consequence to have a 
 neighbouring village named after them. The sons 
 of this gentleman left home to seek their fortunes, 
 and the grandfather of the poet, Jean-Baptiste 
 Jammes, became a doctor at Guadeloupe. At first 
 he prospered, and souvenirs of the interesting and 
 exotic life he lived in the West Indies seem to have 
 left an indelible impression upon the mind of his 
 grandson. But he was ruined by an earthquake, and 
 died without returning to France. 
 
 Jean-Baptiste had married a Creole, and a little 
 son was born at Pointe-a-Pitre, before the earth- 
 quake. This boy was sent back to France when he 
 was seven years old, to be brought up by some 
 aunts who lived at Orthez. Jammes has written 
 with feeling of the old dining-room, and the corner
 
 Francis Jammes 219 
 
 of it where his father sat, a little waif, seven years 
 old, just arrived from Guadeloupe. 
 
 M. Jammes, the father, grew up and married — 
 whom, I have been unable to find out — and settled 
 in the town of Tournay in the Hautes-Pyrenees, 
 where his son, Francis Jammes, was born on the 
 second of December, 1868. 
 
 Never was any one more rooted to a countryside 
 than Jammes to the Midi. "My bed," he writes, 
 "is set down between that grain of sand: the 
 Pyrenees, and that drop of water : the Atlantic 
 Ocean. I live in Orthez. My name is inscribed at 
 the mairie, and I am called Francis Jammes." But 
 I anticipate ; Orthez came later. His early child- 
 hood was passed at Tournay. He has given some 
 of his early recollections in a series of poems called 
 Souvenirs d'Enfance : 
 
 J'allai chez ^lonsieur Lay I'instituteur. 
 Mon alphabet etait comme des fleurs. 
 Je me souviens du poele et de la buche 
 que chaque enfant du village apportait 
 lorsque le Ciel est une blanche ruche 
 et qu'on reveil on dit : "II a neige !" 
 
 Je me souviens aussi de la gaite 
 de mon tablier, avix jours murs d'Ete 
 quand je quittais I'ecole un peu plus tot. 
 Petit petit j 'avals encore les Cieux 
 dedans les yeux comme une goutte d'eau 
 ^ tr avers quoi Ton peut voir le Bon Dieu.
 
 220 Six French Poets 
 
 Already, suggested though not stated, is that blue 
 of the sky which Jammes always seems to be in love 
 with. All his books are cool and white like snow, 
 and threaded with the blue of skies, of snow-shadows, 
 of running water. 
 
 In these reminiscences, he tells us how he "suffered 
 because the nightingale preferred the green rose- 
 bush to my heart," as he expresses it. He tells of 
 being taken, one Sunday, to lunch with the notary, 
 and being told off to play with the notary's niece ; 
 of how they wandered in the orchard and "the 
 birds upon the branches were confiding." We see 
 the old apothecary, with his red wig and his hat "d /a 
 Murger,'" coming to take care of him when he is ill. 
 He goes fishing and catches a white fish. He is 
 taken to Pau and sees some performing monkeys, 
 and stands up on his chair with excitement. One 
 of the monkeys is supposed to be a soldier who has 
 tried to desert and is shot, and the little boy is 
 terribly affected, he says : 
 
 ... la vision du Singe qu'on fusille 
 tu le sais bien, elle est toujours en moi. 
 
 His love for animals is very beautiful, his books 
 are full of dogs, cats, donkeys ; of hares, and wood- 
 cock, and quail, and butterflies, and dragonflies. His 
 love of nature began at Tournay : 
 
 Eau, feuillage, air, sable, racines, fleurs, 
 sauterelles, lombrics, martin-pecheurs,
 
 Francis Jammes 221 
 
 brume tombant sur quelque champ de raves, 
 vrilles de vigne au toit du tisserand : 
 6 doux genies qui m'avez fait esclave ! 
 Vous m'amusiez, moi petit, vous si grands ! 
 
 When Jammes was five years old, his father was 
 made Receiver of Records at Bordeaux, and the 
 family went there to live. For a brief time during 
 the moving, Jammes was sent to school in Pau. It 
 was a "dame-school," directed by two ladies. 
 Jammes was a petulant little boy, and probably the 
 restraint of a city was irksome to him ; apparently 
 the only thing which he remembers with pleasure 
 about this period, is chasing butterflies on his way 
 home from school. But Bordeaux was another 
 story. It was full of endless interests for a growing 
 boy — the quays, with their big ships perpetually 
 loading and unloading, and that spicy smell which 
 haunts vessels trading with the Indies or the Orient ; 
 the ship-chandlers' shops, with their suggestion of 
 deep waters ; and the innumerable bird-sellers' shops, 
 full of parrots and other gay-plumaged, tropical 
 birds, fit to rouse the imagination of the stolidest 
 youngster that ever was born. And Jammes was 
 anything but a stolid youngster. He was avid of 
 impressions, and untiring in the intelligence he 
 brought to bear upon them. 
 
 The big ships forever sailing away, and returning 
 laden with strange fruits and tropical merchandise, 
 filled the boy with a sort of nostalgia for those
 
 222 Six French Poets 
 
 distant, sun-basking ports. His grandfather had 
 lived in one of them, and his mind wrapped itself in 
 a delicious dreaming about those luxuriant islands 
 of which he had heard so much. He fell to imagin- 
 ing his grandfather in his big planter's hat and light 
 blue coat, wandering round among bamboos and 
 cocoa- trees : 
 
 O P6re de mon P^re, tu 6tais la, devant 
 mon ame qui n'etait pas nee et sous le vent 
 les avisos glissaient dans la nuit coloniale. 
 
 or sleeping : 
 
 . . . au pied de la goyave bleue, parmi 
 les cris de I'Ocean et les oiseaux des graves. 
 
 All the mementoes of this West Indian life he 
 cherished like sacred things : his grandfather's 
 letters ; his grandmother's shawl, embroidered with 
 flowers and birds; a trunk of camphor- wood, full 
 of the murmuring of seas and forests. 
 
 In one of his poems he speaks of the old letters : 
 
 TU ECRIVAIS . . . 
 
 Tu ^crivais que tu chassais des ramiers 
 
 dans les bois de la Goyave, 
 et le medecin qui te soignait ecrivait, 
 
 peu avant ta mort, sur ta vie grave.
 
 Francis Jammes 223 
 
 II vit, disait-il, en Caraibe, dans ses bois. 
 
 Tu es le pere de mon pere. 
 Ta vieille correspondance est dans mon tiroir 
 
 at ta vie est amere. 
 
 Tu partis d'Orthez comme docteur-medecin, 
 
 pour faire fortune la-bas. 
 On recevait de tes lettres par un marin, 
 
 par le capitaine Folat. 
 
 Tu fus ruine par les tremblements de terre 
 
 dans ce pays ou Ton buvait 
 I'eau de pluie des cuves, lourde, malsaine, amere . . . 
 
 Et tout cela, tu I'^crivais. 
 
 Et tu avais achete une pharmacie. 
 
 Tuecrivais: "La Metropole 
 n'en a pas de pareille." Et tu disais : "Ma vie 
 
 m'a rendu comme un vrai creole." 
 
 Tu es enterre, la-bas, je crois, k la Goyave. 
 
 Et moi j'ecris o\x tu es n.€ : 
 ta vieille correspondance est tres triste et grave. 
 
 Elle est dans ma commode, a clef. 
 
 Perhaps something of this exotic life had really 
 crept into his blood. He is said to look like a 
 Creole, with "a great black beard, eyes nearly as 
 green as the sea, and a sharp voice." His early 
 books are full of this preoccupation with the tropical 
 islands of the West Indies.
 
 224 Six French Poets 
 
 Side by side with this dreaming, another interest 
 was growing upon Jammes, he was becoming in- 
 terested in flowers. Bordeaux has an excellent botan- 
 ical garden. One afternoon, when the poet was four- 
 teen years old, he went into this garden for the first 
 time. It made such an impression upon him that he 
 even remembers that it was a Thursday, a hot Thurs- 
 day afternoon in Summer. He says that there was " a 
 white sun, with thick blue shadows," and that "the 
 perfumes were so heavy they were almost sticky." 
 
 From that moment, Jammes' love for old maps, 
 old marine charts, the lovely French names of the 
 New World — • La Floride, La Louisiane, La Carolme, 
 La Martinique — and all they evoked, had a rival in 
 his love for flowers. He became an habitue of the 
 Botanical Gardens, and might be found there, defy- 
 ing the heat, with his handkerchief tucked into his 
 collar to keep off the sun, studying the classification 
 of plants. At that time, an old botanist, Armand 
 Clavaud, frequented the Gardens, and taught botany 
 to occasional pupils. Jammes became one of these, 
 and not only learnt that "seul le papillon-aurore a 
 I'aube du Printemps visite la cardamine," but found 
 a friend who listened while he read the poems he 
 was beginning to write. 
 
 Jammes does not seem to have carried on his 
 botany with a very scientific finality. Rather, he 
 seems to have dabbled in it, with the heart of a poet 
 and the mind of a delighted amateur. Jean-Jacques
 
 Francis Jammes 225 
 
 Rousseau began to rival the figure of his grand- 
 father in his dreams and affections. His favourite 
 book became the Confessions, which he called "son 
 livre ami." He never lost this interest in Rousseau; 
 one of his best prose pieces is Sur Jean-Jacques 
 Rousseau et Madame de Warens aux Charmettes et d, 
 Chambery, and one of his best poems is to Madame 
 de Warens. He constantly refers to Rousseau, " triste 
 botaniste" as he calls him, and his love of peri- 
 winkles. It is interesting to note that the little 
 blue periwinkle is almost the same colour as the 
 blues of the sky and water, which I have said so 
 pervade the work of Jammes. 
 
 His father dying in Bordeaux, Francis Jammes and 
 his mother returned to Orthez, and the young man 
 went into the office of a notary in that town. It is 
 needless to say that nothing could have been more 
 at variance with his tastes. The dusty proximity 
 of deeds and registers was obnoxious to him, and it 
 is rather amusing to notice that their dull and un- 
 romantic present entirely obscured their past, which 
 may very well have been as full of suggestion as the 
 maps and charts he loved. 
 
 But Nature was too much for Jammes, and 
 Nature is very importunate in the South of France. 
 He wanted to strap his little flower-box on his back 
 and be off "botanizing" in the fields ; he wanted to 
 race along the banks of the Gave with his dogs ; he 
 wanted to do anything except attend to business. 
 
 Q
 
 226 Six French Poets 
 
 To pass his days In the close atmosphere and powdery 
 sunshine of a lawyer's office was horrible. But his 
 observant eye was everywhere. Of the common, 
 sordid, dull people he met while he was with the 
 notary he has made his novel in verse, Existences. 
 If the picture is a true one, we can hardly blame 
 him for chafing to get away. 
 
 Meanwhile, three little volumes had slipped into 
 being, all privately printed, of which the one I men- 
 tioned at the beginning of this essay was the last. 
 The Mercure de France does not mention works that 
 are entirely Insignificant; Jammes was justified In 
 determining to follow the business of literature. So 
 the office was abandoned, and Jammes was free to 
 pursue the career of poet. 
 
 Francis Jammes and his mother settled down in 
 the old house so full of memories. The old house 
 of the great-aunts, whither his father had been sent 
 from Guadeloupe. Charles Guerin has written of 
 this house : 
 
 O Jammes, ta maison ressemble a ton visage. 
 Une barbe de lierre y grimpe, un pin I'ombrage 
 Etemellement jeune et dru comme ton coeur, 
 
 and Edmond Pilon, Jammes' friend and biographer, 
 describes it also: ''This cottage of Jammes', all 
 twittering with birds, humming with bees, and sur- 
 rounded with roses, in a garden which Is loud with 
 beehives, and shaded by a pine tree, stands on the
 
 Francis Jammes 227 
 
 slopes of Orthez. The countryside extends all about 
 it, divided by the Gave, and watered by torrents. 
 Here are villages, and over there are farms ; the 
 flocks climb the flanks of the mountains ; two- 
 wheeled carriages bring the peasants to market ; a 
 cart makes a rut in the plain ; the sun has warmed 
 the grains in the earth ; the rain follows ; the plums 
 in the orchard are blue ; a girl dressed in foulard 
 sings in the lane, and the churlish beggar has gone 
 down the road." 
 
 But I think, after all, that Jammes can describe 
 it best himself : 
 
 LA MAISON SERAIT PLEINE DE ROSES . . . 
 
 La maison serait pleine de roses et de gu^pes. 
 
 On y entendrait, rapres-midi, sonner les v^pres ; 
 
 et les raisins couleur de pierre transparente 
 
 sembleraient dormir au soleil sous I'ombre lente. 
 
 Comme je t'y aimer ais. Je te donne tout mon coeur 
 
 qui a vingt-quatre ans, et mon esprit moqueur, 
 
 mon orgueil et ma po^sie de roses blanches ; 
 
 et pourtant je ne te connais pas, tu n'existes pas. 
 
 Je sais seulement que, si tu etais vivante, 
 
 et si tu etais comme moi au fond de la prairie, 
 
 nous nous baiserions en riant sous les abeilles blondes, 
 
 pr^ du ruisseau frais, sous les feuilles profondes. 
 
 On n'entendrait que la chaleur du soleil. 
 
 Tu aurais I'ombre des noisetiers sur ton oreille, 
 
 puis nous melerions nos bouches, cessant de rire,
 
 228 Six French Poets 
 
 pour dire notre amour que Ton ne peut pas dire ; 
 
 et je trouverais, sur le rouge de tes levres, 
 
 le gout des raisins blonds, des roses rouges et des gufepes. 
 
 So much for the outside of the house. And this is 
 the inside : 
 
 LA SALLE A MANGER 
 
 II y a une armoire a peine luisante 
 
 qui a entendu les voix de mes grand 'tantes, 
 
 qui a entendu la voix de mon grand-pere, 
 
 qui a entendu la voix de mon pere. 
 
 A ces souvenirs I'armoire est fidele. 
 
 On a tort de croire qu'elle ne sait que se taire, 
 
 car je cause avec elle. 
 
 II y a aussi un coucou en bois. 
 
 Je ne sais pourquoi il n'a plus de voix. 
 
 Je ne veux pas le lui demander. 
 
 Peut-etre bien qu'elle est cassee, 
 
 la voix qui etait dans son ressort, 
 
 tout bonnement comme celle des morts. 
 
 II y a aussi un vieux buffet 
 
 qui sent la cire, la confiture, 
 
 la viande, le pain et les poires mures. 
 
 C'est un serviteur fidele qui sait 
 
 qu'il ne doit rien nous voler. 
 
 II est venu chez moi bien des hommes et des femmes 
 
 qui n'ont pas cru k ces petites ames. 
 
 Et je souris que Ton me pense seul vivant
 
 Francis Jammes 229 
 
 quand un visiteiir me dit en entrant : 
 
 — comment allez-vous, monsieur Jammes ? 
 
 With Ink and paper and his beloved pipe, which he 
 adores and apostrophizes in prose and verse, for 
 inside ; and the blue sky, and the flowering fields 
 and shady trees, with the Gave "blue like air," 
 church bells ringing in the evening, and the quiet 
 moon over the magnolia trees, what more could 
 any poet desire for the outside ? But there was 
 more — there were old iron gates of great parks 
 leading up to some half-deserted chateau ; there 
 were legends, and the houses which contained them. 
 These things hitched themselves on to his old dreams 
 of Guadeloupe and Martinique, and gave the poet 
 a whole new gamut of imaginary possibilities. 
 
 The natural preoccupation of a young man peopled 
 his chateaux with girls. Not the girls of to-day, 
 but the frail, graceful girls of fifty years ago. How 
 well Jammes evokes them when he says, "Leurs 
 grands chapeaux de paille ont de longs rubans." 
 And the names he gives them ! Clara d'Ellebeuse, 
 who lived "au fond du vieux jardin plein de tulipes ;" 
 Almaide d'Etremont ; Pomme d'Anis, whose real 
 name is Laure. These three are all in prose stories, 
 which resemble no other prose stories in the world, 
 and should really be called poems. They are full 
 of the details which show "de quelles vieilles fleurs 
 son ^me est composee." There is L'Oncle Tom in 
 Pomme d'Anis, whose joy is in his greenhouse, and
 
 230 Six French Poets 
 
 whose greatest desire is to make a heliotrope seed, 
 found in the tomb of an ancient Egyptian lady, 
 blossom. There is M. d'Astin in Clara d'Ellebeuse, 
 who lives all alone in an old house ; on one of his 
 walls hangs "a marine chart browned like an old 
 shell. Underneath it one reads 'Indian Ocean.'" 
 It is he who gave to his friends, the D'Ellebeuses, 
 "two pretty engravings, one representing 'a Mongo- 
 lian woman in her dress of ceremony : summer ; ' the 
 other, ' the eldest daughter of the Emperor.' " Slight 
 touches, but so deftly done as to evoke the whole 
 room, with the furniture of the time. 
 
 But, as I have said, these are prose stories. Let 
 me show you somewhat the same thing in a poem : 
 
 J'ECRIS DANS UN VIEUX KIOSQUE . . . 
 
 J'ecris dans un vieux kiosque si touffu 
 qu'il en est humide et, comma un Chinois, 
 j'ecoute I'eau du bassin et la voix 
 d'un oiseau — la, pres de la chute (chutt ! !) 
 
 d'eau. Je vais allumer ma pipe. 
 Ca y est. J 'en egalise la cendre. 
 Puis le souvenir doucement descend 
 en inspiration poetique. 
 
 " Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde 
 trap vieux" et je m'embete, je m'embete 
 de ne pas assister a une ronde 
 de petites fiUes aux grands chapeaux etales.
 
 Francis Jammes 231 
 
 — Cora ! tu va salir le bas de ton 
 pantalon, en touchant k ce vilain chien. 
 Voila ce qu'eussent dit, dans un soir ancien, 
 les petites filles au bon ton. 
 
 Elles m'auraient regarde, en souriant, 
 fumer ma pipe tout douceraent, 
 et ma petite niece eut dit gravement : 
 II rentre faire des vers maintenant. 
 
 Et ses petites compagnes, sans comprendre, 
 
 auraient arrete une seconde 
 
 le charmantage de leur ronde, 
 
 croyant que les vers allaient se voir — peut-etre. 
 
 — II a ete a Touggourt, ma ch^re, 
 e^t dit le cercle des ecolieres 
 plus agees. Et Nancy eut declare : 
 il y a des sauvages et des dromadaires. 
 
 Puis, j'aurais vu deboucher sur la route 
 le caracolement des anes 
 de plusieurs messieurs et de plusieurs dames 
 revenant, le soir, d'une cavalcade. 
 
 Mon cceur, mon coeur, ne retrouveras-tu 
 que dans la mort cet immense amour 
 pour ceux que tu n'as pas connus 
 en ces tendres et defunts jours ?
 
 232 Six French Poets 
 
 J amines' life at this time was made up of dreams 
 and reality, but few poets have understood so well 
 as he how to combine the two. How to make his 
 very accurate observation give an air of perfect 
 naturalness to his most fantastic tales. But all the 
 time that he was evoking a beautiful, delicate past 
 in his imagination, he was really living in the little 
 rose-covered house, smoking his pipe in the old 
 tapestry room, or tramping the fields and woods, 
 and breathing the bright, sparkling air which was 
 blown from the snow-capped Pyrenees. 
 
 The place got into his blood. He loved it. "Here 
 is a bucolic poet," exclaims Remy de Gourmont 
 in the //'"^ Livre des Masques, "no kind of poet is 
 more unusual." Yes, Jammes is a bucolic poet, 
 such a poet as France has never seen before. Eng- 
 land has had bucolic poets in no mean number, but 
 the habit for centuries in France of all men of parts 
 running to the capital as early in their lives as pos- 
 sible, has left no one behind to sing the labours of 
 the fields. 
 
 By what happy chance Fate has permitted a poet 
 of the first rank to remain in the country, we do not 
 know. But he is in the country, and a country so 
 far away as to make an annual journey to Paris all 
 he cares to undertake. 
 
 Let me quote part of a poem called Le Calendrier 
 Utile, which, for accuracy, might be taken from some 
 Farmer's Almanac :
 
 Francis Jammes 233 
 
 LE CALENDRIER UTILE 
 
 Au mois de Mars (le Belier T) on seme 
 le trefle, les carottes, les choux et la luzerne. 
 On cesse de herser, et Ton met de I'engrais 
 au pied des arbres et Ton prepare les carres. 
 On finit de tailler la vigne ou Ton met en place, 
 apres I'avoir aeree, les echalas. 
 
 Pour les bestiaux les rations d'hiver finissent. 
 On ne mene plus, dans les prairies, les genisses 
 qui ont de beaux yeux et que leurs meres lechent, 
 mais on leur dormer a des nourritures fraiches. 
 Les jours croissent d'une heure cinquante minutes. 
 Les Soirees sont douces et, au crepuscule, 
 les chevriers trainards gonflent leurs joues aux flutes. 
 Les chevres passent devant le bon chien 
 qui agite la queue et qui est leur gardien. 
 
 So much for the description of March labours. 
 Now read this of Palm Sunday : 
 
 Ensuite vient le beau dimanche des rameaux. 
 
 Quand j'etais enfant, on m'y attachait des gateaux, 
 
 et j'allais a vepres, docile et triste. 
 
 Ma mere disait : dans mon pays il y avait des olives . . . 
 
 Jesus pleurait dans le jardin des oliviers . . . 
 
 On etait alle, en grande pompe, le chercher . . . 
 
 A Jerusalem, les gens pleuraient en criant son nom . . <. 
 
 II etait dovix comme le ciel, et son petit anon 
 
 trottinait joyeusement sur les palmes jetees. 
 
 Des mendiants amers sanglotaient de joie,
 
 234 'Six French Poets 
 
 en le suivant, parce qu'ils avaient la foi . . . 
 
 De mauvaises femmes devenaient bonnes 
 
 en le voyant passer avec son aureole 
 
 si belle qu'on croyait que c'etait le soleil. 
 
 II avait un sour ire et des cheveux en miel. 
 
 II a ressuscite des morts ... lis I'ont crucifie . . . 
 
 Je me souviens de cette enfance et des v^pres, 
 
 et je pleure, le gosier serre, de ne plus ^tre 
 
 ce tout petit gargon de ces vieux mois de Mars, 
 
 de n'^tre plus dans I'eglise du village 
 
 ou je tenais I'encens a la procession 
 
 et on j'ecoutais le cure dire la passion. 
 
 No one is so tender and charming in Bible stories 
 as Jammes. Here is a catalogue of March flowers, 
 beginning (and one cannot help smiling) with "peri- 
 winkles of milk-blue, loved by Jean-Jacques : " 
 
 II te sera agreable, au mois de Mars, 
 
 d'aller avec ton amie sur les violettes noires. 
 
 A I'ombre, vous trouverez les pervenches bleu de lait 
 
 qu'aimait Jean- Jacques, le triste passionne. 
 
 Dans les bois, vous trouverez la pulmonaire 
 
 dont la fleur est violette et vin, la femlle vert- 
 
 de-gris, tachee de blanc, poilue et tr^s rugueusc. 
 
 II y a sur elle une legende pieuse ; 
 
 la cardamine ou va le papillon-aurore, 
 
 I'isopyre legere et le noir hellebore, 
 
 la jacinthe qu'on ecrase facilement 
 
 et qui a, ecrasee, de gluants brillements ;
 
 Francis Jammes 235 
 
 la jonquille puante, ranemone et le narcisse 
 
 qui fait penser aux neiges des berges de la Suisse ; 
 
 puis le lierre-terrestre bon aux asthmatiques. 
 
 Jammes does not like small townspeople. That 
 is if his novel, Existences, gives his real point of view. 
 But his whole soul is in sympathy with the shepherds, 
 the village people, the workers in the fields. "These 
 are the works of man," he says, "which are great." 
 
 CE SONT LES TRAVAUX . . . 
 
 Ce sont les travaux de I'homme qui sont grands : 
 celui qui met le lait dans les vases de bois, 
 celui qui cueille les epis de ble piquants et droits, 
 celui qui garde les vaches pres des aulnes frais, 
 celui qui fait saigner les bouleaux des forets, 
 celui qui tord, pres des ruisseaux vifs, les osiers, 
 celui qui raccommode les vieux souliers 
 pres d'un foyer obscur, d'un vieux chat galeux, 
 d'un merle qui dort et des enfants heureux ; 
 celui qui tisse et fait un bruit retombant, 
 lorsqu'a minuit les grillons chantent aigrement ; 
 celui qui fait le pain, celui qui fait le vin, 
 celui qui seme Tail et les choux au jardin, 
 celui qui recueille les oeufs tiedes. 
 
 That the poet knew practically nothing about any 
 other life except his own, and superficial glimpses 
 while in the lawyer's office, did not in the least 
 trouble him. Jammes has never been moved by
 
 236 Six French Poets 
 
 reason. His is an emotional nature, entirely swayed 
 by his sentiments. Any judgment given by the 
 intellect alone would undoubtedly seem to him cold 
 and repellent. Francis Jammes is a charming child 
 on one side, and a most lovable genius on the other. 
 But a man of mature and balanced intellect he cer- 
 tainly is not. He loves with all his heart, and that 
 is a most unusual and very refreshing thing. How 
 he loves this little village and all its familiar sights 
 and sounds ! 
 
 LE VILLAGE A MIDI . . . 
 
 Le village a midi. La mouche d'or bourdonne 
 
 entre les comes des boeufs. 
 
 Nous irons, si tu le veux, 
 si tu le veux, dans la campagne monotone. 
 
 Entends le coq . . . Entends la cloche . . . Entends le paon . . . 
 
 Entends la-bas, la-bas, I'ane . . . 
 
 L'hirondelle noire plane. 
 Les peupliers au loin s'en vont comme un ruban. 
 
 Le puits ronge de mousse ! Ecoute sa poulie 
 
 qui grince, qui grince encor, 
 
 car la fille aux cheveux d'or 
 tient le vieux seau tout noir d'ou I'argent tombe en pluie. 
 
 La fiUette s'en va d'un pas qui fait pencher 
 sur sa tete d'or la cruche,
 
 Francis J amines 237 
 
 sa t6te comme une ruche, 
 qui se mele au soleil sous les fleurs du pecher. 
 
 Et dans le bourg voici que les toits noircis lancent 
 
 au ciel bleu des flocons bleus ; 
 
 et les arbres paresseux 
 k I'horizon qui vibre a peine se balancent. 
 
 And so I have given much of Jammes' first real 
 book before we have got to it. Never mind, chrono- 
 logically we are the more accurate, for it was un- 
 doubtedly written before it was printed. De I'An- 
 gelus de VAube a VAngelus du Soir was published 
 by the Societe du Mercure de France, in 1898. Two 
 little books had preceded it. Un Jour, also pub- 
 lished by the Mercure de France, in 1896, and La 
 Naissance du Poete, printed in Brussels, in 1897. 
 But, as both these poems are now included in the 
 Angelus volume, I prefer to speak of them as a part 
 of it. (Another volume called Vers was printed by 
 Ollendorf, Paris, in 1894. But, although I am not 
 absolutely sure, I imagine it to have been just a 
 reprint of the book which first attracted the Mer- 
 cure' s attention.) 
 
 La Naissance du Poete and Un Jour are now fol- 
 lowed by a companion piece. La Mort du Poete. 
 These are a series of three stories, vague and un- 
 solved allegories, which Jammes pleased himself by 
 writing. Doubtless they were done to soothe his 
 own feelings, for his biographers hint at "intimate
 
 238 Six French Poets 
 
 sorrows" lived down. Jammes, like so many young 
 Frenchmen, had ceased to be a practising Roman 
 Catholic. But, with his childlike, unreasoning, and 
 clinging mind, no other solution of life was really 
 possible to him, and it can have been no surprise to 
 his friends when he became a professing Roman 
 Catholic again. But we are anticipating by some 
 seven years. At the time of Un Jour and La 
 Naissance du PoUe, Jammes was not an active member 
 of the Church, but that his hereditary religion was 
 neither distasteful nor indifTerent to him, is shown 
 by the fact that Un Jour ends by the Poet and his 
 fiancee kneeling, one on either side of the wall parti- 
 tion which divides their bedrooms, and praying. 
 
 I wonder whether the dedication in my volume of 
 De VAngelus is contemporary or subsequent. Mine 
 is the sixth edition, issued in 191 1, and from the 
 tone of this dedication I believe it to have been 
 tacked on later. If it is not so characteristic of the 
 Jammes of 1898, it is very characteristic of the later 
 Jammes: "My God, you have called me among 
 men. Here I am. I suffer and I love. I have 
 spoken with the voice which you have given me. I 
 have written with the words that you taught my 
 father and mother and which they have transmitted 
 to me. I pass upon the road like a laden ass at 
 whom the children laugh and who lowers his head. 
 I will go where you will, when you will. 
 
 The Angelus rings."
 
 Francis Jammes 239 
 
 As we shall see later, Francis Jammes approaches 
 his religion with the beautiful simplicity of Saint 
 Francis of Assisi. Just now, we must concern our- 
 selves with another trait in Jammes' character. 
 His humour. Few Frenchmen have his delightful, 
 innocent, happy sense of humour. We shall see it 
 cropping out again and again, as we go through his 
 books. Let me give you a specimen of it from this 
 first volume : 
 
 ECOUTE, DANS LE JARDIN . . . 
 
 Ecoute, dans le jardin qui sent le cerfeuil, 
 chanter, sur le pecher, le bouvreuil. 
 
 Son chant est comme de I'eau claire 
 ou se baigne, en tremblant, Fair. 
 
 Mon coeur est triste jusqu'a la mort, 
 
 bien que de lui plusieurs aient ete, et une soit — folles. 
 
 La premiere est morte. La seconde est morte ; 
 — et je ne sais pas ovi est une autre. 
 
 II y en a cependant encore une 
 qui est douce comme la lune . . . 
 
 Je m'en vais la voir cet apres-midi. 
 
 Nous nous promenerons dans une ville . . . 
 
 Ce sera-t-il dans les clairs quartiers 
 de villas riches, de jardins singuliers ?
 
 240 Six French Poets 
 
 Roses et lauriers, grilles, portes closes 
 ont I'air de savoir quelque chose. 
 
 Ah ! si i'etais riche, c'est \k 
 que je vivrais avec Amaryllia. 
 
 Je I'appelle Amaryllia. Est-ce bete ! 
 Non, ce n'est pas bSte. Je suis po^te. 
 
 Est-ce que tu te figures que c'est amusant 
 d'etre poete a vingt-huit ans ? 
 
 Dans mon porte-monnaie, j'ai dix francs 
 
 et deux sous pour ma poudre. C'est emMtant. 
 
 Je conclus de \k qu'AmarylUa 
 m'aime, et ne m'aime que pour moi. 
 
 Ni le Mercure ni VErmitage 
 ne me donnent de gages. 
 
 Elle est vraiment tres bien Amaryllia, 
 et aussi intelligente que moi. 
 
 II manque cinquante francs a notre bonheur. 
 On ne pent pas avoir tout, et le cceur. 
 
 Peut-^tre que si Rothschild lui disait : 
 Viens-t'en . . . Elle lui repondrait :
 
 Francis Jammes 241 
 
 non, vous n'aurez pas ma petite robe, 
 parce que j'en aime un autre . . . 
 
 Et que si Rothschild lui disait : quel est 
 
 le nom de ce . . . de ce . . . de ce . . . poete ? 
 
 Elle lui dirait : c'est Francis Jammes. 
 Mais ce qu'il y aurait de triste en tout cela : 
 
 c'est que je pense que Rothschild ne saurait pas 
 qui est ce poete-1^. 
 
 To be published by the Mercure was a great honour 
 for a young poet (who was not so very young any 
 more, being thirty), but no regular publishing house 
 could print fast enough to satisfy him. In 1898 
 also, he printed at Orthez, Quatorze Prieres. Noth- 
 ing more beautiful, more touching, than these 
 prayers, can be conceived. In them he shows the 
 "simpleness" (I choose the word advisedly) of his 
 soul. A few of the titles of these poems will serve 
 to show Jammes' sweet, gentle nature : Priere pour 
 que les Autres Aient le Bonheur, Priere pour Avoir 
 une Etoile, Priere pour Etre Simple, Priere pour que 
 le Jour de ma Mort Soil Beau et Pur, Priere pour 
 Offrir a Dieu de Simples Paroles. I will print one :
 
 242 Six French Poets 
 
 PRIERE POUR ALLER AU PARADIS AVEC LES ANES 
 
 Lorsqu'il faudra aller vers vous, 6 mon Dieu, faites 
 
 que ce soit par un jour ou la campagne en fete 
 
 poudroiera. Je desire, ainsi que je fis ici-bas, 
 
 choisir un chemin pour aller, comme il me plaira, 
 
 au Paradis, ou sont en plein jour les etoiles. 
 
 Je prendrai mon baton et sur la grande route 
 
 j'irai, et je dirai aux ines, mes amis : 
 
 Je suis Francis Jammes et je vais au Paradis, 
 
 car il n'y a pas d'enfer au pays du Bon-Dieu. 
 
 Je leur dirai : Venez, doux amis du ciel bleu, 
 
 pauvres betes cheries qui, d'un brusque mouvement d'oreille, 
 
 chassez les mouches plates, les coups et les abeilles . . . 
 
 Que je vous apparaisse au milieu de ces betes 
 
 que j'aime tant parce qu'elles baissent la tete 
 
 doucement, et s'arretent en joignant leurs petits pieds 
 
 d'une fagon bien douce et qui vous fait pitie. 
 
 J'arriverai suivi de leurs milliers d'oreilles, 
 
 suivi de ceux qui porterent au flanc des corbeilles, 
 
 de ceux trainant des voitures de saltimbanques 
 
 ou des voitures de plumeaux et de fer-blanc, 
 
 de ceux qui ont au dos des bidons bossues, 
 
 des anesses pleines comme des outres, aux pas casses, 
 
 de ceux a qui Ton met de petits pantalons 
 
 a cause des plaies bleues et suintantes que font 
 
 les mouches ent^tees qui s'y groupent en ronds. 
 
 Mon Dieu, faites qu'avec ces anes je vous vienne. 
 
 Faites que dans la paix, des anges nous conduisent 
 
 vers des ruisseaux touflf us ou tremblent des cerises
 
 Francis Jammes 243 
 
 lisses comme la chair qui rit des jeunes filles, 
 et faites que, penche dans ce sejour des ames, 
 sur vos divines eaux, je sois pareil aux anes 
 qui mireront leur humble et douce pauvrete 
 a la limpidite de 1 'amour etemel. 
 
 Jammes loves all animals, but apparently dogs and 
 donkeys best. In another book, we shall find a 
 whole series of poems to the latter. 
 
 In 1899, La Petite CoUectioft de VErmitage, Paris, 
 brought out La Jeune Fille Nue. It is another of 
 Jammes' allegories, — the poet seeking solace from 
 his dissatisfaction — and full of the woods and moon- 
 light. It is punctuated with beautiful things like 
 
 this : 
 
 . . . C'est un chien vielleur qui aboie 
 
 au clair de lune dont I'ombre bouge sur les roses, 
 
 or this : 
 
 Nous I'attendions k I'heure rouge oix les Midis 
 balancent aux clochers paysans leur ailes bleues. 
 
 In 1899, the first of Jammes' prose tales was pub- 
 lished by the Mercure de France : Clara d'Ellebeuse, 
 ou VHistoire d'une Ancienne Jeune Fille. I men- 
 tioned this book in another connection a little while 
 ago, and I am not going into it any farther now. 
 It is all aroma, all evanescent, fleeting sensation. 
 To rehearse the story heavy-footedly would be like 
 dissecting a butterfly to prove how pretty it was. 
 In it, Jammes has twined a three-stranded cord of
 
 244 -^^^ French Poets 
 
 his greatest delights. One strand is his love of the 
 past ; one, his love of the West Indies ; and one, 
 his deep-rooted affection for the high, blue sky, the 
 quick, blue streams, and the long, white roads of 
 the Basses-Pyrenees. 
 
 During these years, Jammes had travelled. Not 
 much, it must be admitted. He dreamed of travel- 
 ling, revelled in the idea of it, sitting at home in his 
 armchair; one of his pipes was "round and black 
 like the breast of a little negress," he tells us, and 
 presto — he was off to his beloved Islands in the 
 Southern Sea, growing sugar cane and bartering 
 spices as his grandfather had done. "For years," 
 he says, "I lived there, where my grandfather and 
 my great-uncle went, in the flowering Antilles." 
 
 But his grandfather's were not the only travels 
 he mused about. We have seen in Clara d'Elle- 
 beuse that China attracted him. Adventure in far 
 countries he found irresistible ; by preference the 
 countries should be tropical, or at least richly 
 caparisoned. From a child he had loved Sinbad 
 and Robinson Crusoe, we find both these gentlemen 
 in his poems. So he smoked and dreamed, and — 
 managed to get as far as Amsterdam on the North, 
 and Algiers on the South. 
 
 One of his most charming poems in Le Deuil des 
 Primeveres, published by the Mercure in 1901, is on 
 Amsterdam.
 
 Francis Jammes 245 
 
 AMSTERDAM 
 
 Les maisons pointues ont I'air de pencher. On dirait 
 
 qu'elles tombent. Les mats des vaisseaux qui s'embrouillent 
 
 dans le ciel sont penches comme des branches s^ches 
 
 au milieu de verdure, de rouge, de rouille, 
 
 de harengs saurs, de peaux de moutons et de houille. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe passa par Amsterdam, 
 
 (je crois, du moins, qu'il y passa), en revenant 
 
 de I'ile ombreuse et verte aux noix de coco fraiches. 
 
 Quelle emotion il dut avoir quand il vit luire 
 
 les portes 6normes, aux lourds marteaux, de cette ville ! . . . 
 
 Regardait-il curieusement les entresols 
 
 ou les commis ^crivent des livres de comptes ? 
 
 Eut-il envie de pleurer en resongeant 
 
 k son cher perroquet, a son lourd parasol 
 
 qui I'abritait dans I'ile attristee et cl^mente ? 
 
 "O Etemel ! soyez beni," s'ecriait-il 
 devant les coffres peinturlures de tulipes. 
 Mais son coeur attriste par la joie du retour 
 regrettait son chevreau qui, aux vignes de I'ile, 
 ^tait reste tout seul et, peut-^tre, etait mort. 
 
 Et j'ai pense ^ ga devant les gros commerces 
 ovL Ton songe a des Juifs qui touchent des balances, 
 avec des doigts osseux noues de bagues vertes. 
 Vois ! Amsterdam s'endort sous les cils de la neige 
 dans un parfum de brume et de charbon amer.
 
 246 Six French Poets 
 
 Hier soir les globes blancs des bouges allumes, 
 d'ou Ton entend I'appel siffle des femmes lourdes, 
 pendaient comme des fruits ressemblant k des gourdes. 
 Bleues, rouges, vertes, les affiches y luisaient. 
 L'amer picotement de la biere sucree 
 m'y a ripe la langue et demange au nez. 
 
 Et, dans les quartiers juifs ou sont les detritus, 
 on sentait I'odeur crue et froide du poisson. 
 Sur les paves gluants etaient des peaux d'orange. 
 Une tete bouffie ouvrait des yeux tout larges, 
 un bras qui discutait agitait des oignons. 
 
 Rebecca, vous vendiez k de petites tables 
 quelques bonbons suants arranges pauvrement . . . 
 
 On eM dit que le ciel, ainsi qu'une mer sale, 
 versat dans les canaux des nuages de vagues. 
 Fumee qu'on ne voit pas, le calme commercial 
 montait des toits cossus en nappes imposantes, 
 et Ton respirait I'lnde au confort des maisons. 
 
 Ah ! j'aurais voulu ^tre un grand negociant, 
 de ceux qui autrefois s'en allaient d'Amsterdam 
 vers la Chine, confiant 1' administration 
 de leur maison a de fideles mandataires. 
 Ainsi que Robinson j'aurais devant notaire 
 sign6 pompeusement ma procuration. 
 
 Alors, ma probite aurait fait ma fortune. 
 Mon negoce eut fleuri comme un rayon de lune
 
 Francis Jammes 247 
 
 sur I'imposante proue de mon vaisseau bombe. 
 J'aiirais regu chez moi les seigneurs de Bombay 
 qu'eiit tentes mon epouse k la belle sante. 
 
 Un negre aux anneaux d'or fut venu du Mogol 
 trafiquer, souriant, sous son grand parasol ! 
 II avirait enchante de ses recits sauvages 
 ma mince fille ainee, a qui il eut offert 
 une robe en rubis file par des esclaves. 
 
 J'aurais fait faire les portraits de ma famille 
 par quelque habile peintre au sort infortune : 
 ma femme belle et lourde, aux blondes joues rosees, 
 mes fils, dont la beaute aurait charme la ville, 
 et la grace diverse et pxire de mes fiUes. 
 
 C'est ainsi qu'aujourd'hui, au lieu d'etre moi-meme, 
 j'aurais et^ un autre et j'aurais visite 
 I'imposante maison de ces siecles passes, 
 et que, reveur, j'eusse laisse flotter mon ame 
 devant ces simples mots : la vecut Francis Jammes. 
 
 I hope you observed Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 The Primeveres begins with seventeen Elegies. 
 The first one, to Albert Samain, I quoted in the 
 second essay. These are followed by a reprint of 
 La Jeune Fille Nue, and Le Poete et VOiseau (which 
 had been pubHshed two years before by VErmitage), 
 a half-a-dozen new poems, and the fourteen poems 
 printed at Orthez.
 
 248 Six French Poets 
 
 Some time ago, I mentioned a poem on Madame 
 de Warens, as being one of Jammes' best and most 
 famous poems. This is it : 
 
 MADAME DE WARENS 
 
 Madame de Warens, vous regardiez I'orage 
 plisser les arbres obscurs des tristes Charmettes, 
 ou bien vous jouiez aigrement de I'epinette, 
 6 femme de raison que sermonnait Jean-Jacques ! 
 
 C'etait un soir pareil, peut-^tre, a celui-ci . . . 
 Par le tonnerre noir le ciel etait fletri . . . 
 Une odeur de rameaux coupes avant la pluie 
 s'^levait tristement des bordures de buis . . . 
 
 Et je revois, boudeur, dans son petit habit, 
 
 k vos genoux, I'enfant poete et philosophe . . . 
 
 Mais qu'avait-il ? . . . Pourquoi pleurant aux couchants roses 
 
 regardait-il se balancer les nids de pies ? 
 
 Oh ! qu'il vous supplia, souvent, du fond de I'ame, 
 
 de mettre un frein aux depenses exagerees 
 
 que vous faisiez avec cette leg^rete 
 
 qui est, helas, le fait de la plupart des femmes . . . 
 
 Mais vous, spirituelle, autant que douce et tendre, 
 vous lui disiez : Voyez ! le petit philosophe ! . . . 
 Ou bien le poursuiviez de quelque drogue rose 
 dont vous lui poudriez la perruque en riant.
 
 Francis Jammes 249 
 
 Doux asiles ! Douces annees ! Douces retraites ! 
 Les sifflets d'aulne frais criaient parmi les hetres . . . 
 Le chevrefeuille jaune encadrait la fenetre . . . 
 On recevait parfois la visite d'un pretre . . . 
 
 Madame de Warens, vous aviez du go<at 
 pour cet enfant a la figure un peu espiegle, 
 manquant de repartie, mais peu sot, et surtout 
 habile a copier la musique selon les regies. 
 
 Ah ! que vous eussiez du pleurer, femme inconstante, 
 
 lorsque, le delaissant, il dut s'en retourner, 
 
 seul, 1^-bas, avec son pauvre petit paquet 
 
 sur I'epaule, a travers les sapins des torrents . . . 
 
 Almatde d'Etremont ou VHistoire d'une Jeune Fille 
 Passionee appeared in 1901. The same remarks 
 which apply to Clara d'Ellebeuse apply to this story. 
 It is too lovely to be garbled. I leave it to those 
 who are sufficiently interested to read it. 
 
 Jammes' next volume of poems was published in 
 1902, and marks the end of an epoch, as far as his 
 poetry is concerned. His next book of poems was 
 written after his conversion, and the change is very 
 noticeable. 
 
 Le Triomphe de la Vie contains only two poems : 
 Jean de Noarrieu, and the long novel in verse, 
 Existences. Jean de Noarrieu is a rich farmer, in 
 love with his own waiting-maid, who, in turn, loves
 
 250 Six French Poets 
 
 one of his shepherds. The old triangle ! Yes, of 
 course, but Jammes is not engaged with literature, 
 but with life as he sees it in the little villages of 
 the Pyrenees. Whatever conventional morality is 
 preached there, it seems certain that such villages 
 share the common lot of rural communities and do 
 not live it. At any rate, Lucie, the servant, per- 
 mits her master to make love to her, and writes 
 affectionate letters to the shepherd then on the 
 mountain with his flocks, at the same time. The 
 conventional novelist or poet would have worked 
 up to a fine tragedy. Jammes is too truthful to do 
 any such thing. Jean is careless, but not bad ; Lucie 
 is unreliable, but not vicious. Autumn comes, and 
 the shepherd returns from the mountain. Jean sees, 
 from the way in which he and Lucie greet each other, 
 that they are in love ; he has a momentary pang, 
 but in the end does the sensible thing — hands the 
 girl over to her lover. The unromantic end gives 
 a hint that Jean may console himself elsewhere. 
 
 Not much of a story, except for its unusual finish. 
 But what is really interesting in the poem is the 
 long succession of pictures of landscapes, and 
 places, and labours. The book smells of hay, and 
 freshly dug earth, and the sweet breath of cows. 
 
 The poem begins with this passionate cry of de- 
 light at the passing seasons : 
 
 Je ne veux pas d'autre joie, quand I'et^ 
 reviendra, que celle de I'an passe.
 
 Francis Jammes 251 
 
 Sous les muscats dormants, je m'assoirai. 
 
 Au fond des bois qui chantent de I'eau fraiche, 
 
 j'ecouterai, je sentirai, verrai 
 
 tout ce qu'entend, sent et voit la for^t. 
 
 Je ne veux pas d'autre joie, quand I'automne 
 
 reviendra, que celle des feuilles jaunes 
 
 qui racleront les coteaux ou il tonne, 
 
 que le bruit sovird du vin nevif dans les tonnes, 
 
 que les ciels lourds, que les vaches qui sonnent, 
 
 que les mendiants qui demandent I'aumone. 
 
 Je ne veux pas d'autre joie, quand I'hiver 
 reviendra, que celle des cieux de fer, 
 que la fumee des grues gringant en Fair, 
 que les tisons chantant comme la mer, 
 et que la lampe au fond des carreatix verts 
 de la boutique oti le pain est amer. 
 
 Je ne veux pas, quand revient le printemps, 
 d'autre joie que celle de I'aigre vent, 
 que les p^chers sans feuilles fieurissant, 
 que les sentiers boueux et verdissants, 
 que la violette et que I'oiseau chantant 
 comme un ruisseau d'orage se gorgeant. 
 
 That is a sort of invocation. The opening of the 
 story follows, with a vivid picture of Jean de Noar- 
 rieu, his kitchen, and the flitting shadow of the 
 Httle servant, Lucie:
 
 252 Six French Poets 
 
 Comme un troupeau en fumee et laineux, 
 le ciel marchait sous le vent pluvieux. 
 La pluie luisait sur les ardoises bleues. 
 Pres du portail cria un char a boeufs. 
 Un coq piqua un coq. Et, sur le vieux 
 banc de noyer, bailla Jean de Noarrieu. 
 
 On entendit remuer la servante. 
 La cheminee, obscure et rougeoyante, 
 flamba plus fort sous le chaudron luisant. 
 Pres du bahut noir, graisse par le temps, 
 elle eclaira la gourde au lisse ventre, 
 et le labrit s'etira en baillant. 
 
