Part 2

Le givre: vivre libre en l'ire de l'hiver, Rumeur qui se retrait au regard d'une vitre Ou, peut-etre, fremit ephemere l'elytre De tel vol ou d'un souffle epais de menu-vair. Le ciel gris s'est, fanfare! a soi-meme entr'ouvert: N'est-ce pas qu'y ruisselle au front morne une mitre? Non! senile noblesse ou nul n'elude un titre A se mentir moins vil que ne rampe le ver. L'heure suit l'heure encore, aucune n'est la seule: Pareille a soi, voici venir qui l'enlinceule Pour brusque naitre d'elle et pour mourir soudain. Un chardon bleu, pas meme, au suaire, ni cirse Offrant, reve chetif et dedain du jardin, Ne fut-ce qu'une epine a s'en former un thyrse.

But the great mass of his poetry is perfectly intelligible. He is a romanticist, but in a new sense; for whereas the old romanticists turned from the sordid present to the motley middle ages and the choral pomp of Rome, Fontainas haunts the labyrinths of his soul, and projects his conscience beyond the bounds of space and time. In Fontainas, as in Gerardy, knights ride through pathless forests, but these are not the knights of Spenser. The _Faery Queen_ is a record of events in the outer world; Fontainas is a _chevalier errant_ in the inner world of the spirit, and his castles are only settling-places for the dove of thought winging out of the unknown.

Iwan Gilkin and Albert Giraud are Satanists. Gilkin's _La Nuit_, "une vision terrifiante des turpitudes humaines," is the most interesting book in Baudelaire's style since Baudelaire. He began it with the intention of continuing his pilgrimage in two following books through Purgatory and Paradise; but, as he warns his readers in the preface to _La Nuit: This is Hell!_ Gilkin seems to have had no aptitude for Purgatory and Paradise after Hell; at all events, his following works have nothing to make an Englishman blush. _Le Cerisier Fleuri_ (1899) is a collection of verse in the classical style; but Gilkin has since given his best work to the drama: _Promethee_ (1899), _Etudiants russes_ (1906), _Savonarole_ (1906). _Jonas_ (1900) is a satire predicting the conquest of Europe by Asia.

Albert Giraud is undoubtedly a poet of high rank. His colouring is marvellous. Above all, he is a very personal poet; one can always hear the beating of his heart--"A maint endroit le sentiment mal contenu creve l'enveloppe de serenite."[11] He is a pessimist and a Baudelairian: "Il se plait," says Desire Horrent, "a remuer le fond vaseux des ames, a gouter le charme morbide des voluptes rares et raffinees."

Albert Mockel is one of those very rare cases in which a good critic is at the same time a good poet. As a critic[12] he has probably no rival except Remy de Gourmont. His hall-mark is subtlety; but his learning, too, makes one gasp. (He might, no doubt, have been a professor if he had not been so brilliant). His poetry is philosophy; and the wonderful thing is that it should be such poetry. It is as light as a breeze, and like a deep river that shows its pebbles. He has in preparation a book of verse, _La Flamme Immortelle_, which will be a magnificent realization of his doctrine of _Aspiration._ Verhaeren interprets the outer world, Mockel the inner world as reflected in the outer world: for existence is double, form and shadow. Mockel has written, too, a child's story-book, _Contes pour les enfants d'hier_[13] which should not be given to children.

Paul Gerardy is a well-known German poet as well as a French one. He belongs to the school of Stefan George.

In Georges Marlow's poetry the prevailing note is refinement. He has written little, but what he has written is of the first water. Some of the verse in his collection _L'Ame en Exil_ is like Brussels lace:

Aline, au fil de l'eau tremblante Ou les tourelles refletees Parlent d'une ville noyee, Pourquoi baigner tes mains dolentes!

Princesse trop frele surgie D'un recueil de miniatures, Gracile fee aux levres pures Du vain prestige des magies,

Ta peine etrange quelle est-elle Pour qu'en cette onde puerile Mirant ta candeur infantile Tu songes aux fleurs immortelles

Du jardin vague ou les ephebes Nimbes d'equivoques lueurs, Sur l'autel d'or de la langueur Immolent l'ange de leurs reves?