 Midi sonna. Le lard dans le poMon 
 
 gresilla. Et, contre le landier long, 
 
 Lucie brisa avec precaution 
 
 deux oeufs de poule a coque rousse. Et Ton 
 
 vit se gonfler a cote du lard blond 
 
 les oeufs qui criaient en faisant des bonds. 
 
 Here is a little vignette of plates which gives the 
 brightness of the kitchen, in a nutshell : 
 
 Sur le dressoir sont les belles assiettes 
 0X3. sont peints des oiseaux omes d'aigrettes, 
 de jaunes fruits et des fleurs violettes. 
 Lucie remue, dans le panier d 'osier, 
 I'argenterie qui sonne toute claire, 
 change I'assiette et sourit a son maitre.
 
 Francis Jammes 253 
 
 Easter comes, and the poet seems to shout and snap 
 his fingers for sheer happiness : 
 
 Et Paques fleuries vint. Alleluia ! 
 
 Oh ! Douce fete ! L'harmonium gronda 
 
 au ventre des egUses. Alleluia ! 
 
 Le vert des prairies luisantes se dora. 
 
 Les grillons crierent. Alleluia ! 
 
 Dans la nuit bleue luirent les lilas. 
 
 Un soir beni et doux, Alleluia, 
 on entendit tout a coup ces lilas 
 interpeller lentement les etoiles. 
 C'etait, c'etait, c'etait, Alleluia, 
 le rossignol, la lune ruissela, 
 le rossignol en fleurs. Alleluia ! 
 
 Renais, nature ! Oh ! Dans le jardin, vois 
 le merisier tout blanc. Alleluia ! 
 Le coeur eclate . . . 
 
 Lucie and Jean go to drive, and cross a river by a 
 Httle bridge : 
 
 lis passent le pont leger du torrent 
 d'un vieux petit moulin tourbillonnant 
 tout fait de mousse et de rire d'argent, 
 d'un torrent joli comme en un roman, 
 plein de cresson et de soleil tremblant 
 et de cailloux sur des caillotix roulant.
 
 254 'S'^^ Frefich Poets 
 
 II rebondit. lis voient et ils entendent 
 le frisson clair dont tremble I'eau courante. 
 La roue, charg6e de mousse transparente, 
 ruisselle et brille, comme brille au printcmps, 
 quelque vallee d'emeraude et d'argent 
 dans I'azur creux de Bigorres riantes. 
 
 Here is a hot day in July. They are cutting the corn : 
 
 Ce fut la canicule de Juillet : 
 les stigmates des mais s'argent^rent, 
 et leurs 6tamines se dessech^rent. 
 Le geste rond dont on etend le ble 
 avec la faux au rateau attach de 
 sonna dans le tremblement du soleil. 
 
 La faux qui pousse un clair gdmissement 
 
 rasa le ble et les liserons blancs, 
 
 la salicaire et le chardon volant. 
 
 La chaleur fit crepiter dans les champs 
 
 la paille creuse, aigue, ronde et brisante. 
 
 Et dclata la cigale grinjante. 
 
 Son cri prit feu, soudain, comme la poudre, 
 se continuant d'arbre en arbre, et toute 
 la plaine bleue courb6e sur le bl6 roux, 
 a I'heure de la sieste ou rien ne bouge, 
 fit ce siflflement qu'entre ses dents pousse 
 un enfant qui excite un chien sur la route. 
 
 Tout, hors ce cri dechirant, fit silence.
 
 Francis Jammes 255 
 
 I have no words to describe the effect those three 
 stanzas have on me. They carry me back to terribly 
 hot days of my childhood, when the locusts scraped 
 and sang so loud they seemed to make it hotter. 
 Notice the wonderful accuracy and beauty of say- 
 ing that the grasshopper's cry "took fire like powder 
 and ran from tree to tree." Listen to this descrip- 
 tion of a quiet, moonlit, Summer night : 
 
 Dehors, la nuit coupe la lune claire. 
 Les arbres sont de Tombre plus epaisse, 
 line ombre si epaisse qu'on dirait 
 qu'ils ont en eux I'ombre de la joumee, 
 et que cette ombre en eux s'est retiree 
 pour y dormir jusqu'a la matin6e. 
 
 Quel silence d'amour que n'interrompt 
 que le gresillement du crapaud qu'on 
 entend sous quelque pierre du perron . . . 
 La lune, a travers le catalpa, monte. 
 On distingue ses continents que ronge 
 tme lumi^re ou s'endorment des songes . . . 
 
 Le jar din prie. On sent battre le coeur 
 des peches dans le silence de Dieu. 
 EUes sont duvetees comme la lueur 
 des joues eclatantes de ces danseuses 
 qui, k Laruns, pareilles a des fleurs, 
 se deploient en lentes rondes paresseuses. 
 
 Les fruits pesent da vantage la nuit. 
 La nuit semble s'appuyer siir les fruits.
 
 256 Six French Poets 
 
 lis s'inclinent comme Jean et Lucie. 
 On aime en tremblant. Les baisers finissent 
 plus lentement, comme ces rondes rides 
 que sur I'eau font naitre et mourir les brises. 
 
 Et les 6toiles se Invent une k une. 
 Et Jean, au milieu des vitres obscures, 
 les voit briller, blanches, jaunes et pures 
 Au sud, lentement, se trainent des nues 
 gonflees d'orage qui, parfois, sur la lunc, 
 passent un instant puis la laissent nue. 
 
 What a genius the man is ! 
 
 Existences is a sordid enough tale, relieved by the 
 poet who is the chief character in it. It is wonder- 
 fully clever. Far and away the best thing I know 
 for the realistic treatment of a story in verse. And 
 it is really realistic too, for that there is beauty in 
 the world is admitted by the author and mentioned 
 by the poet. Most "realistic" novels stoutly deny 
 it, I believe. Again in Existences, we have the 
 sharply etched pictures, and they are all I am going 
 to give of this long poem of one hundred and seventy- 
 two pages. Those who can bear the somewhat broad 
 stating of malodorous facts will find the novel most 
 interesting, other people should not attempt to read 
 it. It is certainly very remarkable, but I do not 
 say that it is pleasant. 
 
 Here is a description of the utter boredom and 
 monotony of a little town :
 
 Francis Jammes 257 
 
 Comme toutes ces boutiques sont paralleles ! 
 
 Toutes les petites villes sont pareilles. 
 
 A droite : Epicerie. A gauche : Teinturerie. 
 
 A droite : Gendarmerie. A gauche : Pharmacie. 
 
 A droite: Auberge. A gauche : Megisserie. 
 
 A droite : Avoue. A gauche : Medecin. 
 
 Puis dix ou douze maisons bourgeoises, avec jardins 
 
 pleins de feuillages bleus et de roses tremieres 
 
 et la chaleur luisante et rose de lumiere. 
 
 La-bas ? C'est la mairie et son paratonnerre, 
 
 et la place carree, d'ormeaux, avec des chaines . . . 
 
 Zola and Jammes are the only men who have known 
 enough about life to mingle poetry with their 
 "reaHsm." Witness this: 
 
 Qu'elle est belle la nuit sur la petite ville ! 
 
 Onze heures bleues ! Le tulipier de ce jardin 
 
 sur I'ombre de la lune est plus doux que n'est douce 
 
 la ligne des coteaux d'argent bleu dans le loin. 
 
 Lune claire ! On ne sait, tant il fait beau et clair, 
 
 pourquoi Ton ne vit pas, la nuit, comme les lievres. 
 
 Personne dans la rue. Un grillon crie. Un chat 
 
 tousse, il a sans doute une angina. 
 
 Je voudrais ne pas me coucher dans mon lit, m'etendre 
 
 dans un champ, et nager dans cette lueur bleue. 
 
 Le Roman du Lievre came out in 1903. The two 
 earlier stories were included in it, and the notes of 
 Jammes' journey to Algiers, and his pilgrimage to 
 Les Charmettes. M. Henri Bordeaux encountered
 
 258 Six French Poets 
 
 him there, and has written how they both searched 
 vainly for the forgotten grave of Madame de Warens 
 in the Httle cemetery of Saint-Pierre-de-Lemenc. 
 There are many other things in Le Roman du Lievre ; 
 among them, the history of the poor little hare 
 himself, chased by dogs, and killed with a gun. 
 
 Jammes loves animals, as I said before. Since 
 the days when the shooting of the monkey set him 
 trembling, he has suffered with them, and for them. 
 His dog figures often in his poems. There are many 
 creatures in his books : cats, kingfishers, larks, 
 butterflies. He has sung of wasps, their humming, 
 their flight, when they seem like golden balls. La 
 Fontaine's rabbit, the beasts which followed Saint 
 Francis of Assisi, and those with whom Robinson 
 Crusoe consoled himself on his Island, Jammes has 
 loved them and written about them all. 
 
 As a child, his sensibility was extreme. A natural 
 kindness of heart caused him to dower even minerals 
 and vegetables with a nervous system like his own, 
 and in consequence he suffered profoundly whenever 
 he thought they must be suffering. "A piece of 
 furniture riddled with worms," he says, "a gun with 
 a broken spring ; a swollen drawer, or the soul of a 
 violin suddenly drawn false, such are the sorrows 
 which agitate me." 
 
 Jammes' is a heart full of compassion. For every 
 being, for every thing. Little by little, his pity, 
 his compassion, his love for the simple, beautiful
 
 Francis Jammes 259 
 
 side of the Church brought him back to it. The 
 conversion was finished by a friend of his (Claudel, 
 I think), lately returned from the Far East, who 
 worked over him and persuaded him. From this 
 moment, there is a change in Jammes' work. Cer- 
 tain of his most pronounced characteristics dis- 
 appear. Has it changed for the better or for the 
 worse ? I thought for the worse until his last book, 
 Feuilles dans le Vent, came out. When its contents 
 were written I do not know, but they are no whit 
 inferior to any of the best things he has done. It 
 must be admitted that Jammes' Catholicism is a 
 very sweet and lovable thing. He is certainly 
 cousin-german to Saint Francis in his whole manner 
 of thinking. 
 
 Pensee des Jardms was published in 1906, pre- 
 ceded by Pomme d'Anis ou VHistoire d'une Jeune 
 Fille Infirme, another of Jammes' graceful, fanciful 
 stories of fifty years ago. Perhaps this is the 
 loveliest of all his tales, and again I must not spoil 
 it by touching it ill-advisedly. 
 
 Pensee des Jardins is an adorable little book in 
 both poetry and prose, full of animals and flowers. 
 The prose part consists of notes, apparently just 
 jotted down for safe keeping. One, entitled Sur le 
 Chat, says: "Le Chat, ce chien des pauvres . . ." 
 and that is the whole of it. In another, called 
 Premieres Joiirnees de Printemps, is this enchanting 
 line: "J'aime ce qui est nacre, ce qui est phospho-
 
 26o Six French Poets 
 
 rescent comme un jardin d'Avril." Here is another 
 nice thing: "C'est la fragihte des hautes branches 
 qui protege la fragilite des nids." Pensee des Jar- 
 dins ends with seven poems called "Some Donkeys." 
 Christ's donkey is here, and Sancho Panza's, and 
 Beatrice's ; there is a learned donkey, and a donkey 
 who has been beaten ; finally, there is the gardener's 
 donkey, so packed with vegetables that he looks like 
 an ambulatory garden. 
 
 The first one of Jammes' purely poetic books to 
 be published after his conversion was VEglise 
 Habillee de Feuilles, 1906. The church which he 
 here describes is the little chapel of Noarrieu, whose 
 spire dominates three valleys. Jammes has said 
 that "prayer is the sister of the birds." Here, in 
 this little church hidden in the leaves, we can well 
 understand that Jammes found the sympathy of 
 surrounding that he desired. M. Touny Lerys, a 
 friend of his, wrote in an article published in V Annee 
 Poetiqiie: "I remember one evening going to 
 church with Francis Jammes, and seeing him pray. 
 He troubled me profoundly, as much by the abandon 
 of his body as by the expression of his face, and I 
 felt that he was not really there any more, but away, 
 very far away . . . with God." One poem from 
 VEglise Habillee de Feuilles will show what he has 
 lost, what he has gained, what he has kept. Per- 
 haps there is rather less high spirits, and more tender- 
 ness :
 
 Francis Jammes 261 
 
 La paix des champs s'etend autour de la chapelle. 
 
 Et, au carrefour poudreux, parmi les avoines, 
 
 les menthes, les chicorees et les aigremoines, 
 
 se dresse un grand Christ de bois creux ou les abeilles 
 
 ont fait leur nid. Et on peut voir, dans le soleil, 
 
 aller, venir, ces affairees pleines de miel 
 
 comme des lettres noires ecrites dans le ciel. 
 
 De quoi nourrir son Dieu si ce n'est pas de miel ? 
 Parfois le cantonnier qui casse des cailloiox 
 leve la tete et voit le Christ, le seul ami 
 qu'il ait sur cette route oii palpite Midi. 
 Pour casser les cailloux I'ouvrier est a genoux 
 dans I'ombre de ce Christ dont le flanc est vermeil. 
 Et tout le miel alors chante dans le soleil. 
 
 Le poete contemple et medite. II se dit, 
 devant le lent frisson des champs, que chaque epi 
 est du peuple de Dieu la sage colonic 
 dont chaque grain attend, pour etre vivifie, 
 que des grottes du Ciel I'eau se soit elancee. 
 II se dit que ce grain desormais va pousser 
 dans I'azur precieux que tout approfondit 
 et, qu'image du Fils de Dieu, ne lui aussi 
 dans une grotte, il nourrira ceux qui ont faim. 
 Et I'epi qui naitra a son tour de ce grain 
 aura la forme d'un clocher dans une aurore. 
 
 Another book of poems, Clair ieres dans le Ciel, 
 came out in 1906. One is glad to find in it, along 
 with the new tenderness, all the old, merry, wise 
 humour. For instance :
 
 262 Six French Poets 
 
 L'ENFANT LIT L'ALMANACH . . . 
 
 L'enfant lit I'almanach pres de son panier d'oeufs. 
 Et, en dehors des Saints et du temps qu'il fera, 
 elle peut contempler les beaux signes des cieiix : 
 Chevre, Taurean, Belier, Poissons, et csetera. 
 
 Ainsi peut-elle croire, petite paysanne, 
 
 qu'au-dessus d'elle, dans les constellations, 
 
 il y a des marches pareils avec des anes, 
 
 des taureaux, des beliers, des chevres, des poissons. 
 
 C'est le march e du Ciel sans doute qu'elle lit. 
 Et, quand la page tourne au signe des Balances, 
 elle se dit qu'au Ciel comme a I'epicerie 
 on pese le cafe, le sel et les consciences. 
 
 Sometime about this period, the poet married. But 
 whom, we, the public, are not told in any of the 
 books about Jammes. But one day the little church 
 
 in its leaves 
 
 . . . allegrement sonnait 
 Car la fiUe d'un metayer se mariait. 
 
 From this time, Jammes' work takes on a greater 
 peace and contentment. In a poem, Le Poete et sa 
 Femme, we have the companion picture to Un Jour, 
 La Naissance du Poete, La Mort du Poete, La Jeune 
 Fille Nue, and Le Poete et VOiseau. But how very 
 different the picture is ! In this poem, in spite of 
 its sad ending, there is a sense of happiness and
 
 Francis Jammes 263 
 
 satisfaction pervading the whole. The poet speaks 
 to his wife and she replies : 
 
 Denis 
 Que le vent est leger ! II souleve la treille . . . 
 Reste ainsi, mon amie, dans cette moUe veille . . . 
 Tantot je regardais tes bras quand tu fanais . . . 
 lis savent purement vers ton coeur se courber. 
 Quelle est I'emotion, quand je touche tes yeux, 
 qui fait que je ne pense a rien d'autre qu'a eux ? 
 Quel est le sentiment, si je t'entends chanter, 
 qui fait que c'est ma voix qui me semble empruntee ? 
 Qu'est-ce qui fait que quand tu poses sur mon coeur 
 ton coeur, je nous confonds dans la meme douceur ? 
 
 Lucie 
 
 Que tu sais me parler avec des mots jolis ! 
 
 Moi qui ne sais, helas ! repondre en poesie, 
 
 je t'aime cependant. Si je ne sais te rendre 
 
 I'amour en vers charmants, crois bien que je sais prendre 
 
 toute I'emotion que tu veux me dormer, 
 
 et que je suis a toi avec simplicite. 
 
 Beni soit le travail s'il infiige a mes bras 
 
 la courbe que tu veux et qui t'enlacera . . . 
 
 C'est que la poesie est I'ame de la vie. 
 
 C'est moi qui la cultive et toi qui la fleuris. 
 
 Denis, je ne suis rien que la pauvre servante 
 
 qui ecoute avec foi la parole savante. 
 
 The sequel to Le Poete et sa Femme is a little prose 
 book, Ma Fille Bernadette, 19 10, which records the
 
 264 Six French Poets 
 
 birth and early babyhood of Jammes' little daughter. 
 The dedication to Marie de Nazareth, Mhre de Dieu 
 is really a miracle of prose beauty : 
 
 A MARIE DE NAZARETH, MERE DE DIEU 
 
 En Vous d^diant cette CEuvre, je Vous dedie aussi ma fille 
 Bernadette dont la patronne, dans mon pays natal qui est la 
 Bigorre montagneuse, Vous a vue. 
 
 Les vieux botanistes Vous d^diaient aussi leurs flores et on 
 Vous peignait a la premiere page, debout, Votre fils dans les bras, 
 tout entouree de lilas, de radices bleues, de roses, de gloxinias, 
 de weigelias, de pivoines, de boules-de-neiges, de lis, de ces mille 
 fleurs qui ne reviendront plus parce qu'elles ne sont plus cueillies 
 povir Vous par les robustes reveuses qui se levaient au matin des 
 myosotis et s'endormaient au couchant des capucines. 
 
 Vous ^tes la mere de tous les hommes et de Dieu. Vous ^tes 
 nee k Nazareth aussi simplement que ma Bernadette k Orthez. 
 On a dit la verite. On n'a pas invente pour Vous tme origine 
 extraordinaire. Je Vous tiens dans mon coeur comme une cer- 
 titude. Je suis inintelligent, c'est possible, mais I'encens de 
 toutes les fleurs creees s'eleve pour Vous de la terre et Vous le 
 changez en amour comme ce rosier grimpant qui s'elance a la 
 cime des cedres. 
 
 Vous voyez que je ne sais plus bien ce que j'ecris, mais ma 
 pensee s'attache a Vous ainsi que cette liane fleurie et je Vous 
 dedie cette pauvre oeuvre comme une servante son pot de rese- 
 das, et il tremble dans mes mains elevees. 
 
 Little Bernadette is followed in her uprising and 
 downsitting. She cuts her first tooth, sees her first 
 snow storm, is vaccinated, has croup, is taught to
 
 Francis Jammes 265 
 
 say her prayers. And all with an ineffable sweet- 
 ness, delicacy, and charm. The father loves his 
 little daughter so much that the pages of the book 
 seem warm, like the palm of a hand. 
 
 It is amusing to see, however, that this new life 
 which has entered his, only makes the poet hark 
 back, by a natural process, to those which have 
 preceded them both. The last part of the volume is 
 given over to Bernadette's ancestors, and here we 
 encounter once more that grandfather who played 
 so large a part in the poet's youthful imagination, 
 and have again those souvenirs of Guadeloupe 
 which hang like a faint perfume over the poet's 
 personality. 
 
 Jammes' last book of poems is Les Georgiques 
 Chretiennes, 19 12. How much of a Catholic he has 
 become, may be best understood by quoting in full 
 a note at the beginning of the book. "On the 
 threshold of this book I confirm that I am a Roman 
 Catholic, submitting very humbly to all the deci- 
 sions of my Pope, His Holiness Pius X, who speaks 
 in the name of the True God, and that I do not ad- 
 here either closely or at a distance to any schism, 
 and that my faith does not permit any sophism, 
 neither the modernist sophism, nor other sophisms ; 
 under no pretence will I separate myself from the 
 most uncompromising and most loved of dogmas : 
 the Roman Catholic dogma which is the truth come 
 from the mouth of our Lord Jesus Christ by his
 
 266 Six French Poets 
 
 Church. I reprove in advance all forestalling 
 which the ideologues, the philosophers, and the 
 reformers would wish to do with this poem." Les 
 Georgiques Chretiennes is a whole book dealing with 
 the agricultural labours of a year. It must be ad- 
 mitted that it is a little tedious. The following 
 stanzas are interesting as showing his method, not 
 merely in this poem, but in many : 
 
 C'est ainsi que le vers dont j'use est bien classique, 
 Degage simplement par la seule logique. 
 
 Apres un grand combat oii j'avais pris parti 
 
 Je regarde et comprends qu'on s'est peu departi. 
 
 Devenu trop sonore et trop facile et liche 
 Le pur alexandrin, si beau jadis, rS,bache. 
 
 Le vers libre ne nous fit pas tr^s bien sentir 
 Ou la strophe s'en vient commencer et finir. 
 
 Mais quelques libertes, quand il les voulait toutes, 
 Ce dernier les conquit. EUes ouvrent la route. 
 
 Si rares qu'elles soient, elles sont bien assez. 
 Les vers seront egaux et pas assonances 
 
 Comme I'oiseau repond a son tour a I'oiselle 
 La rime male suit une rime femelle. 
 
 Quoique les vers entre eux ainsi soient relies 
 J'accepte qu'un pluriel rime k un singulier,
 
 Francis Jammes 267 
 
 Encor tel que I'oiseau, qui du del prend mesure, 
 Le rythme ici et la hesite a la cesure. 
 
 L 'hiatus quelquefois vient a point rappeler 
 Celui qui est poete au plus simple parler. 
 
 Alors que Ve muet s'echappe du langage 
 
 Je ne veux pas qu'il marque en mon vers davantage. 
 
 Les syllabes comptees sont celles seulement 
 Que le lecteur prononce habituellement. 
 
 Ayant fixe ce bref mais s6r art poetique, 
 Mon inspiration me rouvre son portique. 
 
 Jammes' last book is called Feuilles dans le Vent, 
 and was published in 1913. It contains some re- 
 prints, among others Pomme d'Anis, and some of 
 the Notes from Pensee des Jardins. But the interest- 
 ing things in it are tw^o stories, UAuherge des Doideurs 
 and VAuherge sur la Route. This is from the latter 
 tale, and it is in prose, but I submit that it is never- 
 theless very beautiful poetry : 
 
 Le vent courait sur la soie bleue des bles et la ridait, et la 
 crecelle des cri-cris tremblait comme un timbre de petite gare. 
 La ligne de I'horizon dormait, etendue au-dessus des epis, et les 
 feuilles des chaumes se soulevaient et retombaient telles que des 
 oriflammes de mats pour sauterelles. Parfois, on apercevait 
 dans le ciel un nuage comme un bosquet d 'ombres qui se serait
 
 268 Six French Poets 
 
 enleve de la colline, et, cependant qu'il glissait, elle s'illuminait, 
 s'obscurcissait, s'illuminait a nouveau. 
 
 VAuberge des Douleurs is even more delightful, but 
 I will not spoil any of it by breaking a little piece off. 
 
 Francis Jammes is still living at Orthez. He is 
 still in the prime of life : forty-seven. It is im- 
 possible to suppose that he will not go on producing 
 for some time to come. He has already had a great 
 effect upon the younger generation, and if there do 
 not seem to be any poets who can be exactly called 
 his disciples, it is partly because he has never sought 
 disciples, and partly because the best part of him 
 cannot be copied.
 
 PAUL FORT
 
 PAUL FORT 
 
 In preparing this chapter, I learnt a strange 
 thing. I had half suspected it before, but now I 
 know it beyond peradventure of a doubt — the 
 worid, which is always affected by exteriors, carries 
 that principle even to typography. 
 
 It so happened that I was unable to get a biog- 
 raphy of Paul Fort, which I needed, from abroad. 
 Hoping they might have it, I tried the Public 
 Library. I was not surprised that that particular 
 volume was not forthcoming, but I was surprised 
 when the library proved to contain not one single 
 volume of Paul Fort. 
 
 The reason that this is so strange is that Paul 
 Fort is the one poet writing in French, who (as soon 
 as he becomes known) is certain to share with Ver- 
 haeren the unqualified admiration of English-speak- 
 ing people. Both in matter and manner, we cannot 
 fail to understand him. His admiration for the 
 English poets is unbounded, and he tells us that he 
 has modelled himself upon them. 
 
 Are his books hard to get, are they few and far 
 between ? — you will ask. Not at all. In the past 
 
 271
 
 272 Six French Poets 
 
 nine years, he has pubHshed sixteen volumes of verse. 
 They are the ordinary paper-covered volumes of 
 modern French commerce, lemon-hued and inviting, 
 selling at the usual price of three francs, fifty cen- 
 times, and they are for sale at every book-shop in 
 Paris. 
 
 Then what is the matter ? — you will ask again. 
 The matter (idiotic though it may sound) is a ques- 
 tion of typography. Paul Fort prints his poems as 
 prose. That is the obscuring veil which keeps him 
 from being known. You print words in a line — 
 long lines, short lines, uneven lines (thank Heaven ! 
 you are permitted so much liberty) — and they are 
 instantly recognized as poetry. You print the same 
 lines in a block, like prose, and you are undone. If 
 some unwary reader, sitting down to a good bit of 
 prose, should happen to read it aloud, behold, it is 
 poetry ! The reader is confused, then angry. 
 Things are not what they seemed, not, in fact, 
 what they purported to be. To find one's self in- 
 veigled into reading poetry when one thought it was 
 prose, when by every typographical sign it should 
 have been prose, 'tis a charlatan's trick, rank dis- 
 honesty ! Or, if not quite that, at any rate it makes 
 one feel very uncomfortable. 
 
 Paul Fort says that he has sacrificed his popu- 
 larity to his theory. And at first that was no doubt 
 true. But he has won the game at last, in his own 
 country. He has been elected by popular suffrage
 
 Paul Fort 273 
 
 "Prince des Poetes," a fact which I shall come back 
 to later. Only, the excellent gentlemen who buy the 
 French books for the public libraries are a bit be- 
 hind the times, and a prose which jumps at one in 
 unexpected rhymes is a fearsome thing in a foreign 
 language. It is probably the same all over England 
 and America, and so this most universal genius of 
 all living Frenchmen remains very little known out 
 of France. The "Nineteenth Century" for Decem- 
 ber, 1 9 14, contained a sympathetic article by a 
 young English poet of much promise, James Elroy 
 Flecker, on Fort, recommending him to his coun- 
 trymen. A pathetic interest attaches to this article, 
 in that its author was already dying when it ap- 
 peared, and his subsequent death makes it the last 
 w^ord he felt it important to say, the last effort 
 worth making. 
 
 Paul Fort classes himself as a Symholiste ; why, it 
 is a little hard to say, except that he regards Sym- 
 bolisme as another term for liberty. And Fort is 
 fairly intoxicated with the idea of liberty. But he 
 employs his liberty for quite other purposes than 
 those of the real Symbolistes. Paul Fort is the 
 modern man. Exteriorizing, full of vitality and 
 vigour, and "la joie de vivre." I know no one except 
 Sam Weller who seems to me so bubblingly alive. 
 He positively bounces with delight through poem 
 after poem. He is intensely interested in every- 
 thing, and a good motto for his sixteen volumes
 
 274 'S'z'a; French Poets 
 
 would be Stevenson's 
 
 The world is so full of a number of things, 
 I am sure we should all be as happy as kings. 
 
 Nature, people, books, all fill him with enthusiastic 
 interest, and to all he gives an equal share of 
 himself, having the power to devote himself en- 
 tirely to whichever one he is occupied with for the 
 moment. 
 
 More than that, he is so genuinely sympathetic, 
 that, almost unconsciously it would seem, his style 
 changes with his subject. He is master of what 
 Matthew Arnold would have called "the grand 
 style," but he is also past-master of a hail-fellow- 
 well-met diction to sing the preoccupations of the 
 Breton sailors. Not even Byron has so fine an irony 
 as he ; and Henri de Regnier in Les Vacances d'un 
 Jeune Homme Sage has not caught the naive sim- 
 plicity of adolescence any better, any more deli- 
 cately, than he has done in Paris Sentimental. 
 
 Let me illustrate. Here are two poems which have 
 for subject nothing at all but the extreme happiness 
 of being alive. The "great intoxication," as it is to 
 him. 
 
 LA GRANDE IVRESSE 
 
 Par les nuits d'ete bleues ou chantent les cigales, Dieu verse 
 sur la France une coupe d'etoiles. Le vent porte k ma l^vre un 
 go<at du ciel d'ete ! Je veux boire a I'espace fraichement argente.
 
 Paul Fort 275 
 
 L'air du soir est pour moi le bord de la coupe froide ou, les 
 yeux mi-fermes et la bouche goulue, je bois, comme le jus press6 
 d'une grenade, la fraicheur etoil^e qui se repand des nues. 
 
 Couche sur un gazon dont I'herbe est encor chaude de s'etre 
 prelassee sous I'haleine du jour, oh ! que je viderais, ce soir, 
 avec amour, la coupe immense et bleue oii le firmament rode ! 
 
 Suis-je Bacchus ou Pan? je m'enivre d'espace, et j'apaise ma 
 fievre a la fraicheur des nuits. La bouche ouverte au ciel oil gre- 
 lottent les astres, que le ciel coule en moi ! que je me fonde en lui ! 
 
 Enivres par I'espace et les cieux etoiles, Byron et Lamartine, 
 Hugo, Shelley sont morts. L'espace est toujours la; il coule 
 iUimit^; k peine ivre il m'emporte, et j 'avals soif encore! 
 
 The second is one of those Chansons for which 
 Fort is so famous. 
 
 LE CIEL EST GAI, C'EST JOLI MAI 
 
 La mer brille au-dessus de la haie, la mer brille comme una 
 coquille. On a envie de la pScher. Le ciel est gai, c'est joli Mai. 
 
 C'est doux la mer au-dessus de la haie, c'est doux comme 
 une main d'enfant. On a envie de la caresser. Le ciel est gai, 
 c'est joli Mai. 
 
 Et c'est aux mains vives de la brise que vivent et brillent des 
 aiguilles qui cousent la mer avec la haie. Le ciel est gai, c'est 
 joli Mai.
 
 276 Six French Poets 
 
 La mer pr^sente sur la haie ses frivoles papillonnees. Petits 
 navires vont naviguer. Le ciel est gai, c'est joli Mai. 
 
 La haie, c'est les profondeurs, avec des scarabdes en or. Les 
 haleines sont plus vilaines. Le ciel est gai, c'est joli Mai. 
 
 Si doux que larme sur la joue, la mer est larme sur la haie qui 
 doucement descend au port. Mais on n'a gu^re envie de pleurer. 
 
 — "Un gars est tombe dans le port!" — "Mort dans la 
 mer, c'est jolie mort." Mais on n'a guere envie de pleurer. Le 
 ciel est gai, c'est joli Mai ! 
 
 I am at a loss to know what to do among these 
 sixteen volumes. I do not know where to begin. 
 To note them chronologically is of no value, for Paul 
 Fort is not one of the poets who grows old. He re- 
 news himself perpetually, but the renewal is only 
 to greater vigour, farther delight. And this is per- 
 haps natural, for in spite of the immense amount of 
 work he has done, Fort is still a young man. Yet 
 that does not always follow. Usually, a man would 
 seem to have only a certain amount in him. Some- 
 times he matures slowly and begins to produce late. 
 I have heard it said that Shakespeare was thirty 
 before he began to write, and we know that the 
 painter Gauguin was forty before he touched a 
 brush. Daniel Webster, too, was some thirty odd 
 before he made his first remarkable speech.
 
 Paul Fort 277 
 
 The contrary is often true: a man whose creative 
 power exhausts itself in early youth. Are we so 
 sure that Keats was unlucky to die young ? The 
 dismal and academic " Hyperion," so praised by the 
 conventional critic, makes us pause and consider 
 the question. In our own time, William Butler 
 Yeats is a case in point. His excellent and brilliant 
 work was all done in his twenties. Since then he 
 has been like a haunted man, pursued by the ghost 
 of his own poetry. 
 
 It is characteristic of Paul Fort, characteristic of 
 the robustness of his nature, physical and mental 
 alike, that, beginning young, he should still be 
 writing with unimpaired vigour. 
 
 Paul Fort was born in Rheims on the first of 
 February, 1872. In a pathetic letter, written re- 
 cently, he tells that he was born right opposite the 
 Cathedral — "la Cath6drale assassinee," as he calls 
 it. What the destruction of the Cathedral must 
 have meant to him, we can faintly understand, 
 loving it, as we must, only as a beautiful, strange 
 thing. In a poem written since the burning of 
 Rheims, he tells as much as he can of its place 
 in his childhood. He tells of his father crying out 
 at the first sign of real notice in his baby eyes, 
 " II voit ! il voit ! il voit !" and turning him toward 
 i'eglise sublime;" how, as he grew 
 
 " 1'^, 
 
 . . . elle naquit pour moi, reelle, grande, immense et r§v^ 
 a la fois.
 
 278 Six French Poets 
 
 Elle naquit pour moi, devinee par mes yeux, un matin de 
 printemps au cri des hirondelles. Mes menottes ont cru la 
 prendre au bleu cieux ! Renassant chaque aurore elle m'etait 
 fidele, tout habitee de saints, de rois et de heros, et d'anges k 
 mi -vol, comme un arbre d'oiseaux. 
 
 Grand jouet de mon ame, O frangaise foret de pierres, et vos 
 tours, mes immense hochets, vous etes demeures le seul Jeu de 
 mon ame, avec les trois hauts porches, en triangle de flamme, 
 et dessus eux la Rose ou Ton voit voltigee des pigeons becque- 
 tant les reflets passagers. 
 
 Puis quand je suis enfin venu, ma Cathedrale, meler un cerf- 
 volant aux ailes de tes anges, que j'ai de tous mes cris fait sonner 
 ton parvis et, les cheveux au vent et poursuivant mes cris, en- 
 tour e tes vieux murs des cent jeux de I'enfance . . . 
 
 The poem is too long to quote entire, but is it sur- 
 prising that it has this stanza, constantly repeated 
 as a refrain? 
 
 Monstrueux general baron von Plattenberg, si je vous dois ce 
 chant d'amour a mon eglise, je vous donne en retour, bien qu'im- 
 mortalisent, le soufflet de poetes et I'echafaud du Verbe, — mais 
 je tiens magazin de haine consacree a tous les Allemands que 
 j'ai pu rencontrer. 
 
 Who were Fort's parents, and how, and why, he 
 went to Paris, the lack of the volume I have men- 
 tioned makes it impossible for me to say. But to
 
 Paul Fort 279 
 
 Paris he went, and there, at the incredibly early age of 
 eighteen, he founded a httle theatre, the Theatre d' Art. 
 It was a protest against the naturahstic generation 
 who held sway over the Theatre Libre, and, oddly 
 enough, this audacious undertaking had a certain 
 success. What are we to make of a youth of eight- 
 een who, alone, almost without resources, con- 
 ceives such an idea, and carries it through ? Fort's 
 actors were engaged to receive no wages ; his scenes 
 were painted for him, presumably by enthusiastic 
 and unpaid friends, among them being Gauguin and 
 Maurice Denis ; and plays were submitted, plays in 
 manuscript and quite unactable, which were acted 
 nevertheless. For Fort stuck at nothing in pursuit 
 of his theory ; what he wished to do should be done, 
 and thanks to his energy and brains, was done. 
 
 Fort was possessed of the idea that the old and 
 excellent, even if forgotten, should be mixed with 
 the new. Everything which was intrinsically worthy 
 of dramatic representation should have its turn. On 
 they went — pell-mell. An assortment of a kind 
 to make the ordinary and experienced theatrical 
 manager faint dead away. 
 
 The Thedtre d'Art mounted Shelley's "Cenci," of 
 all extraordinary ventures ; and, perhaps not quite 
 so queer, but still sufhciently unusual, the "Dr. 
 Faustus" of Christopher Marlowe. In both these 
 pieces. Fort took a part himself. It seems as though 
 at this time he expected to become an actor.
 
 28o Six French Poets 
 
 For modern plays, the Theatre d'Art gave Les Uns 
 et Les Autres, by Verlaine ; VIntruse and Les Aveu- 
 gles, by Maeterlinck ; La Voix du Sang and Madame 
 La Mort, by Rachilde ; Theodat, by Remy de Gour- 
 mont ; Les Flaireurs, by Van Lerberghe ; it even 
 gave Le Concile Feerique, by Signoret ; and Le 
 Corbeau, by Mallarme. How it gave the latter, 
 unless it was merely read, possibly in costume, I 
 fail to understand, as Le Corbeau is simply a trans- 
 lation of Poe's "Raven." But nothing seems to 
 have been unattemptable to Fort, who went so far 
 as to dare to produce an adaptation of the first book 
 of the " Iliad." 
 
 Gourmont says in his Promenades Litter aires, that 
 Sarcey enjoyed these performances so much that 
 he never missed one, and that he wrote happily in 
 an article on the subject: "These studio-farces took 
 until two o'clock in the morning to finish." From 
 this remark it is quite obvious that Fort's public 
 was composed of young and enthusiastic students of 
 the arts like himself. But he certainly had a pub- 
 lic; and when the Thedtre d'Art moved from the 
 Marais to Montparnasse, and from Montparnasse 
 to Montmartre, the public went with it. 
 
 The Thedtre d'Art broke up in 1893. Why, I do 
 not know, possibly from lack of funds, that most 
 important factor in all theatrical enterprises, even 
 when the actors work for nothing and the perform- 
 ances last until two o'clock in the morning. Or
 
 Paul Fort 281 
 
 possibly Fort had discovered that acting was not 
 his vocation. 
 
 In 1890, the year he started his theatre, Fort had 
 pubHshed a Httle play of inconsiderable importance, 
 La Petite Bete. This, you see, was just in the hey- 
 day of his preoccupation with the theatre. But 
 three years as an actor and manager taught him 
 that the theatre offered no scope to his particular 
 talents. Description, in which he excels, has no 
 place in theatrical writing. Fort definitely aban- 
 doned it for the free medium of verse, pure and 
 simple. 
 
 There is no doubt, however, that the years in the 
 theatre were of the utmost value to Fort as a poet. 
 A keen dramatic instinct he must always have had, 
 but the practical training of this instinct gave him 
 an extraordinary mastery over the difficult art of 
 dramatic verse. Dramatic verse in contradistinction 
 to drama. One of the reasons for the dullness of 
 most narrative poems is that their authors do not 
 understand the manipulation of the dramatic. 
 Dullness is the one unpardonable sin in all the arts, 
 but in the theatre it is suicidal. A play must "get 
 over," or it is damned. Now this quality of "get- 
 ting over" Fort has to an eminent degree. Let me 
 illustrate by two selections from Le Roman de Louis 
 XI. The first one is where the king, having heard 
 of the death of his natural son, goes incognito and 
 by night to find out if the rumour is true :
 
 282 Six French Poets 
 
 JOACHIM 
 
 La nuit glisse epaisse et froide dans Paris. Deux ombres 
 dans I'ombre, deux petites ombres maigres s'agitent frileusement, 
 puis glissent dans la nuit. 
 
 — Doux sire, j'ai jure. Cette nuit, nous partons. 
 
 — C'est bien, suis-moi, suis-moi. 
 
 De petites ruelles en petites ruelles, deux petites ombres 
 maigres s'agitent dans le froid, — puis s'arretent. 
 
 La, devant une masure a demi enterree, une voix, une petite 
 voix aigre-douce, aigrelette, une petite voix que mouillent des 
 sanglots : 
 
 — Je ne suis lion, ni loup, ni renard, je suis un homme, Croy. 
 Frappe a cette porte, Croy ! Ici, bien. Appelle : Dame Si- 
 monne des Chaines ! 
 
 — Dame Simonne des Chaines ! 
 
 — Bien. Ecoute, ecoute ! . . . Demande s'il n'est pas mort, 
 hier, quelqu'un chez elle. 
 
 — Dame Simonne ! Est-il mort, hier, quelqu'un ici ? 
 
 — Helas, doux seigneur ! vous le savez done, vous ? Mon 
 fils Joachim, mon fils, la nuit demiere. 
 
 — Je ne suis lion, ni loup, ni renard, je suis un homme. Croy, 
 reviens, soutiens-moi ! Joachim ! . . . Croy ! je ne suis lion, 
 ni loup, ni renard, je suis tous trois. Croy, je suis un homme. 
 Adieu, 6 petit etre ! . . . Joachim ! Joachim ! AUons, bien ! 
 partons. Dame Simonne me fut . . . Dame Simonne m'etait 
 . . . Je suis un homme, Croy, je pleure un petit etre . . . 
 Joachim ! Helas ! . . . mon petit enfant . . .
 
 Paul Fort 283 
 
 La nuit glisse epaisse et froide dans Paris, deux petites om- 
 bres maigres butent, glissent, s'agitent. Oh ! quelle petite voix 
 aigrelette, aigrelette . . . Oh ! ses petits cris dechires. 
 
 The second is a gay account of Louis, with his gentle- 
 men and their attendant mistresses, fishing in the 
 Seine : 
 
 LA PECHE MIRACULEUSE 
 
 La nouvelle etait si charmante, — un oncle mort si a propos ! 
 — mon doux petit Louis XI voulut bien la feter, mais intime- 
 ment, en gentille societe. 
 
 Maitre Tristan, tout imagination, conseilla une partie dans 
 I'herbe, et, comme il clignait de ses yeux roux malins : — "Com- 
 pris, dit le roi, tu n'es qu'un vaurien." 
 
 Le lendemain matin, sous le paradis bleu, gais et contents, 
 mon doux petit Louis XI, Tristan I'Ermite et leurs folles amantes, 
 Simonne des Chaines et Perrette du Tresor, s'en vinrent ta- 
 quiner le goujon de Seine, avix pieds en roseaux de la Tour de 
 Nesle. 
 
 Maitre OHvier, puceau, faisait le guet sur la berge, a longues 
 enjambees froissant I'herbe. II bayait aux comeilles aver 
 melancolie : la chute de Buridan occupait son esprit. 
 
 Simonne des Chaines, ame et cceur Ues au coeur et a I'ame 
 de son roi bien-aime, comme un lys d'eau penchant sur un 
 vieux nenuphar, penchait, sur I'epaule rapee de son amant, son 
 cou de neige, son front de lait, son petit nez de velours blanc;
 
 284 Six French Poets 
 
 et, de temps en temps, le gracieux roi Louis de France lui deman- 
 dait un asticot. Alors, c'etait avec un si grand charme qu'elle 
 en puisait un, dans una petite boite verte, c'etait avec un charme 
 si troublant qu'elle le presentait au roi, tout fretillant, que 
 Louis ne se tenait plus de lui baiser I'oreille (non point a 1 'asti- 
 cot, mais a Simonne des Chaines) , voire de lui chuchoter amour- 
 eusement ces mots: "M'amie, vous assisterez aux Etats 
 eneraux. 
 
 Maitre Olivier, puceau, faisait le guet sur la berge, a longues 
 enjambees froissant I'herbe. II bayait aux corneilles avec 
 melancolie : la chute de Buridan occupait son esprit. 
 
 II regardait, d'un ceil inattentif, certain maitre Villon, fleur 
 de berge s'il en fut, courant dans les roseaux apres les libellules 
 et qui, parfois, toumait des yeux pleins d 'anarchic vers ces 
 bourgeois pechant la-bas, et leurs amies. Maitre OHvier, 
 puceau, avait I'esprit ailleurs ... A peine vit-il, dans les ro- 
 seaux, maitre Villon se devetir. A peine murmura-t-il, comme 
 on murmure en reve : "Sans doute, ce monsieur nu ne m'est 
 pas inconnu." 
 
 Et Tristan n'attrapait rien. Et le roi n'attrapait rien. Les 
 asticots filaient, filaient . . . Et Frangois Villon, prenant une 
 pleine eau, soufflait aux poissons, tout en faisant la planche: 
 "Vive la liberte ! ne vous laissez pas prendre." 
 
 ***** * 
 
 — "Paix ! cria le roi, ou je manque ce turbot !" 
 
 — "Un turbot, seigneur, est un poisson de mer . . . risqua 
 timidement la tendre Simonne. J 'en ai vendu, avec ma m^re,
 
 Paul Fort 285 
 
 au grand marche Saint-Honore, du temps de ma virginite." — 
 "Un poisson de mer? . . . He, c'est bien pour cela que je I'ai 
 manque!" repondit le roi sans se deconcerter. 
 
 — "Le temps passe ne revient pas," fredonnait Perrette en 
 ajustant ses bas. — "Oui! la jeunesse n'a qu'un temps," en- 
 tonna Tristan, avec conviction. Alors, la timide, la tendre 
 Simonne roucoula sur un air encore peu connu: "Voici vingt 
 ans que j'ai perdu ma mere ..." II n'en fallait pas plus, 
 Tristan fondit en larmes, — tandis que le roi, tout en pechant 
 du vent, chantait k tue-t^te : "Non ! mes amis, non, je ne veux 
 rien etre ! . . ." 
 
 Et Tristan n'attrapait rien. Et le roi n'attrapait rien. Les 
 asticots filaient, filaient . . . Et les goujons spirituels, battant 
 des ouies, applaudissaient. — ("Applaudissaient," sans doute, 
 n'est qu'une image. Mais sait-on bien ce qui se passe dans 
 I'eau?) 
 
 Aux pieds en roseaux de la Tour de Nesle, les deux com- 
 m^res, le roi et le bourreau chantaient, en choeur, comme des 
 oiseaux. Et les goujons, autour des bouchons, valsaient, val- 
 saient agreablement. 
 
 Maitre Olivier, puceau, faisait le guet sur la berge . . . 
 
 Soudain, Perrette pouffa de rire dans sa jupe ! Mon doux 
 petit Louis XI, levant sa ligne avec ardeur, venait d'accrocher 
 un martin-pecheur. — Tristan dit: "Un gage!" Simonne: 
 Poisson vole ! et maitre Olivier s'arr^ta, tout net, sur une en- 
 jambee.
 
 286 Six French Poets 
 
 — "Par m'ame! je me serai trompe, se dit Frangois Villon 
 nageant entre deux eaux. Au lieu d'un goujon pecher un oiseau 
 . . . Ce bourgeois n'est pas depourvu de lyrisme!" 
 
 Et les goujons, autour des bouchons, valsaient, valsaient 
 agreablement. 
 
 The theatre definitely abandoned, Fort turned to 
 literature, and published a number of little books of 
 verse, got up something like chap-books, very slim, 
 and very unpretentious. The first one, Plusieurs 
 Choses, appeared in 1894, followed the same year by 
 two others, Premieres Lueurs sur la Colline and 
 Monnaie de Fer. The next year came others, Pres- 
 que les Doigts aux Cles and II y a Id des Cris. But 
 it was not until 1896, that he started what may be 
 considered as his life work in the publication, by the 
 indefatigable Mercure de France, of the first volume 
 of his Ballades Frangaises. It contained all the 
 poems already published, with new ones added, and 
 was a large book of three hundred and fifty pages. 
 Those three hundred and fifty pages tell the story 
 of Fort's life, his enormous fecundity, his over- 
 fecundity, I fear it must be admitted. Fort is like 
 some kinds of fishes, who spawn an incredible num- 
 ber of eggs, of which some, at least, are bound to 
 survive. And in Fort's case. It is astonishing how 
 many are perfect, and fashioned to resist all the
 
 Paul Fort 287 
 
 accidents of time. Particularly is this true In these 
 early volumes. 
 
 All Fort's succeeding volumes have been Ballades 
 Frangaises. No matter how various the subjects, 
 he has given them all the same generic title. And 
 it is an excellent title, and hitches them all together 
 into the soul of France better than anything else 
 could do. For this most English of French poets 
 is at the same time the very embodiment of France. 
 One of his critics (and to my mind at once the most 
 sprightly and the most illuminating of the lot, and 
 their names have been legion) says: "Paul Fort is 
 a mask, and I know well what is underneath : it is 
 the familiar demon of the soil of France. ... In- 
 trepid innovator and firm partisan of freedom, Paul 
 Fort is nevertheless the most traditional of our poets. 
 The demon of French soil, I have just said, lives in 
 him. Disdainful of expected rhythms and domes- 
 ticated sentiments, he has taken poetry again at its 
 beginning, from the moment when it spouts out of 
 the earth, when it is still hot and moving, full of 
 dissolved salts and living germs. He has listened to 
 the instinctive songs in which the soul of the race 
 shivers ; which are born, so to speak, of themselves, 
 each like the others, clumsy and sincere, with 
 indistinct onomatopoeias, with cadences balanced 
 like peasant rounds danced in sabots, with rough 
 and new words, impregnated by the fat earth. It 
 is there, the raw, inexhaustible treasure, which
 
 288 Six French Poets 
 
 germinates through the length of the centuries in 
 epics and odes, in epigrams, in romances, in legends, 
 in tales full of bonhomie and in fables full of roguish- 
 ness. Therould comes, and of this lyrism the Chan- 
 son de Roland is made ; Rabelais comes, and of this 
 spirit Pantagruel is composed. One can understand 
 everything, say everything, sing or chatter in every 
 fashion, when one is in France." 
 
 Singing and chattering in every fashion — that is a 
 paraphrase of Paul Fort. His Choix de Ballades 
 Franqaises, a modest little tome of five hundred and 
 sixty-nine pages into which he has condensed his 
 sixteen ample volumes, is divided under headings. 
 These headings, invented by himself, will give a 
 more comprehensive idea of the many kinds of his 
 work than any arbitrary list which I could make 
 would do. They are : Hymnes ; Chansons ; Lieds ; 
 Elegies ; Poemes A ntiques ; Poemes Marins ; Odes 
 et Odelettes ; Romans ; Petites Epopees ; Fantaisies 
 d la Gauloise ; Complaintes et Dits ; Madrigaux et 
 Romances ; Epigrammes a Moi-meme. 
 
 Now, I think it is time to speak of Fort's versifi- 
 cation. That new and original versification which 
 has caused so much commotion among the critics. 
 That strange and bafifling style to which Fort says 
 he has sacrificed his books. 
 
 It is very hard for an English reader not to smile 
 at the earnestness and great length with which all 
 Fort's commentators deal with the subject. We
 
 Paul Fort 289 
 
 must constantly remind ourselves that French Is 
 an artificially-made language, and is hedged about 
 with any number of set rules. In France, there Is a 
 right and a wrong in pronunciation, there is a correct 
 construction of sentences, and, above all, there is 
 an exact system of versification. 
 
 We, in the English-speaking countries, are con- 
 stantly bemoaning the fact of the absence of stand- 
 ards, and the consequent decay of the language. A 
 decay, let it be whispered, which has been loudly 
 wailed over ever since the days of Chaucer. 
 Whether we lose most or gain most by our freedom 
 to talk and write as we please will probably always 
 be a disputed question. Each system has Its ad- 
 vantages. In France, everybody can write at least 
 correctly, everybody who makes a pretence of being 
 educated, that Is. In England, and even more In 
 America, the language Is open to the enrichment of 
 Interpolated words and forms. (The picturesque 
 and vitalizing influence of American slang has 
 hardly yet been noticed by students ; some day we 
 shall have monographs upon the subject.) The 
 corresponding disadvantages of each system are, 
 that although in England and America there is a 
 flexible, strong, and excessively rich language to 
 make use of, only a handful of writers have sufficient 
 taste and training to manipulate It and bring out Its 
 possibilities. English is not really Inferior to French 
 at any point except In its paucity of rhymes, and
 
 290 Six French Poets 
 
 occasionally in its lack of shaded meanings. But, 
 as a rule, the skill of English (and here I would in- 
 clude American) writers is behind that of the French. 
 On the other hand, the very clarity and precision 
 of the French tongue makes it difficult for it to 
 change with sufficient speed. Life, in France, is 
 ahead of its official language. Hence the poet who 
 attempts any innovation, no matter how obvious 
 the advantage of the change may be, has to fight a 
 long series of battles before he is admitted to have 
 proved his point. 
 
 The vers libristes had hardly been accorded per- 
 mission to exist, in the minds of the crowd, before 
 Paul Fort appeared with a still greater innovation. 
 Briefly it was this : — He alternated prose and verse 
 at will, going from one to the other without any 
 transition, sometimes changing from one to another 
 in the same stanza. To make this possible, he 
 printed his poems as prose, and the change into 
 rhyme only became evident when the poem was 
 read ; with the greater number of readers, un- 
 doubtedly, this change was never noticed until the 
 poem was read out loud. He never attempted to 
 write vers litre, nor is he to be classed among the 
 vers libristes. His verse is almost always the alex- 
 andrine, pure and simple ; sometimes, however, his 
 lines are of eight syllables or of ten. In very few 
 cases has he departed from either strict prose or 
 strict verse. Only, he says that he follows the col-
 
 Paul Fort 291 
 
 loqulal pronunciation of the He de France, which 
 means really Paris. In other words, he practically 
 suppresses the mute e, after the fashion of conversa- 
 tion, instead of counting it in the traditional manner 
 of French verse (and often pronouncing it too, some- 
 times drawing it out in the disagreeable mannerism 
 of the Comedie Frangaise). The only thing which I 
 can compare this to in English, is the very bad and 
 foolish tradition of singing English, in which "wind" 
 is pronounced "winde," and "pretty" — "pritty," 
 and the consonants, for some unknown reason, are 
 blurred so that nothing is sharp. Even this is not 
 quite the same thing, as the English singing habit 
 has nothing to recommend it, whereas the French 
 poetic tradition is at least based upon a bygone 
 pronunciation. 
 
 What seriously troubles Fort's critics is that he 
 does not always suppress the mute e. In a case 
 where one cannot safely count out twelve feet, and 
 be sure, by that, whether the e is to be suppressed 
 or not, such uncertainty is very confusing. Again, 
 to the English sense, this does not seem to matter. 
 M. Louis Mandin, in his Etude sur les "Ballades 
 Franqaises,'' points out that "if our traditional 
 prosody is based upon the rigid fixity of the num- 
 ber of syllables, other idioms leave to many of their 
 vocables the faculty of contracting or distending 
 themselves according to the movement of the 
 rhythm." And he cites as examples, our word
 
 292 Six French Poets 
 
 "wandering," which may be either two or three 
 syllables to suit the metre; or again, "Heaven," 
 which may be either one or two. 
 
 Fort's mute e's are to be counted or not according 
 to the flow of the verse when pronounced in the 
 usual Parisian fashion. The only sensible way to 
 read Fort's poems is to read them ahead as they are 
 written. So done, they will at once fall into their 
 natural rhythm, be it prose, be it verse. Fort has 
 such an excellent sense of rhythm, of cadence, that 
 you may safely trust him to bring out what he 
 wishes in his poems ; only read him as he is written, 
 he will do the rest. Here is a very little poem. It 
 is one of the most beautiful that Fort has done, 
 and one of the best known ; it is also one of the very 
 few that are written in lines. It is, as you see, in 
 regular alexandrines : 
 
 LA FILLE MORTE DANS SES AMOURS 
 Cette fille, elle est morte, est morte dans ses amours. 
 
 lis I'ont portee en terre, en terre au point du jour. 
 
 lis Font couchee toute seule, toute seule en ses atours. 
 
 lis I'ont couchee toute seule, toute seule en son cercueil. 
 
 lis sont rev'nus gaiment, gaiment avec le jour.
 
 Paul Fort 293 
 
 lis ont chante gaiment, gaiment : "Chacun son tour. 
 
 "Cette fiUe, elle est morte, est morte dans ses amours." 
 
 lis sont alles aux champs, aux champs comme tous les 
 jours . . , 
 
 Here is a stanza from another poem, Richard 
 Cosur de Lion, which is quite uneven, the lines being 
 ten, eleven, or twelve feet long. (Perhaps I should 
 repeat here, what I think I mentioned in the first 
 essay, that French being an unaccented language, 
 they have not our variety of feet, all of which are 
 based upon accent. In French prosody, a foot is a 
 syllable, so that the alexandrine, which is a line of 
 twelve feet, is simply a line containing twelve 
 syllables.) 
 
 This is the uneven stanza : 
 
 Non, me faut aimer, me faut trainer ma peine, pleurer contre 
 la pierre ici, que voici, ou j'inscrivis son nom entre un h61ian- 
 theme, et cet oeillet couleur de cceur. — Suis transi ! — Je vais 
 herborisant au clair de la lune, cherchant sous la mousse I'herbe 
 qui rajeunit. 
 
 For one who is not a Frenchman and therefore in 
 love with the alexandrine, I think this last quota- 
 tion far more interesting than regular verse. The 
 unexpected popping up of the rhymes is pungent 
 and delightful, and the assonances give a very rich
 
 294 -^^^ French Poets 
 
 effect and are most satisfying. One cannot help 
 wishing that Fort had gone farther into this irregular 
 verse, but he has stuck very faithfully to his original 
 plan, given in the preface to Le Roman de Louis XI : 
 "I have sought a style which could pass, at the will 
 of the emotion, from prose to verse and from verse 
 to prose, rhythmic prose furnishing the transition. 
 The verse follows the natural elisions of the language. 
 It is presented as prose, all difficulty of elision dis- 
 appearing in this form . . . Prose, rhythmic prose, 
 and verse, are only a single instrument, graduated." 
 Paul Fort is not seeking a new verse form, and when 
 he stumbles upon the possibility of one, as in the 
 quotation I have just read, he passes it by as a mere 
 accident of no importance. What he is seeking is 
 to connect prose and verse more closely than they 
 have ever been connected before, and that he has 
 succeeded in doing in an extraordinarily satisfactory 
 manner. 
 
 But here I am, fallen into the usual pit which 
 betrays all Fort's commentators. I am devoting 
 far too much space to the metrical side of his work. 
 Let me scramble out as best I can by the aid of this 
 admirable quotation from M. Octave Beliard, the 
 critic whom I cited above. "When one of the genii 
 of free space," he says, "trembling and intoxicated 
 with life, falls into the midst of our humanity, he 
 begins by giving himself air, somersaulting over 
 barriers, upsetting categories, throwing our poor
 
 Paul Fort 295 
 
 symmetrical ideas arranged like ninepins, one on 
 top of the other. He puts life where there was im- 
 mobility and silence. We, careful busybodies, had 
 pasted tags everywhere : This is a theatre and this 
 is a novel. . . . This is verse. . . . This is prose. 
 . . . Paul Fort unfastens the labels, plays unplay- 
 able plays at his theatre, rhymes novels, puts prose 
 into verse and verse into prose, vibrates to every 
 wind, chatters like a brook, makes poetry of every- 
 thing, and amuses himself like a god. . . . And 
 suddenly all these volatile, wandering syllables 
 unite themselves into the regular verses of an epic, 
 as if, recreation time finished, the hour of hymn and 
 prayer had rung." 
 
 The first volume of Ballades Frangaises contained 
 a little of everything. It was divided into six books 
 as follows: Book I: The Sea. The Bells. The 
 Fields. The Hamlet. Book H : The Seasons. 
 Night. A Book of Love. The Fields. The Road 
 to Atre. The Storm. Book HI : Orpheus Charm- 
 ing the Animals. Endymion. Indian Bacchus, etc. 
 Louis XI, Curious Man. Heavy Blows of the Door 
 Knocker. The Birth of Coxcomb. Book IV : IVIad- 
 men and Clowns. Death and Satan. Peasants and 
 Knights. Nobles and Kings. Book V : First Steps. 
 There are Cries There. Book VI : The Young 
 Ladies of my Dreams. The Friend without Sin. 
 
 It seems as if in this first book. Fort had set out 
 to cover everything in the universe. Let us begin
 
 296 Six French Poets 
 
 with one of the simplest songs in the volume : 
 
 LA RONDE 
 
 Si toutes les filles du monde voulaient s'donner la main, tout 
 autour de la mer elles pourraient faire une ronde. 
 
 Si tous les gars du monde voulaient bien etr' marins, ils 
 f'raient avec leurs barques un joli pont sur I'onde, 
 
 Alors on pourrait faire une ronde autour du monde, si tous les 
 gens du monde voulaient s'donner la main. 
 
 Here is another, describing a peasant wedding, 
 with the refrain of the traditional Chanson Populaire : 
 
 LA NOCE 
 
 Ah ! que de joie, la Mte et la musette troublent nos coeurs 
 de leurs accords charmants, voici venir les gars et les fiUettes, et 
 tous les vieux au son des instruments. 
 
 Gai, gai, marions-nous, les rubans et les comettes, gai, gai, 
 marions-nous, et ce joli couple, itou ! 
 
 Que de plaisir quand dans I'eglise en fete, cloche et clochettes 
 les appellent tertous, — trois cents clochettes pour les yeux de 
 la belle, un gros bourdon pour le coeur de I'epoux. 
 
 Gai, gai, marions-nous, les rubans et les comettes, gai, gai, 
 marions-nous, et ce joli couple, itou !
 
 Paul Fort 297 
 
 La cloche enfin tient nos langues muettes. Ah ! que de 
 peine quand ce n'est plus pour nous . . . Pleurez, les vieux, sur 
 vos livres de messe. Qui sait ? bientot la cloche sera pour vous ? 
 
 Gai, gai, marions-nous, les rubans et les comettes, gai, gai, 
 marions-nous, et ce joli couple, itou ! 
 
 Enfin c'est tout, et la cloche est muette. Allons danser au 
 bonheur des epoux. Vive le gars et la fiUe et la fete ! Ah ! que 
 de joie quand ce n'est pas pour nous. 
 
 Gai, gai, marions-nous, les rubans et les comettes, gai, gai, 
 marions-nous, et ce joli couple, itou ! 
 
 Que de plaisir, la flute et la musette vont rajeunir les vieux 
 pour un moment. Voici danser les gars et les fiUettes. Ah ! 
 que de joie au son des instruments ! 
 
 It is amusing to note that this is one of the Ballades 
 des Cloches. 
 
 Robert de Souza in his Poesie Populaire says : 
 "Rondes et pastourelles, aubades, romances et guil- 
 lonees, berceuses et brunettes, ballades narratives, 
 complaintes d'amour, chansons de fetes et de metiers, 
 qwerziou et soniou bretons, lieds ou saltarelles, il 
 semble qu'aucun des modes lyriques populaires ne 
 soit absent du livre de M. Fort." And he quotes 
 this Breton song with its fantastic refrain :
 
 298 Six French Poets 
 
 ET YOU YOU YOU 
 
 Et you, you, you, c'est le pecheur qui meurt, et you, you, yu, 
 et toute la mer dessus. 
 
 Et you, you, you, c'est la bergdre qui pleure, et you, you, ya, 
 c'est Tamour qui s'en va. 
 
 Et you, you, you, c'est -y la mer qui b^le, et you, you, yon, 
 ou c'est-y les moutons ? 
 
 Et you, you, you, les plaisirs sont au ciel, et you, you, you, 
 les nuages par-dessous. 
 
 But Paul Fort has other peasant songs. Songs 
 with overtones of sadness : 
 
 LA VIE 
 
 Au premier son des cloches : "C'est Jesus dans sa creche . . ." 
 
 Les cloches ont redouble : "0 gue, mon fiance ! " 
 Et puis c'est tout de suite la cloche des trepasses. 
 Songs tinged with a gay irony : 
 
 LES BALEINES 
 
 Du temps qu'on allait encore aux baleines, si loin qu'^a fai- 
 sait, mat'lot, pleurer nos belles, y avait sur chaque route un
 
 Paul Fort 299 
 
 Jesus en croix, y avait des marquis cou verts de dentelles, y 
 avait la Sainte-Vierge et y avait le Roi ! 
 
 Du temps qu'on allait encore aux baleines, si loin qu'ga 
 faisait, mat'lot, pleurer nos belles, y avait des marins qui avai- 
 ent la foi, et des grands seigneurs qui crachaient sur elle, y avait 
 la Sainte-Vierge et y avait le Roi ! 
 
 Eh bien, a present, tout le monde est content, c'est pas pour 
 dire, mat'lot, mais on est content ! . . . y a plus d' grands sei- 
 gneurs ni d'Jesus qui tiennent, y a la republique et y a I'presi- 
 dent, et y a plus d'baleines ! 
 
 All the poems which I have quoted, with the excep- 
 tion of Les Baleines and La Vie, are from this first 
 volume, and Fort has never done anything better 
 in this line. I cannot leave it without quoting one 
 more, from the section " Madmen and Clowns." 
 It is irony, pure and simple, keen and flickering 
 like a sword-blade : 
 
 LES DEUX CLOWNS 
 
 — Synthetic Clown-Clown, hip, hip, toumez ! 
 
 — Six pirouettes bleu blanc blanc bleu, voila le Ciel ! six 
 pirouettes bleu vert vert bleu, voila la Mer ! six pirouettes vert 
 jaune jaune vert, c'est le Desert ! six pirouettes or jaune jaune 
 or, c'est le Soleil ! 
 
 — Bravo, bravo, un p'tit bravo, messieurs. Analytic Clown-
 
 300 Six French Poets 
 
 Clown, a vous, toumez ! 
 
 Soit. Messieurs, decomposons, suivez-moi bien : Violet, 
 deux pirouettes, Indigo, trois pirouettes, Bleu, cinq pirouettes, 
 Vert, deux pirouettes, Jaune, trois pirouettes, Orange, cinq 
 pirouettes, Rouge, dix pirouettes. Total : trente pirouettes. 
 Attention, Messieurs! guignez Tare de Noe . . . Deux trois 
 cinq, deux trois cinq dix, rrrrrrran ! 
 
 — Cessez, Analytic, cessez, assez! II va se rompre . . . 
 Dieu! ... Ah! 
 
 Synthetic se tord, puis dans la sciure du cirque inscrit d'un 
 doigt profond cette sombre epitaphe : 
 
 Ci-Git 
 
 ANALYTIC 
 > 
 
 ce clown qu'on disait sage 
 
 — tres fol 
 
 et mort de rage 
 
 de n'avoir pu toumer dans un orage. 
 
 The next volume of Ballades Franqaises was called 
 Montague, Foret, Plaine, Mer, and was published in 
 1898. Fort has as great a love for scenery as 
 Francis Jammes, again and again he delights him- 
 self with describing it. Only, unlike Jammes, he 
 loves to paint towns as well as countrysides. He 
 notices all the changes of light and shadow, all the 
 effects of trees, and houses, and steeples, and always
 
 Paul Fort 301 
 
 with that intoxication of dehght. Nature strikes 
 him and sets him singing. "Tout mon corps," he 
 cries, "est poreux au vent frais du printemps. Par- 
 tout je m'infinise et partout suis content." Spring 
 fills him with an almost uproarious happiness : " Ren- 
 dez-vous des muguets ! rendez-vous des coucous ! et 
 de toutes les fleurs dont les prairies abondent, au son 
 de la trompette a Phebus. Rendez-vous d'abeilles 
 et d'oiseaux ! Un empire se fonde." 
 
 Here is the little town of Senlis in the morning 
 mist : 
 
 SENLIS MATINALE 
 
 Je sors. La ville a-t-elle disparu ce matin? Ou s'est-elle 
 envolee ? Par quel vent, dans quelle tie ? Je la retrouve, mais 
 n'ose plus etendre les mains. Senlis est vaporeuse comme une 
 mousseline. 
 
 Moi, dechirer Senlis? prenons garde. Ou est-elle? Toits et 
 murs sont un transparent reseau de brume. Notre-Dame livre 
 a I'air sa gorge de dentelle, son cou si fin, son sein leger couleur 
 de lune 
 
 ou bat I'heure irreelle, que seuls comptent les anges, tant 
 I'echo s'en etouffe dans I'oreiller du ciel fait des plimies douce- 
 ment etendues de leurs ailes, ou Dieu repose un front qui vers 
 Senlis se penche. 
 
 This is a curious paysage, considered in the light 
 of recent events ; it appeared in 1909, in his tenth
 
 302 Six French Poets 
 
 volume : 
 
 HORIZONS 
 
 Du cote de Paris, mais vers Nemours la blanche, un bou- 
 vreuil ce matin a chante dans les branches. 
 
 Du cote d'Orleans, vers Nemours envolee, au coeur du jour 
 I'alouette a chante sur les bids. 
 
 Du c6te de la Flandre, au crepuscule d'or, loin de Nemours 
 la pie a cache son trdsor. 
 
 Le soir, criant vers Test, I'Allemagne et la Russie, la troupe 
 des corbeaux quitta ce pays-ci. 
 
 Mais dans mon beau jardin par Nemours abritd, toute la 
 nuit d'dtoiles, Philomene a chante ! 
 
 The third volume of the Ballades, Le Roman de 
 Louis XI, came out also in 1898. On the fly-leaf, 
 Fort has put: "I have wanted to write a book of 
 'good humour.' I call it 'The Novel of Louis XI,' 
 which means that I do not pretend to the exacti- 
 tude of a severe historian." 
 
 What can one say of such a book as Louis XI? 
 It is one of Fort's most original and amusing works. 
 The picture of the King, with his hat bordered by 
 medals and images, occupied with his prayers, and 
 suddenly stooping to pick a chestnut or two out of 
 the fire, is inimitable. We see him dictating to his
 
 Paul Fort 303 
 
 barber "certalnes petites lois." We see him fish- 
 ing, as in the passage I quoted a Uttle while ago. 
 We see him riding "along the white road whistling 
 with larks, by the side of the thorn hedges covered 
 with linen hung out to dry." We see him sleeping 
 peacefully on his horse, "entends-tu le coucou, ma- 
 lurette? — Non, je dors." We see him at the siege 
 of Beauvais. And truly this same siege of Beauvais 
 is one of the most astounding things in all literature. 
 This account of the things the besieged threw down 
 upon the besiegers, and the noise they made in fall- 
 ing, out-Marinettis Marinetti on his own ground : 
 
 Et lorsqu'avec ses gens il grimpait a I'echelle, que leur jetait- 
 on, dites-moi ? — des poulets ? non pas, — des radis ? du beurre ? 
 vous Stes dans I'erreur, — des agneaux ? des boeufs ? plus 
 sou vent ! — des f raises a la cr^me ? des melons ? des salsifis ? 
 fi ! vous vous moquez ! — On leur jetait du plomb fondu dans 
 les prunelles; sur le nez, sous le nez, des torches enflammees 
 (comme roses ecloses, bonnes a humer) ; et par tout le corps un 
 joyeux pele-mele de meubles, de paves, d'ardoises, de boulets, 
 de crachats, d'os ronges, d'ordures varices, de petits clous, de 
 grands clous, d'enclumes, de marteaux, de casseroles, de plots, 
 de papinettes en fer, d'assiettes, de fourchettes, de poeles, de 
 cuillers, d'encre, de graisse et d'huile bouillantes, que sais-je? 
 de tombeaux, de margelles, de cloisons, de gouttieres, de toits, 
 de clochers, de cloches, de clochettes qui tintinnabulaient gra- 
 cieusement sur les t^tes. 
 
 Que leur jetait-on encore pour ne point mentir ? 
 
 Ah ! Maints objets moult contondants, tranchants, affiit^s,
 
 304 Six French Poets 
 
 affiles, en boule, en douille, grenus, cornus, en scie, en soc, de terre, 
 de tole, de pierre de taille, de fer, d'acier, arques, herisses, tordus, 
 confus, tout mal fichus, moussus, rouilles, erailles, en lanieres, 
 en coin, en creux, en crible, en croix, en eric, en croc, sonnants, 
 crissants, sifflants et ronflants, faisant humph, ouf, louf, pouf, 
 bring, sring, tringle, balaam, bottom, betting, batar, arara, rara- 
 boum, bul, bul, breloc, relic, relaps, mil, bomb, marl, broug, batacl, 
 mirobol, pic, poc, quett, strict, pac, diex, mec, pett, sec, sic, 
 soif, flic, f aim, brie, broc, brrrrrr . . ., qui enfongaient les cranes, 
 elargissaient les nez, tricotaient les oreilles, ecarquillaient les 
 bouches, faisaient voler les dents, les doigts, les coudes, les bras, 
 les mentons, les pommettes, mariaient les yeux, en dedaignaient 
 I'omelette, desossaient les 6paules, abrutissaient le thorax, de- 
 courageaient les coeurs, mettaient I'intrus au ventre, scrutaient 
 une fesse puis I'autre, en tiraient faux boyaux, de cuisses cuis- 
 settes, de rotules billes et developpaient les pieds ou coupaient 
 I'homme en cinq, six, sept, voire. 
 
 Oui-da, encore, que leur jetait-on ? 
 
 Des cadavres, des injures, des merdailles et des filches? 
 
 Bien mieux ! (frissormez avec moi) — des maisons. Et peu 
 s'en fallut que, par-dessus la ville, on ne leur jetat la villa 
 entiere ! 
 
 Here I must skip over four volumes and quote 
 what I believe to be Fort's masterpiece. It is in 
 the same genre as Louis XI, but where one is diffused 
 throughout a long novel, the other is condensed into 
 eight pages. Eight pages in which is contained the 
 whole Middle Ages. I give the poem entire.
 
 Paul Fort 305 
 
 HENRI III 
 I 
 
 Les rideaux des croisees sont clos. Les meubles doraient. 
 Parfois le lit royal pousse un long gemissement. C'est le bois 
 qui se plaint, c'est I'ame du vietix chene. Ecoutez. . . . Aussi 
 bien, cela gemit a peine. Ecoutez. L'atre obscur se ranime et 
 frissonne. Trois petites flammes bleues dansent sur le foyer, 
 jetant de grands adieux aux murs fleurdelises. 
 
 Plus rien. L'obscurite chasse les quatre murs. 
 
 Aussitot, un eclat du foyer les ramdne. Le lit tout grelottant 
 pousse une plainte humaine ; et Philippe de Valois se detache 
 d'un mur. Vite il ouvre un bahut, s'y plonge et le referme. 
 
 Louis XI precautionneux se glisse en chattemite ; sur son 
 chaperon noir tourne une souris blanche ; et voici, I'ecusson de 
 Bretagne a la manche, se devorant des yeux, Louis XII et Charles 
 VIII. lis ouvrent le bahut, s'y plongent et le referment. 
 
 Le gamin Frangois II dans l'atre va vomir. Le lit, soulevant 
 ses draps, semble un fantome en peine. Que les regnes sont 
 courts dans la chambre des rois ! Avez-vous vu b^iller le grand 
 coff re de bois ? 
 
 Plus rien. L'obscurite chasse les quatre murs. 
 
 Aussitot, un eclat du foyer les ramene, et devant Henri II 
 boite Frangois P^ lis songent, le front bas, k Diane de Poi- 
 tiers, puis s'abiment ensemble et ferment le couvercle. 
 
 X
 
 3o6 Six French Poets 
 
 C'est Charles V qui le releve de son sceptre, et le Roi-Sage 
 est rouge d'un reflet de bucher. II saute. Est-ce que la pourpre 
 empeche de sauter? II roule dans sa pourpre et jette le ba- 
 ton. La main de justice vole de serrure en serrure (eric ! crac !) 
 toumant les clefs. 
 
 Car voici Jean le Bon. 
 
 Voute, couvert de chaines m^lodieuses et tristes, il a mau- 
 vais sourire et les yeux bleus du Christ. Le dement Charles 
 VI le flagelle en cadence, du morion aux pattes, avec des lys de 
 France, et Charles VII, I'ivrogne, ramassant les petales, baissela 
 trogne. Mais il titube. II a trop bu. Trois chutes sepulcrales 
 font sonner le bahut. 
 
 Les rois valois sont en rumeur. Le lit tressaille. Les onze 
 rois valois en appellent un autre. La, et dans les miroirs, voyez, 
 le coflfre bailie. La Mort s'exerce-t-elle a des metamorphoses? 
 A chaque baillement des cornes de Satyres soulevent le couvercle 
 et vite se retirent. 
 
 Puis grand silence. . . . 
 
 Enfin, sortant de la penombre, un blanc visage monte comme 
 la lune monte. Et le lit voit passer Charles IX aux yeux noirs. 
 Houp ! le bahut I'aspire et tout s'evanouit. Une souris grignote 
 au fond de I'infini.
 
 Paul Fort 307 
 
 II 
 
 Les rideaux des croisees sont clos. Les meubles dorment. 
 Parfois le lit royal pousse un long gemissement. C'est le bois 
 qui se plaint, c'est I'ame du vieux cMne ou, peut-etre, aux flam- 
 beaux, verrait-on la un homme ? . . . Et tenez ! I'atre obscur 
 se ranime et frissonne ; trois petites flammes bleues allongent 
 leurs reflets qui fauchent la moisson des murs fleurdelises. Le 
 plafond s'en eclaire et parait s'exhausser; le lit, reste dans 
 I'ombre, s'abtmer sous son dome. 
 
 La chambre ou tout vacille est en proie aux fantomes. 
 
 Une lueur derniere frappe sur le bahut la ronde qui s'echappe 
 de son gouffre entr'ouvert. 
 
 Une lueur vivante frappe aux flancs du bahut la ronde qui 
 toumoie sur son bois en rumeur. 
 
 Le reflet des miroirs isole et fait saillir la ronde aux bonds 
 lascifs de douze grands Satyres, entourant de leurs membres un 
 bouc epouvante, — tandis qu'en ces miroirs, trente fois repete, 
 un Hercule de bronze fait tournoyer sa masse. 
 
 II a du Beamais le sourire en grimace. Lui vraiment ! Tout 
 crache ! 
 
 L'ombre est chaude. Un cri couve. . . . 
 
 En silence, au galop, pousse par la temp^te silencieuse des 
 Temps et des Temps et des Temps, en silence, au galop de son 
 cheval de fer, Charlemagne traverse la salle d'un coup bref.
 
 3o8 Six French Poets 
 
 Henri de Guise le suit sur son haut cheval noir, mais ayant fait 
 fausse route se perd dans un miroir. Et puis voici Catherine, 
 sa grande et belle figure — horrible a voir ! 
 
 C'est alors qu' Henri tire, de sa stupeur, un cri comme il en 
 vient la nuit du fond des plaines, ce cri des solitudes qui s'enfle 
 et passe et traine, decourageant la vie au coeur du voyageur ; et 
 c'est I'instant ou, pris dans I'etoffe agitee, le fer d'une hallebarde 
 souleve a la croisee que I'occident allume, un rideau qui s'allege. 
 
 Au dehors le jour tombe, rose, avec de la neige. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Le roi, vStu de noir, a saute hors du lit et va dans les miroirs 
 interroger sa face, recule a sa paleur, et tout tremblant se coiffe. 
 Alors, son chapeau noir isole sa paleur. "Viendras-tu reveiller 
 un sang stupefie (dit-il), 6 toi, Hqueur ! ..." A ses pieds la 
 coupe tombe. Ouvrant doucement la porte, il ecoute I'anti- 
 chambre, tout allumee d'epees et pleine de cUquetis. 
 
 Les gants. La canne d'eb^ne. Et le voila parti. 
 
 "Le roi, Messieurs. Le roi!" — Une hallebarde sonne. 
 Voix, chuchotis, bruits de chaises. La lueur crepusculaire 
 souligne en petillant les solives dorees. L'antichambre est con- 
 fuse, pleine d'ombres vassales, penchees vers un couloir ou 
 s'avance un point blanc. 
 
 La-bas, le lit royal est blotti sous son d6me, tout au bout d'un 
 couloir ou s'avance un point blanc.
 
 Paul Fort 309 
 
 "Le roi !" — Deuxieme &ho. — Une hallebaxde sonne. 
 
 Quelle blancheur ovale, a hauteur de visage, remue deux 
 perles longues comme la lune en pleurerait? Visage et pedes 
 longues, Henri III apparait. Et les ombres vassales, toutes les 
 ombres se courbent. 
 
 Un vol de feuilles mortes est-il ici tomb^ ? . . . 
 
 — "Toi qui risques un ceil, regarde : le crepuscule souligne- 
 t-il encore les soUves dorees ? 
 
 — Oui, mais le roi ? 
 
 — Le roi, mon fils ? . . . II est pass^. 
 
 — Quelus, mon bon ami, cela tient du prodige. 
 
 — Maugiron, Saint-Megrin, ecoutez la merveille : ce soir 
 rOmbre du roi dans le palais voltige, masquee de clair de lune 
 et deux larmes aux oreilles. 
 
 — Va-t-elle retrouver Catherine en ses nuages ? Elle monte 
 Tescalier. 
 
 — C'est au second 6tage ! " 
 
 Une hallebarde sonne. Voix, chuchotis, bruits de chaises. 
 Au dehors le jour tombe, rose, avec de la neige. 
 
 IV 
 
 Cependant que le roi court dans I'escalier vide, Chicot sur- 
 vient bergant sa lanteme allumee : on entoure le Fou qui ricane 
 et s'esquive, et reparait, haussant et bergant sa lanteme, ainsi 
 qu'un encensoir, au bas de I'escalier.
 
 310 Six Fretich Poets 
 
 "Continuez, Messieurs, je cherche un roi," dit-il. 
 
 L'antichambre est obscure avec de grands coins pales, ovi dej^ 
 les flambeaux s'allument sous des mains. L'un d'eux jette 
 une flamme de neige et de carmin. Vite les mains s'ecartent. — 
 On voit toute la salle. — Legeres, au bout des bras les ep6es s'in- 
 cendient et, se liant par deux, peuplent I'air d'etincelles : quel- 
 ques lames fredonnent, d'autres sont en cliquetis, et des ombres 
 de torses font bouger les murailles, et les pieds des Mignons 
 frou-froutent sur les dalles. 
 
 — "Chicot, s'ecrie Quelus, I'Ombre du roi voltige. Que 
 fais-tu la, Chicot? Veux-tu bien voltiger? Arme de ta chan- 
 delle, tu la verras monter. 
 
 — Mais non, je vois descendre. 
 
 — Qui done ? 
 
 — Henri de Guise. 
 
 — Diable ! il est en Espagne ... (A vous, Monsieur, 
 touche !) 
 
 — Pardon, mon cher seigneur, il descend I'escalier. 
 
 — Chicot, prends garde a toi ! . . . C'est parbleu vrai, 
 Messieurs. Je I'ai vu." 
 
 Les epees retombent sur les dalles. 
 
 Cependant que le roi court dans I'escalier vide, seul, jusque 
 chez sa m^re Catherine en ses nuees, et ne sent pas glisser la 
 cuirasse limpide de monseigneur de Guise qui se range au palier. 
 Le due est bien en chair pourtant. Son coeur bat fort. Mais
 
 Paul Fort 311 
 
 non pas jusqu'a faire tinter le froid metal que monseigneur 
 derobe, du chapeau, en saluant. 
 
 Tout au bas I'escalier flamboie. Le due descend. II de- 
 scend marche a marche conime un discret fantome. On se 
 presse, on le voit. Le due revient d'Espagne comme un dis- 
 cret fantome — et meme il en revient par la chambre a coucher 
 de la reine ! 
 
 — "Incroyable," dit Maugiron. 
 
 — "Ce Guise est fort," dit Saint-Megrin. 
 
 — "Place a monseigneur-duc ! " 
 
 La cuirasse limpide entraine les epees. Tout s'ecoule. 
 Tout s'eteint. 
 
 V 
 
 Henri III, cependant, mi-couche sur la rampe, du haut de 
 I'escalier a tout vu cette fois. II tire de son cou un sanglot de 
 colombe, puis se releve. 
 
 Un mur s'entr'ouvre pour le roi. 
 
 VI 
 Ici, rien qu'une lampe eclairant vme main. 
 
 Tout, sinon cette lampe et sauf le parchemin, ou cette main 
 potelee, vieillotte, amidonnee, guide la plume d'oie ou cherche 
 I'encrier, ici tout est dans I'ombre. La main, par aventure,
 
 312 Six French Poets 
 
 disparaissant iin peu, laisse de I'^criture. Alors, void ce que 
 la flamme pourrait lire, qui sur les caract^res se tord comme une 
 martyre : 
 
 "A Madame mafille, la Reine catholique, 
 
 "Ma fille aimee, ma mie, ma docile Isabelle, fai bien requ de 
 vos nouvelles d'Espagne. Monsieur de Guise me les apporta. 
 Certes! il Jerait beau voir tous ces mechants heretiques brUlant en 
 une seule torche (ainsi en France comme vousjaites Id-bas). HelasI 
 mignonne, id rien ne se peut. Ce n'est chez nous que perversion ; 
 et doiileurs pour votre bonne mere. Vous savez les afflictions qu'il 
 plait au del de m'envoyer et qui sont des plus grandes qu'il envoya 
 jamais d personne. BrMer les heretiques! Ah! oui, beau bou- 
 quet de flammes, certes ! grand feu de joie et qui plairait d, Dieu. 
 Mais quoi, fillette, en France rien ne se peut. Tout reste id 
 dans Vombre, mtme VOmbre royale. . . ." 
 
 A I'orabre d'un visage pend une l^vre blanche. Sous un 
 bonnet de tulle noir un front se penche, battu de rides mouvantes 
 comme un clocher d'oiseaux, et plus ce front se penche et plus 
 il parait haut. L'oeil mouille de Catherine s'argente. La 
 courbe dure et fine du long nez italien se profile, que tire, ainsi 
 qu'tm arc, le pli de la narine. 
 
 C'est I'instant ou Catherine, boudeuse et pacifique, biffe d'un 
 trait de plume sa phrase impolitique. 
 
 Or un autre visage s'est leve dans la salle. Derri^re elle 
 Catherine sent vivre une paleur. Elle a cesse d'ecrire en ecou- 
 tant son coeur. Deux petites mains gantees lui tombent aux
 
 Paul Fort 313 
 
 epaules, comme deux chauves-souris tuees d'un meme coup de 
 gaule. Et I'une des petites mains roulant jusqu'a son coeur, 
 vient s 'y crisper. . . . 
 
 Alors, du bout de sa plume d'oie, Catherine, pensivement, 
 doucement, la caresse. Et tous deux songent et I'heure est 
 pleine de paresse. 
 
 La main se deraidit, tremblante. . . . Par un doigt ! void 
 le parchemin designe par un doigt ! " Tout reste id dans V ombre, 
 meme VOmhre royale." 
 
 Deux mains saisissent le cou de Catherine, et la reine levant 
 son front terrible vient de crier : "Mon roi !" — Un cri bref du 
 parquet revele une fuite soudaine, et bientot Henri III descend 
 I'escalier vide. 
 
 VII 
 
 II franchit I'antichambre obscure et desertee, se jette contre 
 un mur les deux bras ecartes et cherche le couloir tout le long 
 du mur vide. 
 
 Plus rien : du vide. 
 
 Le roi chancelle ; il court, chancelle ; il court jusqu'a sa 
 porte ouverte et veut passer, mais s'arrete, le poing sur la gorge 
 et livide, devant une hallebarde somnolente et berc^e. 
 
 Henri saisit la jambe du garde qu'il reveille, car — 6 stupeur ! 
 — derriere la garde qu'il reveille, 1^! dans son lit! . . . quel- 
 qu'un, quelqu'un ou quelque chose, de semblable k lui-m^me (et
 
 314 Six French Poets 
 
 peut-etre lui-meme), de noir et blanc, un homme, un roi ou quel- 
 que chose, un roi peut-fitre? Charles IX ou Frangois? un fan- 
 tome couche dort du sommeil des morts. 
 
 — "Garde ! Allons, toi ! Qui done est chez le roi de France ? 
 A qui cette paleur? Ces loques sont a moi ! Suis-je sorti, 
 voyons, ou bien est-ce moi, la? Quelle est cette chose?" — 
 "Helas!" dit I'homme dans les transes, "helas! mon cher 
 seigneur, mais je . . . je ne sais pas." 
 
 — "Silence," dit une voix. Une voix dit: "Silence. . . ." 
 Le roi tremble accroupi comme une grenouille au froid, et la 
 hallebarde tombe et le garde se sauve. 
 
 — "Ce n'est rien, mon doux sire, c'est Chicot qui repose." 
 Et Chicot deguerpit en entrainant un drap. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Minuit? . . . 
 
 Minuit Sonne k Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois. 
 
 If I were asked to pick out which was the finest 
 poem of all those written by the men we have been 
 studying, I should unhesitatingly pick out that. 
 To understand it thoroughly one must, of course, 
 know one's French history. The poem is saturated 
 with historical allusions ; every little happening has 
 its meaning. I have no space here to unravel all
 
 Paul Fort 315 
 
 these suggestions, they can easily be followed by any 
 one conversant with history, and may serve as a 
 starting point for inquiry to any one who is not. 
 The whole poem is so impregnated with the super- 
 natural, so full of foreboding, that the real and the 
 imagined blend, until one hardly knows what is 
 fact, what reminiscence, and what presentiment. 
 
 Briefly, the story is of the secret return of the 
 Due de Guise to Paris, egged on thereto by Philip 
 II of Spain. His return, you will remember, was 
 followed by the "Day of the Barricades" in which 
 Henri III was besieged in his own palace by the 
 population of Paris. With his escape to Chartres, 
 and the subsequent events of his reign, the poem 
 does not deal. 
 
 Henri III is a series of scenes, and nothing is lack- 
 ing, no little touch, to give the character of Henri, 
 of Catherine, of the Due de Guise. All the King's 
 effeminacy is in the pale face and long pearls which 
 his mignons see advancing down the corridor. How 
 excellent in its vacillating impotence is his scene 
 with Catherine, when he puts up his hand to strangle 
 her, but "un cri bref du parquet revele une fuite 
 soudaine" and the King flees down the staircase! 
 Then the finding of the fool in his bed and fearing 
 for a moment that it is himself, that he is a ghost 
 — he or that other ; then, when the fool has been 
 roused and routed, the sudden striking of midnight 
 from the belfry of Saint-Germain-l'Auxerrois, the
 
 3i6 Six French Poets 
 
 hour and the clock which had ushered in the Mas- 
 sacre of Saint Bartholomew. It is breathless, this 
 end, worked up as it has been by one stroke after 
 another, all through the poem. 
 
 But, to go back a moment to the beginning, notice 
 how the tone is given by the first lines: "Les 
 rideaux des croisees sont clos. Les meubles dor- 
 ment;" and, a Httle farther on, "Trois petites 
 flammes bleues dansent sur le foyer. . . . Plus 
 rien. L'obscurite chasse les quatre murs." In this 
 weird darkness, pierced every now and then by a 
 spurt from the dying fire, the long procession of 
 French Kings passes through the room and plunges 
 into the great oak chest. They come, and come, 
 some of them on horseback "pousse par la tempete 
 silencieuse des Temps et des Temps et des Temps," 
 in which the words fall like the hoof-beats of a 
 galloping horse — until Henri III wakes with a cry to 
 the twilight "rose, avec de la neige." It is sketched 
 in with a word, that cold twilight. He enters the ante- 
 chamber "all lit up with swords, and full of clash- 
 ings," then — " Une hallebarde sonne," and we hear 
 the butt of it ringing on the stone pavement as the 
 guard comes to attention. But the poem is here, 
 why point out what can escape no one. 
 
 After Louis XI came Les Idylles Antiques and 
 L' Amour Marin, both in 1900. Fort is very charm- 
 ing in his Idylls. His antiquity is neither old nor 
 new. It is neither conventional nor pastiche, it is 
 just Nature, if I may so express it. Nature mas-
 
 Paul Fort 317 
 
 querading as Pan for the sake of convenience. One 
 short quotation must suffice us here : 
 
 PAN AUX CERISES 
 
 (Vision de Berger) 
 
 lo ! j'ai reconnu Pan a sa libre parure, k ses poils ! II sautait 
 dans le soleil, cueillant d'un geste aise, parfois, une cerise aux 
 arbres vermeils. Qu'il etait pur ! Des gouttes d'eau perlaient 
 sur sa lisse toison comme des etoiles : on I'eut dit d'argent. 
 
 Et c'etait sous I'azur de mon jeune printemps. 
 
 Or, ayant avise dans I'air une cerise plus grosse et plus belle, 
 il la saisit, et puisa le noyau sous la pulpe sanglante. Je ra'ap- 
 prochai. J'etais ravi . . . Lui m'ayant vise I'ceil, je regus le 
 noyau. J'allais tuer Pan de mon couteau ! II etendit un bras, 
 fit une volte, et tout le Monde touma. 
 
 Adorons Pan, le dieu du Monde ! 
 
 Fort is excellent in his sailor poems. In them one 
 can smell the salt wind, and hear the waves lapping 
 on the beach. U Amour Marin is probably the most 
 successful of them, but as it is a very long poem in 
 dialect I will give instead Les Baisers. 
 
 LES BAISERS 
 
 En se quittant, on n's'est rien dit. Et nous avons cru que 
 Ton ne s'aimait guere. Pendant qu'on s'quittait, on s'est tu 
 bien longtemps. C'etait, comme on dit, comme de I'indifTerence.
 
 31 8 Six French Poets 
 
 On s'^tait bien embrasses pourtant, hier et avant, tu m'as 
 dit : cinq jours. Mais on s'etait dit : 5a n'dure pas longtemps, 
 cinq jours de baisers, c'est comme le beau temps. 
 
 Aujourd'hui mer bleutee et demain c'est I'orage. Y n'faut 
 pas trop demander k Tamour. Et puis, les marins, voyez-vous, 
 ga voyage. Un bateau baise le sable. . . . Que les baisers 
 sont courts ! 
 
 And now we come to one of the most enchanting 
 of all Fort's books. Paris Sentimental ou le Roman 
 de Nos Vingt Ans. It is as full of youth as Henri 
 III was full of history. It is bubbling over with 
 adolescence. One poem in it I must print here : 
 
 PREMIER RENDEZ-VOUS 
 
 (Square Monge) 
 
 Ivresse du printemps ! et le gazon toume autour de la statue 
 de Voltaire. — Ah ! vraiment, c'est d'un beau vert, c'est trds 
 joli, le square Monge : herbe verte, grille et bancs verts, gardien 
 vert, c'est, quand j'y songe, un beau coin de I'univers. — Ivresse 
 du printemps ! et le gazon tourne autour de la statue de Voltaire. 
 
 Et c'est plein d'oiseaux dans les arbres pales, ou le ciel ouvre 
 ses fleurs bleues. — Les pigeons s'aiment d'amour tendre. Les 
 moineatix remuent leur queue. J'attends. ... Oh ! je suis 
 heureux, dans ce delice de I'attendre. Je suis gai, fou, amour- 
 eux ! — et c'est plein d'oiseatix dans les arbres pales, ou le ciel 
 ouvre ses fleurs bleues.
 
 Paul Fort 319 
 
 Je monte sur les bancs couleurs d'esperance, ou bien je fais 
 de I'equilibre ... sur les arceatix du parterre, devant la statue 
 de Voltaire. Vive tout ! vive moi ! vive la France ! II n'est 
 rien que je n'espere. J'ai les ailes de I'esperance. — Je monte 
 sur les bancs pour qviitter la terre, ou bien je fais de I'equilibre. 
 
 Elle a dit: una heure; il n'est que midi! Aux amoureux 
 I'heure est breve. — L'oiseau chante, le soleil reve. Chaque 
 fois qu'Adam rencontre Eve, il leur faut un paradis. Derridre 
 la grille, au soleil, I'omnibus y pense engoiu-di. — Elle a dit : une 
 heure ; il n'est que midi ! Aux amoureux I'heiu-e est breve. 
 
 Devant la statue, tm chat blanc, un jaune, — et le jaune, c'est 
 une chatte ! — roulent, s'eboulent sur le gazon chaud, se montrent 
 les pattes, miaulent, se battent. Le soleil etire doucement ton 
 sourire, 6 mon doiix Voltaire, 6 bon faune. — Devant ta statue, \xn. 
 chat blanc, un jaune, roulent, s'eboulent, se montrent les pattes. 
 