Fernand Severin, who is lecturer in French literature at the University of Ghent, is a poet of great charm. His diction is apparently that of Racine, but in substance he is essentially modern. "Virginal" is the epithet the French critics apply to him, and it describes his chaste, transparent poetry very well. "Tout y est en nuances, mysterieusement fuyantes et fondues" (Victor Kinon). He dreams:

"les mains pleines de roses Et le coeur enlace de longs rameaux de lys."

He is full of languor:

"Car mes reves sont las comme de blancs oiseaux En qui verse l'ennui de l'azur et des eaux Le supreme desir de dormir sur les greves."

Isi-Collin's _La Vallee heureuse_ is full of fine things. In such a poem as _La Mort d'Ophelie_ the influence of pre-Raphaelite paintings may be discerned. There is Wordsworthianism in his verse (especially _Le Patre_), as there is in Severin's; not a voluntary absorption into the outer world, but a passing reflection of it in the inner being; no direct message, but a statement of a state.

The only poetess in our collection is Jean Dominique. Besides _L'Anemone des Mers_ she has published _La Gaule Blanche_ and _L'Aile Mouillee_ (Mercure de France, 1903 and 1909). Her verse is exquisitely feminine, shimmering like shot silk, intimately personal, and perfect in form. "She notes the very shadow that roses cast on her soul." She has written poems which are worthy of Sappho, as that which begins:

"Dans la chaleur muette le ciel lisse ses plumes Comme un grand epervier aux ailes floconneuses; Mais ce soir, l'oiseau d'or entrave dans les brumes, Blotti contre la terre humble et delicieuse, Dormira sur le coeur des femmes amoureuses."

Georges Rency's Pegasus was a delicate steed with iridescent blue wings when he took it out into the shadows, and the moonlights, and the dawns, and recorded its flights on excellent paper. Since then it seems to have died of inanition, but he himself has produced a robust body of novels and criticism.

As to Sylvain Bonmariage, he is a prodigy. He is twenty-four years of age, and he has written twelve books. Every one of his plays has seen the footlights. "Precoce a epouvanter le diable et candide a ravir les saints," is Albert Giraud's description of him.

Our collection does not exhaust the poetry of Belgium. Perhaps no poem we have selected has so good a chance of immortality as a snatch of song by Leon Montenaeken:

La vie est vaine: Un peu d'amour, Un peu de haine.... Et puis--bonjour!

La vie est breve: Un peu d'espoir, Un peu de reve ... Et puis--bonsoir!

J. BITHELL.

_April 1911._

[1] Charles van Lerberghe was directly inspired by Rossetti and Burne-Jones. Verhaeren has written much art criticism. Fontainas, who has translated Keats, and Milton's _Samson Agonistes_ and _Comus_, is a historian of painting (_Histoire de la Peinture francaise au xixeme siecle 1801-1900_, Mercure de France, 1906). Max Elskamp illustrates his own books with quaint, mediaeval woodcuts; see, especially, his _Alphabet de Notre Dame la Vierge_ (Antwerp, 1901). Mockel has written a study of Victor Rousseau (1905). Le Roy is an amateur painter.

[2] Verhaeren heard Wagner's _Walkuere_ twenty times running. Mockel is a learned musician; of his two volumes of verse _Chantefable un peu naive_ and _Clartes_ contain musical notations of rhythms. Gilkin found it difficult to decide whether to be a musician or a poet.

[3] Verhaeren, who is a Fleming _pur sang_, and who was brought up in an exclusively Flemish-speaking district, knows practically no Flemish. Maeterlinck, on the other hand, might have written equally well in Flemish.

[4] See Georges Rency, _Physionomies litteraires_, pp. 120-122.

[5] See Gilkin, _Origines estudiantines de la Jeune Belgique._

[6] Gilkin, _Quinze annees de litterature_.

[7] Founded by the lawyer Edmond Picard, who discovered "l'ame belge." He advocated a literature which should be specifically Belgian.

[8] "Ma race," Les Forces tumultueuses.

[9] Stefan Zweig. _Emile Verhaeren_.

[10] "La Belgique sait mieux que toute autre jouer dans la paille avec l'enfant de Bethleem." (Thomas Braun.)

[11] Gregoire Le Roy, _Le Masque_, May 1910.