 Les arbres s'enfeuiUent au chant des oiseaux. Le bourgeon 
 de mon coevir eclate ! — Et je vactUe rien qu'a voir les diamants 
 de I'arrosoir envelopper I'herbe d'vme bruine. Un arc-en-ciel 
 part de I'echine du philosophe, et va trembler dans les branches 
 d'xm marronnier. — Les arbres s'enfeuillent au chant des oiseaux. 
 Le bourgeon de mon cceur eclate ! 
 
 L'azur est en feu : un chien flaire un chien sous le banc ou 
 dort le gardien. — Une petite fille saute a la corde, et sur son 
 ombre, et d'autres et d'autres. Je vois leurs ombres, stir I'allee, 
 ou s'elargir ou s'affiner. Et tout 5a chante a qui mieux mieux : 
 "Au petit feu ! au grand feu ! c'est pour eclairer le bon Dieu !"
 
 320 Six French Poets 
 
 — L'azur est en feu : un chien flaire un chien, sous le banc ou 
 dort le gardien. 
 
 Voici le marchand de coco musical, charg^ de ses robinets 
 d'or. — Ses robinets sont des serpents, d'ou gicle son coco sonore 
 dans les timbales des enfants. Rafraichissons notre luxure : 
 vite ! pour un sou de ta mixture, Laocoon etincelant. Je bois k 
 toute la Nature, je bois a ton bronze bouillant, toi qui souris de 
 I'aventure, 6 vieux Voltaire, 6 doux mechant. — Voici le mar- 
 chand de coco musical. Ses robinets sont des serpents. 
 
 Ah ! printemps, quel feu monte de la terre ! quel feu descend 
 du ciel, printemps! — Devant la statue de Voltaire, j 'attends 
 ma nouvelle Manon. Et cependant qu'elle tarde, Voltaire, 
 assis, est patient : je regarde ce qu'il regarde, une paquerette dans 
 le gazon. J'attends. — J'attends, 6 ciel! j 'attends, 6 terre! 
 sous toutes les fiammes du printemps ! 
 
 Deux heures. Eparpillons cette marguerite. "Un peu, 
 beaucoup, passionnement . . ." — Passionnement, petite Ma- 
 non, viens vite, accours, je t'en supplie. — He ! toi, tu souris 
 d'un sourire k me rendre fort mecontent. Sale encyclopediste I 
 
 — Oh ! ... La voici sous toutes les fiammes du printemps ! . , . 
 
 Et les arbres toument et le gazon toume autour de la statue 
 de Voltaire. — D6cidement, c'est d'un beau vert, c'est deli- 
 cieux, le square Monge : herbe verte, grille et bancs verts, gar- 
 dien vert, c'est, quand j'y songe, un beau coin de I'univers. — 
 Je monte sur un banc couleur d'esperance. On doit me voir de 
 toute la France !
 
 Paul Fort 321 
 
 Where is there a better presentation of youth and 
 Spring ! The young man balancing himself upon 
 the wire arches which border the flower-beds, and, 
 in the laughing egoism of his bubbling exuberance, 
 declaring that surely from there he can be seen by 
 all France, is delightful. I wish I had space for 
 others of the poems in this volume, particularly Sur 
 le Pont au Change, but I must leave them for my 
 readers to find. 
 
 In 1903, Hymnes du Feu came out, and in 1906, 
 Coxcomb ou VHomme Tout Nu Tombe du Paradis. 
 This last is a strange sort of ironical allegory. It 
 cannot be taken to pieces, I leave it to those who 
 wish to read it. It is one of his best things and well 
 worth the trouble of getting the volume. 
 
 In 1905, Paul Fort founded the quarterly, Vers et 
 Prose, which he has edited ever since. How he has 
 found time for such an arduous task, with all his 
 other writing, I do not know. The theory that we 
 are harder workers, or greater hustlers, in America, 
 does not seem to be borne out by the lives of 
 Verhaeren, Gourmont, Regnier, and Fort. This 
 description of Fort chez lui is not without interest, 
 depicting as it does that most intimate thing 
 about a man, the room in which he feels most at 
 home : 
 
 "A little beyond the great bronze lion of the Place 
 Denfert-Rochereau, in the Avenue d'Orleans — a 
 little street, narrow, grey, and sad. On the second
 
 322 Six French Poets 
 
 floor of one of the houses in this street Hves Paul 
 Fort, with his mother, his wife, and his daughter. 
 The room in which Paul Fort works is small, rather 
 sombre, furnished with a bed of walnut half-covered 
 with a big eiderdown of violet serge, all puffed up ; 
 some chairs, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe ; 
 and against the window, with its white curtains, a 
 round table packed with papers, books, and reviews, 
 which mount in zigzagging piles to within a short 
 distance of the ceiling. On the walls, pictures — 
 little paintings given by painter friends, family photo- 
 graphs. Paul Fort is there, dressed in black, and 
 as usual, at whatever hour you see him, tightly 
 cravatted with a large ribbon of black silk wound 
 many times round his neck." 
 
 Paul Fort looks like the traditional poet, with 
 long hair. He complains that he is taken for a 
 musician on account of it. Possibly for D'Indy, he 
 says, with a smile, D'Indy being bald. 
 
 Some years ago, Paul Fort was elected Prince des 
 Poetes ; a position which Verlaine, Mallarme, and 
 Leon Dierx held before him. The Societe des Poetes 
 elects the holder of this purely visionary ofhce, its 
 reason for being consisting in the honour of elec- 
 tion to it. That Paul Fort should have received it, 
 proves that even typography cannot keep a man 
 for ever from his just rights. All his critics bewail 
 the fact that, writing Chansons Populaires, still Paul 
 Fort is not yet accepted by the people. Whether his
 
 Paul Fort 323 
 
 Chansons are really for the masses, those who know 
 the French proletariat are the best judges. But I 
 cannot help feeling that, judging by most proletariats, 
 Paul Fort's irony and learning, his many overtones 
 and subtle meanings, would do away with any 
 success his robustness might win him. Whether the 
 proletariat agrees or not, Paul Fort is a great poet, 
 a very great poet. 
 
 It is interesting to us to have him say : "I have a 
 great admiration for the English poets, for Keats 
 first of all. They always present themselves in a 
 poetic intoxication. Their poems do not begin, do 
 not end. They make one think of outspread moon- 
 light, which gives mystery and profoundness to 
 nature and to the objects bathed in its radiance. I 
 should like to realize, in French, a poetry like theirs, 
 which would enable me to envelop more, to blur 
 more, so to speak, the psychological subjects of my 
 writings, which, on the other hand, would be obliged 
 to keep a very French character." 
 , It is this endeavour which gives to Paul Fort his 
 qualities of Englishman and Frenchman, which I 
 have spoken of several times. 
 
 I have not mentioned in detail all Paul Fort's 
 books. I have spoken of eight, and there are eight 
 others I have not mentioned. It is not possible to 
 take more than a bird's-eye view of such a man as 
 Paul Fort in a single chapter. Suffice it to say, 
 that the eight volumes I have not mentioned, al-
 
 324 "Six French Poets 
 
 though full of beautiful things, do not perhaps show 
 any distinctively new facet of his genius. 
 
 Since the outbreak of the war, Paul Fort has been 
 writing poems on the war. These are issued in 
 little, unbound parts, twice a month. It was from 
 the first of these that I quoted, when I gave the 
 description of his childhood in the shadow of the 
 Cathedral at Rheims. In closing, I want to quote 
 one more poem from the Poemes de France, as he 
 calls them. This is no longer the time for Ballades, 
 as Fort naturally feels. 
 
 This poem is a new note. It is Paul Fort burnt 
 in the fire of a great national calamity : 
 
 LE CHANT DES ANGLAIS 
 
 It's a long way to Tipperary. 
 
 Feu ! Tommy . . . Le coeur gigue aux chocs de nos canons. 
 Du calme, bon gargon. Ah! c'est rudement long, rudement 
 long pour aller a Tipperary. Depuis la soif d'hier apaisee sans 
 whisky, je canonne, on canonne. All ! . . . c'est rudement bon. 
 
 Qui m'a jete sa gourde ? Eh ! vieux Bob, tu es mort ? Du 
 cahne, cher gargon. A bientot Leicester . . . Square. . . . 
 All right ! il est mort pour sa vieille Angleterre. La gourde est 
 vide: feu! Tommy, canonne encore! Nous nous battons si 
 bien, all right ! les morts ont tort. 
 
 Du calme, fier gargon. Ah ! c'est rudement long, rudement 
 long pour aller a Tipperary, la-bas, pres de la joUe fiUe que je
 
 Paul Fort 325 
 
 connais. Elle me disait oui quand je lui disais non. Feul 
 Tommy. Le coeur gigue aux chocs de nos canons. 
 
 Tommy, sache, Tommy, que I'amour a du bon. Oui, c'est 
 une lointaine et fine demoiselle, que Ton n'atteint jamais qu'en 
 reve. O large bee ! Tu r^ves et tout vient, I'ame et le corps 
 avec. Ici rien que la mort, elle est fichue donzelle. 
 
 La mort ! ah ! si j'avais toume les yeux vers elle, la teutonne 
 m'eut pris le cou de son bras sec et fait gouter sa bouche en- 
 dentee de shrapnells, en m'etouffant le sein jusqu'^ I'extr^me 
 angoisse. Juste Seigneur ! I'amour n'a rien de plus cruel ! 
 
 Mais la mort, on n'y pense pas, elle est en face. Du calme, 
 heureux gargon. La mort, la verrais-tu? Flottant sur la ba- 
 taille ainsi qu'un ^tendard, c'est un grand vieux squelette use de 
 toute part : elle flotte a present sur les casques pointus. 
 
 Feu ! Tommy . . . Quoi ! tu meurs aussi, gargon fiddle ? 
 Te voil^ dans les bras de la fichue donzelle ? Releve-toi, gargon ! 
 Ah ! c'est rudement long, rudement long pour aller k Tipperary. 
 Adieu, Leicester Square, adieu, Piccadilly ! 
 
 Nous etions quinze, hurrah ! nous sommes trois qui bougent. 
 canon, tes boulets sont teints de notre sang, notre sang qui 
 refait notre unif orme rouge : devant nous les Teutons sont ex- 
 sangues de peur, ils croient que nous chargeons ta gueule avec 
 nos coeurs. 
 
 Dansons ! dansons la gigue ! — Ah ! oui . . . quoique vain- 
 queurs, nous dansons notre gigue en plein ciel du Seigneur.
 
 326 Six French Poets 
 
 Nous, bons gargons, nous sommes a Tipperary. Bonjour, Kate, 
 bonjour, Annie, bonjour, Nelly . . . Nos coeurs se trouvent 
 bien, pourvu que sur la terre, 
 
 elle vive a jamais notre vieille Angle terre ! 
 
 To take "Tipperary," and make such a terrible, 
 tragic thing with it, this is Paul Fort's genius : to 
 react to the stimuli about him, and so reacting to 
 produce great art. More than any one, he has felt 
 the common, and turned it into the uncommon. 
 
 The book is done. I have not attempted any 
 very far-reaching criticism. My object has been to 
 talk a little while about a few great figures in a 
 generation which is already past the meridian. 
 For eighty years or so, this great era for French 
 poetry has lasted. But already before the war it 
 was on the wane. The younger men : Jules Ro- 
 mains, Andre Spire, Guillaume Apollinaire, Guy- 
 Charles Cros, Charles Vildrac, do not seem to have 
 quite the same remarkable power. Foolish fads, a 
 sure sign of disease, were creeping in. Now the war 
 has ended a period. When France recovers herself 
 from the exhaustion which must follow her supreme 
 effort, it will be another generation of poets who will 
 be writing ; they will sing their present, and our pres- 
 ent will be their past. The six men we have studied 
 are the last glorious flower of a time already over.
 
 ^ 
 
 APPENDICES
 
 APPENDIX A 
 
 Most of the following translations are in prose, for the reason 
 that I have stated in the Preface, but the stanzas have been 
 preserved in order to make comparison with the original easier 
 for the reader. In a few cases the stanzas have been suppressed, 
 but only when the transition from one to another became awk- 
 ward in the prose form. The French fondness for parentheses 
 has made it necessary to change the punctuation somewhat, but 
 the original punctuation has been kept wherever practicable. A 
 few of the translations are in vers libre, because the feeling of those 
 particular poems seemed to evaporate in prose ; and three of the 
 translations are in metre, because the originals appeared to me to 
 require such a rendering. Opposite each translation is the num- 
 ber of the page in the text where the original poem may be found. 
 
 EMILE VERHAEREN 
 
 Page 8. A fist of terror tortures the villages ; 
 
 In the distance, tall steeples 
 Send the echo of their alarm-bells 
 Rebounding from shore to shore. 
 
 Page 8. The wind sings, the wind babbles, 
 
 with chaffinch and grosbeak and sparrow, 
 the wind whistles, shines and sparkles' 
 327
 
 328 Six French Poets 
 
 at the points of the tall reeds ; 
 
 the wind knots itself together, and winds about itself 
 and unwinds, 
 
 and then suddenly escapes to the bright orchards be- 
 yond, 
 
 where the apple-trees, like white peacocks — 
 
 mother-of-pearl and sunlight — 
 
 outspread themselves. 
 
 Page g. And up above, September journeys 
 
 With his sky of mother-of-pearl and gold, 
 
 And hangs the shining blocks of his most beautiful 
 
 clouds 
 Over the meadows, the fields, and the villages. 
 
 Page g. Do you hear it, do you hear it, 
 
 The little stream upon the pebbles ? 
 
 It flows, and runs, and sUdes ; 
 
 And, to the branches 
 
 Which hang above it. 
 
 Softly dedicates its smooth song. 
 
 Page 10. I remember the village near the Escaut, 
 From which one saw the great boats 
 Pass like a dream plumed with wind 
 And marvellous with sails. 
 Evening in procession under the stars.
 
 Appendix A 329 
 
 THE KITCHEN 
 
 Page 14. The threshold of the kitchen was old and split. 
 The hearth shone like a red puddle, and its flames, 
 incessantly gnawing at the back plate, had eaten into 
 it an obscene subject in melted iron. 
 
 The fire rejoiced under the mantelpiece which 
 stretched over it like the penthouse roof over a booth, 
 and the bright ornaments of wood, of copper, of lacquer 
 upon it sparked less to the eyes than the writhing 
 coals. 
 
 Rays escaped from it like a spray of emeralds, and 
 here — there — everywhere — gave filHps of brilliance 
 to the glass jugs and glazed platters. To see the sparks 
 fall upon every raised surface, one would have said — 
 into such particles did the fire crumble itself — that 
 the sun had been winnowed through a leaded window. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 Page 18. And this London of brass and bronze, my soul, 
 where iron plates clash under sheds, where sails go 
 forth without Notre Dame for star — go forth, away, 
 toward unknown hazards. Sooty, smoky stations, 
 where gas weeps its distant silver melancholies to roads 
 of lightning ; where bored animals yawn at the hour 
 which, immensely mournful, tolls from Westminster. 
 And these embankments, infinite with fatal lanterns — 
 Fates whose spindles plunge into darkness — and 
 these drowned sailors, under the petals of mud 
 flowers where the flame throws its light. And these 
 shawls and these gestures of drunken v/omen, and
 
 330 Six French Poets 
 
 these alcohols of golden letters up to the roofs, and all 
 at once death in the midst of these crowds. 
 
 O my soul of the evening, this black London which 
 drags through you ! 
 
 THE WINDMILL 
 
 Page ig. The windmill turns in the depths of the evening, 
 very slowly it turns, against a sad and melancholy 
 sky. It turns, and turns, and its wine-coloured sail 
 is infinitely sad, and feeble, and heavy, and tired. 
 
 Since dawn its arms — pleading, reproachful — 
 have stretched out and fallen ; and now again they 
 fall, far ofif in the darkening air and absolute silence 
 of extinguished nature. 
 
 Sick with winter, the day drowses to sleep upon 
 the villages ; the clouds are weary of their gloomy 
 travels ; and along the copses where shadows are 
 gathering, the wheel-tracks fade away to a dead hori- 
 zon. Some cabins of beech logs squat miserably in 
 a circle about a colourless pond ; a copper lamp hangs 
 from the ceiling and throws a patina of fire over wall 
 and window. And in the immense plain, by the side 
 of the sleeping stream — wretched, miserable hovels ! 
 — they fix, with the poor eyes of their ragged window- 
 panes, the old windmill which turns, and — weary — 
 turns and dies. 
 
 THE DEAD 
 
 Page 21. In its dress of the colour of gall and poison, the 
 corpse of my reason trails upon the Thames.
 
 Appendix A -531 
 
 Bronze bridges, where wagons clank with intermi- 
 nable noises of hinges, and sails of dark boats, let their 
 shadows fall upon it. With no movement of hands 
 over its clock face, a great belfry, masked with red, 
 gazes at it as though at some one immensely sad and 
 dead. 
 
 My reason is dead from too much knowledge, from a 
 too great desire to shape the motive of every being and 
 every thing, and place it upon a black granite pedestal. 
 It died atrociously, of a clever poisoning ; it died also 
 of a mad dream of an absurd and red empire. On the 
 illuminated evening of a festival, when it felt this 
 triumph float, like eagles, over its head, its nerves 
 gave way. It died when it could no more feel ardour 
 and aching desires. And it killed itself, infinitely 
 exhausted. 
 
 All down the length of mournful walls, the length of 
 iron factories where hammers boom like thunder, it 
 trails to the funeral. 
 
 There are wharves and barracks, always wharves 
 with lanterns — slow and motionless spinners of the 
 dim gold of their lights. There are the drearinesses 
 of stones, a brick house, a black jail, whose windows, 
 like dull eyelids, open to the evening fog. There are 
 great insane dockyards, full of dismantled ships and 
 yards quartered against a sky of crucifixions.
 
 332 Six French Poets 
 
 In its dress of dead jewels, which celebrates the 
 hour of purple at the horizon, the corpse of my reason 
 trails upon the Thames. 
 
 It goes toward the perils in the depths of shadow 
 and fog, to the long hollow sound of the tolling of 
 heavy bells breaking their wings at the corners of 
 towers. Leaving unsatisfied behind it the immense 
 city of life, it goes toward the black unknown, to 
 sleep in the graves of evening, far away, where the 
 slow and powerful waves, opening their endless cav- 
 erns, swallow the dead forever. 
 
 Page 25. In a wide flash of lightning through the mists, an 
 avenue suddenly opens ; and Saint George, fermenting 
 with gold, with plumes and froth at his bridleless 
 horse's white breast, descends. The diamond trap- 
 pings make of his fall the triumphal road for Heaven's 
 pity to come to Earth. 
 
 THE RAIN 
 
 Page 28. Long like threads without end, the long rain 
 Interminably, across the grey day, 
 Streaks the green window-panes with its long grey 
 
 threads, 
 Endlessly, the rain, 
 The long rain, 
 The rain. 
 
 Since yesterday evening it has ravelled itself so, 
 Out of the rotten rags hanging
 
 Appendix A 333 
 
 From the solemn and black sky. 
 
 It stretches itself, patiently — slowly — 
 
 Upon the roads, 
 
 Since yesterday evening — upon the roads and lanes. 
 
 Continually. 
 
 Along the miles 
 
 Which go from the fields to the suburbs, 
 
 By ways interminably winding, 
 
 Pass the teams with arching hoods — 
 
 Toiling, sweating, smoking — 
 
 Like a funeral train seen in profile ; 
 
 In the straight ruts, 
 
 Parallel for such a distance that at night they seem 
 
 to join the heavens. 
 The water drips for hours ; 
 And the trees weep, and the houses, 
 Soaked as they are by the long rain, 
 Tenaciously, indefinitely. 
 
 Through their rotten dikes 
 
 The rivers burst over the meadows 
 
 Where the drowned grain floats ; 
 
 The wind slaps alders and walnut trees. 
 
 Ominously, half -submerged in water, 
 
 The great, black oxen bellow to the tortured heavens ; 
 
 Evening comes with its shadows. 
 
 And the plains and the coppices are clogged with them, 
 
 And always there is the rain, 
 
 The long rain. 
 
 Fine and dense like soot.
 
 334 •^^^ French Poets 
 
 The long rain, 
 
 The rain — and its identical threads 
 
 And its systematic nails 
 
 Weave the shroud of destitution 
 
 Mesh by mesh, 
 
 For the houses and the enclosures 
 
 Of the grey old villages ; 
 
 Linens and rosaries of rags 
 
 Which ravel out 
 
 All down the upright beams ; 
 
 Blue pigeon-houses glued to the roof ; 
 
 Windows whose dilapidated panes 
 
 Have a plaster of brown paper ; 
 
 Dwellings where the symmetrical gutters 
 
 Form into crosses above the stone gables ; 
 
 Windmills planted, uniform and dull, 
 
 Each on its hill, like horns ; 
 
 Belfries and neighbouring chapels, 
 
 The rain, 
 
 The long rain. 
 
 Assassinates them during the Winter. 
 
 The rain 
 
 The long rain, with its long grey threads, 
 
 With its hair of water, and its wrinkles. 
 
 The long rain 
 
 Of old countries, 
 
 Eternal and torpid.
 
 Appendix A 335 
 
 THE MILLER 
 
 Page 31. He was being buried, the old miller of the black 
 mill, buried in Winter, on an evening of rough cold and 
 bitter North wind, in a ground of cinders and hem- 
 lock plants. 
 
 The daylight darted its deceiving brilliance at the 
 grave-digger's shovel. A dog wandered about near 
 the grave, and barked at the brightness. 
 
 At each dig the shovel changed like a mirror, 
 shone, took hold, and buried itself in the disturbed 
 earth. The sun went down beneath suspicious 
 shadows. 
 
 Against a background of sky, the grave-digger, like 
 an enormous insect, seemed to fight with fear. The 
 shovel trembled in his hands, the ground opened in 
 spite of him, and nothing filled up the hole which, 
 like the night, widened in front of him. 
 
 In the village yonder, no one had lent two sheets to 
 the dead. 
 
 In the village yonder, no one had said a prayer. 
 
 In the village yonder, no one had rung the passing 
 bell for the dead. 
 
 In the village yonder, no one had wanted to nail 
 the coffin.
 
 336 Six French Poets 
 
 And the houses and cottages along the roads facing 
 the cemetery, all had their shutters closed so as to see 
 nothing. 
 
 The grave-digger felt himself alone with this dead 
 man who had no shroud, for whom every one felt 
 hate and fear in their blood. 
 
 Upon his hill, gloomy with evening, the old miller 
 of the black mill had been used to live in harmony 
 with space and distance, and the mad flight of tem- 
 pests streaming from the flapping mane of the North 
 winds ; for long he had listened to what the dark and 
 golden mouths of the stars reveal to those who are 
 attentive to the eternal ; the grey desert of austere 
 heather had ringed his eyes with the mystery by which 
 things make souls aware of them, and speak to them 
 and counsel them; the great currents which flow 
 through everything that Hves had entered his mind 
 with such power, that, in his isolated and profound 
 soul, this simple peasant had felt the movement and 
 fermentation of the world. 
 
 The oldest man did not know how long it was that 
 he had been hiding yonder, far from the village, watch- 
 ing the flight of birds and their joumeyings, and the 
 signs of flame in the clouds. 
 
 He awed by the silence of which he had noiselessly 
 woven his existence; he awed still further by the 
 golden eyes of his windmill, shining suddenly at 
 night.
 
 Appendix A -i^^n 
 
 No one would have known of his agony and death, 
 were it not for the four wings which he turned, like 
 eternal supplications, to the unknown ; were it not 
 that one morning they were absolutely rigid, black 
 and immovable like a cross above a destiny. 
 
 The grave-digger saw the surging shadows increase 
 like crowds, and the village and its shut windows fade 
 into the distance and disappear. 
 
 The universal disquiet peopled the soHtude with 
 cries ; in black and brown veils the wind passed by as 
 though it were some one ; all the vagueness of hostile 
 horizons became fixed in feverish rustlings, until the 
 moment when, with wild eyes, throwing his shovel no 
 matter where, with the multiple arms of night in 
 menaces behind him, like a thief he fled. 
 
 Then came silence, absolute, all about. In the riven 
 earth the hole appeared gigantic, nothing moved any 
 more; and, alone, the insatiable plains in their 
 Northern immensity of shadow absorbed the dead 
 man, whose life had been rendered limitless and 
 exalted to the infinite, by their mystery. 
 
 THE BURNING HAYRICKS 
 
 Pagejs. The plain, in the dark evening distance, is all 
 alight, and the alarm-bells break and jangle to the four 
 walls of the horizon.
 
 338 Six French Poets 
 
 — A hayrick burns ! — 
 
 By way of the roads, the crowd — by way of the 
 villages, the crowd surges; and in the yards the 
 watch-dogs howl. 
 
 — A hayrick bums ! — 
 
 The flame roars, and breaks, and pounds, tears itself 
 into tatters which it waves, or, sinuous and tailed, un- 
 rolls itself to streaming hair — eager, slow — then 
 suddenly calms and lets go, and dodges and disap- 
 pears — or leaps up again : and now, bright, of mud 
 and gold, it veers in a plimae over the black sky. 
 
 — When suddenly in the distance another hayrick 
 catches fire ! — 
 
 It is enormous — like a red, shaken bundle of sul- 
 phurous serpents. The glare ! — it passes over acres 
 of land, and farms, and villages, where, from window- 
 pane to window-pane, a red clot moves. 
 
 — A hayrick burns ! — 
 
 The fields? They become limitless with terrors; 
 the foliage of the woods lifts itself up in light over the 
 marshes and the ploughed lands; rearing stallions 
 whinny at the terror ; enormous flights of birds be- 
 come dazed and fall into the flames — and stifled cries
 
 Appendix A 339 
 
 rise from the ground ; and it is death, death bran- 
 dished and flung up again by the lifted arms of the 
 conflagration. 
 
 And the silence after fear — when suddenly, over 
 there, formidably, in the weary evening, a new fire 
 fills the deeps of the twilight. 
 
 — A hayrick burns ! — 
 
 At the cross-roads, haggard men make bewildered 
 gestures, children cry, and old men lift their withered 
 arms to the flames waving like banners. While far- 
 ther off, obstinately silent, madmen, with stupor in 
 their eyes — look on. 
 
 — A hayrick burns ! — 
 
 The air is red, the sky seems to have died, ominously, 
 under the shut eyes of the stars. The wind drives 
 gold pebbles before it in a tearing of veils. The fire 
 becomes a clamour howling in flames to the echoes, 
 to the distance, to the other shore, where suddenly 
 the far side of the river lights up like a dream. The 
 whole plain ? It is a live coal, an illusion, blood and 
 gold — and the tempest sweeps on the passing death of 
 the heavens so violently that at the confines of the 
 terror the entire sky seems to have disappeared.
 
 340 Six French Poets 
 
 THE STOCK EXCHANGE 
 
 Pdgf 39- The enormous street and its quadrangular houses 
 border the crowd and dike it with their granite, eyed 
 with windows and porches, in whose panes aureoled 
 evenings shine farewell. 
 
 Like an upright torso of stone and metal, contain- 
 ing in its unclean mystery the beating and panting 
 heart of the world, the monument of gold stands 
 in the darkness. 
 
 About it, black banks lift their pediments supported 
 by the arms of bronze Hercules, whose great weary 
 muscles seem to be holding strong-t)Oxes up to victory. 
 
 The square, from which it erects its battleground, 
 sucks in the fever and the tumult of each wave of pas- 
 sion towards its occult lover — the square and its 
 open spaces, and its walls, and its numberless gas- 
 jets, which make the clusters of shadows and lights 
 upon the sidewiUks stir. 
 
 How many dreams, like red fares, intermingle their 
 flames and their eddies from the top to the bottom 
 of the mad palace ! Monstrous and culpable gain 
 tightens itself into knots, and its desire sows and 
 propagates itself, going out to inflame neighbouring 
 vanities from door to door, through the town. Heavy 
 counters grumble like a storm, gross profusions be- 
 come jealous and rage, and tempests of failures, sud-
 
 Appendix A 341 
 
 denly, with brutal blows, beat and overturn the great 
 monumental men of the town. 
 
 At a given moment of the afternoon, the fever in- 
 creases still more, and penetrates the building, and 
 ferments in the walls. One almost beUeves one sees 
 it quickening itself at the motionless flame-flowered 
 lamps, running from banister to banister, assembling 
 itself, and bursting out and crackhng, upon the 
 landings and the marble of the stairways. 
 
 At the mirage of a pale hope, a rekindled fury 
 mounts through the funnel of noise and smoke from 
 those fighting by theft below. Dry tongues, piercing 
 looks, contradictory gestures, and brains crossed by 
 whirlwinds of millions, exchange their fear and their 
 terror there. Haste simulates audacity, and audaci- 
 ties surpass themselves ; fingers scratch the insanity 
 of their anguish upon slates ; cynically, a discount 
 which breaks a people at the other end of the world, 
 illuminates it ; chimeras are winged with light ; luck 
 flees or over-abounds ; deals concluded, deals broken 
 off, struggle and clash together in disputes ; the air 
 bums — and paradoxical figures, in flat packages, in 
 heavy bundles, are thrown back, and jolted, and 
 shaken, and worried in these tumults until their weary 
 sums, masses against masses, are broken. 
 
 On those days when catastrophes happen, Death 
 scrolls them over with sviicides, and failures crumble 
 to ruins which flame in exalted obsequies. But the
 
 342 Six French Poets 
 
 same evening, in the pale hours, wills revive in fever, 
 and the sly fury takes hold again as before. 
 
 People betray, smile, gnaw, and encompass other 
 deaths. Hate hums Hke a machine about those 
 whom it assassinates. Men of needy fortune are 
 robbed with authority. Honour is mixed with swin- 
 dling to lure even nations into the universal madness, 
 the hunt for the burning and infamous gold. 
 
 Oh, gold ! In the distance, Hke towers in the clouds, 
 like towers upon the steps of illusion ! Enormous 
 gold ! Like towers in the distance, with millions of 
 arms stretched towards it, with gestures and calls 
 in the night, and the muttering of the universal prayer, 
 from end to end of the horizons of the world ! 
 
 In the distance, cubes of gold upon triangles of gold, 
 and all about, celebrated fortunes mounting upon the 
 scaffoldings of algebras. 
 
 Gold ! — to eat and drink gold ! — and, even more 
 ferocious than the rage for gold, the faith in the 
 mysterious gamble and its dark and hazardous chances, 
 and the certainty of its arbitrary designs to restore 
 the old destiny. Play, terrible axis, where future 
 passion will turn desperately about adventure for 
 the sole pleasure of anomaly, for the sole need of 
 bestiality and frenzy, over there, where laws of terror 
 cross with supreme disorders 1
 
 Appendix A 343 
 
 Like an upright torso of stone and metal, containing 
 in its unclean mystery the beating and panting heart 
 of the world, the monument of gold stands in the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 GET YOU GONE 
 
 Page 46. Get you gone, get you gone, 
 
 The entire inn is for those who come. 
 
 It belongs to us, it belongs to us. 
 For very nearly three hundred years. 
 It belongs to us, it belongs to us, 
 From the outer door with its heavy bolts 
 Up to the very chimney tops. 
 
 Get you gone, get you gone, 
 
 The entire inn is for those who come. 
 
 We know it well, we know it well, 
 
 Every decay and every crack. 
 
 But it is we alone who pretend 
 
 To put new plaster instead of the old 
 
 From the ground-sills up to the edge of the roof. 
 
 Get you gone, get you gone, 
 
 The entire inn is for those who come. 
 
 We venerate those who are dead. 
 Lying in their coffins of oak ; 
 We envy those already dead
 
 344 "Si^ French Poets 
 
 Unconscious of the cries of hate 
 
 Which leap and bound from plain to plain. 
 
 Get you gone, get you gone, 
 
 The entire inn is for those who come. 
 
 It is our right, it is our right, 
 
 To put an Eagle on our sign ; 
 
 It is our right, it is our right. 
 
 To own, according to the law. 
 
 More than we need of barley and rye. 
 
 Get you gone, get you gone, 
 
 Gestures and words mean nothing now. 
 
 Get you gone, get you gone, 
 
 And understand. 
 It is our hunger makes our right ! 
 
 ALBERT SAMAIN 
 
 ■^og^ 73- My soul is an Infanta in robes of state, whose exile, 
 eternal, monarchical, is reflected in the great, empty 
 mirrors of some old Escurial, like a galley forgotten 
 at its anchorage. 
 
 Two Scotch greyhounds, with melancholy eyes, 
 stretched out magnificently at the feet of her arm- 
 chair, hunt, when it pleases her, symbolic animals in 
 the forest of Dreams and Enchantment.
 
 Appendix A 345 
 
 Her favourite page, who is called "It-was-Once," 
 reads bewitching poems to her softly, while immovable, 
 a tulip in her fingers, she listens to their mystery 
 dying within her. 
 
 The park which surroimds her spreads out its foli- 
 age, its marbles, its basins, its balustrades ; and she 
 intoxicates herself gravely upon the illustrious dreams 
 which noble horizons hold for us. 
 
 She is there, resigned and gentle, and without sur- 
 prise; knowing too much to struggle where all is 
 fataUty; and feeling, despite some inborn disdain, 
 sensible to pity, as the wave is to the breeze. 
 
 She is there, resigned, and gentle in her sobs, more 
 sombre only when she evokes the dream of some 
 Armada, shadowed by the eternal falsehood, and so 
 many beautiful hopes asleep under the waters. 
 
 In the heavy purple evenings when her pride sighs. 
 Van Dyck portraits, with their long, pure fingers, 
 pale in black velvet against the tarnishing gold of the 
 walls, with their airs of greatness dead, make her 
 dream of empire. 
 
 The old, golden illusions have dissipated her 
 mourning, and in the visions which cheat her lassitude, 
 suddenly a ray — of glory, of sunlight — lights up 
 within her all the rubies of her pride.
 
 346 Six French Poets 
 
 But she calms these fevers with a sad smile ; and 
 dreading the crowd with its iron tumults, she hearkens 
 to life — in the distance — like the sea . . . and the 
 secret deepens upon her lips. 
 
 No quiver troubles the pale water of her eyes, 
 where sits the veiled spirit of dead cities ; and through 
 the apartments, with their silently opening doors, she 
 wanders, enchanting herself with mysterious words. 
 
 The ineffectual waters of fountains in the distance 
 fall — fall — and pale at the casement, a tuhp in her 
 fingers, she is there, reflected in the mirrors of old days, 
 like a galley forgotten at its anchorage. 
 
 My Soul is an Infanta in robes of state. 
 
 SUMMER HOURS 
 
 ■Pcige 75. Bring golden crystals. 
 
 And glasses the colour of dreams ; 
 That our love may be prolonged 
 In exasperated perfumes. 
 
 Roses ! Roses still ! 
 
 I adore them, even to pain. 
 
 They have the melancholy attraction 
 
 Of things which give death.
 
 Appendix A 347 
 
 The golden summer streams into the goblets ; 
 The juice of the peaches which you are cutting 
 Spouts over your snowy breast. 
 
 The park is dark, like a gulf . . . 
 
 And in my stormy heart 
 
 Is a misery of sweetness which suffers. 
 
 MUSIC ON THE WATER 
 
 Page 76. Oh ! Listen to the symphony ; 
 Nothing is so sweet as an agony 
 In music, which indefinitely 
 Comes from a vaporous distance. 
 
 The night is drunk with lassitude 
 And our hearts, freed from the rude 
 Monotonous effort of living, are wooed 
 To fade and die in a dreamy trance. 
 
 Let us slide between the water and sky, 
 Let us slide under the far-off, high 
 Moon ; my whole soul, the world passed by, 
 Has sought a refuge in your eyes. 
 
 I watch their pupils in the moon, 
 Under the wailing string-notes swoon, 
 Like supernatural flowers in tune 
 To beams of graceful melodies.
 
 348 Six French Poets 
 
 Oh ! Listen to the symphony ; 
 Nothing is so sweet as the agony 
 Of lip to lip united by 
 Music prolonged indefinitely. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 Page 77. October is sweet. — Pilgrim Winter goes forward 
 to the sky where, startled, the last swallow is flying. 
 Let us dream . . . the fire springs up and the North 
 wind croons. Let us dream . . . the fire sleeps 
 under its ermine cinders. 
 
 The transparent, rose-coloured lampshade shines. 
 The window is black under the monotonous downpour. 
 Oh! the sweet "remember" in the chamber of 
 Autumn, where from dead pier glasses the soul dif- 
 fuses itself. 
 
 The town is far away. Nothing — save a muffled 
 sound of carriages which dies, sadly, in the thick 
 folds of the curtains . . . Let us fashion exquisite 
 dreams upon miniatures. 
 
 In mauve distances of a faded sweetness my soul 
 loses itself, and the beribboned hour strikes a hundred 
 years from the superannuated mantel-clock.
 
 Appendix A 349 
 
 NOCTURNE 
 
 Page 78. Summer Night. — Under the sky of lapis-lazuli, 
 the enchanted park bathes in its soft shadows. The 
 flowers dream, love perfumes itself at their corollas. 
 Quietly the moon mounts into the pale sky. 
 
 There is a fete at Bergamo, this evening, at the 
 Lanzoli palace. Entwined couples descend from 
 gondolas. The ball opens, starred with pink cande- 
 labra. Flutes and horns, — the orchestra is conducted 
 by Lulli. 
 
 Madrigals, among the flowered dresses, offer 
 their sublimated insipidities with cloying sweetness. 
 And over the gold glazing of the transparent floors, 
 gossips of the Regency, exquisitely elderly, detail the 
 advised languor of gavottes to the perfumed rhythm 
 of dying fans. 
 
 THE FORTUNATE ISLE 
 
 Page jg. Tell me, Pretty Band, 
 
 My soul is melancholy, 
 Tell me, I supplicate you, 
 
 Where it is. 
 Is it in Venice, in Florence ? 
 Is it in the country of Hope ? 
 Is it in the Ile-de-France ? 
 
 Who knows ?
 
 350 Six French Poets 
 
 Come, you will see shepherdesses, 
 And sylvan marchionesses, 
 The white sheep of china tables. 
 
 And more, 
 Birds which sing and birds which nest, 
 Names like Lindor and Angdle, 
 And roses at the margins of 
 
 The wells. 
 
 Come, you will see Lucindas, 
 
 Agneses, and Rosalindas, 
 
 Festooned with pearls brought from the Indies, 
 
 Holding 
 A parroquet on the forefinger. 
 With a ruffle for a collar. 
 And a great fan of ostrich feathers 
 
 Hanging. 
 
 Irises and fair Estelles, 
 
 In hats of floating, filmy lace. 
 
 Dream near the silver, fine cascades 
 
 Which weep. 
 And softly closing their great wings. 
 The butterflies in love with them 
 Become at once unfaithful to 
 
 The flowers. 
 
 United in a close embrace 
 Lovers wander free from fear 
 About the windings of the secret 
 Labyrinth.
 
 Appendix A 351 
 
 Over the diaphanous garden hovers 
 A half -silence, no rumour lingers 
 But dies and leaves the strolling lovers 
 In peace. 
 
 It is that very Day Divine, 
 Drawn by dreams over the grass, 
 That grass which seems to be a little 
 
 Faded. 
 Loves there are quite fulfilled, 
 Amber and emerald eyes are stilled 
 Proposals without haste are frilled 
 
 Over an avowal. 
 
 Evening falls . . . The hour is soft, 
 And draws away with even feet 
 Hardly resting on the sweet 
 
 Moss. 
 An indecisive light persists 
 And pensive twilight wreathes its mists, 
 Opens its eyes like amethysts 
 
 Moistened. 
 
 Swans sail about in troupes ; 
 
 We lunch upon the grass in groups. 
 
 Glasses clink against the glasses 
 
 Of finest gold. 
 Sevres are the plates from which we eat ; 
 And madrigals, so arch, so sweet. 
 Sugar the singing lips, a treat 
 
 Endless and old.
 
 352 Six French Poets 
 
 Afternoon denies those joys ; 
 Daylight intoxication cloys, 
 It fades into an infinite 
 
 Lassitude. 
 Smoke from cottage chimneys rises 
 In the darkening sky, surprises 
 Glow of stars, with silver light. 
 
 Dreams. 
 
 Lovers whisper what they please, 
 Women's eyes no longer tease 
 But are faithful, and one sees 
 
 Their souls. 
 Two and two, like angels roaming 
 In some painted Missal's gloaming, 
 Wistful kisses given, taken. 
 
 Couples pass. 
 
 To the sound of music slow, 
 Lovers pace there to and fro, 
 Steps lag slower, careless, so 
 
 They go. 
 Upon the earth the heavens float, 
 A solitary evening note 
 Tinkles from the Angelus 
 
 Over Cytherea.
 
 Appendix A 35-5 
 
 A DEAD CITY 
 
 Page 82. Vague, lost in the depths of monotonous sands, the 
 city of other days, without towers or ramparts, 
 sleeps the last sleep of old Babylons, under the white 
 winding-sheet of her sparse marbles. 
 
 Formerly she reigned ; upon her strong walls Victory 
 extended her two iron wings. All the people of Asia 
 besieged her hundred gates ; and her great stairways 
 descended toward the sea . . . 
 
 Empty now and forever silent, stone by stone, she 
 dies, under the reverent moon, close to her old river, 
 exhausted like herself. 
 
 And alone, in the midst of disaster, an elephant 
 of bronze, still upright upon the summit of a broken 
 doorway, tragically lifts its trunk to the stars. 
 
 THE CORONATION 
 Page 83. With the bronze voices of its twin towers, Notre- 
 Dame announced the apotheosis ready of fulfihnent. 
 In the distance great cannon boomed ; and flags bel- 
 Hed out, shivering, under the pride of the festival. 
 
 The Emperor bowed himself, bare-headed and with 
 joined hands, and in the glare of torches the Pope ap- 
 peared, holding in his fingers, which gHttered with 
 rings, the Crown bearing the Latin cross on its apex. 
 
 2A
 
 354 'S'^^ French Poets 
 
 "My son!" said the Pontiff . . . then the organ 
 was hushed. Over every bowed forehead ran a shiver, 
 like the sudden beating of an immense wing ; 
 
 And nothing could be heard, O triumphant Caesar, 
 in the nave where an august silence hovered, but an 
 old woman, on her knees, weeping for her child. 
 
 AFFECTION 
 
 Page 84. I adore the indecisive — sounds, frail colours, every- 
 thing which trembles, undulates, shimmers, and glis- 
 tens, hair and eyes, water, leaves, silk, and the spirit- 
 uality of slender forms. 
 
 Rhymes rubbing up against each other like turtle- 
 doves ; smoke where dreams turn in spirals ; the twilit 
 room, where Her profile fades into darkness, and the 
 caress of Her supernatural hands. 
 
 The heavenly hour of coaxing lips, the soul inclined 
 as under a weight of delight, the soul which dies like 
 a faded rose, 
 
 And some heart of chaste shadow, perfiuned with 
 mystery, where a mystic and solitary love, like the 
 ruby flame of a hanging lamp, watches night and day. 
 
 Page Sj. I dream of soft verses and intimate branchings and 
 entwinings, 
 Of verses which brush against the soul like wings.
 
 Appendix A 355 
 
 Of pale-hued verses whose fluid meaning streams wide, 
 As under the water streams OpheHa's hair. 
 
 Of silent verses, without rhythm and without plot, 
 Where the noiseless rhyme slips past like an oar. 
 
 Of verses of an ancient stuff, exhausted, 
 Impalpable like sound and cloud. 
 
 Of verses of Autumn evenings, enchanting the hours 
 With the feminine rite of minor syllables. 
 
 Of verses of evenings of love, enervated with verbena, 
 In which the soul — barely — exquisitely — feels a 
 a caress. 
 
 And which, the whole length of nerves bathed in caress- 
 ing waves. 
 Die forever in feline swoonings. 
 Like a perfume dissolved in a closed warmness. 
 
 Viols of gold and pianissim' amorose. 
 
 I dream of soft verses dying like roses. 
 
 GETTING READY THE REPAST 
 
 Page 88. Quit your needle and your linen, my girl, the master 
 will soon be here. Put the clear, flowered china, and 
 the bright glass, on the oak table with its new cloth 
 with the shining folds. In the cup with the handle
 
 356 Six French Poets 
 
 which curves like a swan's neck, upon vine leaves, 
 arrange your chosen fruits — peaches with their virgin 
 velvet still upon them, heavy blue grapes mixed with 
 grapes of gold ; and see that all the baskets are filled 
 with nicely-cut bread. Then shut the doors and drive 
 out the bees . . . 
 
 The sun burns outside, and the wall cooks. Close 
 the shutters and make it almost dark, so that the 
 room, plunged in shadow, is all perfumed with the 
 fruits on the table. Now go and draw fresh water 
 in the court, and above all, be careful that the pitcher, 
 when you bring it back, keeps a light vapour, iced 
 and slowly melting, for a long time upon its sides. 
 
 THE BUBBLE 
 
 Page 88. In the court where the fowls are clucking, Bathyles, 
 bending over a basin, puffs into a straw. With a 
 great noise the soapy water froths, and boils, and 
 overflows. The child, exhausting himself to no pur- 
 pose, feels a salt bitterness on his lips. Happily, at 
 last, there is the outline of a bubble. Conducted with 
 art, it lengthens, widens, and finally rounds itself 
 into a sparkling globe. The child continues to blow, 
 and the bubble keeps on growing. It has the hundred 
 colours of the prism and of dawn, and in its thin crys- 
 tal sides are reflected the trees, the house, the road, 
 and the horse. Ready to take flight, marvellous, it 
 shines ! The child holds his breath, and the bubble 
 oscillates, and gently rises — pale green and transpar- 
 ent pink — like a frail shining prodigy, into the air !
 
 Appendix A 357 
 
 It rises . . . And suddenly, his soul still dazzled, 
 Bathyles seeks the vanished glory in vain. 
 
 PANNYRE OF THE GOLDEN HEELS 
 
 Page 8q. In the noisy room a silence falls , . . Pannyre of 
 the golden heels comes forward to dance. She is 
 entirely hidden in a veil of a thousand folds. With 
 a long, silver trill the flute first invites her ; she starts 
 forward, intersects her steps, and with a slow move- 
 ment of the arms, gives a bizarre rhythm to the sym- 
 pathetic material, which stretches, undulates, bellies 
 and hollows, and at last spreads itself in a great whirl- 
 wind . . . And Pannyre becomes flower, flame, 
 butterfly! Every one is silent; eyes follow her in 
 ecstasy. Bit by bit she takes fire in the fury of the 
 dance. Always she turns: quick! quicker still! 
 The flame, in the glare of the golden torches, reels dis- 
 tractedly ! . . . Then, sharply, in the middle of the 
 room, she stops ; and the veil, twining about her in a 
 spiral, suspended in its course, calms its long folds, and 
 glued to her pointed breasts and polished sides, shows, 
 in a divine flash, as through silky and flowing water, 
 Pannyre standing naked. 
 
 WATTEAU 
 
 Page g2. Above the great, dark woods, the shepherd's star 
 comes out . . . Groups upon the grass in the mist 
 . . . Pizzicati of violins . . . Hands linger in 
 hands, the sky on which the lovers gaze leaves a rose- 
 coloured reflection in the water; and in the misty 
 clearing which approaching night idealizes, between
 
 358 Six French Poets 
 
 Estelle and Cydalise, passes the enamoured shade of 
 Watteau. 
 
 Watteau, ideal painter of the Charming Fete, your 
 frail art was tender and gentle as a sigh, and you 
 gave an unknown soul to Desire, placing it at the feet 
 of Melancholy. 
 
 Your exquisite shepherds held canes of gold in their 
 fingers ; your shepherdesses, not without a some- 
 what haughty manner, rambled under the shade 
 where fountains sang, in their dresses with the straight 
 pleat behind. 
 
 Roses died in the warm, bluish air ; hearts opened in 
 the shade of the quiet garden, and lips, taking kisses 
 from lips, united wistful love with the sweetness of 
 things. 
 
 Pilgrims go to the Country of Ideals. . . . The 
 golden galley abandons the shore ; and the maiden at 
 the prow, pensive, listens to the sound of a flute dying 
 away in the distance of the crystal evening. 
 
 Oh ! To depart with them on an evening of mys- 
 tery ! O Master, to live one evening in your enchanted 
 dream ! The sea is rose-coloured ... A Summer 
 breeze sighs, and when the ship approaches a silver 
 shore 
 
 The moon rises softly over Cytherea.
 
 Appendix A 359 
 
 A fan, waving unceasingly to the intimate rhythm 
 of avowals, lifts the hair from the forehead with each 
 movement. The shadow is soft . . . Everything 
 rests. Agnes smiles ; Leander places his violin upon 
 his cloak ; and over the scented dresses and over the 
 hands of the lovers, along the soft branches, floats the 
 divine soul of Watteau. 
 
 VERSAILLES 
 I 
 
 Page g4. Versailles, why does the thought of you obsess 
 me on this faded afternoon? The vehemence of 
 Summer is passing, and the worn-out season is coming 
 towards us. 
 
 I should like to see once more, for a whole calm day, 
 your green-blue waters strewn with red leaves ; and 
 breathe again, on a gentle, golden evening, your 
 beauty which is more touching at the decUne of the 
 year. 
 
 Here are your coned yews, and your fat-cheeked 
 Tritons, your patterned gardens where Louis comes 
 no more, and your pomp which proclaims plumes 
 and helmets. 
 
 Like a great lily you are dying, noble and sad, with- 
 out sound ; the old water slips past the mouldy lips 
 of your basins as softly as a sob in the night.
 
 360 Six French Poets 
 
 II 
 
 Page 94. Grand manner. Urbanity of ancient customs. High 
 ceremonial. Endless reverences. Crequi, Fronsac, 
 beautiful names glistening with satin. Ducal hands 
 in old valendennes lace. 
 
 Royal hands upon spinets. Anthems of bishops 
 before Monseigneur the Dauphin. Gestures of the 
 minuet and hearts of fine porcelain, and those graces 
 which were called Austrian. 
 
 Princesses of the blood, whose state sovd the cen- 
 turies have steeped to the purest of castes. Great 
 lords spangled with wit. Marquises of Se\Tes china. 
 
 An entire world, gallant, lively, brave, exquisite and 
 silly, with its slender sword at the angle for drawing, 
 and, above all, the scorn of death, like a flower, at the 
 lips. 
 
 Ill 
 
 P*^ 95- ^ly steps have stirred up btiried enchantments. 
 O mirror of old Saxe in which the Past is reflected 
 . . . Here the Queen, listening to Zemire and 
 dreaming, faimed herself because the nights were 
 
 vr=— n. 
 
 O visioi^ : psrriers. p-owder and patches ; and then, 
 light as a rerfune. beautiful as a smile, it is the air 
 of old Fr3.r_:e ~r.::h evervthtr.? here breathes: and 
 al^avs th:i s-enetra.:::^ snell o: cox . . .
 
 Appendix A 361 
 
 But what most seizes and crushes my heart, in the 
 light of a long evening which gilds its agony, is the 
 Great Trianon, solitary and kingly. 
 
 And its deserted stone stairway, where Autumn so 
 gently, dreamily, lets fall his red hair upon the 
 divinely sad water of the great canal. 
 
 IV 
 
 Page g6. The grove of Vertumnus is abandoned by the 
 Graces. This shade which creeps from marble to 
 marble, moaning, and steadies itself with a beautiful, 
 feeble arm, is, alas ! the mourning Genius of old races. 
 
 O Palace, supreme horizon of the terraces ! Some- 
 thing of your beauty runs in our blood; and it is 
 this which gives you an indescribable accent when a 
 sublime sunset lights up your windows. 
 
 Glories of which you were for so many days the 
 scene, souls glittering under the chandeliers. Golden 
 evenings. Versailles . . . But already the sombre 
 night is closing in. 
 
 And suddenly my heart tightens ; for I hear, like a 
 sinister battering ram striking against the walls of 
 time, always the great, dull sound of black waters in 
 the darkness.
 
 362 Six French Poets 
 
 LANDSCAPES 
 I 
 
 Page q6. The air is of triple lightness. Under a sky of triple 
 purity, the old market town, crumbling within its 
 black walls, smiles, this clear winter morning, under 
 its pebbles, at its familiar mountains which dream in 
 the blue sky. 
 
 A flagstone set in the pavement speaks, after two 
 thousand years, in obscure Latin of ancient funerals. 
 Caesar passed this way to gain his battles. A Spring 
 bird sings upon an old wall. 
 
 Noisy, in the lacy shade of a tree, the sculptured 
 fountain in its marble basin flings up four silver 
 threads to sparkle in the sunshine. 
 
 And while, through a crowd of urchins, the yellow 
 diligence turns into the principal street, the Signa- 
 dor's tower tosses out the hour, dreaming. 
 
 II 
 
 Page Qy. Pale and adroit, the watchmaker works quietly ; 
 lazily, with wide-open doors, the shops sleep ; and the 
 frankness of good-mornings is exchanged from one 
 sidewalk to the other, as in old times. 
 
 Notary's sign and doctor's plate ... A boy is 
 watering donkeys at a well ; and conducted by a nun.
 
 Appendix A 363 
 
 in symmetric lines, the small children are going to say 
 their catechism. 
 
 All of a sudden, a ray of sunshine flung like an ar- 
 row starts a fresh, clear voice singing in a lane as dark 
 as though it were a corridor. 
 
 Little brooks stream in a crowd from the mountain, 
 and everywhere there is a noise of rushing water 
 which flows from dawn with its forehead of silver 
 until evening with its eyes of gold. 
 
 THE KITCHEN 
 
 Page g8. In the kitchen, where the scent of thyme floats, 
 the return from market is like an evening after a day 
 of booty. Pell-mell with the heavy meats, are heaped 
 up leeks, radishes, garlands of onions, great violet 
 cabbages, the red pumpkin, the glossy tomato, and 
 the pale lemon. Like a great kite, the enormous 
 and flat skate lies, dug into by a knife, with a scarlet 
 wound. A hare with red fur, and with eyes like 
 burst grapes, sprawls on the pavement. From a heap 
 of oysters emptied out of a basket covered with sea- 
 weed, comes the smell of the open and the freshness 
 of waves. Quails, partridges with soft, slate-coloured 
 stomachs, hang their broken necks, the beaks all cov- 
 ered with blood. It is a butcher's stall, vibrating 
 with green fruits, vegetables, mother-of-pearl, clear 
 silver, scales and feathers. A chunk of salmon 
 bleeds, and, still alive, a great bronze lobster, bought
 
 364 '5'ix French Poets 
 
 at the port and flung by chance with the provisions, 
 moves a broken feeler as he dies. 
 
 PROVINCIAL NOCTURNE 
 
 Page gg. The Uttle, noiseless town sleeps soundly in the 
 night. 
 
 In the old branching street lamps, the feeble gas is 
 dying ; but suddenly the moon comes out, and along 
 the whole line of white houses the windows shine with 
 silver. 
 
 The warm night fans itself all along the chestnut 
 trees ... the unhastening night, in which light is 
 still floating. In the old parts of the town all is black 
 and deserted. Lean on the old stone bridge, my 
 soul, and breathe the good smell of the river. 
 
 The silence is so great that my heart shivers. Only 
 the noise of my feet resounds on the pavement. The 
 silence makes my heart tremble, and midnight strikes. 
 
 Along the great walls of a convent, leaves rustle in 
 the wind. Schoolgirls . . . Orphans . . . Blue rib- 
 bons on tippets ... It is the garden of the 
 Ursulines. 
 
 Through the barred gate a breeze passes as gently 
 as a sigh. And that star of quiet flames, over there, 
 beyond the hornbeam hedges, seems a night-light of 
 sapphire.
 
 Appendix A 365 
 
 Oh ! under the slate roofs, whitened by the moon, 
 virgins, and their pure sleep in clear rooms, and their 
 little round necks knotted with scapulars, and their 
 sinless bodies in the whiteness of the beds ! 
 
 Here one monotonous hour is followed by another 
 monotonous hour, and peaceful innocence sleeps at 
 the edge of life , . . 
 
 Infinitely sad and deserted under the electric moon- 
 light, the historic square solemnly lines up its old 
 houses of ParUament. 
 
 At the corner, a window is still lit up. A lamp 
 is above, watching while everything sleeps. Every 
 now and then, behind the thin stuff which dims the 
 light, the shadow of a woman glides furtively. 
 
 The window opens a little ; and the woman, poign- 
 ant admission, wrings her beautiful, naked arms in 
 the blue air . . . 
 
 secret ardours of provincial nights ! Hearts 
 which bum ! Disordered hair spread out ! Beauti- 
 ful breasts heavy with desire, kneaded by pale hands. 
 Great beseeching appeals, and never heard ! 
 
 1 evoke you, O you, unknown mistresses, whose 
 flesh is consumed like a wasted torch, who weep hope- 
 lessly over your beautiful bodies, and made for love
 
 366 Six French Poets 
 
 and by love devoured, you will be laid some evening 
 as virgins in the grave ! 
 
 And my pensive soul, at the comer of the square, 
 stares always over at the window where the shadow 
 passes. 
 
 The frail curtain shakes in the wind . . . The 
 lamp goes out . . . One o'clock strikes. No one, 
 no one, no one. 
 
 FIRST ELEGY 
 
 To Albert Samain 
 
 Page 102. My dear Samain, it is to you that I write still. 
 This is the first time I send to death these lines which, 
 to-morrow, in Heaven, some old servitor of an eternal 
 hamlet will bring to you. Smile at me so that I 
 shall not weep. Say to me : "I am not as ill as you 
 think." Open my door again, dear friend. Cross 
 my threshold, and say to me as you enter: "Why 
 are you in mourning?" Come in further. You are 
 in Orthez. There is Bonheur. Put your hat on 
 that chair. You are thirsty? Here is blue water 
 from the well, and wine. My mother will come down 
 and say to you: "Samain ..." And my dog will 
 lean his muzzle on your hand. 
 
 I talk. You smile with a serious smile. Time does 
 not exist. And you let me go on talking. Evening
 
 Appendix A 367 
 
 comes. We walk in the yellow light which makes 
 the end of the day like Autumn. We walk along the 
 mountain stream. A hoarse pigeon complains softly 
 in a blue-green poplar. I chatter. You still smile. 
 Bonheur is silent. See the road, dark at Summer's end, 
 see the shadow kneeling near the four o 'clocks which 
 deck the black thresholds where the blue smoke comes. 
 
 Your death changes nothing. The shade which 
 you loved, in which you lived, in which you suffered, 
 in which you sang, it is we who leave it, and you who 
 keep it. Your light was bom of this darkness which 
 brings us to our knees on beautiful Summer even- 
 ings, when, under the black creepers, scenting God 
 who passes and gives Ufe to the grain, watch-dogs 
 bark. 
 
 I do not regret your death. Others will put the 
 laurel which is your right over the wrinkles of your 
 forehead. For I, knowing you, I should fear to 
 wound you. The glory of those who die uncrowned 
 should not be hid from the sixteen-year-old children 
 who will follow your bier, weeping over your lyre. 
 
 I do not regret your death. Your life is there. As 
 the voice of the wind which rocks the lilacs does not 
 die, but returns after many years to those same Ulacs 
 which we had thought faded, so your songs, my dear 
 Samain, will come again to soothe those children with 
 whom our thoughts are already teeming.
 
 368 Six French Poets 
 
 Like some antique shepherd whose flock weeps upon 
 the bare hill, I should seek in vain upon your grave for 
 something which I can take away. The salt would 
 be eaten by the mountain sheep, and the wine would 
 be drunk by those who have plundered you. 
 
 I dream of you. The day fades like that day when 
 I saw you in my old country parlour. I dream of 
 you. I dream of my native mountains. I dream of 
 this Versailles where you took me, where we recited 
 poems, sadly, and step by step. I dream of your 
 friend, and I dream of your mother. I dream of those 
 sheep who, waiting for death on the shores of the blue 
 lake, bleat over their little bells. 
 
 I dream of you. I dream of the pure emptiness 
 of the heavens. I dream of the endless water, of the 
 brightness of fires. I dream of the dew which sparkles 
 on the vines. I dream of you. I dream of myself. I 
 dream of God. 
 
 REMY DE GOURMONT 
 
 Page 112. I have seen the portrait. The moon, pale and 
 green, swam through the room; I had just waked 
 up, and indistinct and ophidian visions still haunted 
 me. Suspiciously, with feverish eyes, I looked 
 about me. Was I in my room and in my bed ? Per- 
 haps. There, over the chimney, the mirror slowly 
 changed its tint ; its moon-green, its green of trans-
 
 Appendix A 359 
 
 parent water under willow trees, suddenly brightened 
 and became more golden. One would have said that 
 in the centre of the light, as it is also on the face of the 
 moon, shadows were thrown which had the appear- 
 ance of human features, while about the vague face 
 a luminous undulation wound, like blond hair undone 
 and floating. 
 
 Page 112. A church with flying buttresses, short and heavy, 
 first attracted the inexperienced attention, and fixed 
 it by the splendour of its beribboned Madonna. 
 When the setting sun, shining into the oval niche, 
 bathed it in light, the rubies and peridots of her 
 tiara, the lepidolites and the topazes, starry aureole, 
 shimmered with the brilliance of so many stars, and 
 the face with the diamond eyes shone with ecstasy. 
 
 DREAM FIGURE 
 Sequence 
 Page 123. The dearly beloved with the clear eyes appeared 
 under the moon, under the ephemeral moon, mother 
 of beautiful dreams. The misty blue light powdered 
 her star-blossomed forehead with an ethereal dust, 
 and her light hair floated in the air behind her spring- 
 ing steps: the chimera slept in the depths of her 
 eyes. On the bare, delicate skin of her neck, the 
 starry smiles of a rosary of pearls arranged in rows 
 the reflections of their pale lightnings. About her 
 wrists were identical bracelets, and her head bore the 
 
 2B
 
 370 Six French Poets 
 
 crown, incrusted with the seven mystical stones, 
 whose flames pierce the heart Hke knives, under the 
 ephemeral moon, mother of beautiful dreams. 
 
 Page 126. Hypocritical flower, 
 
 Flower of silence. 
 
 Page 126. Rose with the black eyes, mirror of your nothing- 
 ness, rose with the black eyes, cause us to believe in 
 mystery, hypocritical flower, flower of silence . . . 
 
 Rose, colour of silver, censor of our dreams, rose, 
 colour of silver, take om* hearts and make smoke of 
 them, hypocritical flower, flower of silence . . . 
 
 Wine-coloured rose, flower of arbours and cellars, 
 wine-coloured rose, mad alcohols gambol in your 
 breath ; whisper to us the horror of love, hypocritical 
 flower, flower of silence. 
 
 Page 127. Rose of silk paper. Rose the colour of dawn, the 
 colour of time, the colour of nothing. Flesh-coloured 
 rose. Rose of the virginal heart. Rose, the colour 
 of evening. Blue rose, iris-coloured rose. Carbuncle 
 rose, rose blossomed on the black forehead of the 
 dragon. 
 
 Page 127. Transparent rose, colour of clear springs spouting 
 up among grasses, transparent rose, Hylas is dead 
 of having loved your eyes, hypocritical flower, flower 
 of silence.
 
 Appendix A 371 
 
 Papal rose, rose watered by the hands which bless 
 the world, papal rose, your golden heart is of copper, 
 and the tears which fall in pearls upon your worthless 
 petals are the tears of Christ, hypocritical flower, 
 flower of silence. 
 
 Hypocritical flower, 
 
 Flower of silence. 
 
 Page 128. I prefer you to the most gallant hearts, dead hearts, 
 hearts of other days . , . 
 
 Jonquils, of which the pure eyelashes of so many 
 blond girls are made . . . 
 
 Aconite, flower helmeted with poison, warrior of 
 the raven's wing . . . 
 
 Campanulas, little enamoured bells that the Spring 
 tinkles . . . 
 
 Four-o'clock who knocked at my door, it was mid- 
 night, I opened my door to the Four-o'clock, and her 
 eyes bloomed in the darkness . 
 
 Lavender, little serious one, perfume of virtue . 
 shirts by the dozen in oaken wardrobes, lavender not 
 too mischievous and so tender . 
 
 Alyssum, whose beautiful soul entirely evaporates 
 in song . . . 
 
 Page 128. Birch, shiver of the bather in the ocean of wild 
 grasses, while the wind plays with your pale hair . 
 
 Mountain-ash, fringed parasol, coral seeds upon 
 the golden necks of gypsies . . .
 
 372 Six French Poets 
 
 Larch, lady of sad thoughts, parable leaning upon 
 the ruin of a wall, the silver spiders have spun their 
 webs in your ears . . . 
 
 Horse-chestnut, court lady in crinoline, lady in a 
 dress embroidered with trefoils and feathers, lady, 
 useless and beautiful. 
 
 ASCENSION 
 
 Page ijo. An evening in the deserted heather with my 
 Beloved smiling and weary ... O Sun, like a 
 picked flower your heavy head dies and falls, pale, 
 to the horizon. Ah, if I were with my weary Beloved, 
 one evening in the deserted heather 1 
 
 Among meadow-sweet and reeds, the tree-frogs 
 cried their love songs. Beetles climbed up the horse- 
 tails. Blue jays made the frail branches bend. One 
 heard the love cries of the tree-frogs among the 
 meadow-sweet. 
 
 Up above, at the threshold of a half-open door, a 
 dog wails to the new-risen and green moon which gives 
 a little joy to the blind sky ; a cow about to be milked 
 moves and lows, a dog wails to the new-risen and green 
 moon, up above, at the threshold of a half-open door. 
 
 While we climb to the curve of the summit with 
 restless and smiling souls, Vision, remaining halfway 
 up, sits thoughtfully, her head in her hands ; and we 
 mount to the summit, we climb smiling, with restless 
 souls.
 
 Appendix A 373 
 
 Page 131. Somewhere in the mists there is an island, and on 
 the island a castle, and in the castle a great hall lit 
 by a small lamp, and in the great hall are people who 
 wait. For what do they wait ? They do not know. 
 They wait for some one to knock at the door, they 
 wait for the lamp to go out, they await Fear, they 
 await Death. They speak; yes, they say words 
 which trouble the silence for a moment, then they 
 listen again, leaving their sentences unfinished, their 
 gestures interrupted. They listen, they wait. It 
 will not come perhaps ? Oh, it will come ! It always 
 comes. It is late, perhaps it will not come until 
 to-morrow. And the people assembled in the great 
 hall, under the little lamp, smile and hope. Some one 
 knocks. And that is all ; the whole of a life, the whole 
 of life. 
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 Page 132. O travellers, who journey dreaming, dreaming 
 perhaps of rose-coloured distances, while the dust 
 and sunlight of arid spaces have burnt your bare 
 arms and your wavering souls, travellers, who 
 journey dreaming, dreaming perhaps of rose-coloured 
 distances ! 
 
 Here is the road which leads to the mountain, 
 here is the clear spring where balsams grow, here is 
 the wood full of shadow and anemones, here are 
 pines, here is peace, here are the lofty summits, here 
 is the road which leads to the mountain, here is the 
 clear spring where balsams grow !
 
 374 •^'^^ French Poets 
 
 travellers, who journey dreaming, follow the 
 voice which calls you to the heavens : the foliage of 
 the trees is sweet as honey, and women with pure 
 hearts become more beautiful there. travellers, 
 who journey dreaming, follow the voice which calls 
 you to the heavens. 
 
 AGATHA 
 
 Page 133. Jewel found among Sicilian stones, Agatha, virgin 
 sold to the love-dealers, Agatha, victorious over neck- 
 laces and rings, of the seven magic rubies and the 
 three moonstones, Agatha, rejoiced by the fire of 
 red irons as an almond-tree by the gentle rains of 
 Autumn, Agatha, embalmed by a young angel with 
 purple vestments, Agatha, stone and iron, Agatha, 
 gold and silver, Agatha of the order of Malta, Saint 
 Agatha, put fire into our blood. 
 
 COLETTE 
 
 Page I J 4. Grievous beauty hidden in prayer, Colette, severe 
 to your heart and more severe to your flesh, Colette, 
 prisoner in bitter cloisters where the necklaces of 
 love are chains of iron, Colette who lay down upon 
 the ground to die, Colette who after her death re- 
 mained fresh as a stone, Saint Colette, cause our 
 hearts to become as austere as stones. 
 
 JEANNE 
 
 Page 134. Shepherdess born in Lorraine, Jeanne who tended 
 sheep in a coarse cotton dress, and who wept at the
 
 Appendix A 2)75 
 
 miseries of the people of France, and who conducted 
 the King to Rheims amid lances, Jeanne who was a 
 bow, a cross, a sword, a heart, and a lance, Jeanne 
 whom the people loved as they do father and mother, 
 Jeanne, wounded and taken, and thrown into a 
 dungeon by the English, Jeanne, burnt at Rouen 
 by the English, Jeanne, like to an angel in anger, 
 Jeanne d'Arc, put much anger into our hearts. 
 
 URSULA 
 
 Page 135. Griffin of the North, sacred beast come in the blue 
 light of a boreal dream, Ursula, snow-flake drunk by 
 the lips of Jesus, Ursula, red star to the purple tulip, 
 Ursula, sister of so many innocent hearts, whose 
 bloody head smoulders like a carbuncle in the circle 
 of the arch, Ursula, ship, sail, oar and tempest, 
 Ursula, flown away upon the back of a white bird. 
 Saint Ursula, bear our hearts away to the snows. 
 
 HER HAIR 
 
 Page 136. Simone, there is a great mystery in the forest of 
 your hair. 
 
 You savour of hay, you savour of stones against 
 which animals have leaned ; you savour of leather, 
 you savour of grain when it has just been winnowed ; 
 you savour of wood, you savour of bread which is 
 brought in the morning ; you savour of flowers which 
 have sprung up along an abandoned wall ; you savour 
 of brambles, you savour of i\^ washed by the rain ; 
 you savour of rushes and bracken which is mown
 
 376 Six French Poets 
 
 at the fall of night ; you savour of holly, you savour 
 of moss, you savour of red and dying grass which 
 seeds itself in the shade of hedges; you savour of 
 nettles and broom, you savour of clover, you sa- 
 vour of milk ; you savour of fennel and anise ; you 
 savour of nuts ; you savour of fruits which are very 
 ripe and being picked ; you savour of the willow 
 and the linden when their leaves are full of flowers ; 
 you savour of honey, you savour of life which walks 
 the fields ; you savour of the ground and the river ; 
 you savour of love, you savour of fire, 
 
 Simone, there is a great mystery in the forest of your 
 hair. 
 
 THE HOLLY 
 
 Page 137. Simone, the sunshine laughs upon the holly leaves : 
 April has come back to play with us. 
 
 Upon his shoulders he carries baskets of flowers 
 which he gives to the hawthorns, to the chestnuts, 
 and to the willows ; 
 
 He sows them one by one in the grass of the fields, 
 upon the banks of brooks, ponds, and ditches ; 
 
 He keeps the jonquils for the water, the periwinkles 
 for the woods, in those places which are overhung 
 by branches ;
 
 Appendix A 2)77 
 
 He throws violets into the shade under briars, 
 where his naked foot fearlessly hides them and 
 thrusts them in. 
 
 To all the fields he gives Easter daisies, and prim- 
 roses which have necklaces of Uttle bells. 
 
 In the forests, all along the cool paths, he lets fall 
 lilies-of-the-valley with anemones. 
 
 He plants irises upon the roofs of houses, and in 
 our garden, Simone, where it is so pleasant. 
 
 He will scatter columbines and pansies, hyacinths, 
 and the good smell of wallflowers. 
 
 THE FOG 
 
 Page 138. Simone, put on your cloak and your great, black 
 sabots, we will go as in a boat through the fog. 
 
 We will go to islands of beauty where the women 
 are beautiful like trees and naked like souls ; we will 
 go to islands where men are gentle Uke lions, with 
 long, red hair. Come, the uncreated world awaits 
 otir dream for its laws, its joys, for its gods who make 
 the seed blossom, and the wind which makes the leaves 
 shine and rustle. Come, the innocent world will 
 soon rise from a grave.
 
 378 Six French Poets 
 
 Simone, put on your cloak and your great, black 
 sabots, we will go as in a boat through the fog. 
 
 We will go to islands where there are mountains 
 from which can be seen peaceful stretches of country, 
 v/ith happy animals cropping the grass, shepherds 
 who look like willow -trees, and sheaves being lifted 
 into carts with forks. It is still sunlight, and the 
 sheep stop near the stable, before the gate of the 
 garden which smells of bumet, tarragon, and thyme. 
 
 Simone, put on your cloak and your great, black 
 sabots, and we will go as in a boat through the fog. 
 
 THE DEAD LEAVES 
 
 Page 140. Simone, let us go to the wood ; the leaves have 
 fallen; they cover the moss, the stones, and the 
 paths. 
 
 Simone, do you like the sound of steps upon dead 
 leaves ? 
 
 They have such soft colours, such grave tints, they 
 are such frail waifs upon the earth. 
 
 Simone, do you like the sound of steps upon dead 
 leaves ? 
 
 They have such a mournful look at twilight, they 
 cry so tenderly when the wind tumbles them about.
 
 Appendix A 379 
 
 Simone, do you like the sound of steps upon dead 
 leaves ? 
 
 When they are crushed under foot, they lament 
 like souls, they make a noise of wings or of women's 
 dresses. 
 
 Simone, do you like the sound of steps upon dead 
 leaves ? 
 
 Come : some day we shall be poor dead leaves. 
 Come : the night is already falling and the wind 
 bears us away. 
 
 Simone, do you like the sound of steps upon dead 
 leaves ? 
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 Page 141. Simone, the river sings an ingenuous tune, come, 
 we wiU go among the rushes and the water-hemlocks ; 
 it is noon : the men have quitted their carts, and I — 
 I shall see your naked foot in the clear water. 
 
 The river is the mother of fishes and flowers, of 
 trees, of birds, of scents, of colours ; 
 
 She gives drink to the birds who have eaten their 
 grain and who are about to fly to a distant country ; 
 
 She gives drink to the blue flies with green stomachs, 
 and the water-spiders who row like galley-slaves ;
 
 38o Six French Poets 
 
 The river is the mother of the fish : she gives them 
 worms, grass, air, and ozone ; 
 
 She gives them love; she gives them wings to 
 follow the shadows of their females to the ends of the 
 earth. 
 
 The river is the mother of flowers, of rainbows, of 
 everything which is made of water and a little sun- 
 shine. 
 
 She nourishes the French grass and the hay, and 
 the meadow-sweet which has the perfume of honey, 
 and the mullens 
 
 Which have leaves as soft as the down of birds; 
 she nourishes the corn, the clover, and the reeds ; 
 
 She nourishes the hemp, she nourishes the flax, 
 she nourishes the oats, the barley, and the buck- 
 wheat ; 
 
 She nourishes the rye, the osiers and the apple- 
 trees ; she nourishes the willows and the great pop- 
 lars. 
 
 The river is the mother of forests : from her bed 
 the beautiful oaks have drawn the pure water of 
 their veins.
 
 Appendix A 381 
 
 The river fertilizes the sky: when the rain falls 
 it is the river drawn up into the sky and falling back ; 
 
 The river is a very powerful and very pure mother, 
 the river is the mother of all nature. 
 
 Simone, the river sings an ingenuous tune, come, 
 we will go among the rushes and the water -hemlocks, 
 it is noon : the men have quitted their carts, and I — 
 I shall see your naked foot in the clear water. 
 
 THE ORCHARD 
 
 Page 143. Simone, let us go to the orchard, with a wicker 
 basket. As we go into the orchard we will say to 
 our apple-trees : This is the season of apples. Let 
 us go to the orchard, Simone, let us go to the orchard. 
 
 The apple-trees are full of wasps, for the apples 
 are very ripe : there is a great murmuring about the 
 old doux-aux-vepes. The apple-trees are full of 
 apples, let us go to the orchard, Simone, let us go to 
 the orchard. 
 
 We will pick the calville, the pigeonnet, and the 
 pippin, and also cider-apples which are a little taste- 
 less. This is the season of apples, let us go to the 
 orchard, Simone, let us go to the orchard. 
 
 You will have the smell of apples on your dress 
 and on your hands, and your hair will be full of the
 
 382 Six French Poets 
 
 sweet perfume of Autumn. The apple-trees are full 
 of apples, let us go to the orchard, Simone, let us go 
 to the orchard. 
 
 Simone, you will be my orchard and my apple- 
 tree of the doux-aux-vepes ; Simone, drive the wasps 
 away from your heart and my orchard. This is 
 the season of apples, let us go to the orchard, Simone, 
 let us go to the orchard. 
 
 AUTUMN SONG 
 
 Page 144. Come, my Dear, come, it is Autumn, damp and 
 monotonous Autumn, but the leaves of the cherry- 
 trees and the ripe fruit of the sweet-briars are red 
 like kisses. Come, my Dear, come, it is Autumn. 
 
 Come, my Dear, come, the rude Autumn draws 
 his mantle closer about him and shivers, but the 
 sunshine is pleasant; in the air which is as soft as 
 your heart, the mist cradles its languor. Come, my 
 Dear, come, it is Autumn. 
 
 Come, my Dear, the Autumn wind sobs like a 
 person. And in the gaping thickets the brambles 
 writhe their perverse arms, but the oaks are always 
 green. Come, my Dear, come, it is Autumn. 
 
 Come, my Dear, the Autumn wind scolds harshly 
 and lectures us, words whistle down the paths, but
 
 Appendix A 3^3 
 
 the gentle sound of wood-pigeons' wings can be 
 heard in the brush. Come, my Dear, come, it is 
 Autumn. 
 
 Come, my Dear, the melancholy Autumn abandons 
 itself to the arms of Winter, but the grass of Summer 
 still grows, and the last heather is sweet, and one 
 thinks one sees the blossoming of the moss. Come, 
 my Dear, come, it is Auturmi. 
 
 Come, my Dear, come, it is Autumn, the poplars 
 shiver, all bare, but their foliage is not dead ; puffing 
 out its gold-coloured dress, it dances, it dances, it 
 still dances. Come, my Dear, come, it is Autumn. 
 
 HENRI DE REGNIER 
 
 Page 158. I dreamt that these verses should be like those 
 flowers which the hands of master carvers twine 
 about golden vases of cunning dimensions. 
 
 Page 164. The water of the springs where, in the evening, 
 falls the universal death of roses, was happy at the 
 sight of us combing our tawny hair. 
 
 A little of this water — our mirrors ! 
 
 The fountains were loud in the woods of Moon- 
 light and Night; crystal in which is reflected and 
 isolated some star fled from the sky . . .
 
 384 Six French Poets 
 
 The water in our amphorae is dried up. 
 
 The stairways curve their balustrades . . . 
 Oh, cold feet upon pavements ! 
 The doors and the high chambers for the naked 
 sleep of Psyches . . , 
 
 The oil is coagulated at the bottom of the lamps ! 
 
 MAD AUTUMN 
 
 Page 165. Mad Autumn exhausts its roses in garlands, pale 
 like lips and smiles ; and the misery is to have lived 
 among roses, masks, vanities, and deliriums ! 
 
 From new leather bottles, laughing ^gypans drank 
 old wine in which the fire of Summer still lives ; vines 
 puffed out the clear amber of their maturity, their 
 bunches fell into the water, grape by grape. 
 
 Roses decorated cups, ivy-twined staffs, and the 
 skirts of youthful dresses; in the shade, the souls 
 of fountains wept ; the vine-branches about the 
 staffs seemed the blood of flaming torches. 
 
 Mad Autumn exhausts itself in supreme garlands, 
 red-haired satyrs prowl through the woods, empty 
 masks are hung in garlands, and the wind laughs 
 through the holes of their voiceless mouths.
 
 Appendix A 38c 
 
 THE RIM OF THE MEDAL 
 
 Page 166. One evening, at the meeting of the roads in the 
 forest — one evening, in the wind, with my shadow — 
 one evening, weary of the cinders of altars and years, 
 uncertain of the predestined hours, I sat down. 
 
 The roads led toward days, and I could still go 
 with them, and always toward places, waters, and 
 dreams, always, until the day when Death, with 
 magical and patient hands, should have closed my 
 eyes with the seal of her peaceful and golden flower. 
 
 Roads of tall oaks and solitude, your rough stone 
 is difficult to weariness, your pebbles hard for tired 
 feet, and at each step I should see the wounds of my 
 past still bleeding; and your haughty oaks mutter 
 in the harsh wind, and I am tired. 
 
 Road of clear birches which shed their leaves and 
 tremble, pale like the shame of your pale travellers 
 who lose their way in your sticky mud-holes, and go 
 together and turn away so as not to see one another 
 face to face ; road of mud and oozing water, the wind 
 whispers its lamentations to your leaves, the great 
 silver marshes of moons and hoar-frost stagnate in 
 the twilight at the ends of your tracks, and Dulness 
 takes those by the hand who would follow you. 
 
 Road of smooth ash trees and of thin sands, where 
 the wind effaces the footsteps and desires one to 
 
 2C
 
 386 Six French Poets 
 
 forget and one goes as it goes, from tree to tree, 
 your honey flowers have the colour of the gold of the 
 sands, your curve is such that one can hardly see 
 where one turns ; the town to which you lead is kind 
 to strangers and my steps upon the thresholds of 
 its doors would be pleasant, had they not remained 
 along another life where my weeping Hopes watch 
 dead Shadows. 
 
 I will not go toward your oaks, nor beside your 
 birches and ash trees, nor toward your sunshine, 
 your towns, and your waters, O roads! I hear the 
 steps of my bleeding past coming, the steps that I 
 believed dead, alas ! but which come again, and seem 
 to precede me in your echoes, O roads; you, the 
 easy — you, the shameful — you, the disdainful — 
 and I listen to the wind, companion of my vain 
 wanderings, who walks and weeps under the oaks. 
 
 O my soul, evening hangs sadly over yesterday, 
 O my soul, evening hangs gloomily over to-morrow, 
 O my soul, evening hangs solemnly over you ! 
 
 SOME ONE DREAMS OF DAWN AND SHADOW 
 
 Page i6g. "I thought I saw my Sorrow standing under the 
 willows. I thought I saw her — said she softly — 
 standing near the gentle brook of my thoughts, 
 the same which, one whole evening, flowed past with 
 the current, roses floating upon them, waifs from the 
 bouquet of wounded hours. Time passes with passed
 
 Appendix A 387 
 
 waters ; she thought with my thoughts so long that 
 the bluish woods were mauve, then darker, and black." 
 
 I thought I saw my Sorrow — said he — and I 
 did see her — said he softly — she was naked, sitting 
 in the most silent grotto of my inmost thoughts; 
 she was there, the gloomy dream of frozen waters, 
 the anxiety of anxious stalactites, the weight of rocks 
 as heavy as time, the pain of porphyries red like 
 blood ; she was there, sUent, sitting in the depth 
 of my silence. And naked as a person is who thinks 
 to himself. 
 
 Page 170. Ripe with shadows and dreams, in their skins from 
 which the golden juice is oozing, the fruits of the past 
 hang and fall, one by one, and one again, in the orchard 
 of dream and shadow. 
 
 The soft twilight fades, and revives from time to 
 time on a pale ray of sunshine through the trees, and 
 the moment comes when, one by one, tree by tree, 
 the wind touches the beautiful fruits which swing 
 and knock their warm, pale golds, and still tremble 
 when the wind has passed and the darkness is quiet, 
 and fall, one by one, and one again. 
 
 Sorrow has ripened her fruits of shadow in the 
 quiet orchards of our dreams, where the past sleeps, 
 starts, and sleeps again, to the sound of ripe fruits 
 falling through the forgetfulness of death, one by one, 
 and one again.
 
 388 Six French Poets 
 
 THE FAUN WITH THE MIRROR 
 
 Page 172. Sorrow, I have built your house, and the trees 
 mingle their chequering with the stains of your 
 marbles. Sorrow, I have built your green and black 
 palace, where the yew of mourning mingles with the 
 myrtles of hope ; in the crystal panes of your win- 
 dows are reflected the gardens, with balustrades and 
 waters whose exactness frames the sky; the dismal 
 echo converses with solitude who seeks herself among 
 the cypresses ; farther off is silence and all the forest, 
 the rude life, and the prowUng wind, the lush grass 
 on which is printed, according to what thing passes, 
 an animal shoe in place of a divine foot ; farther off 
 is the Satyr ; and still farther, the God of the Woods 
 and the Nymph, who, naked, inhabits the solitary 
 fountains where, near the Thessalian waters, the 
 Centaur nicks the pebbles in kicking ; and then, grey 
 sands after red sands, the monsters of Desire, the 
 monsters of the Flesh, and beyond the arid beach is 
 the Sea. Sorrow, I have built your house, and the 
 trees have mottled the crystals of your basins like a 
 marble ; the white swan sees its black shadow in the 
 water, as pale Joy sees in the lake of my memory her 
 silver wings dimmed by a twilight through which 
 her naked face, recoiling from her, makes signs to her 
 across the forever that she is dead ; and I, who have 
 come in without shutting the door, I am afraid in the 
 darkness of some hand on the key ; and I walk from 
 room to room, and I have veiled my dreams not to see 
 myself in them any more ; but, from beyond, I still
 
 Appendix A 389 
 
 feel shadows dogging my footsteps; and the crystal 
 which tinkles, and the watered silk which my per- 
 petually-weary hand crumples, warn my anguish, for 
 I hear in the hypocritical, sleeping chandelier the 
 sound of silver water laughing in golden flowers, and 
 the dripping of antique fountains v/here Narcissus 
 drank, lips pressed to his own lips, for which the spring 
 laughed at the anxious drinker; and I cursed my 
 mouth, and I cursed my eyes, for having seen the 
 warm skin and touched the cold water, and when 
 my fingers again wrinkle the stiff stuff, I hear, out of 
 my gossiping past which will not be still, the leaves 
 and the wind of the old forest; and I walk among 
 the solitary rooms where some one speaks with a 
 pretence of being silent, for my life has the eyes of a 
 sister who is not dead, and I am afraid, when I enter, 
 of seeing from the threshold of the door some laughing 
 and ghostly monster come from the shadow with the 
 smell of the woods on his naked hide, some Faun who 
 still has mud, and grass, and leaves, sticking to his reso- 
 nant shoes, and of seeing him, in the silent room, danc- 
 ing upon the polished floor and laughing to himself in 
 the mirrors ! 
 
 THE VASE 
 
 Page 775. My heavy hammer rang in the light air ; I saw the 
 river and the orchard, the field, and as far as the 
 woods, beneath the sky growing bluer hour by hour, 
 then rose and mauve in the twilight ; then I stood up 
 straight and stretched myself, happy in the task 
 of the hours, numb with having crouched from dawn
 
 390 ^ix French Poets 
 
 till twilight before the block of marble upon which I 
 cut out the sides of the vase, still in its shell, that my 
 ponderous hammer struck, stressing the clear morn- 
 ing and the good day, happy at being resonant in the 
 light air. 
 
 The vase took shape in the worked stone. Slender 
 and pure, it had grown larger, still unformed in its 
 slendemess, and I waited, with idle and unquiet 
 hands, for days, turning my head to the left, to the 
 right, at the sHghtest sound, without polishing the 
 belly farther or lifting the hammer. The water ran 
 from the spring as though breathless. In the silence, 
 I heard the fruits of the orchard trees falling, one by 
 one, from branch to branch ; I breathed a heralding 
 perfume of distant flowers on the wind ; often I 
 thought that some one spoke low, and one day that I 
 dreamed — not sleeping — I heard, beyond the fields 
 and the river, the playing of flutes. 
 
 Still another day, between the ochre and gold 
 leaves of the woods, I saw a faun with shaggy yellow 
 legs dancing ; I caught sight of him also, another 
 time, coming out of the wood, along the road, and 
 sitting down upon a stump to take a butterfly from 
 one of his horns. 
 
 Another time, a centaur crossed the river swim- 
 ming, the water streamed from his man's skin and 
 his horse's coat; he advanced a few steps into the 
 reeds, snuffed the wind, whinneyed, and crossed back
 
 Appendix A 391 
 
 over the water ; the next day I saw the prints of his 
 hoofs stamped in the grass. 
 
 Naked women passed carrying baskets and sheaves, 
 very far off, quite at the other end of the plain. One 
 morning I found three at the spring, and one of them 
 spoke to me. She was naked. She said to me : 
 " Carve the stone after the form of my body in your 
 thoughts, and make my bright face smile in the 
 marble block ; listen all round you to the hours 
 danced by my sisters, whose circle winds itself, 
 interlaced, and revolves and sings and unwinds." 
 
 And I felt her warm mouth upon my cheek. 
 
 Then the vast orchard, and the woods, and the 
 plain, shivered to a strange noise, and the spring 
 ran faster, with a laugh in its waters ; the three 
 Nymphs standing near the three reeds took one 
 another by the hand and danced; red-haired fauns 
 came out of the wood in troupes, and voices sang 
 beyond the trees of the orchard, with flutes awake 
 in the light air. The ground echoed to the gallop of 
 centaurs ; they came from the depths of the resonant 
 horizon, and one saw lame satyrs, stung by bees, 
 sitting on the rushing cruppers, holding twisted staves 
 and big-bellied leather bottles ; hairy mouths and 
 vermilHon Ups kissed each other, and the immense 
 and frenzied circle — heavy hoofs, light feet, fleeces, 
 cruppers, tunics — turned wildly about me, who, 
 grave while it went on, carved on the rounded sides 
 of the vase the whirl of the forces of life.
 
 392 Six French Poets 
 
 From the perfume sent out by the ripe earth, an 
 intoxication mounted through my thoughts, and in 
 the smell of fruits and crushed grapes, in the shock 
 of hoofs and the stamping of heels, in the fallow 
 odour of goats and stallions, under the breeze of the 
 circle and the hail of laughter, I carved upon the 
 marble what I heard humming ; and amidst the hot 
 flesh and the warm exhalations, neighings of muzzles 
 or murmurings of lips, I felt, loving or savage, upon 
 my hands, the breath of nostrils or the kisses of 
 mouths. 
 
 Twilight came and I turned my head. 
 
 My intoxication was dead with the accomplished 
 task; and upon its pedestal, at last, from foot to 
 handles, the great vase stood up naked in the silence, 
 and carved in a spiral about its living marble, the 
 dispersed circle, of which a feeble wind brought the 
 echo of the vanished noise, turned, with its goats, 
 its gods, its naked women, its rearing centaurs, and 
 its nimble fauns, silently round the side, while alone 
 forever in the gloomy night, I cursed the dawn and 
 wept toward the darkness. 
 
 FOR THE GATE OF THE WARRIORS 
 
 Page lyg. High gate ! Never fear the darkness, leave open 
 your door of hard bronze and your door of iron. They 
 have thrown your keys into the cistern. Be forever
 
 Appendix A 393 
 
 cursed if fear closes you ; and, as with a two-edged 
 knife, cut the fist from every hand which would 
 shut you; for under your sombre arch which re- 
 sounded to their footsteps, men have passed who do 
 not draw back, and Victory, still ready and panting, 
 walked in the midst of them, naked in her golden 
 wings, and guided them with the calm gesture of her 
 sword; and her ardent purple kiss upon their lips 
 bled, and the trumpets thrilled to the roses of their 
 mouths, murmur of copper and of savage bees ! 
 Drunken swarm of war in hives of armour, go and 
 pluck death upon the flower of ripe flesh ; and if you 
 come back to your native town, may one be able to 
 trace when they shall have passed. Victory, under 
 your wings, the mark of bright blood from their 
 red soles on the marble stones of my threshold. 
 
 FOR THE GATE OF THE MERCHANTS 
 
 Page 180. Be blessed, black portal, which we saluted in en- 
 tering ! The strong coffers balanced on the backs 
 of asses ; to display them in the courtyards we 
 brought what one fashions by night, what one em- 
 broiders by day, the bright pendant, and the woven 
 stuff. The oldest among us carried a caduceus,* he 
 was the scrupulous master of barters and traffics ; 
 and the humpbacked gourd and strange pearls were 
 mingled together in our dusty hands ; and each one, 
 purveyor of provisions or merchant of perfumes, 
 emptied his baskets and swelled his wallet ; for every 
 
 * Mercury's wand. Mercury was the god of commerce, hence of 
 
 merchants.
 
 394 '^'^^ French Poets 
 
 buyer gives way to the gesture which catches him 
 by the hem of his robe or the tail of his cloak. The 
 smallest ones climbed on high stools, and the gentlest 
 as well as the most crafty counted and recoimted their 
 piles of gold as they left ; and each one, — that 
 the highwaymen on the watch for coin shoiild not 
 wait for him in the shadow of the hedges in the 
 deserted road, O Gate ! that a god should give us 
 rapid steps — each one, without looking at the one 
 who follows him, nails a copper piece upon your 
 stone sill. 
 
 FOR THE GATE OF THE COMEDIANS 
 
 Page i8i. The chariot stops at the angle of my wall. The 
 evening is fine, the sky is blue, the grain is ripe; 
 about the fountain the Nymph turns and dances; 
 the Faun laughs ; mysterious Summer brings back, 
 at its hour, the wandering troop, and the old chariot, 
 and those whose acting, by means of masks and 
 paint, impersonates upon the trestle on which their 
 naked feet rest, the popular fable or the ingenuous 
 myth, and the divine, human, and monstrous story 
 which, in the mirror of the fountain, at the bottom 
 of deep grottoes, with bounds and cries and laughs, 
 the silvery Dryad and the yellow Satyr take up again, 
 from age to age, in the shade of the great woods. 
 Come ! the moment is propitious and the crowd is 
 silent; already expectation smiles in the bright 
 eyes of children and gentle old men, and through 
 my gate, which, for you, will open wide, hospitable 
 and gay and heavy with garlands, I see you who
 
 Appendix A 395 
 
 come, a rose in your hand, with your bright cloaks 
 and your painted faces, and, smiling, each one before 
 entering puts her foot up on the stone and laces her 
 buskin. 
 
 FOR THE GATE WHICH GOES DOWN TO THE SEA 
 
 Page 182. I, the Keeper of the poop, and the Watcher at the 
 prow, who have known the buffet of waves on my 
 cheek, the wind shaking out her hair across the foam, 
 the clear water of the amphora and the ashes of the 
 urn, and, silent brilliance or vermillion flame, the 
 torch which starts up or the lamp which watches, 
 the stair of the palace or the threshold of the ruin, 
 and the welcome of the eyes of dawn, and the exile 
 of the eyes of darkness, and the love which smiles 
 and the love which weeps, and the cloak without 
 holes which the wind shreds to tatters, and the ripe 
 fruit bleeding, and the head cut off at the stroke 
 of the bill-hook or the flight of the sword, and, 
 vagrant of winds and courses and waves, of the 
 marine race and the shock of gallops, I who keep 
 always the noise and the murmur of the shepherd's 
 horn and the rower's song, here am I, returned from 
 great, distant countries of stone and of water, and 
 always alone in my destiny and naked, still standing 
 upright at the impetuous prow which snorts in the 
 foam ; and I shall enter burnt with joy and the sun, 
 rearing keel and spreading yard, with the great pale 
 gold and bright silver birds. I shall enter by the 
 Gate which opens on the Sea !
 
 396 Six French Poets 
 
 ODELETTE I 
 
 Page 184. A little reed has sufficed me to make the tall grass 
 rustle, and the whole meadow, and the gentle willows, 
 and the singing brook as well ; a little reed has 
 sufficed me to make the forest sing. 
 
 Those who pass have heard it in the depths of the 
 evening, in their thoughts, in the silence and in the 
 wind, clear or lost, near or far . . . Those who pass 
 listening to their thoughts in the depths of themselves 
 will hear it still, and hear it always singing. 
 
 It has sufficed me, this Httle reed gathered at the 
 spring where Love comes sometimes to mirror his 
 grave, weeping face, to make those who pass weep, 
 and to make the grass tremble and the water rustle, 
 and I have made the whole forest sing in the breath of 
 a reed. 
 
 ODE III 
 
 Page 18s. I have known you, dear naked Shade, with your 
 hair heavy with sunlight and pale gold, with your 
 smiling mouth and your sweet flesh. From my most 
 distant days beyond, you have come, at the ends 
 of old roads of corn and mosses, along meadows, 
 beside woods, when I followed the path and the brook, 
 happy in the clear brook and the fresh pathway, 
 and in my hands, between my fingers, the flower 
 gathered in the thick grass was all damp with dew 
 and trembling with the gold of a resting bee. At the
 
 Appendix A 397 
 
 April season when the reeds sang of themselves at 
 the slightest breeze, near waters and fountains, I 
 knew you, once, sitting upon the threshold of the 
 porch of Life and of Dream and of the Year — you, 
 who, from the threshold, plaited coronals and 
 watched the coming of dawn. 
 
 I have seen you again, dear naked Shade, with 
 your hair reddened with ruddy gold, solemn with all 
 the weight of its Autumn ; the old East wind weeps 
 in the hedges, heavy with wandering, and with trail- 
 ing wing; the vine loosens itself from the trunk as 
 it unwinds, and the earth crumbles from the slope 
 which holds it ; Joy is brief, and the hour passes, and 
 each one walks toward another which draws back, 
 and the flower of dawn is fruit at twilight, and the 
 golden fruit of evening is ashes in the night. 
 
 I saw you again, you were naked, as at the dawn 
 when I came by the road of the com, I who return to 
 you by the stubble road, with the trembling evening, 
 and the steps of Autumn, to the echoes of my life 
 when Spring was laughing. What will you put in 
 the hands which return holds out to you? For I 
 have lost the obolus, and the ring, and the key, and 
 the flower crown of hope, from which I felt the rose 
 and the laurel fall, petal by petal ; the opal is shat- 
 tered in the unset ring, and again my voice hesitates 
 to pray to you, for forever standing, finger on mouth, 
 as though to listen to the echo of time which flies, 
 your obstinate silence, patient and austere, watches 
 the darkness come and weeps to the night.
 
 398 Six French Poets 
 
 Page I go. I pretended that Gods had spoken to me ; this 
 one streaming with seaweed and water, this other 
 weighed down with bunches of grapes and corn, this 
 other winged, wild and beautiful in his stature of 
 naked flesh, and this one always veiled, and this other 
 again, who picks heartsease and hemlock, singing, 
 and who winds two twisting serpents about his golden 
 staff, others still . . . 
 
 Then I said: Here are flutes and baskets, let us 
 eat fruits; let us listen to the singing of the bees 
 and the humble sound of green osiers being plaited or 
 reeds being cut. 
 
 Again I said : Listen, listen, there is some one 
 behind the echo, standing upright amid the universal 
 life, who carries the double bow and the double torch, 
 and who is ourselves divinely . . . 
 
 Invisible face ! I have engraved you upon medals 
 of silver, mellow like the pale dawn; of gold, blaz- 
 ing like the sun ; of bronze, dark like night ; I have 
 them of every metal, those which sing clear like joy, 
 those which toll heavily like glory, like love, like 
 death ; and I have made the most beautiful of fine 
 clay, dry and fragile. 
 
 One by one, you counted them, smiling, and you 
 said : He is clever ; and you passed on, smiling.
 
 Appendix A 399 
 
 Not one of you saw that my hands trembled with 
 tenderness, that the whole great terrestrial dream 
 lived in me to live in them, that I engraved upon 
 the sacred metals my Gods, and that they were 
 the living face of what we have felt in roses, in water, 
 in wind, in the forest and the sea, in everything, in 
 our own flesh, and that they are divinely ourselves. 
 
 THE SPINNER 
 
 Page ig2. Spinner ! The shadow is warm and bluish. A 
 bee buzzes heavily in the sleeping sunlight, and your 
 wheel mingles with this golden and winged humming 
 which slows up little by little, and sleeps. It is late. 
 It is evening. The grapes hang on the trellis, their 
 clusters are ripe for the swarm which sucks at them, 
 but to gather them to-morrow, before dawn comes 
 and the cock wakes up, I must still round with my 
 palm and fashion with my thumb in the obedient and 
 soft clay this amphora which swells between my indis- 
 tinct hands, while my labour hears all about it your 
 wheel imitating the harsh buzzing of some invisible 
 wasp loose in the night. 
 
 MARINE ODE 
 
 Fage iQj. 1 hear the sea murmur in the distance when the 
 wind in the pines, often, brings its harsh and bitter 
 sound, which stuns, coos, or whistles, through the 
 pines, red against the clear sky . . .
 
 400 Six French Poets 
 
 Sometimes its sinuous, supple voice seems to creep 
 into the ear, then to recoil even more softly into the 
 depths of the twilight, and then it is silent for days 
 as though sleeping with the wind, and I forget it . . . 
 but one morning it begins again with the surge and 
 the tide, louder, more despairing, and I hear it. 
 
 It is a sound of water which suffers and scolds and 
 laments behind the trees without our seeing it, calm 
 or foaming, according to whether the sunset bleeds 
 or blushes, dies blazing, or fades coolly away . . . 
 
 Without this great murmur which grows or ceases, 
 and rolls or rocks my hours, each one, and my thoughts 
 — without it, this crude and cracked country, 
 swelled and humped up here and there by a yellow 
 hillock where roses grow with sparse, sickly, hanging 
 flowers — without it, this bitter and morose place, 
 where I can only see a forlorn horizon of solitude and 
 silence, would be too sad for my thought. 
 
 For I am alone, you see. All of Life still calls me to 
 its past which laughs and cries by a thousand eloquent 
 mouths, behind me, over there, with hands stretched 
 out, standing upright and naked ; and I, lying upon 
 the ground which is so hard to my bleeding nails, I 
 have only a Uttle clay to carve my quivering dream 
 and make its fragile form eternal — nothing else to 
 fashion my melodious medals, in the ochrous glaze of 
 which I know how to make the full face of shadow or 
 the profile of light, Sorrow smile or Beauty weep . . .
 
 Appendix A 401 
 
 But in my soul afar, love mutters or coos like the 
 sea, over there, behind the red pines. 
 
 BATTLE SCENE 
 
 Page ig$. He is booted in leather and cuirassed with bronze. 
 He stands upright in the smoke, and over his hip 
 floats the knot of the white scarf from which his 
 sword hangs. His glove is crumpled up by the ges- 
 ture of his hand. 
 
 His foot rests upon the hillock where in the black 
 ground the flaming grenade opens a red gash, and the 
 flash of the cannon empurples his rude and fresh 
 Burgundian face with the horsehair wig. 
 
 All about him, everywhere, confused and micro- 
 scopic, the fight goes on, hesitates, shifts, holds its 
 ground — skirmishes, melee and carnage and noble 
 deed. 
 
 And the naive painter who enlarged his size, was 
 no doubt praised, in those days, for having made his 
 hero, all by himself, larger than the battle. 
 
 THE MONKEY 
 
 Page ig6. With her paroquet, her dog, and her negress, who 
 holds out her dressing-gown and dries the water of 
 the bath on her body which, whiter under the black 
 hand, bends its suppleness where the throat rises, 
 2 D
 
 402 Six French Poets 
 
 She has caused to be painted also, to show her 
 tenderness, for libertine humour, or jesting caprice, 
 the life-like portrait of her African monkey, who 
 crunches a nutmeg and scratches his buttock. 
 
 Very grave, nearly a man and slyly a monkey, 
 hairy, bald, attentive, he picks his nut, and looks all 
 about, sitting up ; 
 
 And his bare, snub-nosed face in which the eyes 
 move sneeringly, contracts in a grimace, and wrinkles 
 up his green and yellow turban in which a red plume 
 quivers. 
 
 THE AMATEUR 
 
 Page igj. In his calm manor, between the Tille and the 
 Ouche, in the country of Burgundy where the vine 
 flourishes, he has lived tranquil like a ripened grape. 
 For him wine has flowed from uncorked bottles. 
 
 Friend of nature and particular of palate, he courted 
 his muse, and left in writing, poems, madrigals, 
 epistles, pot-pourri, and dusty parchments to bear 
 witness to his stock. 
 
 If he walked in the street in Dijon in his horse- 
 hair periwig, leaning on his malacca cane, the Elite 
 of the town and the members of Parliament
 
 Appendix A 403 
 
 Saluted Monsieur le Chevalier from a distance, 
 less for his name, his fields, his vine, and his planta- 
 tion, than for having received three letters from 
 Voltaire. 
 
 THE PORCELAIN CLOCK 
 
 Page iq8. The garden laughs to the river and the river sighs 
 with the eternal regret of his bank which he is leav- 
 ing, the wistaria hangs down and leans toward him, 
 the lilac is reflected and the jasmine is mirrored 
 there. 
 
 The bindweed darts forward and the ivy stretches 
 out; a new-sprouted bud is a flower to-day; helio- 
 trope perfumes the darkness, and each night another 
 lily half opens for dawn to admire it ; 
 
 And in the house, bright with tapestries, a flowered 
 porcelain clock outlines its rockwork where Love 
 decorates himself with garlands, 
 
 And the whole fresh nosegay with which the garden 
 honours itself, survives in the old Saxe where time 
 for offering has grafted the silver flower of its clear 
 tone.
 
 404 Six French Poets 
 
 SALUTATION TO VERSAILLES 
 
 Page igg. Whose soul is sad and who brings to Autumn' his 
 heart still glowing with the ashes of Summer, he is 
 the sceptreless Prince and the uncrowned King of 
 your solitude and your beauty. 
 
 For what he seeks in you, gardens of silence, under 
 your sombre shade where the sound of his footsteps 
 pursues in vain the echo which always outruns it, 
 what he seeks in your shade, O gardens, is not 
 
 The secret murmur of the illustrious fame with 
 which the century has filled your always beautiful 
 groves, nor some vain glory leaning upon a balustrade, 
 nor some young grace beside the clear waters ; 
 
 He does not ask to have pass or return the immortal 
 hero or the famous living man whose proud life, 
 striking and disdainful, was the star and the sun of 
 this august place. 
 
 What he desires is calm, is solitude, the perspective 
 of alley and stairway, the rond-point, the parterre, and 
 the effect of the pyramidal yew next to the clipped 
 box ; 
 
 The taciturn grandeur and the monotonous peace 
 of this melancholy and unrivalled spot, and this 
 perfume of evening and this smell of Autumn which 
 breathes out of the shade at the end of the day.
 
 Appendix A 405 
 
 THE FACADE 
 
 Page 200. Glorious, monumental and monotonous, the stone 
 fagade wastes its crumbling cornice and its weary 
 garland in the passing wind, opposite the yellow park 
 over which Autumn is leaning. 
 
 On the marble medallion with which Pallas crowns 
 it, the double letter still twines and interlaces ; Her- 
 cules wearies himself supporting the balcony; the 
 fleur de lys drop their petals for Time to harvest. 
 
 Reflected in its deserted basins, the old Palace 
 watches naked Solitude and the sleeping Past crouch 
 in black and green bronze ; 
 
 But the sun, flaming in the golden window-panes, 
 seems each evening to light again within it the spark 
 of its benumbed Glory. 
 
 THE GREEN BASIN 
 
 Page 201. Her bronze, which was flesh, Ufts her up in the 
 green water. Goddess once so sorrowful at being 
 a statue ; the moss little by little is covering her 
 naked shoulder, and the silent urn hangs hea\^ly 
 from her stiffened hand ; 
 
 The stagnant water perfidiously reflects the shadow 
 that everything in it has become, and its fluid mirror, 
 in which a cloud is stretched out, imitates inversely 
 a sky which it parodies.
 
 4o6 Six French Poets 
 
 The grass, perpetually green, is like a blue-green 
 basin. It is the same square of equivocal greenness 
 with which marble or box frames grass or water. 
 
 And watch, in the emerald-green water and the 
 emerald grass, turn by turn, move about in rival 
 golds, the dead yellow leaf and the prowling carp. 
 
 THE NYMPH 
 
 Page 202. The calm, sleeping water in its slumbering trouble, 
 overflows and rests in the porphyry basin and in 
 the weeping fountain, and its greenish-blue pallors 
 reflect the cypress and reflect the rose. 
 
 The God and the Goddess stand opposite each 
 other, smiling; one holds the sceptre and the bow, 
 the other the urn and the flowers, and in the alley 
 between, joining his shadow to theirs. Love stands 
 upright and naked, and interposes himself. 
 
 The grass slope borders the clear canal ; the yew 
 mirrors its mass, the holly its green cone, and the 
 obelisk alternates with the pyramid; 
 
 A Dragon faces his enemy the Hydra, and both of 
 them, from the clammy holes of their wet mouths, 
 spit out a silver jet upon the sleeping Nymph.
 
 Appendix A 407 
 
 THE PAVILION 
 
 Page 203. The basket, the shepherd's pouch, and the ribbon 
 knotting the double flute and the straight shepherd's 
 crook ; the oval medallion where the narrow mould- 
 ing frames a grey profile in the whiter panel ; 
 
 The hurrying mantel-clock and the tall clock with 
 slow steps, where Time, turn by turn, contradicts 
 itself and limps ; the weary mirror which seems a 
 moist and shining water; the half -open door, and 
 the fluttering curtain ; 
 
 Some one who has gone, some one who will come, 
 Memory sleeping with Recollection, an approach 
 which delays and dates from an absence ; 
 
 A window open upon the bitter smell of box, and 
 upon roses from which the wind swings the crystal 
 chandelier above the shining wood floor. 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 Page 206. Before the harsh wind exiles the birds, disperses 
 the leaves and dries up the reeds where I used to cut 
 my arrows and my flutes, I wish, sitting on this sill 
 which is framed by the wild vine, to see again, with 
 my eyes already half closed over the days which, 
 one by one, we have loved, the face which the Year 
 flying, month by month, turns away smiling from the 
 shadow which was I.
 
 4o8 Six French Poets 
 
 September, September, gatherer of fruits, stripper 
 of hemp, in the clear mornings, in the red evenings, 
 you appeared to me, upright and beautiful, against 
 the gold of the forest leaves, beside the water, in 
 your dress of mist and silk, with your hair reddening 
 with gold, copper, blood, and amber. September, 
 with the fat goatskin bottle loaded on your shoulder, 
 hanging heavily and oozing at its vermilion seams 
 about which the last bees buzz. 
 
 September! The new wine ferments, and foams 
 from the cask into the pitchers; the cellar smells 
 sweet, the granary sags ; the sheaf of Summer gives 
 way to the wine-stock of Autumn; the grindstone 
 glistens with the olives which it crushes. You, 
 Lord of the wine-presses, of hay-ricks and of hives, 
 O September, sung by all the fountains, listen to the 
 voice of the poem. The evening is cold, the shadow 
 lengthens from the forest, and the sun goes down 
 behind the great oaks. 
 
 FRANCIS JAMMES 
 
 Page 2ig. I went to Monsieur Lay's, the teacher's. My 
 alphabet was like the flowers. I remember the 
 stove and the log of wood that each village child 
 brought when the sky is a white beehive, and when 
 on waking up one says : "It has been snowing !" 
 
 I remember also the gaiety of my apron, on ripe 
 Summer days when I left school somewhat earlier.
 
 Appendix A 409 
 
 A little, little fellow, I still had Heaven within my 
 eyes like a drop of water through which one can see 
 God. 
 
 Page 220. . . . The sight of the monkey being shot is always 
 with me, you understand. 
 
 Page 220. Water, foliage, air, sand, roots, flowers, grass- 
 hoppers, earthworms, kingfishers, mist falling upon 
 a radish field, vine tendrils on the weaver's roof : 
 gentle genii, who have made me their slave ! You 
 amused me. I so little, you so great ! 
 
 Page 222. Oh, Father of my Father, you were there, before 
 my soul which was not bom, and the advice-boats 
 slipped by with the wind in the Colonial night. 
 
 Page 222. ... At the foot of a blue guava tree, amid the 
 cries of the Ocean and the beach birds. 
 
 YOU WROTE . . . 
 
 Page 222. You wrote that you hunted wood-pigeons in the 
 Guava woods, and, a little before your death, the 
 doctor who took care of you wrote about your sober 
 Ufe. 
 
 "He lives," said he, "like a native, in his woods." 
 You are the father of my father. Your old corre- 
 spondence is in my drawer and your life is pungent.
 
 4IO Six French Poets 
 
 You left Orthez as a doctor of medicine, to make 
 your fortune far away. Your letters were brought 
 by a sailor, by Captain Folat. 
 
 You were ruined by earthquakes in the country 
 where rain-water is caught in tubs and drunk, heavy, 
 unhealthy, bitter . . . And all that, you wrote. 
 
 And you bought an apothecary's shop. You 
 wrote: "The capital has nothing like it." And 
 you said : "My life has made me a real Creole." 
 
 You are buried there, I think, in Guava. And I 
 am writing in the place where you were bom : your 
 old correspondence is very sad and grave. It is in 
 my chest of drawers, locked up. 
 
 Page 226. Oh, Jammes, your house is like your face. A 
 beard of ivy climbs up it, a pine-tree shades it, eter- 
 nally young and spirited like your heart. 
 
 THE HOUSE WOULD BE FULL OF ROSES . . . 
 
 Tage 227. The house would be full of roses and wasps. In the 
 afternoon one would hear the ringing of vespers ; and 
 the transparent-stone-coloured grapes would seem to 
 sleep in the sunshine under the slow shadow. How I 
 should love you there ! I give you my whole heart 
 which is twenty-four years old, and my mocking
 
 Appendix A \ii 
 
 spirit, my pride, and my poetry of white roses ; and 
 yet I do not know you, you do not exist. I only 
 know that if you were living, and if you were at the 
 bottom of this meadow, as I am, we would kiss each 
 other, laughing, under the white bees, near the cool 
 brook, under the thick leaves. We should hear 
 nothing but the heat of the sunshine. You would 
 have the shadow of the hazels on your ear, then we 
 would join our mouths and stop laughing, to tell our 
 love which cannot be told ; and I should find upon the 
 red of your lips, the taste of white grapes, of red roses, 
 and of wasps. 
 
 THE DINING ROOM 
 
 Page 228. There is a cupboard, not very shiny, which has 
 heard the voices of my great-aunts, which has heard 
 the voice of my grandfather, which has heard the voice 
 of my father. The cupboard is faithful to these 
 memories. One is wrong in thinking that it only 
 knows how to be silent, for I talk with it. 
 
 There is also a wooden cuckoo-clock. I do not know 
 why it has no voice any more. I do not like to ask it. 
 Perhaps, indeed, it is broken — the voice which was in 
 its spring — for good, like that of a dead person. 
 
 There is also an old sideboard which smells of wax, 
 preserves, meat, bread, and ripe pears. It is a faith- 
 ful servant which knows that it ought not to steal 
 anything from us.
 
 412 Six French Poets 
 
 Many men and women have come to my house who 
 do not believe in these little souls. And I smile when 
 a visitor, thinking that I am the only living thing, 
 says to me as he comes in : " How are you, Monsieur 
 Jammes ? " 
 
 I WRITE IN AN OLD KIOSK . . . 
 
 Page 230. I write in an old kiosk, so bushy that it is damp, and 
 Hke a Chinaman, I Usten to the water of the pool and 
 the voice of a bird — there, near the water -(sh !) 
 
 fall. I am going to light my pipe. This is it. I level 
 the ashes. Then memory gently descends in poetic 
 inspiration. 
 
 "/ have come too late into too old a world," and I am 
 bored, I am bored at not being present at a circle of 
 little girls with great wide hats. 
 
 "Cora, you will get the bottom of your pantalets 
 dirty if you touch that wretched dog." That is what 
 little girls of fashion would have said on an evening 
 of the olden time. 
 
 They would have looked at me, smiling, as I slowly 
 smoked my pipe, and my little niece would have said, 
 gravely : "He is going in to write verses now." 
 
 And her little companions, without understanding, 
 would have stopped the charming chatter of their
 
 Appendix A 413 
 
 circle for a moment, believing that verses were going 
 to be seen — perhaps. 
 
 "He has been to Touggourt, my dear," the circle 
 of older scholars would have said. And Nancy would 
 have announced: "There are savages and drome- 
 daries." 
 
 Then, I should have seen issue upon the road the 
 caracoling of the donkeys of many gentlemen and 
 many ladies coming back, in the evening, from a ride. 
 
 My heart, my heart, is it only in death that you 
 will find again this immense love for those whom you 
 have not known in those tender and deceased days? 
 
 THE USEFUL CALENDAR 
 
 Page 233. In the month of March (the Ram T), one sows 
 clover, carrots, cabbages, and lucerne. One stops 
 harrowing, and one puts manure at the foot of the 
 trees, and one prepares the beds. One finishes the 
 pruning of the vines, and after having ventilated 
 them, one puts the poles in place. 
 
 It is the end of Winter rations for the beasts. 
 Heifers with beautiful eyes, and whose mothers lick 
 them, are no longer led to tlie fields, but are given 
 fresh nourishment. The days increase by one hour 
 and fifty minutes. The evenings are sweet, and, at 
 twilight, straggling goatherds puff their cheeks out
 
 414 -Six French Poets 
 
 over flutes. Goats pass in front of the good dog, 
 who wags his tail and is their guardian. 
 
 Page 233. At last the beautiful Palm Sunday comes. When 
 I was a child, they attached some cakes to me, and I 
 went to vespers, docile and sad. My mother said : 
 " In my country there were olives . . . Jesus wept in 
 an olive garden . . . They went, with great pomp, 
 to seek for him ... In Jerusalem, people wept, 
 calling his name . . . He was gentle like the sky, 
 and his little ass-foal trotted joyously over the strewn 
 palms. Embittered beggars sobbed for joy as they 
 followed him, because they had faith . . . Bad 
 women became good, seeing him pass with his halo, 
 so beautiful that one believed it to be the sun. He 
 had a smile and hair of honey. He raised the 
 dead . . . They crucified him ..." I remember 
 this childhood and the vespers, and I weep, my throat 
 convulsed at being no more the very little boy in these 
 old months of March, at being no more in the old 
 village church where I carried the incense in the pro- 
 cession and where I listened to the priest repeating the 
 Passion. 
 
 Page 234. You will find it pleasant, in the month of March, 
 to walk over the black violets with your mistress. In 
 the shade you will find the milk-blue periwinkles, be- 
 loved of Jean-Jacques, the sad, passionate man. 
 
 In the woods you will find lungwort, with its violet 
 and wine-coloured flower, the leaves verdigris, spotted
 
 Appendix A 415 
 
 with white, hairy and very rough ; there is a holy 
 legend about it. The lady's smock to which the 
 saffron butterfly comes ; the light crowfoot and the 
 black hellebore ; the hyacinth which one crushes easily, 
 and which, crushed, has sticky brightnesses; the evil- 
 smelling jonquil, the anemone, and the narcissus which 
 makes one think of the snows of Swiss mountain 
 sides ; then the ground-ivy, good for asthmatics. 
 
 THESE ARE THE LABOURS . . . 
 
 Page 235. These are the labours of man which are great : the 
 one which puts the milk into the wooden jars ; the one 
 which picks the sharp and upright ears of corn ; the 
 one which watches the cows close to the fresh alders ; 
 the one which bleeds the forest birches ; the one 
 which plaits osiers near quick brooks ; the one which 
 repairs old shoes near a dim chimney-corner, with its 
 old mangy cat, a sleeping blackbird, and happy chil- 
 dren ; the one which weaves and makes a returning 
 noise, when, at midnight, the crickets sing piercingly ; 
 the one which makes bread ; the one which makes 
 wine ; the one which sows garlic and cabbage in the 
 garden ; and the one which gathers warm eggs. 
 
 THE VILLAGE AT NOON . . . 
 
 Page 236. The village at noon. The golden fly buzzes be- 
 tween the horns of the oxen. We will wander, if you 
 like, if you like, in the monotonous country. 
 
 Hear the cock . . . Hear the bell . . . Hear the 
 peacock . . . Hear, over there, over there, the
 
 4i6 Six French Poets 
 
 donkey . . . The black swallow soars. The poplars 
 in the distance roll out like a ribbon. 
 
 The well eaten up with moss ! Listen to its pulley, 
 grating, grating again, for the girl with the golden 
 hair holds the old black bucket from which the silver 
 falls like rain. 
 
 The young girl walks away with a step which makes 
 the pitcher lean sideways on her golden head, her head 
 like a hive, which mingles with the sunshine under 
 the flowers of a peach-tree. 
 
 And in the town, see how the black roofs shoot blue 
 flakes at the blue sky ; and the lazy trees at the quiver- 
 ing horizon scarcely sway. 
 
 LISTEN, IN THE GARDEN . . . 
 
 Page 23Q. Listen, in the garden which smells of chervil, listen 
 to the bullfinch singing in the peach-tree. 
 
 His song is like clear water in which the air bathes 
 itself, trembling. 
 
 My heart is sad unto death, even though many 
 have been, and one is, mad about it. 
 
 The first is dead. The second is dead ; — and I 
 don't know where another is.
 
 Appendix A 417 
 
 There is still one, however, who is as lovely as the 
 moon . . . 
 
 I am going to see her this afternoon. We wiU take 
 a walk in a town . . . 
 
 Will it be in the bright quarter of rich villas, of 
 strange gardens ? 
 
 Roses and laurels, railings, shut gates, have an air 
 of knowing something. 
 
 Ah, if I were rich, that is where I should live with 
 AmaryUia. 
 
 I call her Amaryllia. How silly ! No, it is not silly. 
 I am a poet. 
 
 Do you imagine it is amusing to be a poet at twenty- 
 eight ? 
 
 In my purse I have ten francs and two sous for my 
 powder. It is annoying. 
 
 I conclude from that that Amaryllia loves me, and 
 loves me for myself alone. 
 
 Neither the Mercure nor VErmitage pay me wages.
 
 41 8 Six French Pojts 
 
 She is really very nice, Amaryllia, and as intelligent 
 as I. 
 
 Fifty francs are lacking to our happiness. One 
 cannot have everything — and the heart. 
 
 Perhaps if Rothschild said to her : "Come along ..." 
 She would answer him : 
 
 "No, you shall not have my little dress, because I 
 love another ..." 
 
 And if Rothschild said to her : "What is the name 
 of this . . . of this . . . of this . . . poet?" 
 
 She would say to him: "It is Francis Jammes." 
 But the sad thing about all that would be : 
 
 That I do not think that Rothschild would know 
 who that poet was. 
 
 PRAYER TO GO TO PARADISE WITH THE DONKEYS 
 
 Page 242. When the time for going to you will have come, O 
 my God, let it be on a day when the countryside is 
 dusty with a festival. I wish, just as I do here, to 
 choose the road and go as I please to Paradise, where 
 there are stars in broad daylight. I will take my stick 
 and I will go along the high road, and I will say to the 
 donkeys, my friends: "I am Francis Jammes and I 
 am going to Paradise, because there is no hell in the
 
 Appendix A 419 
 
 country of the Good God." I will say to them: 
 "Come, gentle friends of the blue sky, poor, dear 
 animals, who, with a sudden movement of the ears, 
 drive away silver flies, blows, and bees ..." 
 
 Grant that I appear before you in the midst of these 
 animals that I love so much, because they hang their 
 heads gently, and when they stop put their little feet 
 together in a very sweet and pitiful way. I shall ar- 
 rive followed by their miUions of ears, followed by 
 those who carry baskets on their flanks, by those who 
 draw acrobats' carts or carts of feather-dusters 
 and tin ware, by those who have dented cans on their 
 backs, she-asses full hke gourds, with halting steps, 
 and those on whom they put little pantaloons because 
 of the blue and running sores which the obstinate flies 
 make, sticking in circles. My God, grant that I come 
 to you with these asses. Grant that angels conduct us 
 in peace to tufted streams, where glossy cherry-trees 
 quiver like the laughing flesh of young girls, and grant 
 that, leaning over your divine waters in this place of 
 souls, I become like the donkeys who mirror their 
 humble and gentle poverty in the clearness of eternal 
 love. 
 
 Page 243. It is a watch-dog barking to the moonlight as its 
 shadow moves over the roses. 
 
 Page 243. We awaited it at that red hour when noon-day bal- 
 ances its blue wings over country belfries.
 
 420 Six French Poets 
 
 AMSTERDAM 
 
 Page 145. The pointed houses have the appearance of leaning 
 over. One would say that they were falling. The 
 masts of the ships, confused against the sky, are bent 
 over like dry branches in the midst of green, of red, 
 of rust, of smoked herrings, of sheepskins, and of coal. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe passed through Amsterdam (at 
 least I believe he did), coming back from the shady 
 and green island of fresh cocoanuts. What an emo- 
 tion he must have had when he saw the enormous 
 doors of the town, with their heavy knockers, shining. 
 
 Did he look curiously at the entresols where clerks 
 were writing in account books? Did he feel like 
 weeping when he thought of his dear parrot, of his 
 heavy parasol, which sheltered him in the sorrowful 
 and clement island ? 
 
 "Blessed be thou, Eternal One," he cried to him- 
 self, before the chests brightly painted with tulips. 
 But his heart, saddened by the joy of return, regretted 
 his goat, who remained all alone among the vines of 
 the island, and was dead perhaps. 
 
 And I thought of this in front of the big warehouses 
 where one dreams of Jews touching the scales with 
 bony fingers encircled by green rings. See ! Am- 
 sterdam sleeps under the eyelids of the snow in a per- 
 fume of fog and acrid charcoal.
 
 Appendix A 421 
 
 Yesterday evening the lit white globes of the cheap 
 saloons from which you hear the wheezing entreaties 
 of heavy women, hung like fruits which resemble 
 gourds. Blue, red, green, the posters glittered. The 
 sharp prickling of sugared beer has rasped my tongue 
 and made my nose itch. 
 
 And in the Jewish quarters where the residue is, 
 one smelt the raw cold odour of fish. On the sticky 
 pavements was orange peel. A bloated head opened 
 its eyes wide, and onions were shaken from a disputing 
 arm. 
 
 Rebecca, at little tables you sold perspiring bonbons, 
 wretchedly arranged. 
 
 One would have said that the sky, like a dirty sea, 
 emptied clouds of waves into the canals. A smoke 
 which one does not see, the commercial calm, rose 
 from the wealthy roofs in imposing layers, and one 
 breathed India in the comfort of the houses. 
 
 Ah, I should like to have been a great merchant, of 
 those who used to go from Amsterdam to China, con- 
 fiding the administration of their houses to faithful 
 proxies. Like Robinson, I would have signed my 
 power of attorney pompously before a notary. 
 
 Then, my integrity would have made my fortune. 
 My business would have flourished like a moonbeam
 
 422 Six French Poets 
 
 upon the imposing prow of my barrelled ship. In my 
 cabin I should have received the nobles of Bombay, 
 who would have tempted my buxom wife. 
 
 Smiling under his great parasol, a negro with gold 
 earrings come from the Great Mogul to trade ! His 
 wild tales would have enchanted my slender eldest 
 daughter, to whom he would have offered a dress with 
 rubies, spun by his slaves. 
 
 I should have had the portraits of my family painted 
 by some clever painter whose lot had been unfortu- 
 nate : my beautiful and portly wife with fair, pink 
 cheeks, my sons whose beauty would have charmed 
 the town, and the varying and pure grace of my 
 daughters. 
 
 ^t>' 
 
 So that to-day, instead of being myself, I should 
 have been some one else, and I should have visited 
 the imposing house of these past centuries, and, dream- 
 ing, I should have let my soul float before these simple 
 words : there lived Francis Jammes. 
 
 MADAME DE WARENS 
 
 Page 248. Madame de Warens, you watched the storm wrin- 
 kling the gloomy trees of the melancholy Charmettes, 
 or else you played shrilly upon the spinet, sensible 
 woman whom Jean-Jacques lectured ! 
 
 It was an evening like this, perhaps . . . The sky 
 was blasted by black thunder ... A smell of
 
 Appendix A 423 
 
 branches cut before the rain rose mournfully from 
 the box borders . . . 
 
 And I saw again, pouting, at your knees, in his 
 little coat, the boy poet and philosopher . . . But 
 what was the matter with him ? . . . Why, weeping 
 to the rose-coloured sunsets, did he look at the swing- 
 ing of the magpies' nests ? 
 
 Oh ! how often he implored you, from the bottom 
 of his soul, to put a curb upon those exaggerated 
 spendings which you indulged in with that frivolity 
 which is, alas ! the characteristic of the majority of 
 women. 
 
 But you, witty as well as gentle and tender, you 
 said to him : "Look at him ! the little philosopher ! " 
 Or else you pursued him with some pink drug with 
 which you would powder his wig, laughing. 
 
 Peaceful sanctuaries ! Peaceful years ! Peaceful 
 retreats ! Fresh alder whistles blew among the 
 beeches . . . Yellow honeysuckle framed the win- 
 dow . . . Sometimes one received the visit of a 
 priest . . . 
 
 Madame de Warens, you had a fancy for this boy 
 with the slightly mischievous face, lacking in repartee, 
 but not at all stupid, and above all, clever at copying 
 music according to the rules.
 
 424 Six French Poets 
 
 Ah ! how you should have wept, inconstant woman, 
 when, abandoning him, he was obliged to go back, 
 alone, with his poor little bundle on his shoulders, 
 through the fir-trees of the waterfalls. 
 
 Page 250. I want no other joy, when Summer returns, than 
 that of the past year. I will sit down under the sleep- 
 ing grape vines. In the depth of the woods there is a 
 singing of fresh water, and there I shall hear, I shall 
 feel, I shall see, everything which the forest hears, 
 feels, and sees. 
 
 I want no other joy when Autumn returns, than that 
 of yellow leaves scraping the hillsides where it thun- 
 ders, than the rumbling sound of new wine in the casks, 
 than heavy skies, than cows jangling their bells, than 
 beggars asking an alms. 
 
 I want no other joy when Winter returns, than that 
 of iron skies, than the smoke-wreaths of cranes grating 
 in the air, than firebrands singing like the sea, and 
 than the lamp behind the green squares of window- 
 glass in the shop where the bread is bitter. 
 
 When Spring returns, I want no other joy than 
 that of the piercing wind, than the flowering of leaf- 
 less peach-trees, than muddy and green paths, than 
 the violet, and the bird, singing like a storm-swollen 
 brook gorging itself.
 
 Appendix A 425 
 
 Page 252. Like a smokmg and woolly flock, the sky travelled 
 under the rainy wind. The rain glistened on the 
 blue slates. Near the gate an ox-cart squeaked. A 
 cock pecked a cock. And on the old wooden bench, 
 
 Jean de Xoarrieu yawned. 
 
 One heard the ser\-aiit rrio\-ing about. Tre hearth. 
 dim and red, blazed up brighter under the ■«;hining 
 kettle . Near the black chest, greasy with age, it lit up 
 the smooth-beUied gourd, and the sheep-dog stretched 
 himself, yawning. 
 
 Twelve o'clock struck. The fat ir. the saucepan 
 spurted up. And Lude carefully Irrike two hen's 
 ^gs, with brown shells. :i, r.f: the tall andiron, and 
 one saw, puffing up beshlr :he white £at.. the eggs 
 which guttered ar.i le:.t: a: :ut. 
 
 Page 2S2. On the dresser are beautiful plates uoon -rvhich are 
 painted birds ornamented with aigrettes y . ^ fruits 
 and violet flowers. The silver in the ~ ; r :^ket 
 jingles brightly as Lude touches it. She .han^ei the 
 plate and smiles at her master. 
 
 Page 2S3. And blossoming Easter came. Halleluia ! Oh ! 
 sweet festival ! Harmoniums grumbled in the hearts 
 of the churches. HaQeltiia .' Gilded was the ereen
 
 426 Six French Poets 
 
 of the shining meadows. Crickets chirped. Halle- 
 luia ! Lilacs glistened in the blue night. 
 
 On a blessed and soft evening, Halleluia ! — of a 
 sudden one heard the lilacs slowly questioning the 
 stars. It was, it was, it was, Halleluia ! the nightin- 
 gale, the moon streamed, the nightingale in flowers. 
 Halleluia ! 
 
 Be bom again, Nature. Oh ! See the wild cherry- 
 tree all white in the garden. Halleluia ! The heart 
 bursts open . . . 
 
 Page 253. They cross the frail bridge over the torrent of a 
 little, old, whirling mill, all compounded of moss and 
 silver laughter ; a torrent as pretty as though it were 
 in" a novel, full of water-cress and quivering sunlight 
 and pebbles rolling over pebbles. 
 
 It leaps back. They see and they hear the sparkling 
 shiver with which the running water twinkles. The 
 wheel, covered with transparent moss, streams and 
 glitters, as in the Spring some emerald and silver val- 
 ley glitters in a blue cleft of the laughing Bigorres. 
 
 Page 254. It was the July dog-days : the tops of the ears of the 
 Indian corn were silver, and their stamens were drying 
 up. The circular sweep of the scythe, with its rake 
 attached, with which one levels the com, sounded in 
 the quivering sunshine.
 
 Appendix A 427 
 
 The scythe, which makes a sharp wailing noise, 
 shaved the com and the white bindweed, the purple 
 loosestrife and the winged thistle. In the fields, the 
 heat made the hollow, sharp, round, and breaking 
 straw crackle. And exploded the grating cicada. 
 
 Its cry took fire, suddenly, like powder, going on 
 from tree to tree, and at the hour of the siesta when 
 nothing is moving, the whole blue plain, curved about 
 the reddish-brown corn, made the whistling that a 
 child makes through his teeth to excite a dog on the 
 road. 
 
 Except for this excruciating sovmd, ever3rthing was 
 still. 
 
 Page 255. Outside, the night cups the clear moon. The trees 
 have a denser shade, a shade so dense that one would 
 say that they had the shadow of the day in them, and 
 that this shadow had retired into them to sleep until 
 morning. 
 
 What silence of love, only interrupted by the chirp- 
 ing of a toad under one of the stone steps ! . . . The 
 moon is rising through the catalpa tree. One can 
 distinguish its continents, eaten into by light, where 
 dreams are sleeping. 
 
 The garden prays. One feels the hearts of the 
 peaches beating in the silence of God. They are
 
 428 Six French Poets 
 
 downed like the lustre of the shining cheeks of those 
 dancers, who, in Laruns, display themselves like 
 flowers in slow, lazy dances. 
 
 The fruits weigh more at night. Night seems to 
 lean on the fruits. They bend to each other like Jean 
 and Lucie. One loves, trembling. Kisses end more 
 slowly, like those round wrinkles which the wind 
 starts and stills on the water. 
 
 One by one, the stars rise. And Jean sees them 
 sparkle, white, yellow, and pure, in the centre of the 
 dark windows. To the Southward, swollen storm 
 clouds creep slowly along, sometimes passing over the 
 moon, then leaving her bare. 
 
 Page 257. How exactly parallel all the shops are ! All little 
 towns are alike. Right : Grocery. Left : Dye Shop. 
 Right: PoUce Station. Left: Apothecary Shop. 
 Right: Inn. Left: Leather Worker's. Right: 
 Lawyer. Left : Doctor. Then ten or twelve middle- 
 class houses, with gardens full of blue foliage and 
 hollyhocks and the shining and rose-coloured heat 
 of light. Over there? That is the Town Hall and 
 its lightning-rod, and the four-cornered square, with 
 elms and chains . . . 
 
 Page 257. How beautiful the night is over the little town ! 
 Elevenbluehours ! Againsttheshadowof themoonlight, 
 the tulip-tree of this garden is even softer than the line 
 of silver-blue hills in the distance. Bright moonlight !
 
 Appendix A 429 
 
 It is so beautiful and bright, one wonders why one does 
 not live at night, like the hares. No one in the street. 
 A cricket chirps. A cat coughs, probably he has the 
 croup. I should like not to go to bed, to stretch out 
 in a field, and swim in this blue light. 
 
 Page 261. The peace of the fields extends all about the chapel. 
 And at the dusty crossroads, in the midst of oats, 
 mint, chicory and agrimony, stands a great Christ 
 of hollow wood, in which the bees have made their 
 nest. And one can see these busy creatures, full of 
 honey, go and come like black letters written upon 
 the slcy. 
 
 With what shall one nourish one's God if not with 
 honey ? Sometimes the road-mender, breaking stones, 
 raises his head and sees the Christ, the only friend he 
 has on this road where midday throbs. To break 
 the stones, the workman kneels in the shadow of this 
 Christ whose flank is crimson. And then all the 
 honey sings in the sunshine. 
 
 The poet looks and meditates. He tells himself, 
 before the slow quivering of the fields, that each blade 
 is one of the wise colony of God's people, each grain 
 of which, to be vivified, waits for water to be sent 
 forth from the grottoes of Heaven. He tells himself 
 that henceforward this grain will grow in the precious 
 azure which everything deepens, and that in the 
 image of the Son of God, he too born in a grotto, it will 
 nourish those who are hungry. And the ear, which 
 in its turn will be bom of this grain, will be shaped 
 like a belfry at dawn.
 
 430 Six French Poets 
 
 THE CHILD READS THE ALMANAC . . . 
 
 Page 262. The child is reading the aknanac, close to her basket 
 of eggs. And apart from the Saints, and the weather 
 it will be, she can contemplate the beautiful signs of 
 the heavens: The Goat, The Bull, The Ram, The 
 Fishes, et csetera. 
 
 Thus this little peasant girl can believe that, above 
 her in the constellations, there are the same markets, 
 with donkeys, bulls, rams, goats, and fishes. 
 
 It is the market of Heaven about which she is read- 
 ing, no doubt. And when the page turns at the sign 
 of The Scales, she says to herself that in Heaven, as 
 in the grocer's shop, they weigh coffee, salt, and con- 
 sciences. 
 
 Page 262. . . . rang gaily 
 
 For a farmer's daughter was being married. 
 
 Denis 
 
 Page 263. How light the wind is! It lifts up the vine . . . 
 Stay so, my Dear, in this soft wakefulness ... I 
 looked at your arms a Httle while ago, when you were 
 haymaking . . . They know, innocently, how to 
 fold themselves to your heart. What emotion is it 
 which, when I touch your eyes, prevents me from 
 thinking of anything but them? What sentiment 
 is it which, if I hear you singing, makes me feel
 
 Appendix A 431 
 
 that it is my voice which you have borrowed ? When 
 your heart rests upon mine, what is it which makes 
 me confuse us in the same sweetness ? 
 
 Lucie 
 
 What lovely words you know how to say to me ! 
 Alas ! I do not know how to answer in poetry, but 
 I love you just the same. If I do not know how to re- 
 turn your love in charming verses, be very sure that 
 I know how to take all the emotion which you want 
 to give me, and that I am yours with simplicity. 
 Blessed be work if it forces my arms to take the curves 
 which you desire, and which will enfold you . . . 
 Poetry is the soul of life. I cultivate it, and you make 
 it flower. Denis, I am nothing but the poor servant 
 who listens to the wise word with faith. 
 
 TO MARY OF NAZARETH, MOTHER OF GOD 
 
 Page 264. In dedicating this work to You, to You also I dedi- 
 cate my daughter Bemadette, whose patron saint 
 saw You in my native country, which is the mountain- 
 ous Bigorre. 
 
 The old botanists also dedicated their herbals to 
 You, and they painted You on the first page, standing, 
 Your son in Your arms, all surrovmded by lilacs, blue 
 rays, roses, gloxinias, weigelias, peonies, guelder-roses, 
 lilies, and the thousand flowers which will come no 
 more, because they are no longer gathered for You 
 by robust visionaries, who got up in the morning 
 with the forget-me-nots, and went to sleep with the 
 closing of the nasturtiums.
 
 432 Six French Poets 
 
 You are the Mother of all men and of God. You 
 were born in Nazareth as simply as my Bernadette 
 in Orthez. They have told the truth. They have 
 not invented an extraordinary origin for You. I 
 hold You in my heart as a certainty. Possibly I am 
 unintelligent, but the incense of all created flowers 
 rises from the earth for You, and You change it into 
 love, like this climbing rose which flings itself toward 
 the top of the cedars. 
 
 You see that I do not know any more what I am 
 writing, but my thoughts cling to You after the 
 manner of this flowering vine, and I dedicate this 
 poor work to You as a servant might her pot of 
 mignonette, and it trembles in my uplifted hands. 
 
 Page 266. In this way the verses of which I make use are 
 thoroughly classic, simply and solely freed by common 
 sense. 
 
 After a great battle in which I took part, I look and 
 realize that we are only slightly divided. 
 
 Becomes too sonorous and too easy and slack, the 
 pure alexandrine, formerly so beautiful, is just repe- 
 tition. 
 
 Vers libre does not give a clear enough sense of where 
 the stanza begins and ends. 
 
 But wanting all liberties, it has at least gained 
 some. They open the way.
 
 Appendix A 433 
 
 Few as they are, they are quite enough. Lines 
 shall be equal and not assonanced. 
 
 As the male bird in turn answers the female, the 
 male rhyme follows a female rhyme. 
 
 Although lines be thus bound together, I accept 
 the rhyming of plurals with singulars. 
 
 Again like the bird, who takes his rhythm from 
 heaven, here and there the rhyme may pause at the 
 caesura. 
 
 Sometimes the hiatus comes just in time to recall 
 him who is a poet to the simplest speech. 
 
 Now that the mute e is slipping out of speech, I do 
 not wish it to count in my verse any more. 
 
 The syllables to be counted are only those which 
 the reader habitually pronounces. 
 
 Having established this brief but definite Art of 
 Poetry, my inspiration once more opens its door. 
 
 Page 26^. The wind streamed over the blue silk of the grain 
 and wrinkled it, and the rattle of the crickets trembled 
 like the bell of a little railroad station. The line of 
 the horizon slept, stretched over the ears of wheat, 
 
 27
 
 434 "S"^^ French Poets 
 
 and the leaves of the stubble rose and fell like mast 
 pennants for grasshoppers. Sometimes one saw in the 
 sky a cloud like a grove of shadows lifted up from the 
 hill, and while it sUd along, the hill shone, darkened, 
 and shone again. 
 
 PAUL FORT 
 THE GREAT INTOXICATION 
 
 Page 274. On blue Summer nights when the cicadas sing, 
 God spills a cup of stars over France. The wind 
 brings a taste of the Summer sky to my lips. I want 
 to drink from this freshly silvered space. 
 
 For me, the evening air is the edge of the cold cup 
 from which, with half -shut eyes and voracious mouth, 
 I drink the starry freshness which falls from the 
 clouds, as though it were the squeezed juice of a pome- 
 granate. 
 
 Lying upon a grassplot where the grass is still hot 
 from having flaunted itself in the day air, oh ! this 
 evening, with what love would I empty the immense 
 blue cup in which the firmament moves ! 
 
 Am I Bacchus or Pan? I am intoxicated with 
 space, and I quench my fever in the freshness of nights. 
 With my mouth open to the sky in which the stars 
 shiver, oh ! that the sky would flow into me ! that I 
 might melt into it !
 
 Appendix A 435 
 
 Byron and Lamartine, Hugo, Shelley, are dead, 
 intoxicated with space and the starry heavens. Space 
 is always there ; limitless it flows ; scarcely drunk, it 
 sweeps me along, and I am still thirsty. 
 
 THE SKY IS GAY, 'TIS PLEASANT MAY 
 
 Page 27 S- Over the hedge the sea is sparkling, the sea sparkles 
 like a shell. One wants to fish in it. The sky is gay, 
 'tis pleasant May. 
 
 The sea over the hedge is soft, it is soft like the hand 
 of a child. One wants to caress it. The sky is gay, 
 'tis pleasant May. 
 
 The glittering needles which sew the sea to the 
 hedge move in the quick hands of the breeze. The 
 sky is gay, 'tis pleasant May. 
 
 Upon the hedge the sea exhibits its frivolous butter- 
 flies. Little vessels about to sail. The sky is gay, 
 'tis pleasant May. 
 
 The hedge — it is depths, with golden beetles. 
 The breezes are more mischievous. The sky is gay, 
 'tis pleasant May. 
 
 As soft as a tear upon a cheek, the sea is a tear on 
 the hedge which softly descends to the harbour. But 
 one scarcely wishes to weep.
 
 436 Six French Poets 
 
 "A boy has fallen into the harbour !" — "Dead in 
 the sea, 'tis a pleasant death." But one scarcely 
 wishes to weep. The sky is gay, 'tis pleasant May ! 
 
 Page 277. ... It came into the world for me, real, great, 
 immense, and dreamed at the same time. 
 
 It came into the world for me, divined by my eyes, 
 on a Spring morning, to the twittering of swallows. 
 My little hands believed they took it from the blue 
 sky! It was faithful to me, being bom again each 
 dawn, all inhabited by Saints, by Kings, and by Heroes, 
 and by Angels half in flight, like a tree of birds. 
 
 Great plaything of my soul, French forest of 
 stones ; and my immense rattles, your towers ; you 
 remained the sole Pastime of my spirit, with the three 
 high porches in a flaming triangle, and above them the 
 Rose, where one saw the fluttering of pigeons pecking 
 at the fleeting reflections. 
 
 Then, my Cathedral, when I was at last old enough 
 to join a kite to the wings of your angels, and make 
 your walls ring with my cries, and pursuing my cries 
 with streaming hair, to surround your old walls with 
 the hundred games of childhood . . . 
 
 Page 278. Monstrous General Baron von Plattenberg, if to 
 you I owe this love song to my Church, I give you in
 
 Appendix A 437 
 
 return, even if it immortalizes you, the poet's slap in 
 the face, and the scaffold of the Word — but I have a 
 magazine of hate consecrated to all the Germans 
 whom I have chanced to meet. 
 
 JOACHIM 
 
 Page 282. Night glides thick and cold through Paris. Two 
 shadows in the darkness, two thin little shadows, 
 move chillily, then slide into the night. 
 
 "Sweet Sire, I have sworn. We go to-night." 
 "Very well, follow me, follow me." 
 
 Little lanes in the midst of little lanes, two thin 
 little shadows move in the cold, — then stop. 
 
 There, before a half-buried hovel, a voice, a little 
 bitter-sweet voice, tart, a little voice drenched with 
 sobs : 
 
 "I am neither lion, nor wolf, nor fox, I am a man, 
 Croy ! Knock at this door, Croy ! Here, — good. 
 Call : Dame Simone des Chaines !" 
 
 " Dame Simone des Chaines !" 
 
 "Good. Listen, listen! . . . Ask if some one 
 did not die yesterday at her house." 
 
 " Dame Simone, did some one die here yesterday ? " 
 
 "Alas, sweet Sir! You know it then? My son 
 Joachim, my son, last night." 
 
 "I am neither lion, nor wolf, nor fox, I am a man. 
 Croy, come back, hold me up ! Joachim ! . . . 
 Croy ! I am neither lion, nor wolf, nor fox, I am all
 
 438 Six French Poets 
 
 three. Croy, I am a man. Goodbye, little crea- 
 ture . . . Joachim! Joachim! Come now, let us 
 go. Dame Simone was . . . Dame Simone was . . . 
 I am a man, Croy, I am weeping for a little crea- 
 ture . . . Joachim! Alas! . . . my little child . . ." 
 
 Night glides thick and cold through Paris, two thin 
 little shadows push, slide, move. Oh ! what a little 
 tart voice, tart ... Oh, its little anguished cries ! 
 
 THE MIRACULOUS CATCH 
 
 Page 283. The news was so charming, — an uncle dead so k 
 propos! — my sweet little Louis XI wished very 
 much to celebrate it, but intimately, in agreeable 
 society. 
 
 Master Tristan, all imagination, counselled an out- 
 door party, and, as he winked with his sly red eyes : — 
 "Understood," said the king, "you are nothing but 
 
 a rascal." 
 
 The next morning, under the blue heavens, gay and 
 contented, my sweet little Louis XI, Tristan I'Ermite, 
 and their madcap mistresses, Simone des Chaines 
 and Perrette de Tresor, were come to tease the gud- 
 geon of the Seine, at the reedy foot of the Tour de 
 Nesle. 
 
 Master Olivier, virgin, kept watch on the bank, 
 crushing the grass with his long strides. He stared 
 gloomily into the air : the fall of Buridan occupied his 
 mind.
 
 Appendix A 439 
 
 Simone des Chaines, heart and soul bound to the 
 heart and soul of her dearly-loved King, like a water- 
 lily bending over an old nenuphar, leaned her snow- 
 white neck, her milk-white forehead, and her little 
 white velvet nose, over the shrivelled shoulder of her 
 lover; and, from time to time, the gracious King 
 Louis of France asked her for a worm. Then it was 
 with such a great charm that she drew one out of a 
 little green box ; it was with such a disturbing charm 
 that she presented it, all wriggling, to the King, that 
 Louis could not resist kissing her ear (not that of the 
 worm but that of Simone des Chaines), even whisper- 
 ing lovingly these words: "Sweetheart, you shall 
 assist at the States General." 
 
 Master Olivier, virgin, kept watch on the bank, 
 crushing the grass with his long strides. He stared 
 gloomily into the air: the fall of Buridan occupied 
 his mind. 
 
 With an inattentive eye, as though he were a river- 
 side flower, he watched a certain Master Villon run- 
 ning through the reeds after dragonflies, and who, 
 sometimes, turned eyes full of anarchy toward those 
 bourgeois fishing over there, with their friends. Mas- 
 ter Olivier, virgin, was absent minded ... He 
 scarcely saw Master Villon, in the reeds, taking off 
 his clothes. He scarcely murmured, as one murmurs 
 in a dream: "Really, this naked gentleman is not 
 unknown to me."
 
 440 Six French Poets 
 
 And Tristan caught nothing. And the King caught 
 nothing. The worms spun out, spun out . . . And 
 Francois Villon, taking to mid-stream, whispered to 
 the fishes as he floated : " Hurrah for liberty ! Don't 
 let yourselves be taken." 
 
 "Hush!" cried the King, "or I shall lose this 
 turbot." 
 
 "A turbot, my Lord, is a sea fish ..." timidly 
 risked the tender Simone. "I sold them, with my 
 mother, at the great Saint-Honore Market, in the 
 time of my virginity." — "A sea fish? Hey, that is 
 certainly why I have missed him ! " replied the King, 
 not at all disconcerted. 
 
 "Past days do not return," hummed Perrette, ad- 
 justing her stockings. "Yes, youth is only once," 
 struck up Tristan, with conviction. Then the timid, 
 the tender Simone cooed, to an air then little known : 
 "It is twenty years since I lost my mother ..." 
 Nothing more was needed. Tristan burst into tears, 
 — while the King, all the time fishing the wind, 
 sang at the top of his voice : "No, my friends, no, I 
 do not want to be anything ! . . . " 
 
 And Tristan caught nothing. And the King 
 caught nothing. The worms spun out, spun out . . . 
 And the intelligent gudgeon, flapping their gills, 
 applauded. — (Undoubtedly, "applauded" is only a 
 metaphor. But does one really know what goes on 
 in the water ?)
 
 Appendix A 441 
 
 At the reedy foot of the Tour de Nesle, the boon 
 companions, the King and the hangman, sang in 
 chorus, Uke birds. And the gudgeon waltzed, waltzed 
 agreeably round the corks. 
 
 Master Olivier, virgin, kept watch on the bank . . . 
 
 Suddenly Perrette burst out laughing in her skirt ! 
 My sweet little Louis XI, throwing up his line with 
 spirit, had hooked a kingfisher. — Tristan said : "A 
 forfeit!" Simone : "Fish flying!" and Master 
 Olivier stopped short in the middle of a stride. 
 
 "By my soul ! I beUeve I've been mistaken," said 
 Frangois Villon to himself as he swam under water. 
 "To fish for a bird instead of a gudgeon . . . This 
 bourgeois is not devoid of lyrism." 
 
 And the gudgeon waltzed, waltzed agreeably round 
 the corks. 
 
 THE GIRL WHO DIED IN LOVING 
 Page 2Q2. This girl is dead, is dead while she loved. 
 
 They have laid her in the earth, in the earth, at 
 break of day. 
 
 They have laid her there alone, alone in her fine 
 array. 
 
 They have laid her there alone, alone within her 
 coffin.
 
 442 Six French Poets 
 
 They have returned gaily, gaily with the light. 
 
 They have sung gaily, gaily : " To each his turn 
 
 This girl is dead, is dead while she loved." 
 
 They have gone to the fields, to the fields as every 
 day . . . 
 
 Page 2Q3. No, I must love, must trail my pain, to weep 
 against the stone here, see, where I inscribed her name 
 between a rock-rose, and this heart-coloured pink. I 
 am benumbed ! — I am going plant-hunting by moon- 
 light, seeking under the moss for the herb which 
 restores youth. 
 
 THE ROUND 
 
 Page 2g6. If all the girls in the world wished to take hands, 
 they could make a circle all round the sea. 
 
 If all the boys in the world wished to be sailors, 
 they could make a nice bridge over the waves with 
 their ships. 
 
 Then one could make a round all round the world, 
 if all the people in the world wished to take hands. 
 
 THE WEDDING 
 
 Page 2g6. Ah, what joy, the flute and the bagpipe trouble our 
 hearts with their enchanting strains. Here come the
 
 Appendix A 443 
 
 lads and girls, and all the old people, to the sound of 
 the instruments. 
 
 Gai, gai, let us be married, ribbons and white 
 starched caps, gai, gai, let us be married, and this 
 pretty couple likewise. 
 
 What pleasure, when in the decorated church, bells 
 and little bells call them, every one — three hundred 
 little bells for the eyes of the bride, a great deep bell 
 for the heart of the husband. 
 
 Gai, gai, let us be married, ribbons and white 
 starched caps, gai, gai, let us be married, and this 
 pretty couple likewise. 
 
 The bell at last holds our tongues silent. Ah ! 
 what pain when it is for us no more . . . Weep 
 upon your prayerbooks, old men. Who knows? 
 Soon the bell may be for you ? 
 
 Gai, gai, let us be married, ribbons and white 
 starched caps, gai, gai, let us be married, and this 
 pretty couple likewise. 
 
 At last that is all, and the bell is silent. Come 
 and dance to the happiness of the married couple. 
 Hurrah for the lad and the girl and the festival. Ah ! 
 what joy when it is not for us.
 
 444 'S'i;x; French Poets 
 
 Gai, gai, let us be married, ribbons and white 
 starched caps, gai, gai, let us be married, and this 
 pretty couple likewise. 
 
 What pleasure, the flute and the bagpipe make the 
 old young again for a moment. See the lads and the 
 young girls dancing. Ah, what joy to the sound of 
 the instriiments ! 
 
 AND YOU YOU YOU 
 
 Page 2q8. And you, you, you, it is the fisherman dying, and you, 
 you, yu, and the whole sea on top of him. 
 
 And you, you, you, it is the shepherdess weeping, 
 and you, you, ya, love is lost to her. 
 
 And you, you, you, it is the sea there bleating, and 
 you, you, yon, or it is the sheep there ? 
 
 And you, you, you, pleasures are in Heaven, and 
 you, you, you, beneath them are the clouds. 
 
 LIFE 
 
 Page 298. At the first sound of bells: "It is Jesus in his 
 cradle ..." 
 
 The bells have redoubled : " gue, my lover ! " 
 
 And then all at once it is the passing bell.
 
 Appendix A 445 
 
 THE WHALES 
 
 Page 2qS. In the days when one still went after whales, so far, 
 Sailor, it made our maidens weep, on every road 
 there was a Jesus on the cross, there were Marquises 
 covered with lace, there was the Holy Virgin and there 
 was the King ! 
 
 In the days when one still went after whales, so far, 
 Sailor, it made our maidens weep, there were seamen 
 who had faith, and great Lords who spat upon it, 
 there was the Holy Virgin and there was the King ! 
 
 Ah, well, now everybody is contented, it is not a 
 thing to say, Sailor, but we are contented! There 
 are no great Lords, nor Jesus any more ; there is the 
 republic, and there is the president, and there are no 
 more whales. 
 
 THE TWO CLOWNS 
 Page 2QQ. "Synthetic Clown-Clown, hip, hip, turn!" 
 
 "Six pirouettes, blue white white blue — behold 
 the Sky ! Six pirouettes, blue green green blue — 
 behold the Sea ! Six pirouettes, green yellow yellow 
 green — behold the Desert ! Six pirouettes, gold 
 yellow yellow gold — behold the Sun !" 
 
 "Bravo, bravo, a little bravo, gentlemen. Ana- 
 lytic Clown-Clown, yours, turn ! "
 
 446 Six French Poets 
 
 "Very well. Gentlemen, let us decompose our- 
 selves, follow me carefully : Violet, two pirouettes, 
 Indigo, three pirouettes. Blue, five pirouettes. Green, 
 two pirouettes, Yellow, three pirouettes, Orange, five 
 pirouettes. Red, ten pirouettes. Total : thirty pi- 
 rouettes. Attention, Gentlemen, keep your eyes 
 on the rainbow . . . Two, three, five, two, three, 
 five, ten, rrrrrrran ! " 
 
 "Stop, Analj^ic, stop, enough! He will burst . . . 
 God . . . Ah!" 
 
 Synthetic writhed, then in the sawdust of the ring, 
 with a profound finger, inscribed this sombre epitaph : 
 
 Here lies 
 Analytic 
 
 this clown supposed to be wise 
 
 — very mad 
 
 and dead of rage 
 
 at having been unable to turn in a tempest. 
 
 SENLIS. EARLY MORNING 
 
 Page 301. I go out. Has the town vanished this morning? 
 Where has it flown to? By what wind, to what is- 
 land? I find it, but dare not stretch out my hands. 
 Senlis is as vaporous as muslin. I, to tear Senlis? 
 Take care. Where is it? Roofs and walls are a
 
 Appendix A 447 
 
 transparent network of fog. Notre-Dame surrenders 
 to the air her throat of lace, her slender neck, her 
 deUcate moon-coloured breast where the unreal hour 
 strikes which only the angels remark, so stifled is 
 the echo in the pillow of the sky made of the softly 
 spread feathers of their wings on which God rests 
 his forehead inclined toward Senlis. 
 
 HORIZONS 
 
 Page 302. In the direction of Paris, but toward Nemours the 
 white, a bullfinch sang in the branches this morning. 
 
 In the direction of Orleans, flown toward Nemours, 
 the lark sang above the wheat at high noon. 
 
 In the direction of Flanders, in the golden twilight, 
 far from Nemours the magpie has hidden his treasure. 
 
 In the evening, crying toward the East, toward 
 Germany and Russia, the flock of crows has quitted 
 this countryside. 
 
 But in my beautiful garden, sheltered by Nemours, 
 Philomel has sung all through the starry night. 
 
 Page 303. " And when he climbed up the ladder with his people, 
 what did they throw at them, tell me? Chick- 
 ens?" "Notso." "Radishes? Butter?" "You are 
 wrong." "Lambs? Oxen?" "Rather!" "Straw- 
 berries and cream ? Melons ? Salsify ? Fi ! you are
 
 448 Six French Poets 
 
 joking!" "They threw melted iron in their eyes; 
 on their noses, under their noses, flaming torches 
 (like opened roses, good to inhale) ; and all over 
 their bodies a joyous pell-mell of furniture, paving 
 stones, slates, cannon-balls, spit, gnawed bones, 
 varying filths, little nails, big nails, anvils, hammers, 
 saucepans, wines, papboats of iron, plates, forks, 
 stoves, spoons, ink, boiling grease and oil, how do 
 I know? Tombstones, well-curbs, partition walls, 
 gutters, roofs, belfries, bells, little bells which tinkled 
 gracefully on heads." 
 
 "What else did they throw at them — and no 
 Ue?" 
 
 "Ah ! many objects very bruising, cutting, sharp- 
 ened, whetted, ball-shaped, socket-shaped, granulated, 
 homed, toothed, beaked, of earth, of sheet -iron, of 
 freestone, of iron, of steel, curved, bristled, twisted, 
 confused, everything that was badly used up, moss- 
 grown, rusted, frayed, in thongs, in wedges, hollow, 
 sieved, cross-shaped, screw-shaped, hooked, ringing, 
 grating, whistling and snoring, going humph, ouf, 
 louf, pouf, bring, sring, tringle, balaam, bottom, bet- 
 ting, batar, arara, raraboum, bul, bul, breloc, relic, re- 
 laps, mil, bomb, marl, broug, batacl, mirobol, pic, 
 poc, quett, strict, pac, diex, mec, pett, sec, sic, soif, 
 flic, fatal, brie, broc, brrrrrr . . . , which battered in 
 skuUs, enlarged noses, banged ears, widened mouths, 
 made fly teeth, fingers, elbows, arms, chins, cheek- 
 bones, and married eyes disdaining an omelette of 
 one, boned shoulders, brutalized chests, discouraged 
 hearts, thrust into bellies, pried first into one buttock 
 then another, pulled out false bowels, made wool of
 
 Appendix A 449 
 
 thighs, biUiard-balls of knee-pans, and enlarged feet, 
 or cut a man into five, six, seven, — really." 
 
 "Indeed, and still, what did they throw at them? 
 
 Corpses, insults, mobs and arrows?" 
 
 "Better than that! (shiver with me) — houses. 
 And it wanted only a little more, and they would have 
 thrown the whole town at them over the town ! " 
 
 HENRY III 
 I 
 
 Page 505. The curtains of the windows are closed. The furni- 
 ture sleeps. Sometimes the royal bed gives a long 
 moan. It is the wood which complains, it is the soul 
 of the old oak. Listen . . . Indeed, it scarcely 
 moans. Listen. The dark fireplace comes to life 
 and shines. Three little blue flames dance on the 
 hearth, tossing great farewells to the fleur-de-lised 
 walls. 
 
 Nothing more. Darkness pursues the four walls. 
 
 All at once a burst from the hearth brings them 
 back. The bed, all shivering, gives a human wail ; 
 and Philippe de Valois detaches himself from a wall. 
 Quickly he opens a chest, plunges into it and shuts it. 
 
 Louis XI, wary, slides hypocritically along ; about 
 
 his black hood a white mouse turns, and here, the 
 
 shield of Brittany on their sleeves, devouring each 
 
 other with their eyes, are Louis XII and Charles VIII. 
 
 They open the chest, plunge into it and shut it. 
 2a
 
 450 Six French Poets 
 
 The little blackguard, Frangois II, goes to the fire- 
 place and vomits. The bed, heaving up its sheets, 
 seems a phantom in pain. How short reigns are in 
 the chamber of Kings ! Did you see the great wooden 
 coffer yawn ? 
 
 Nothing more. Darkness pursues the four walls. 
 
 All at once a burst from the hearth brings them 
 back, and in front of Henri II limps Frangois the first. 
 They dream, with bent heads, of Diane de Poitiers, 
 then plunge in together and shut the lid. 
 
 It is Charles V who raises it with his sceptre, and 
 the Wise King is red with a reflection from the faggots. 
 He jumps. Does the purple hinder jumping? He 
 rolls in his purple and lets go the truncheon. The 
 hand of justice flies from lock to lock (eric! crac!) 
 turning the keys. 
 
 For here is Jean le Bon. 
 
 Round-shouldered, covered with melodious and 
 melancholy chains, he has a wicked smile, and the 
 blue eyes of Christ. The madman Charles VI whips 
 him rhythmically from helmet to feet with the lilies 
 of France, and Charles VII, the drunkard, gathering 
 up the petals, bows his face. But he staggers. He 
 has drunk too much. Three sepulchral drops make 
 the chest resound.
 
 Appendix A 451 
 
 The Valois Kings are in an uproar. The bed trem- 
 bles. The eleven Valois Kings call another. There, 
 and in the mirrors, see, the coffer yawns. Does Death 
 exercise itself in metamorphoses ? At each yawn the 
 horns of Satyrs lift the lid and quickly draw back. 
 
 Then great silence . . . 
 
 At last, coming out of the half -shadow, a white face 
 rises as the moon rises. And the bed sees Charles IX 
 with the black eyes pass. Houp ! the chest breathes 
 him in, and everything vanishes. In the depths of the 
 infinite a mouse nibbles. 
 
 II 
 
 The curtains of the windows are closed. The 
 furniture sleeps. Sometimes the royal bed gives a 
 long moan. It is the wood which complains, it is the 
 soul of the old oak, or perhaps, with torches, would 
 one see a man there ? And wait 1 the dark fireplace 
 comes to Hfe and shines; three Httle blue flames 
 stretch out their reflections which mow the harvest 
 of the fleur-de-hsed walls. The ceiling lights up and 
 seems to grow higher; the bed, still in shadow, is 
 swallowed up under its dome. 
 
 The room, where everything wavers, is a prey to 
 phantoms. 
 
 A last glimmer strikes out on the chest the circle 
 which is escaping from its half -opened abyss.
 
 452 Six French Poets 
 
 A quick gleam strikes out on the sides of the chest 
 the circle which turns upon its wood in a tumult. 
 
 The reflection of the mirrors isolates and makes jut 
 out the lascivious, bounding circle of twelve great 
 Satyrs surrounding a frightened goat with their 
 desires, — while in these mirrors, thirty times re- 
 peated, a Hercules of bronze whirls his mass about. 
 
 He has the grimacing smile of the Bearnais. He, 
 truly ! The very image ! 
 
 The darkness is hot. A cry is smouldering . . . 
 
 In silence, at a gallop, urged by the silent tempest of 
 Ages and Ages and Ages, in silence, to the gallop of 
 his iron horse, Charlemagne traverses the room in a 
 flash. Henri de Guise follows him on his tall, black 
 horse, but having gone the wrong way, loses himself 
 in a mirror. And afterwards, here is Catherine, her 
 great and beautiful face — horrible to see ! 
 
 Now from his stupor Henri tears a cry, a cry such 
 as is heard at night in the depths of plains, that cry 
 of the solitudes which swells and passes by and trails 
 away, discouraging life in the heart of the traveller ; 
 and it is at this moment that at the window which is 
 shining to the West, the iron of a halberd, caught in 
 the fluttering stuff, lifts up an easy curtain. 
 
 Outside the day is dying, rose-coloured, with snow.
 
 Appendix A 453 
 
 III 
 
 The King, dressed in black, has leaped out of bed ; 
 he goes to the mirrors to question his face, shrinks 
 before his pallor, and, all trembling, puts on his hat. 
 Then his black hat isolates his pallor. "Will you 
 come to arouse a stupefied blood" (says he), "O 
 Liquor! . . ." The cup falls at his feet. Softly 
 opening the door, he listens to the antechamber, all 
 lit with swords and full of clashings. 
 
 Gloves. Ebony cane. And he is gone. 
 
 "The King, Gentlemen. The King!" A halberd 
 resounds. Voices, whisperings, noises of chairs. The 
 twilight glimmer sparklingly underlines the gilded 
 beams. The antechamber is confused, full of the 
 shadows of vassals bending toward a passage where 
 a white point is advancing. 
 
 Behind, the royal bed is crouched under its dome, 
 quite at the end of a passage where a white point is 
 advancing. 
 
 " The King ! " Second echo. — A halberd resounds. 
 
 What oval whiteness, at the height of 'a face, agi- 
 tates two long pearls such as the moon might have 
 wept? Face and long pearls, Henri III appears. 
 And the subject shadows, all the shadows, bow down. 
 
 Has a flight of dead leaves fallen here ?
 
 454 •^'^^ French Poets 
 
 "You who risk an eye, look : does the twilight still 
 underline the gilded beams ? " 
 
 "Yes, but the King?" 
 
 "The King, my son? ... He has gone by." 
 
 "Quelus, my good friend, that smacks of prodigy." 
 
 "Maugiron, Saint-Megrin, listen to the marvel : this 
 evening the Ghost of the King wanders about the 
 palace, masked with moonlight and two tears in its 
 ears." 
 
 " Is it going to find Catherine again in her clouds ? 
 It is going up the staircase." 
 
 "It is at the second story !" 
 
 A halberd resounds. Voices, whisperings, noises of 
 chairs. Outside the day dies, rose-coloured, with snow. 
 
 IV 
 
 While the King hurries up the empty staircase, 
 Chicot happens in, swinging his lighted lantern ! 
 They surround the Fool, who chuckles, and slips 
 away, and reappears, lifting up his lantern and swing- 
 ing it like a censer at the bottom of the staircase. 
 
 "Go on, Gentlemen, I am searching for a King," 
 says he. 
 
 The antechamber is dark with great whitish corners, 
 where already torches are springing into flame under 
 many hands. One of them throws out a flame of 
 snow and carmine. Quickly the hands spread out. —
 
 Appendix A 455 
 
 One sees the whole room. — Agile, at the ends of arms, 
 swords take fire, and joining themselves by twos, 
 people the air with sparks; some blades hum, 
 others are all clashings, and the shadows of bodies 
 make the walls move, and the feet of Mignons rustle 
 on the flagstones. 
 
 "Chicot," Quelus cries out, "the Ghost of the King 
 wanders. What are you doing there, Chicot? Do 
 you want to wander ? Armed with your candle, you 
 will see it go up." 
 
 "No, I see it come down." 
 
 "Who then?" 
 
 "Henri de Guise." 
 
 "The Devil! He is in Spain . . . (Yours, 
 Monsieur, touched !) " 
 
 "Pardon, my dear Sir, he is coming down the stair- 
 
 case." 
 
 "Chicot, take care of yourself! ..." "It's 
 damned true. Gentlemen, / saw him." 
 The swords drop back on the flagstones. 
 
 Meanwhile the King hurries up the empty staircase, 
 alone, to his mother Catherine's apartments in the 
 clouds, and does not feel, sliding by, the limpid cuirass 
 of Monseigneur de Guise, who draws back on the land- 
 ing. The Duke is very much in the flesh, however. 
 His heart beats strongly. But not enough to make the 
 cold metal which Monseigneur hides with his hat jingle 
 as he bows.
 
 456 Six French Poets 
 
 At the very bottom, the staircase blazes. The 
 Duke comes down. He comes down step by step 
 Uke a discreet phantom. They crowd about, they 
 see him. The Duke is returning from Spain like a 
 discreet phantom, and he even returns by the bed- 
 chamber of the Queen ! 
 
 "Unbelievable," says Maugiron. 
 
 "This Guise is a great fellow," says Saint-M^grin. 
 
 "Way for my Lord the Duke ! " 
 
 The limpid cuirass draws away the swords. Every- 
 thing slips away. Ever)rthing is extinguished. 
 
 Meanwhile Henri HI, half-lying on the railing 
 at the top of the staircase, has seen everything this 
 time. In his throat is a sob like a dove's, then he 
 stands up. 
 
 A wall opens slightly for the King. 
 
 VI 
 Here, nothing but a lamp lighting up a hand. 
 
 Everything — except this lamp and save the parch- 
 ment, where this hand, plump, old, starched, guides 
 the goose-quill or seeks the ink-stand, — everjrthing 
 here is in shadow. The hand, by chance withdrawing
 
 Appendix A 457 
 
 a little, leaves the writing. Then this is what the 
 flame, which writhes above the characters like a mar- 
 tyr, might read : 
 
 " To Madame my daughter, the Catholic Queen, 
 
 '^ My beloved daughter, my dearest, my docile Isabel, 
 I have just received news of you from Spain. Monsieur 
 de Guise brought it to me. Indeed, it would be beautiful 
 to see all the wicked heretics burning in a single torch 
 (in France also, as you do there). Alas, Darling, 
 nothing can be done here. With us there is only perver- 
 sion, and suffering for your good mother. You know 
 the afflictions which it pleases Heaven to send me, and 
 which are the greatest ever sent to any one. To burn 
 heretics ! Ah! yes, beautiful bouquet of flames, indeed ! 
 A great bonfire, and one which would be acceptable to 
 God. But what of that, little daughter, in France nothing 
 can be done. Everything here remains in shadow, even 
 the Royal Shadow . . ." 
 
 A white lip hangs from the shadow of a face. Under 
 a bonnet of black tulle, a forehead bends over, scored 
 with moving wrinkles like a belfry of birds, and the 
 more this forehead bends over the higher it appears. 
 Catherine's wet eyes grow silver. The stern and 
 delicate curve of the long Italian nose which the 
 fold of the nostril pulls back like a bow, is in profile. 
 
 It is the moment when Catherine, pouting and 
 pacific, crosses out the impoUtic phrase with a stroke 
 of her pen.
 
 458 Six French Poets 
 
 Now another face has risen up in the room. Be- 
 hind her, Catherine feels the presence of a pallor. 
 She has ceased to write, listening to her heart. Two 
 little gloved hands fall on her shoulders, like two bats 
 killed by the same blow of a stick. And one of the 
 little hands circling down to her heart, clenches 
 itself there . . . 
 
 Then, with the end of her goose-quill, Catherine 
 pensively, gently, caresses it. And both dream, and 
 the moment is full of indolence. 
 
 The hand relaxes, trembling ... By one finger ! — 
 see the parchment designated by one finger ! 
 ^^ Everything here remains in shadow, even the Royal 
 Shadow." 
 
 Two hands seize Catherine's neck, and the Queen, 
 lifting up her terrible forehead, cries: "My King!" 
 A quick squeak of the wood floor reveals a sudden 
 flight, and soon Henri III descends the empty stair- 
 case., 
 
 VII 
 
 He crosses the dark and deserted antechamber, 
 throws himself against a wall with both arms spread 
 out, and searches for the passage down the whole 
 length of the empty wall. 
 
 Nothing more : emptiness.
 
 Appendix A 459 
 
 The King totters ; he hurries, totters ; he hurries to 
 his open door and starts to go in, but stops, his hand 
 at his throat and livid, before a sleepy and swaying 
 halberd. 
 
 Henri seizes the leg of the guard whom he wakes, 
 for — O Stupor ! — behind the guard whom he wakes, 
 there ! in his bed ! . . . some one, some one or some- 
 thing, like himself (and perhaps himself), black and 
 white, a man, a King or something, a King perhaps ? 
 Charles IX or Frangois? A prone phantom sleeps 
 the sleep of the dead. 
 
 "Guard! Come, you ! Who is in the rooms of the 
 King of France ? To whom does that pallor belong ? 
 Those are my clothes. Let me see, did I go out, or 
 is it I, there? What is that thing?" "Alas !" said 
 the man in alarm, "alas! my dear Sire, but I . . . 
 I do not know." 
 
 "Silence," said a voice. Avoicesaid: "Silence . . ." 
 The King shakes, aU crouched down like a frog 
 in the cold, and the halberd falls and the guard 
 escapes. 
 
 "It is nothing, my sweet Sire, it is Chicot, resting." 
 
 And Chicot decamps dragging a sheet after him.
 
 460 Six French Poets 
 
 VIII 
 Midnight? 
 
 Midnight chimes from Saint-Germain-rAuxerrois, 
 
 PAN AND THE CHERRIES 
 
 (A Shepherd's Vision) 
 
 Page 317. lo I I recognized Pan by his unconstrained attire, 
 and his shaggy hair ! He leapt in the sunshine, some- 
 times with an easy gesture picking a cherry from the 
 crimson trees. How unpolluted he was ! Drops of 
 water trickled over his glossy fleece like stars : one 
 would have said it was of silver. 
 
 And it was under the blue sky of my young Spring- 
 time. 
 
 Presently, having caught sight of a bigger, more 
 beautiful cherry in the air, he seized it, and squeezed 
 the stone from the bleeding pulp. I approached. I 
 was overjoyed . . . He having aimed at my eye, 
 I received the stone. I started to kill Pan with my 
 knife. He stretched out an arm, made a sudden side- 
 leap, and the whole World turned rovmd. 
 
 Come and worship Pan, the god of the World!
 
 Appendix A 461 
 
 THE KISSES 
 
 Page jiy. When we went away from each other, we didn't say 
 anything. And we thought we didn't love each 
 other much. When we went away from each other, 
 we didn't say anything for a long time. It was, 
 as they say, like indifference. 
 
 We kissed each other well, however, yesterday and 
 before, you said to me : "Five days." But we said to 
 each other : "That doesn't last long, five days of kisses, 
 it is like fair weather." 
 
 To-day blue sea and to-morrow it is a storm. You 
 mustn't ask too much of love. And besides, sailors, 
 do you see, it goes. A boat kisses the sand . . . 
 How short kisses are ! 
 
 FIRST APPOINTMENT 
 (Square Monge) 
 
 Page 318. Intoxication of Spring ! and the greensward turns 
 round the statue of Voltaire. — Ah ! really, it is a 
 beautiful green, it is very pretty, the Square Monge : 
 green grass, railing and benches green, green police- 
 man, it is, when I come to think of it, a beautiful 
 comer of the Universe. — Intoxication of Spring ! 
 and the greensward turns round the statue of Vol- 
 taire. 
 
 The pale trees where the sky opens its blue flowers 
 are full of birds. The pigeons make love tenderly.
 
 462 Six French Poets 
 
 The sparrows wag their tails. I am waiting . . . 
 Oh ! I am happy, in the dehciousness of waiting. I 
 am gay, mad, in love — and the pale trees where tlie 
 sky opens its blue flowers are full of birds. 
 
 I climb up on the benches the colour of hope, or else 
 I balance ... on the hoops of the flower bed, before 
 the statue of Voltaire. Hurrah for everything! 
 Hurrah for myself! Hurrah for France! There is 
 nothing I do not hope. I have the wings of hope. I 
 clunb up on the benches to leave the earth, or else 
 I do a little balancing. 
 
 She said : one o'clock ; it is only noon ! Time is 
 short to lovers. The birds sing, the sunshine dreams. 
 Every time that Adam meets Eve they must have a 
 paradise. Behind the railing, in the sun, the torpid 
 omnibus thinks of it. She said : one o'clock ; it is 
 only noon ! Time is short to lovers. 
 
 Before the statue, a white cat, a yellow one — and 
 the yellow one is a female ! — roll, tumble upon the 
 hot grass, show their paws, miau, fight together. 
 The sun gently widens your smile, O my gentle Vol- 
 taire. O good faun. — Before your statue, a white 
 cat, a yellow one, roll, tumble, show their paws. 
 
 The trees put out leaves to the song of the birds. 
 My heart's bud bursts open ! And I shake for nothing 
 but having seen the diamonds of the watering-pot 
 cover the grass with mist. A rainbow springs from
 
 Appendix A 4^3 
 
 the spine of the philosopher and goes quivering into 
 the branches of a horse-chestnut tree. The trees put 
 out leaves to the song of the birds. My heart's bud 
 bursts open ! 
 
 The azure is on fire : under the bench where the 
 policeman is sleeping, a dog scents a dog. A little 
 girl skips rope over her shadow, and others, and 
 others. I see their shadows on the walk grow bigger 
 or shrink. And all these things sing, one better than 
 another : " Little fire ! Big fire ! so that it lights the 
 good God !" The azure is on fire : under the bench 
 where the policeman is sleeping, a dog scents a dog. 
 
 Here is the musical cocoa-vender, loaded with his 
 golden taps. His taps are serpents from which his 
 tinkling cocoa spurts into the cups of the children. 
 Cool our lust: quick! for a sou of your mixture, 
 glittering Laocoon. I drink to all Nature, I drink 
 to your boiling bronze, you who smile at adventures, 
 • old Voltaire, O gentle, wicked man. — Here is the 
 vender of musical cocoa. His taps are serpents. 
 
 Ah, Spring, what fire rises from the earth! what 
 fire falls from the sky, Spring. — Before the statue of 
 Voltaire, I am waiting for my new Manon. And while 
 she delays, Voltaire, seated, is patient: I look at 
 what he is looking at, an Easter daisy in the grass. 
 I am waiting. — I am waiting, Sky ! I am waiting, 
 O Earth ! under all the flames of Spring !
 
 464 Six French Poets 
 
 Two o'clock. Let us pull this daisy to pieces. "A 
 little, very much, passionately . . ." Passionately, 
 little Manon, come quickly, run, I implore you. Hey ! 
 you — you smile in a way to make me exceedingly 
 annoyed. Dirty encyclopedist ! Oh ! . . . Here she 
 is under all the flames of Spring ! 
 
 And the trees turn and the greensward turns round 
 the statue of Voltaire. — Decidedly, it is a beauti- 
 ful green, it is delicious, the Square Monge : green 
 grass, railing and benches green, green policeman, it is, 
 when I come to think of it, a beautiful corner of the 
 Universe. — I climb up on a bench the colour of hope. 
 One should be able to see me from the whole of France. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE ENGLISH 
 
 Page 324. It's a long way to Tipperary. 
 
 Fire ! Tommy . . . My heart capers to the bang- 
 ing of our cannon. Be calm, old fellow. Ah ! it is 
 a long way, a long way to Tipperary. Since yester- 
 day's thirst quenched without a drop of whiskey, I 
 shoot, every one shoots. Ah ! . . . it's fine. 
 
 Who threw me his bottle? Ah, old Bob, you're 
 dead? Be calm, dear boy. Soon Leicester . . . 
 Square ... All right ! He died for old England. 
 The bottle is empty. Fire ! Tommy, shoot some 
 more! We are all fighting very well, all right, the 
 dead are wrong.
 
 Appendix A 465 
 
 Qmet, old boy. Ah, it is a long way, a long way 
 to TippCTary, ovct there, near the pretty girl I know. 
 She said yes wheai I said no. Fire, Tommy. My 
 heart criers to tlie banging erf oar cannon. 
 
 Tommy, undastand. Tommy, love has points. 
 Yes, it's a delicate, distant lady that one never reaches 
 except in dreams. O big mug! You dream and 
 everjrthing comes; the soul and the body with it. 
 Here there is nothing but death, she is an infernal 
 womaiL 
 
 Death I Ah ! if I had looked her way, the German 
 WDtdd have taken my neck under her witiiered arm, 
 and made me taste her mouth with shrapnel for teeth, 
 soffocating my chest to torture. Good God, love 
 hasn't anjtY'mg cmeller than that. 
 
 But deaHi, one doesn't think about it, it is in front. 
 Calm, lucky chap. Do you want to see death ? She 
 is a great, old, worn-out skeleton, floating over the 
 battle like a standard : just now ^e is floating over 
 the otir-f helriets. 
 
 Fire I Tommy . . . TTnat, you are dying too, 
 faithfnl fellow? You are in the arms of the infernal 
 woman? Get up. old r r . z n I Ah, it is a long way, a 
 long way to Tipperar}-. Goodbye, Leicester Square, 
 
 Goodbye, Piccadilly! 
 
 2h
 
 466 Six French Poets 
 
 We were fifteen, hurrah, there are three of us mov- 
 ing. O cannon, your balls are tinged with our blood, 
 our blood which makes our uniforms red again : in 
 front of us the Germans are bleeding fear, they believe 
 that we load your jaws with our hearts. 
 
 Dance, dance the jig ! Ah, yes . . . though victors 
 we dance our jig in God's open sky. We, good boys, 
 we are at Tipperary. Hullo, Kate; hullo, Annie; 
 hullo, Nellie . . . Our hearts are comfortable, pro- 
 vided that, on earth, 
 
 our old England lives forever !
 
 APPENDIX B 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 Emile Verhaeren 
 
 Les Flamandes, poemes. Bruxelles, Hochsteyn, 1883. 
 
 (R6impr. dans Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1895.) 
 Les Contes de Minuit, prose. Bruxelles (Collection de la 
 
 " Jeune Belgique "), Franck, 1885. 
 Joseph Heymans, Peintre, critique. Bruxelles, "Societe 
 
 Nouvelle," 1885. 
 Les Moines, poemes. Paris, Lemerre, 1886. (Reimpr. dans 
 
 Poemes. Paris, Societe du Merctu-e de France, 1895.) 
 Fernand Khnopff, critique. Bruxelles, "Societe Nouvelle," 
 
 1887. 
 Les Soirs, poemes. Bruxelles, Deman, 1887. (Reimpr. dans 
 
 Poemes, nouvelle serie. Paris, Society du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1896.) 
 Les Debacles, poemes. Bruxelles, Deman, 1888. (Reimpr. 
 
 dans Poemes, nouvelle serie. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1896.) 
 Les Flambeaux Noirs, poemes. Bruxelles, Deman, 1890. 
 
 (Reimpr. dans Poemes, nouvelle serie. Paris, Society 
 
 du Mercure de France, 1896.) 
 Au Bord de la Route, poemes. (Liege, extrait de La Wallonie.) 
 
 Bruxelles, Vaillant-Carmanne, 1891. (Reimpr. dans 
 
 Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1895.) 
 Les Apparus dans mes Chemins, poemes. Bruxelles, Lacom- 
 
 467
 
 468 Six French Poets 
 
 blez, 1891. (Reimpr. dans Poemes, IIP serie. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1899.) 
 
 Les Campagnes Hallucinees, poemes. Couverture et 
 ornementation de Theo van Rysselberghe. Bnixelles, 
 Deman, 1893. (Reimpr. a la suite des Villes Tentaculaires. 
 Paris, Society du Mercure de France, 1904.) 
 
 Almanack, poemes. Illustr6 par Theo van Rysselberghe. 
 Bnixelles, Dietrich, 1895. 
 
 Les Villages Illusoires, poemes illustr^s de quatre dessins 
 de Georges Minne. Bruxelles, Deman, 1895. (Reimpr. 
 dans Poemes, IIP serie. Paris, Soci6te du Mercure de 
 France, 1899.) 
 
 Poemes (/^ serie). {Les Bords de la Route. Les Flamandes. 
 Les Moines, augmentes de plusieurs poemes.) Paris, 
 Socidt^ du Mercure de France, 1895. (Reimpr. augmentes 
 de nouveaux poemes. Paris, Society du Mercure de France, 
 1900.) 
 
 Les Villes Tentaculaires, podmes. Couverture et orne- 
 mentation de Theo van Rysselberghe. Bruxelles, Deman, 
 1895. (Reimpr. : Les Villes Tentaculaires precedees des 
 Campagnes Hallucinees. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1904.) 
 
 Poemes {nouvelle serie). {Les Soirs. Les Debacles. Les Flam- 
 beaux Noirs.) Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1896. 
 
 Les Heures Claires, poemes. Couverture et ornementation 
 de Theo van Rysselberghe. BruxeUes, Deman, 1896. 
 (Reimpr. : Les Heures Claires, etc. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1909.) 
 
 Emile Verhaeren, 1 883- 1 896, portrait par Th6o van Ryssel- 
 berghe. (An anthology, "pour les amis du Podte.") 
 (Bruxelles, Deman, 1897.) 
 
 Les Aubes, drame lyrique en 4 actes. Couverture et ornemen- 
 tation deTh^o van Rysselberghe. Bruxelles, Deman, 1898. 
 
 Les Visages de la Vie, poemes. Couverture et ornemen-
 
 Appendix B 469 
 
 tation de Theo van Rysselberghe. Bmxelles, Deman, 1899. 
 (Reimpr. : Les Visages de la Vie. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1908.) 
 
 POEMES (j« serie). {Les Visages Illusoires. Les Apparus dans 
 mes Chemins. Les Vignes de ma Muraille.) Paris, Societe 
 du Mercure de France (1899). 
 
 Le Cloitre, drame en 4 actes, en prose et en vers. Couverture 
 et ornementation de Theo van Rysselberghe. Bmxelles, 
 Deman, 1900. (Reimpr. dans Deux Drames. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1909.) 
 
 Petites Legendes, po^mes. Couverture et ornementation de 
 Theo van Rysselberghe. Bmxelles, Deman, 1900. 
 
 Philippe II, tragedie en trois actes. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1901. (Reimpr. dans Deux Drames. 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1909.) 
 
 Les Forces Tumultueuses, po^mes. Paris, Society du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1902. 
 
 Les Villes Tentaculaires, precedees des Campagnes Hallu- 
 cinees, poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1904. 
 
 Toute la Flandre : Les Tendresses Premieres, poemes. 
 Couverture et ornementation de Theo van Rysselberghe. 
 Bmxelles, Deman, 1904. 
 
 Les Heures d'Apres-midi, poemes. Couverture et ornemen- 
 tation de Theo van Rysselberghe. Bmxelles, Deman, 
 1905. (Reimpr. : Les Heures Claires. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1909.) 
 
 Rembrandt (Collection "Les Grands Artistes, leur Vie, leur 
 CEuvre"), biographic critique illustree de 24 reproductions 
 hors texte. Paris, Laurens, 1905. 
 
 Images Japonaises, texte d'E., V. . . . illustrations de 
 Kwassou. Tokio, 1906. 
 
 La Multiple Splendeur, poemes. Paris, Society du Mercure 
 de France, 1906. 
 
 Toute la Flandre: La Guirlande des Dunes, poemes.
 
 470 Six French Poets 
 
 Couverture et ornementation de Theo van Rysselberghe. 
 Bruxelles, Deman, 1907. 
 
 Les Lettres FRANgAiSES EN Belgique. Bruxelles, Lamertin, 
 1907. 
 
 Les Visages de la Vie {Les Visages de la Vie. Les Douze 
 Mois), poemes, nouvelle edition. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1908. 
 
 TouTE LA Flandre : Les Herds. Couverture et ornemen- 
 tation de Theo van Rysselberghe. Bruxelles, Deman, 1908. 
 
 James Ensor, monographic. Bruxelles, E. van Oest, 1908. 
 
 TouTE LA Flandre : Les Villes a Pignons. Bruxelles, De- 
 man, 1909. 
 
 Helena's Heimkehr. Leipzig, Insel-Verlag, 1909. (Trans- 
 lation by Stefan Zweig from ms. of Helene de S parte.) 
 
 Les Rhythmes Souverains, poemes. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 19 10. 
 
 Pierre-Paul Rubens, critique. Bruxelles, G. van Oest & Cie., 
 1910. 
 
 Les Heures du Soir, poemes. Leipzig, Insel-Verlag, 191 1. 
 
 Helene de Sparte, tragedie en 4 actes. Paris, "Nouvelle 
 Revue Frangaise," 191 2. 
 
 TouTE LA Flandre: Les Plaines. Bruxelles, Deman, 1911. 
 
 Les Bles Mouvants, poemes. Paris, Cres, 1912. (Reimpr. : 
 Les Bles Mouvants. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1913-) 
 La Belgique Sanglante. Paris, Edition de la "Nouvelle 
 
 Revue Frangaise," 1915. 
 
 Albert Samain 
 
 Au Jardin de l'Infante, poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1893. (Reimpr.: augmentee d'une partie 
 inedite: L'Urne Penchee. Paris, Society du Mercure de 
 France, 1897.)
 
 Appendix B 471 
 
 Aux Flancs du Vase, poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1898. (Reimpr. : Aux Flancs du Vase, suivi de 
 Polypheme et des Poemes Inacheves. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1901.) 
 
 Le Chariot d'Or (Le Chariot d'Or. Symphonie Hero'ique), 
 poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1901. 
 
 CoNTES {Xanthis. Divine. Bontemps. Hyalis, Rover e et An- 
 gisele). Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1902. 
 
 Polypheme, deux actes en vers. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1906. 
 
 Remy de Gourmont 
 
 Merlette, roman. Paris, Plon et Nourrit, 1886. 
 
 SiXTiNE, Roman de la Vie Cerehrale. Paris, Savine, 1890. 
 
 Le Latin Mystique : Les Poetes de V Antiphonaire et la Sym- 
 
 bolique au Moyen Age. Preface de J.-K. Huysmans. Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1892. 
 Litanies de la Rose, poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1892. (Reimpr. dans Le Pelerin du Silence. Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1896.) 
 Lilith. Paris, des Presses des " Essais d'Art Libre," 1892. 
 
 (Reimpr. : Lilith, suivi de Theodat. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1906.) 
 Le Fantome, avec 2 lithographies originates de Henry de 
 
 Groux. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1893. 
 
 (Reimpr. dans Le Pelerin du Silence. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1896.) 
 Theodat, poeme dramatique en prose. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1893. 
 L'Idealisme, avec un dessin de Filiger. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1893. 
 Fleurs de Jadis, poemes. Edition elzevirienne. Sans nom 
 
 d'auteurni d'edit. (Monnoyer imprim., 1893.) (Reimpr.
 
 472 Six French Poets 
 
 dans Le Pelerin du Silence. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1896.) 
 
 HisTOiRES Magiques, con tenant une lithographic de Henry de 
 Groux. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1894. 
 
 HiEROGLYPHES, poemes. Manuscrit autographique de 19 feu- 
 illets, avec une Hthographie originale de Henry de Groux 
 en frontispice. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1894. (Reimpr. dans Divertissements. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 19 14.) 
 
 HisTOiRE Tragique DE LA Princesse Phenissa, cxpliquee en 
 quatre episodes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1894. (Reimpr. dans Le Pelerin du Silence. Paris, Societe 
 du Mercure de France, 1896.) 
 
 Proses Moroses (tirage k petit nombre). Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1894. (There is a second edition of 
 this book, undated.) 
 
 Le Chateau Singulier, ome de 32 vignettes en rouge et en 
 bleu : tirage a petit nombre. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1894. (Reimpr. dans Le Pelerin du Silence. 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1896.) 
 
 Phocas, avec une couverture et 3 vignettes. Paris, Collec- 
 tion de I'Ymagier et se "vend au Mercure de France," 
 1895. 
 
 La Poesie Populaire. Paris, Collection de I'Ymagier et se 
 "vend au Mercure de France," 1896. 
 
 Le Miracle de Theophile, de Rutebeuf, texte du XHP 
 si^cle modernise, public avec preface. Paris, tire de 
 I'Ymagier et "se vend par le Mercure de France," 1896. 
 
 AucASSiN ET Nicolette, chantcfable du XIIP si^cle, trad, 
 de Lacume de Sainte-Palaye, revue et complet^e d'apr^s 
 un texte original. Paris, L'Ymagier (1896). 
 
 L'Ymagier. Ouvrage publi6 en 8 fascicules trimestriels, de 64 
 pages, d'octobre 1894 k juillet 1896, contenant environ 
 300 gravures, reproductions d'anciens bois des XV® et
 
 Appendix B 473 
 
 XVP siecles, grandes images coloriees, pages de vieux 
 livres, miniatures, lithographies, bois, dessins, etc., de 
 M.-N. Whistler, Paul Gauguin, Filiger, G. d'Espagnat, 
 A. Seguin, O'Connor, L. Roy, etc. Paris, 1896. 
 
 Almanack de L'Ymagier, 1897, zodiacal, astrologique, magique, 
 cabalistique, artistique, litteraire et prophetique. Orne de 
 25 bois dessines et graves par Georges d'Espagnat. Vi- 
 gnettes en rouge et en noir. Couverture en 4 couleurs. 
 Paris, s. d. 
 
 Le Pelerin du Silence (Phenissa. Le Fantome. Le Chateau 
 Singulier. Le Livre des Litanies. Theatre Muet. Le Pelerin du 
 Silence). Frontispice d'Armand Seguin. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1896. 
 
 Le Livre des Masques, Portraits Symbolistes, Closes et Docu' 
 tnents sur les Ecrivains d'Hier et d'Aujourd'hui. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1896. 
 
 Les Chevaux de Diomede, roman. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1897. 
 
 Le Vieux Roi, tragedie nouvelle. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1897. 
 
 D'uN Pays Lointain, contes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1898. 
 
 Le IP Livre des Masques. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1898. 
 
 Les Saintes du Paradis. Dix-neuf petits po^mes, omes de 
 XIX bois originaux dessines et tallies par Georges d'Espa- 
 gnat. Paris, "se vend a la librairie du Mercure de France " 
 (1898). (Reimpr. dans Divertissements. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1914.) 
 
 EsTHETiQUE DE LA Langue Fran^aise {La Deformation. La 
 Metaphor e. Le Cliche. Le Vers Libre. Le Vers Populaire). 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1899. 
 
 Le Songe d'une Femme, roman familier. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1899.
 
 474 'S'^^ French Poets 
 
 La Culture des Idees {Du Style on de VEcriture. La Creation 
 Subconsciente. La Dissociation des Idees. Stephane Mallarme 
 et I'Idee de Decadence. Le Paganisme Eternel. La Morale de 
 V Amour. Ironies et Paradoxes). Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1900. 
 Oraisons Mauvaises, po^mes. Ornes par Georges d'Espagnat 
 de vignettes en deux tons. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1900. (Reimpr. dans Divertissements. Paris, So- 
 ciete du Mercure de France, 1914.) 
 SiMONE, Poeme Champetre (1892). Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1901. (Tirage a petit nombre sur papier verge, 
 couverture en papier peint.) (Reimpr. dans Divertissements. 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1914.) 
 Le Chemin de Velours, Nouvelles Dissociations d* Idees. Paris, 
 
 Society du Mercure de France, 1902. 
 Le Probleme du Style. Questions d'Art, de Litterature et 
 de Grammaire, avec une preface et un index des noms cit^s. 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1902. 
 Epilogues. Reflexions sur la Vie (1895-1898). Paris, Societe 
 
 du Mercure de France, 1903. 
 Physique de L'Amour. Essai sur VInstinct Sexuel. Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1903. 
 Epilogues. Reflexions sur la Vie, 2« serie {1899-1901). Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1904. 
 Judith Gautier, biographic illustree de portrait frontispice 
 de John Sargent, et d'autogr. etc. Paris, Biblioth., in- 
 ternat. d'edit., 1904. 
 Promenades Litteraires. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1904. 
 Promenades Philosophiques. Paris, Society du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1905. 
 Epilogues. Reflexions sur la Vie, 3* serie (1902-1904). Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1905.
 
 Appendix B 475 
 
 Promenades Litteraires, 2" sine. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1906. 
 
 Une Nuit au Luxembourg, roman. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1906. 
 
 Un Cceur Virginal, roman. Couverture illustree par Georges 
 d'Espagnat. Paris, Society du Mercure de France, 1907. 
 
 Dialogues des Amateurs sur les Choses du Temps (1905- 
 1907). (Epilogues, 4^ serie.) Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1907. 
 
 Promenades Philosophiques, 2« serie. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1908. 
 
 Promenades Litteraires, j* serie. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1909. 
 
 NouvEAUX Dialogues des Amateurs sur les Choses du 
 Temps (1907-19 10). {Epilogues, 5* serie.) Paris, Societe 
 du Mercure de France, 1909. 
 
 Promenades Philosophiques, 3' serie. Paris, Societ6 du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1909. 
 
 CouLEURS {Conies Nouveaux siiivis de Choses Anciennes) . Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 191 2. 
 
 Promenades Litteraires, 4* serie. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1912. 
 
 Divertissements {Hieroglyphes. Les Saintes du Paradis. Oral- 
 sons Mauvaises. Simone. Paysages Spirituels. Le Vieux 
 Cqffret. La Main), poemes en vers. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 19 14. 
 
 Lettres d'un Satyre. Paris, G. Ores, edit. 
 
 Le Chat de Misere. Idees et Paysages. (Messein, edit. Col- 
 lection des Trente.) 
 
 Dante, Beatrice et la Poesie Amoureuse, critique. (Serie, 
 " Les Hommes et les Idees.") Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, s. d. 
 
 La Belgique Litteraire. Paris, G. Crds, 191 5. • 
 
 Pendant L'Orage. Paris, Librairie Champion, 1915.
 
 476 Six French Poets 
 
 Henri de Regnier 
 
 Lendemains, poesies. Paris, Vanier, 1885. (Reimpr. dans le 
 recueil : Premiers Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1899.) 
 
 Apaisement, poesies. Paris, Vanier, 1886. (Reimpr.: Pre- 
 miers Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1899.) 
 
 Sites, poemes. Paris, Vanier, 1887. (Reimpr. : Premiers 
 Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1899.) 
 
 Episodes, poemes. Paris, Vanier, 1888. (Reimpr. : Premiers 
 Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1899.) 
 
 Poemes Anciens et Romanesques, 1887-1889. Paris, Li- 
 brairie de I'Art Independant, 1890. (Reimpr. dans le 
 recueil : Poemes, 188^-1892. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1895.) 
 
 Episodes, Sites et Sonnets, poemes. Paris, Vanier, 1891. 
 (Reimpr. : Premiers Poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1895.) 
 
 Tel Qu'en Songe, poemes. Paris, Librairie de I'Art Indepen- 
 dant, 1892. (Reimpr.: Poemes, 1887-1892. Paris, Societe 
 du Mercure de France, 1895.) 
 
 CoNTES a Soi-Meme, prose. Paris, Librairie de I'Art Inde- 
 pendant, 1894. (Reimpr.: La Canne de Jaspe. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1897.) 
 
 Le Bosquet de Psyche, prose. Bruxelles, Lacomblez, 1894. 
 (Reimpr. dans I'ouvrage suivant : Figures et Caracteres. 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1901.) 
 
 Le Trefle Noir, prose. Paris, Soci6te du Mercure de France, 
 1895. (Reimpr. dans La Canne de Jaspe. Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1897.) 
 
 Arethuse, poemes. Paris, Librairie de I'Art Independant, 
 •1895. (Reimpr. dans le recueil: Les Jeux Rustiques et 
 Divins. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1897.)
 
 Appendix B 477 
 
 PoEMES, 1 887-1 892 (Poemes Anciens et Romanesques. Tel 
 Qu'en Songe). Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1895. 
 Les Jeux Rustiques et Divins, poemes. {Arethuse. Les 
 
 Roseaux de la FWe. Inscriptions pour les Treize Fortes de 
 
 la Ville. La Corbeille des Heures. Poemes Divers.) Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1897. 
 La Canne de Jaspe, contes. {M. d'Amercosur. Le Trefle Noir. 
 
 Contes a Soi-Meme.) Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1897- , 
 
 Premiers Poemes {Les Lendemains. Apaisement. Sites. Epi- 
 sodes. Sonnets. Poesies Diver ses). Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1899. 
 
 Le Trefle Blanc, prose. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1899. (Reimpr. dans Couleur du Temps. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1908.) 
 
 La Double MaItresse, roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1900. 
 
 Les Medailles d'Argile, poemes. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 de France, 1900. 
 
 Figures et Caracteres {Michelet. Alfred de Vigny. Hugo. 
 Stephane Mallarme. Le Bosquet de Psyche, etc., etc.). Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1901. 
 
 Les Amants Singuliers, nouvelles. (La Femme de Marbre. 
 Le Rival. La Courte Vie de Balthasar Aldramin, Venitien.) 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1901. 
 
 Le Bon Plaisir, roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1902. 
 
 La Cite des Eaux, poemes. Paris, Soci^t^ du Mercure de 
 France, 1902. 
 
 Le Mariage de Minuit, roman contemporain. Paris, Societe 
 du Mercure de France, 1903. 
 
 Les Vacances d'un Jeune Homme Sage, roman. Paris, 
 Societ6 du Mercure de France, 1903.
 
 478 Six French Poets 
 
 Les Rencontres de M. de Breot, roman. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1904. 
 Le Passe Vivant, roman modeme. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1905. 
 La Sandale Ailee (1903-1905), poemes. Paris, Society du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1906. 
 SujETS ET Paysages, Critique. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1906. 
 Esquisses Venitiennes, illustr. de Maxime Dethomas. Paris, 
 
 Collection de "L'Art Decoratif," 1906. 
 L'Amour et le Plaisir, histoire galante. Paris, Barneoud, 
 
 1906. (Reimpr. dans Couleur du Temps. Paris, Societe 
 
 du Mercure de France, 1908.) 
 La Peur de l'Amour, roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1907. 
 Trois Contes a Soi-Meme. (Le Sixieme Manage de Barbe- 
 
 Bleue. Le Recit de la Dame des Sept Miroirs. Le Hertoir 
 
 Vivant.) Miniatures de Maurice Ray. Paris, pour les 
 
 Cent Bibliophiles, 1907. 
 Les Scrupules de Sganarelle, comedie en trois actes et en 
 
 prose. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1908. 
 Couleur du Temps, contes. {Le Trefle Blanc. L'Amour et le 
 
 Plaisir. Tiburce et Ses Amis. Contes pour les Treize.) 
 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1908. 
 La Flambee, roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1909. 
 Le Miroir des Heures (1906-1910), poemes. Paris, Societe 
 
 du Mercure de France, 191 1. 
 L'Amphisbene, roman modeme. Paris, Society du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1912. 
 Le Plateau de Laque, contes. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1913. 
 Portraits et Souvenirs, critique. Paris, Soci6t6 du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1913.
 
 Appendix B 479 
 
 RoMAiNE MiRMAULT, roman. Paris, Soci6te du Mercure de 
 France, 1914. 
 
 Francis Jammes 
 
 Six Sonnets. Orthez, Typographie J. Goude-Dumesnil, 1891. 
 Vers. Orthez, Typographie J. Goude-Dumesnil, 1892. 
 Vers. Orthez, Typographie J. Goude-Dumesnil, 1893. 
 Vers. Paris, Ollendorff, 1894. 
 Un Jour, poeme dialogue. Paris, Soci^te du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1896. 
 La Naissance du Poete, poeme. Bruxelles, Edition du "Coq 
 
 Rouge," 1897. 
 De L'Angelus de L'Aube a L'Angelus du Soir, i 888-1 897, 
 
 poesies. {De VAngelus de I'Aube d VAngelus du Soir. La 
 
 Naissance du Poete. Un Jour. La Mort du Poete.) Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1898. 
 Quatorze Prieres. Orthez, Imprimerie E. Paget, 1898. 
 La Jeune Fille Nue, poeme. Paris, Petite Collection de 
 
 "I'Ermitage," 1899. 
 Clara d'Ellebeuse ou L'Histoire d'une Ancienne Jeune 
 
 Fille, roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1899. 
 
 (Reimpr. a la suite du Roman du Lievre. Paris, Soci^t6 
 
 du Mercure de France, 1903.) 
 Le Poete et l'Oiseau, poesies. Paris, Petite Collection de 
 
 "I'Ermitage," 1899. 
 Le Deuil des Primeveres, poemes, 1 898-1900. {Elegies. La 
 
 Jeune Fille Nue. Le Poete et l'Oiseau. Poesies Diver ses. Qua- 
 torze Prieres.) Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1901. 
 Almaide d'Etremont ou L'Histoire d'une Jeune fille 
 
 Passionnee, roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1901. (Reimpr. a la suite du Roman du Lievre. Paris, 
 
 Society du Mercure de France, 1903.)
 
 480 Six French Poets 
 
 Le Triomphe de la Vie, poemes, 1900-1901. {Jean de Noarrieu. 
 
 Existences.) Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1902. 
 Le Roman du Lievre. {Clara d'Ellebeuse. Alma'ide d'Etremont. 
 
 Les Chases. Contes. Notes sur des Oasis. Sur J. -J. Rousseau.) 
 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1903. 
 Pomme d'Anis ou L'Histoire d'une Jeune Fille Infirme, 
 
 roman. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1904. 
 
 (Reimpr. dans Feuilles dans le Vent. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1913.) 
 (Cahier de Vers), vingt-cinq petits poemes, publics sans 
 
 titre, sans date, sans indication de lieu et sans nom d'dditeur. 
 
 Orthez, Imprimerie E. Paget (1905). 
 Pensee des Jardins, prose et vers. Paris, Soci6t6 du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1906. 
 L'Eglise Habillee de Feuilles, poesies. Paris, Soci^t^ du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1906. 
 Clairieres dans le Ciel, poemes, 1902-1906. {En Dieu. 
 
 Tristesses. Le PoHe et sa Femme. Poesies Diverses. L'Eglise 
 
 Habillee de Feuilles.) Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1906. 
 Poemes Mesures. Paris, Society du Mercure de France, 1908. 
 
 (A small, privately-printed edition only.) 
 Ma Fille Bernadette, prose. Paris, Soci6t6 du Mercure de 
 
 France, 1908. 
 Les Georgiques Chretiennes, po^me. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1912. 
 Feuilles dans le Vent, prose et vers. {Meditations. Quelque 
 
 Hommes. Pomme d'A7iis. La Brebis Egaree.) Paris, 
 
 Soci6t6 du Mercure de France, 1913. 
 
 Paul Fort 
 
 La Petite BtTE, com^die en un acte, en prose. Paris, Vanier, 
 1890.
 
 Appendix B 481 
 
 Plusieurs Choses, poesies. Paris, Librairie de I'Art Ind^pen- 
 dant, 1894. 
 
 Premieres Lueurs sur la Colline, poesies. Paris, Librairie 
 de I'Art Independant, 1894. 
 
 MoNNAiE DE Per, poesies et poemes en prose. Paris, Librairie 
 de I'Art Independant, 1894. 
 
 Presque les Doigts aux Cles. Paris, Librairie de I'Art 
 Independant, 1895. 
 
 Il Y A LA des Cris, po^sies. Paris, Society du Mercure de 
 France, 1895. 
 
 Ballades {Ma Legende. Mes Legendes), poemes en prose. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1896. (Reimpr. dans Bal- 
 lades Franqaises, Poemes et Ballades, i8q4-i8q6. Preface 
 de Pierre Louys. Paris, Society du Mercure de France, 
 
 1897.) 
 
 Ballades (La Mer. Les Cloches. Les Champs), poemes en 
 prose. Paris, Edition du "Livre d'Art et de I'Epreuve," 
 1896. (Reimpr. dans Ballades Franqaises, Poemes et Bal- 
 lades, i8g4-i8g6. Preface de Pierre Louys. Paris, Society 
 du Mercure de France, 1897.) 
 
 Ballades {Les Saisons. Aux Champs, sur la Route et devant 
 VAtre. Mes Legendes. L'Orage), poemes en prose. Paris, 
 Society du Mercure de France, 1896. (Reimpr. dans 
 Ballades Franqaises, Poemes et Ballades, 1894-1896. Preface 
 de Pierre Louys. Paris, Soci6te du Mercure de France, 
 1897.) 
 
 Ballades {Louis XI, Curieux Homme) , poemes en prose. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1896. (Reimpr. dans 
 Ballades Franqaises, Poemes et Ballades, 1894-1896. Preface 
 de Pierre Louys. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1897.) 
 
 Ballades Francaises, premiere serie. Preface de Pierre 
 Louys. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1897. 
 
 MoNTAGNE. FoRET. Plaine. Mer. Ballades Franqaises, II' 
 serie. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1898. 
 2i
 
 482 Six French Poets 
 
 Le Roman de Louis XI, Ballades Franqaises, III' serie. 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1899. 
 
 Les Idylles Antiques, Ballades Franqaises, IV' serie. Paris, 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1900. 
 
 L'Amour Marin, Ballades Franqaises, V serie. Paris, Soci6t6 
 du Mercure de France, 1900. 
 
 Paris Sentimental ou le Roman de nos Vingt Ans, Ballades 
 Franqaises, VI* serie. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1902. 
 
 Les Hymnes de Feu, prec6d^s de Lucienne, Ballades Fran- 
 qaises, VIP serie. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 1903. 
 
 Coxcomb ou l'Homme tout Nu Tombe du Paradis, Ballades 
 Franqaises, VIII' serie. Precede de : Le Livre des Visions 
 — Henri III. Paris, Society du Mercure de France, 1906. 
 
 Ile-de-France (Paris), Ballades Franqaises, IX' serie. (Col- 
 lection "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Figuiere (1908). 
 
 Saint-Jean-aux-Bois. {Coucy-le-Chdteau et .louv-en-Josas.) 
 (Collection "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Figuiere (1908). (Pri- 
 vately printed.) 
 
 MoRTCERF, Ballades Franqaises, X' serie. Precede d'une 
 Etude sur les Ballades Franqaises, par Louis Mandin. (Col- 
 lection "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Figuiere (1909). 
 
 La Tristresse de L'Homme, Ballades Franqaises, XI' serie. 
 Precede du : Repos de VAme au Bois de VHautil. (Collec- 
 tion "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Figuiere (1910). 
 
 L'Aventure Eternelle, Ballades Franqaises, XII' serie. 
 Suivie de: En Gatinais. (Collection "Vers et Prose.") 
 Paris, Figuiere, 191 1. 
 
 Montlhery-la-Bataille, Ballades Franqaises, XIII' serie. 
 Suivie de: VAventure Eternelle {Livre II). (Collection 
 "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Figuiere, 1912. 
 
 Vivre en Dieu, Ballades Franqaises, XIV' serie. Suivi de: 
 Naissance du Printemps a la Ferte-Milon, et de L'Aventure
 
 Appendix B 483 
 
 Eternelle (Livre III). (Collection "Vers et Prose. ") Paris, 
 Figuiere, 191 2. 
 Chansons pour me Consoler d'Etre Heureux, Ballades 
 Franqaises, XV ^ serie. Suivies de: L'Aventure Eternelle 
 {Livre IV). (Collection "Vers et Prose. ") Paris, Figuidre, 
 
 1913- 
 Choix de Ballades Francaises. (Collection "Vers et Prose.") 
 
 Paris, Figuidre, 1913. 
 Les Nocturnes, Ballades Franqaises, XV I^ serie. (Collection 
 
 "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Figuiere, 1914. 
 
 Reference Books 
 
 Bazalgette, Leon : Emile Verhaeren. (Opinions et une biblio- 
 
 graphie par Ad. van Bever.) (Serie, "Les Celebrit^s 
 
 d'Aujourd'hui. ") Paris, Sansot, 1907. 
 Bersaucourt, Albert de : Conference sur Emile Verhaeren. 
 
 Paris, Jouve, 1908. 
 Boer, Julius de : Emile Verhaeren. (Portrait par Theo van 
 
 Rysselberghe et fac -simile d'autographe.) s. 1. n. d. (1907). 
 
 (S^rie, "Mannen en Vrouwen van beteekenis in onze 
 
 dagen. ") 
 Bosch, Firmin van den : Impressions de Litterature Con- 
 
 temporaine. Bruxelles, Vromont et Cie, 1905. 
 Buisseret, Georges: L'Evolution Ideologique d'Emile 
 
 Verhaeren. (Serie "Les Hommes et les Idees.") Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 191 o. 
 Casier, Jean: Les "Moines" d'Emile Verhaeren. Gand, 
 
 Leliaer & Siffer, 1887. 
 Gauchez, Maurice : Emile Verhaeren. Bruxelles, 6dition de 
 
 "Thyrse," 1908. 
 Guilbeaux, Henri : Emile Verhaeren. Verviers, Wauthy, 1908. 
 Hauser, Otto: Die Belgische Lyrik von 1880-1900. Gros- 
 
 senhain, Baumert und Rouge, 1902.
 
 484 -Six French Poets 
 
 Heumann, Albert : Le Mouvement Litteraire Belge. Paris, 
 
 Societe du Mercure de France, 1913. 
 Horrent, Desire: Ecrivains Belges d'Aujourd'Hui. Brux- 
 
 elles, Lacomblez, 1904. 
 Lemonnier, Camille: La Vie Belge. Paris, E. Fasquelle, 
 
 1905. 
 Mockel, Albert: Emile Verhaeren. Paris, Societe du Mer- 
 cure de France, 1895. 
 Ramaekers, Georges : Emile Verhaeren. (I. L'Homme du 
 
 Nord. II. L'Homme Moderne.) Bruxelles, editions de " La 
 
 Lutte," 1900. 
 Rency, Georges: Physionomies Litteraires. Bruxelles, De- 
 
 chenne et Cie., 1907. 
 Schellenberg, E. A. : Emile Verhaeren. Leipzig, Xenien- 
 
 Verlag, 191 1. 
 Schlaf, Johannes: Emile Verhaeren. Berlin & Leipzig, 
 
 Schuster & Loeflfler (1905). 
 Smet, Abbe Jos. de : Emile Verhaeren, sa Vie et ses CEuvres. 
 
 Malines, 1909. 
 Wenguerowa, Zinaida: Portraits Litteraires. (Tome 2.) 
 
 Etude reproduite en partie dans le Grand Dictioimaire 
 
 Encyclopedique Russe, edition Brokaus et Efron, tome sup- 
 
 plementaire I. Saint Petergbourg, 1905. 
 Zweig, Stefan: Emile Verhaeren. (Translated from the 
 
 German into English by J. Bithell.) London, Constable; 
 
 Boston & New York, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1914. 
 Bersaucourt, Albert de : Conference sur A. Samain, Pro- 
 
 noncee le 4 Decembre 1907 Au Cercle des Etudiants 
 
 Catholiques du Luxembourg. Paris, Bonvalot-Jouve, 
 
 s.d. 
 Bocquet, Leon : Albert Samain, sa Vie, son (Euvre. Avec 
 
 un portrait et un autogr. Preface de Francis Jammes. 
 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1905. 
 Coppee, Francois: MoN Franc-Parler. (2* shie.) Paris, 
 
 Lemeurre, 1894.
 
 Appendix B 485 
 
 Jarry, Alfred: Souvenirs. Paris, V. Lemasle, 1907. 
 
 Vallette, Alfred : Albert Samain, notice dans Les Portraits du 
 Prochain Steele. Paris, Girard, 1894. 
 
 Delior, Paul : Remy de Gourmont et son (Euvre. (Serie " Les 
 Hommes et les Idees.") Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 1909. 
 
 Denise, Louis : Remy de Gourmont, notice publiee dans Les 
 Portraits du Prochain Steele. Paris, Girard, 1894. 
 
 Escoube, Paul: Preferences. Paris, Societe du Mercure de 
 France, 19 13. 
 
 Goffin, Arnold : A Propos de Style et d'Esthetique. Brux- 
 elles, Societe Beige de Librairie, 1903. 
 
 Miomandre, Francis de: Visages. Bruges, A. Herbert, 1907. 
 
 Poinsot, M. C. : Anthologie des Poetes Normands Con- 
 temporains. Paris, Floury, 1903. 
 
 Querlon, Pierre de: Remy de Gourmont. (Opinions, docu- 
 ments et une bibliographie par Ad. van Bever.) (Serie 
 "Les Celebrites d'Aujourd'hui. ") Paris, Sansot, 1903. 
 
 Vorluni, Giuseppe : Remy de Gourmont. Napoli, Detken & 
 RochoU, 1911. 
 
 Gourmont, Jean de : Henri de Regnier et son CEuvre. Avec 
 un portrait et un autogr. (Bibliographie par Ad. van Bever.) 
 (Serie "Les Hommes et les Idees.") Paris, Societe du 
 Mercure de France, 1908. 
 
 Leautaud, Paul: Henri de Regnier. (Biogr. precedee d'un 
 portr. illustr. et autogr. suivie d'opinions et d'une bibli- 
 ographic par Ad. van Bever.) Paris, Sansot, 1904. 
 
 Mauclair, Camille : Henri de Regnier. Portraits du Prochain 
 Steele. Paris, Girard, 1894. 
 
 Mockel, Albert : Propos de Litterature. Paris, Librairie de 
 L'Art Independant, 1894. 
 
 Braun, Thomas: Des Poetes Simples: Francis Jammes. 
 Bnixelles, "Federation de Libre Esthetique," 1900. 
 
 Pilon, Edmond: Francis Jammes et le Sentiment de la 
 Nature. (Bibliographie par Ad. van Bever.) (Serie,
 
 486 Six French Poets 
 
 *'Les Hommes et les Idees.") Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 
 de France, 1908. 
 Hirsch, Paul-Armand: Paul Fort, notice dans Les Portraits 
 
 du Prochain Siecle. Paris, Girard, 1894. 
 Mandin, Louis : Etude sur les "Ballades Francaises" de 
 
 Paul Fort. (Collection "Vers et Prose.") Paris, Fig- 
 
 uiere, 191 1. 
 Beaunier, Andre: La Poesie Nouvelle. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 1902. 
 Bever, Ad. van, et Leautaud, Paul : Poetes d'Aujourd'hui 
 
 (nouvelle edition). Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 
 
 1910. 
 Blum, Leon : En Lisant. Reflexions Critiques. Paris, Societe 
 
 d'Ed. Litter., 1906. 
 Bordeaux, Henri: Les Ecrivains et les Mceurs, Essais et 
 
 Figurines (1897-1900). Paris, Plon, 1900. 
 Brisson, Adolphe: Pointes Seches. Paris, A. Colin, 1898. 
 Coulon, Marcel: Temoignages. Paris, Societe du Mercure 
 
 de France, 191 1. 
 Deschamps, Gaston : La Vie et les Livres. (j« serie.) Paris, 
 
 A. Colin, 1896. 
 Doumic, Rene: Les Jeunes. Paris, Perrin, 1896. 
 Duhamel, Georges: Les Poetes et la Poesie (1912-1913). 
 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1914. 
 Florian-Parmentier : Toutes les Lyres. (Anthologie Critique 
 
 omee de dessins et de portraits, nouvelle serie.) Paris, 
 
 Gastein-Serge (191 1). 
 Fons, Pierre: L'Ame Latine. Nos Maitres. Toulouse, 1903. 
 Fons, Pierre: Le Reveil de P.a.llas. Paris, Sansot, 1906. 
 Gilbert, Eugene : France et Belgique. Paris, Plon, Nourrit 
 
 et Cie., 1905. 
 Gosse, Edmund: French Profiles. London, Heinemann, 1902. 
 Gregh, Fernand : La Fenetre Guverte. Paris, Fasquelle, 
 
 1901.
 
 Appendix B 487 
 
 Hamel, A. G. Van: Hex Letterkundig leven van Frank- 
 
 RijK. Amsterdam, Gids, 1907. 
 Heumann, Albert : Le Mouvement Litteraire Belge d'Ex- 
 
 PRESsiON Francaise depuis i88o. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Merctire de France, 1913. 
 Huret, Jules : Enquete sur l'Evolution Litteraire. Paris, 
 
 Charpentier-Fasquelle, 1 89 1 . 
 Key, Ellen: Seelen und Werke. Berlin, S. Fischer, 1911. 
 Kinon, Victor: Portraits d'Auteurs. Bnixelles, Dechenne, 
 
 1910. 
 Lasserre, Pierre : Le Romantisme Fran^ais. Paris, Societe du 
 
 Mercure de France, 191 3. 
 Lazare, Bernard: Figures Contemporaines. Paris, Perrin, 
 
 1895. 
 Mercereau, Alexandre: La Litterature et les Idees Nou- 
 
 velles. Paris, Figuiere; London, Stephen Swift, 1912. 
 Nouhuys, W. G. Van: Van over de Grezen, Studien en 
 
 Critieken. Baarn, HoUandia Dnikkerij, 1906. 
 Gppeln-Bronikowski, F. von : Das Junge Frankreich. Berlin, 
 
 CEsterheld & Co., 1908. 
 Pellissier, Georges : Etudes de Litterature Contemporaine. 
 
 Paris, Perrin, 1898. 
 Pellissier, Georges: Etudes de Litterature et de AIorale 
 
 Contemporaine. Paris, Perrin, 1905. 
 Rette, Adolphe : Le Symbolisme. Paris, Librairie Leon Vanier, 
 
 1903. 
 Rimestad, Christian : Fransk Poesi i det Nittende Aarhun- 
 
 drede. Kopenhague, Det Schubotheske, 1906. 
 Souza, Robert de: La Poesie Populaire et le Lyrisme 
 
 Sentimental. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1899. 
 Tellier, Jules: Nos Poetes. Paris, Despret, 1888. 
 Thompson, Vance: French Portraits. Boston, Richard G, 
 
 Badger & Co., 1900; New York, Mitchell Kennerley, 
 
 1915-
 
 488 Six French Poets 
 
 Velley, Charles et Le Cardonnel, Georges: La Litterature 
 
 CoNTEMPORAiNE, 1905. Opinions des Ecrivains de ce 
 Temps. Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1906. 
 Vigie-Lecoq, E. : La Poesie Contemporaine (1884-1896). 
 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 1897. 
 Visan, Tancrede de : L'Attitude du Lyrisme Contemporaine. 
 
 Paris, Societe du Mercure de France, 191 1. 
 Wyzewa, Theodor de: Nos Maitres. Paris, Perrin, 1895. 
 Zilliacus, Emil : Den Nyare Franska Poesin och Antiken. 
 
 Helsingfors, Aktiebolaget Handelstryckeriet, 1905. 
 
 Printed in thie United States of America.
 
 *HE following pages contain advertisements of 
 Macmillan books by the same author.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Pictures of the Floating World 
 
 By -\]MY LOWELL 
 
 Fourth edition, $1.75 
 
 "The heart of the volume is a garden. . . . The book is as local as 
 the 'Hesperides,' and as deeply pen^aded by the spell of the genius of 
 a place. . . . The beauty that knocks at the gates of the senses lies 
 on page after page with a clarity and an almost radiant succinctness 
 for which I know few parallels. . . . Surpassing and (I think) enduring 
 beauty." — Professor John Livingston LoiL'es in The Boston Transcript. 
 
 "It is a book of impressions, fleeting and delicate, yet keenly and 
 v-ix-idly defined. . . . Here we have imagism at its best ; a lovely ges- 
 ture caught at its highest curv^e of grace, sj-mbolizing a universal emo- 
 tion. . . . Originality and individuality are precious qualities, and 
 Miss LoweU possesses them beyond any other lixing poet we can think 
 of." — Nerd} York Times Book Revisu'. 
 
 "There is a riot of fancy^ here, a confused lu.Turiance as rich and tropical 
 as' the garden which seems to be the centre of Miss Lowell's lyric inspira- 
 tion. ... A Ij-rical undertone per\-ades even the least musical of the 
 poems in the introspective section excellently entitled 'Plummets to 
 Circumstance,' and a dramatic touch intensifies them. Miss Lowell 
 makes even the most casual descriptions ... an adventure in excite- 
 ment. With its multiform interest, its increase in human warmth, 
 and, above all, vrith its rich mingling of personality and pattern-making, 
 'Pictiires of the Floating World' may well come to be Miss Lowell's most 
 popular book." — Louis Untermeyer in The Xru.' York Evening Post. 
 
 "There is a soft enchanted quietness blown about 'Lacquer Prints,' 
 drenched as they are vnth the influence of Japan till they crust to a porce- 
 lain frailer than the lining of a bird's egg, or the flushed enamel of a sea- 
 buried shell. Life and movement are subdued to a thin stem holding 
 an open flower. They are pure colour expressed in curvmg lines drawn 
 over thoughts so intimate they shrink, even in reading, back to solitude. 
 Profound and lovely. . . . That is it. The offering of her own \-ision 
 to unobservant eyes, the breaking of iimumerable barriers, for, among 
 all poets. Miss Lowell is essentially an explorer." — W. Bryher, in The 
 Art of Amy LoweU. A Critical Appreciation. London. 
 
 "In 'The Floating Worid' . . . Amy LoweU has shown us again that 
 she can make a thick volume of verse as entertaining as a book of pictures. 
 She makes pictures in verse again and again, and aU her pictures are in- 
 vested with a touch of human passion or fantasy." — The New Republic. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 P-ablishers 64r-68 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 Can Grande's Castle 
 
 By .\:MY LOWELL 
 
 Fourth edition, $1-73 
 
 "The poems in 'Can Grande's Castle' are only four in number, but two of them 
 . . . touch magnificence. 'The Bronze Horses' has a larger sweep than Miss Lowell 
 has ever attempted; she achieves here a sense of magnitude and time that is amaz- 
 ing. . . . Not in all contemporary poetry has the quality of balance and return been 
 so beautifully illustrated." — Louis Untermeyer in The New Era in American Poetry. 
 
 " ' Can Grande's Castle ' challenges, through its vividness and contagious zest in life 
 and color, an unreluctant admiration ... its rare union of vigor and deftness, pre- 
 cision and flexibility, imaginative grasp and clarity of detail." — Professor John Living- 
 ston Lowes in Convention and Reaolt in Poetry, 
 
 '"Sea-Blue and Blood-Red' and 'Guns as Keys: and the Great Gate Swings' . . . 
 are such a widening of barriers; they bring into literature an element imperceptible 
 in pyoetiy before . . . the epic of modernitj' concentrated into thirty pages. . . . Not 
 since the Elizabethans has such a masterj- of words been reached in English . . . one 
 had never surmised such enchantment could have been achieved with words." — W. 
 Bryher in The Art of Amy Lowell. A Critical Appreciation. London. 
 
 "The essential element of Miss Lowell's poetry is vividness. %'i%-idness and a power 
 to concentrate into a few pages the spirit of an age. She indicates perfectly the slightest 
 sense of atmosphere in a period or a city. . . . But the spirit of these poems is not 
 the fashioning of pictures, however brilliant, of the past; it is the re-creation of epic 
 moments of history made real as this present through her own indi\-iduality and 
 vision." — Thi London Xalion. 
 
 "We have come to it — ■ once Poe was the living and commanding poet, whose things 
 were waited for. . . . Now we watch and wait for .\my Lowell's poems. Success 
 justifies her work. . . . Each separate poem in ' Can Grande's Castle ' is a real and 
 true poem of remarkable power — a work of imagination, a moving and beautiful 
 thing." — Joseph E. Chamberhiin in The Boston Transcript. 
 
 '"Can Grande's Castle' is, in the opinion of the present re\'iewer, not only the 
 best book which Miss Lowell has so far written, but a great book per se. . . . It is a 
 frank and revealing book. It deals with fundamentals. ... In "Sea-Blue and Blood- 
 Red' we have the old storj- of Nelson and 'mad, whole-hearted Lady Hamilton' retold 
 in a stj'le that dazzles and excites like golden standards won from the enemy passing in 
 procession with the sua upon them." — The New York Times Book Retiev. 
 
 THE MACMILLAX COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 Men, Women and Ghosts 
 
 By amy LOWELL 
 
 Fifth edition, $1.75 
 
 ". . . In the poem which gave its name to a previous volume, 'Sword 
 Blades and Poppy Seed,' Miss Lowell uttered her Credo with rare sincerity 
 and passion. Not since Elizabeth Barrett's 'Vision of Poets' has there been 
 such a confession of faith in the mission of poetry, such a stern compulsion of 
 dedication laid upon the poet. And in her latest work we find proof that she 
 has lived according to her confession and her dedication with a singleness of 
 purpose seldom encountered in our fluid time. 
 
 "'Men, Women, and Ghosts' is a book greatly and strenuously imagined. 
 . . . Miss Lowell is a great romantic. . . . She belongs to the few who, in 
 every generation, feel that poetry is a high calling, and who press undeviatingly 
 toward the mark. They are few, and they are frequently lonely, but they lead." 
 — New York Times Book Review. 
 
 ". . . ' The Hammers ' is a really thrilling piece of work ; the skill with which 
 it is divided into different moods and motifs is something more than a tour de 
 force. The way the different hammers are characterized and given voice, the 
 varying music wrung from them (from the ponderous banging of the hammers 
 at the building of the ' Bellerophon ' to their light tapping as they pick off the 
 letters of Napoleon's victories on the arch of the Place du Carrousel), the 
 emphasis with which they reveal a whole period — these are the things one sees 
 rarely." — LOUIS Untermeyer in the Chicago Evening Post. 
 
 ". . . Beautiful . . . poetry as authentic as any we know. It is individual, 
 innocent of echo and imitation, with the uniqueness that comes of personal 
 genius. . . . Miss Lowell strives to get into words the effects of the painter's 
 palette and the musician's score. And life withal. Does she succeed ? 1 
 should say she does, and the first poem in this book, ' Patterns," is a brilliant, 
 Eesthetic achievement in a combination of story, imagism, and symbolism. 
 ' Men, Women, and Ghosts ' is a volume that contains beautiful poetry for all 
 readers who have the root of the matter in them." — Reedy' s Mirror, St. Louis. 
 
 " The most original of all the young American writers of to-day." — The New 
 Age, London, 
 
 " Brilliant is the term for ' Men, Women, and Ghosts ' — praise which holds 
 good when the book is put to the test of a third reading." — Edward 
 Garnett in The Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 Sword Blades and Poppy Seed 
 
 By amy LOWELL 
 
 Fourth edition, $i-75 
 
 OPINIONS OF LEADING REVIEWERS 
 
 "Against the multitudinous array of daily verse our times produce 
 this volume utters itself with a range and brilliancy wholly remark- 
 able. I cannot see that Miss LowelPs use of unrhymed vers litre 
 has been surpassed in English. Read 'The Captured Goddess,' 
 ' Music ' and ' The Precinct. Rochester,' a piece of mastercraft in 
 this kind. A wealth of subtleties and sympathies, gorgeously 
 wrought, full of macabre effects (as many of the poems are) and 
 briUiantly worked out. The things of splendor she has made she 
 will hardly outdo in their kind." — Josephine Preston Peabody, 
 The Boston Herald. 
 
 " For quaint pictorial exactitude and bizarrerie of color these 
 poems remind one of Flemish masters and Dutch tulip gardens ; 
 again, they are fine and fantastic, like Venetian glass ; and they are 
 all curiously flooded with the moonhght of dreams. . . . Miss 
 Lowell has a remarkable gift of what one might call the dramatic- 
 decorative. Her decorative imagery is intensely dramatic, and her 
 dramatic pictures are in themselves vivid and fantastic decorations." 
 — Richard Le Gallienne, New York Times Book Review. 
 
 " Such poems as ' A Lady,' ' Music,' ' White and Green,' are well- 
 nigh flawless in their beauty — perfect 'images.'" — Harriet 
 Monroe, Poetry. 
 
 " Her most notable quality appears in the opening passage of the 
 volume. The sharply etched tones and contours of this picture are 
 characteristic of the author's work. ... In ' unrhymed cadence ' 
 Miss Lowell's cadences are sometimes extremely delicate, as in ' The 
 Captured Goddess.'" — Arthur Davison Ficke, Chicago Dial. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass 
 
 By amy LOWELL 
 
 Fifth edition, $i.6o 
 
 "These poems arouse interest, and justify it by the result. Miss Lowell 
 is the sister of President Lowell of Harvard. Her art, however, needs no 
 reflection from such distinguished influence to make apparent its distinc- 
 tion. Such verse as this is delightful, has a sort of personal flavour, a 
 loyalty to the fundamentals of life and nationality. . . . The child poems 
 are particularly graceful." — Boston Evening Transcript, Boston, Mass. 
 
 " Miss Lowell has given expression in exquisite form to many beautiful 
 thoughts, inspired by a variety of subjects and based on some of the lofti- 
 est ideals. , . . 
 
 " The verses are grouped under the captions ' Lyrical Poems,' * Sonnets,' 
 and ' Verses for Children.' . . . 
 
 " It is difficult to say which of these are the most successful. Indeed, 
 all reveal Miss Lowell's powers of observation from the view-point of a 
 lover of nature. Moreover, Miss Lowell writes with a gentle philosophy 
 and a deep knowledge of humanity. . . . 
 
 " The sonnets are especially appealing and touch the heart strings so 
 tenderly that there comes immediate response in the same spirit. . . . 
 
 "That she knows the workings of the juvenile mind is plainly indicated 
 by her verses written for their reading." — Boston Sunday Globe, Boston, 
 Mass. 
 
 " A quite delightful little collection of verses." — Toronto Globe, Toronto, 
 Canada. 
 
 "The Lyrics are true to the old definition; they would sing well to the 
 accompaniment of the strings. We should like to hear • Hora Stellatrix ' 
 rendered by an artist." — Hartford Courant, Hartford, Conn. 
 
 " Verses that show delicate appreciation of the beautiful, and imagina- 
 tive quality. A sonnet entitled * Dreams ' is peculiarly full of sympathy 
 and feeling." — The Sun, Baltimore, Md. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 Tendencies in Modern American Poetry 
 
 By amy LOWELL 
 
 Third edition, illustrated, $3.00 
 
 " I have no hesitation in insisting that Miss Amy Lowell's ' Tendencies in 
 Modern American Poetry ' is one of the most striking volumes of criticism 
 that has appeared in recent years." — CLEMENT K. SHORTER in TAe Sphere, 
 London. 
 
 " In her recent volume, ' Tendencies in Modern American Poetry,' Miss 
 Lowell employs this method (the historical) with excellent results. . . . We 
 feel throughout a spirit of mingled courage, kindness, and independence illumi- 
 nating the subject, and the result is the note of personality that is so priceless 
 in criticism, yet which, unhoneyed on the one hand or uncrabbed on the other, 
 is so hard to come by . . . her latest book leaves with the reader a strong 
 impression of the most simple and unaffected integrity." — HELEN BULLIS 
 KiZER in The North American Review. 
 
 "A new criticism has to be created to meet not only the work of the new 
 artists but also the uncritical hospitality of current taste. . . . That is why a 
 study such as Miss Amy Lowell's on recent tendencies in American verse is so 
 significant. . . . Her very tone is revolutionary. . . . Poetry appears for the 
 first time on our critical horizon ... as a sound and important activity of con- 
 temporary American life." — RANDOLPH BOURNE in The Dial. 
 
 " Its real worth as criticism and its greater worth as testimony are in- 
 valuable." — O. W. Firkins in The Nation. 
 
 " The feeling she has for poetry is so genuine and catholic and instructed, 
 and her acquaintance with modern activity so energetic, that she is one of the 
 most interesting and illuminating persons with whom to visit the new poets, 
 led by the hand." — New Republic. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Fublishsrs 64-66 Fifth Ayenue Ne\r York
 
 Six French Poets 
 
 STUDIES IN CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE 
 
 By amy LOWELL 
 
 Third edition, illustrated, $3.00 
 
 A brilliant series of biographical and critical essays dealing with Emile Ver- 
 haeren, Albert Samain, Remy de Gourmont, Henri de R6gnier, Francis Jammes, 
 and Paul Fort, by one of the foremost living American poets. The translations 
 make up an important part of the book, and together with the French originals 
 constitute a representative anthology of the poetry of the period. 
 
 William Lyon Phelps, Professor of English Literature, Yale University, 
 says: 
 
 " This is, I think, the most valuable work on contemporary French literature 
 that I have seen for a long time. It is written by one who has a thorough 
 knowledge of the subject and who is herself an American poet of distinction. 
 She has the knowledge, the sympathy, the penetration, and the insight — all 
 necessary to make a notable book of criticism. It is a work that should be 
 widely read in America." 
 
 " In her ' Six French Poets ' I find a stimulating quality of a high order. . . . 
 I defy any English critic to rise from this book without the feehng that he has 
 gained considerably. This is the first volume in English to contain a minute 
 and careful study of these French writers." — Clk.MENT K. SHORTER in TAe 
 Sphere, London. 
 
 " I can conceive of no greater pleasure than that of a lover of poetry who 
 reads in Miss Lowell's book about modern French poetry for the first time ; it 
 must be like falling into El Dorado." — F. S. FLINT, formerly French critic of 
 Poetry and Drama, London, in The Little Review. 
 
 " Amy Lowell's ' French Poets ' . . . ought to be labelled like Pater's studies 
 ' Appreciations,' so full of charm are its penetrative interpretations . . . and it 
 is not too bold to say that her introductions to and interpretations of French 
 poets will live as long as interest in these pot ts themselves lives. Her book is 
 a living and lasting piece of criticism ... a masterly volume." — New York 
 Sun. 
 
 " A very admirable piece of work." — TAe London Bookman. 
 
 " Une trds interessante 6tude." — La France. 
 
 " An excellent book." — EMILE Cammaerts in Tke Athenceum, London. 
 
 " Miss Lowell has done a real service to literature. One must be limited, 
 indeed, who fails to appreciate the power of these writers as set forth through 
 the comment, the discriminating extracts, and the appended prose translations 
 in her book." — North American Review. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 PubliBhers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York
 
 L 007 095 752 7 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 714 652 5