[12] _Propos de litterature_,1894; _Emile Verhaeren_, 1895; _Stephane Mallarme. Un Heros_. Mercure de France, 1899; _Charles van Lerberghe_, Mercure de France, 1901.

[13] Mercure de France (1908).

Contemporary Belgian Poetry.

SYLVAIN BONMARIAGE.

1887--.

/$ AUTUMN EVENING IN THE ORCHARD.

In the monotonous orchard alley glints The languid sun that yet is loth to leave This unripe, fascinating autumn eve, And draws a pastel with faint, feminine tints.

Spite of the great gold fruits around us strown, Of the last freshly-opened roses, which But now we gathered, spite of all the rich Odour filling the dusk from hay new-mown,

Of all the ripe, warm, naked fruit thou art I covet nothing but the savour, while Thou liest in the grass there with a smile, Tormenting with thy curious eyes my heart.

YOU WHOM I LOVE IN SILENCE.

You whom I love in silence, as I must, Fain had I been in olden tournament To shiver lances for your eyes' content, Making full many a baron bite the dust.

Or rather I had been that favoured page Who trained your hounds and falcons that he might After you down the valley, o'er the height Go galloping in eager vassalage.

I might have heard my lord solicit bliss, And swear to you his vehement promises; And gone to mass with you at dewy prime;

And in the cool of evenings I, to woo The smile of your loved lips, had sung to you The secret love of lovers of old time. $/

THOMAS BRAUN.

1876--.

THE BENEDICTION OF THE NUPTIAL RING.

"_Ut quae cum gestaverit fidelitatem integram suo sponso tenens in mutua caritate vivat._"

Almighty God, bless now the ring of gold Which bride and bridegroom shall together hold! They whom fresh water gave to You are now United in You by the marriage vow. The ring is of a heavy, beaten ore, And yet it shall not make the finger sore. But easefully be carried day and night, Because its secret spirit makes it light. Its perfect circle sinks into the skin, Nor hurts it, and the phalanx growing thin Under its pressure moulds itself ere long, Yet keeps its agile grace and still is strong. So love, which in this symbol lies, with no Beginning more nor ending here below, Shall, if You bless it, Lord, like gold resist, And never show decay, nor flaw, nor twist, And be so light, though solid, that the soul, A composite yet indivisible whole, Shall keep its tender impress to the last, And never know the bonds that bind it fast.

THE BENEDICTION OF WINE.

"_Ut vinum cor hominis laetifloet._"

Lord, You who heard the prayer of Your divine Mother, and gave Your guests that Cana wine, Deign now to bless as well the vintage new, Which cheers the heart of those who pray to you. The breeze blew warm upon the flowering shoot, And the sky coloured all the round, green fruit, Which, guarded from oidium and lice, Thrushes, phylloxera, and from dormice, Ripened as You, O Lord, would have it be. The tendril curled around the sapling tree, And soon the shoots bent under sun-blue sheaves With which September loads the crackling leaves. Over the winepress sides the juice has run, And, heavily fermenting, cracked the tun. O Lord, we dedicate to You this wine, Wherein is pent the spirit of the Rhine; We vow to You the vintages of France, Of the Moselle, Black Forest, of Byzance; Cyprus, Marsala, Malaga, and Tent, Malmsey, and Shiraz of the Orient; That of the Gold Isles scented by the sea, Sherry, Tokay, Thetalassomene; Nectar of bishops and of kings, champagne; The blue wine from the hill-sides of Suresnes; The sour, white wine of Huy; Chateau Margaux, Shipped to Your abbots world-wide from Bordeaux; Oporto's wine that drives the fever out, And gave to English statesmen rest and gout; Lacryma Christi, Chateauneuf of Popes, Grown, O good Lord, upon Avignon's slopes; Whether in skins or bottles; those you quaff With ceremonial face or lips that laugh; Keep them still clear when cobwebs round them grow, To make all world-sick hearts leap up and glow, To lighten minds that carking cares oppress, And yet not dimming them with drunkenness; Put into them the vigour which sustains Muscles grown flabby; and along the veins Let them regenerate impoverished blood; And bless the privileged pure wine and good, Whose common, fragile colour, still unspiced, Suddenly ceasing to be wine, O Christ, Soon as the blest, transmuting word is said, Perpetuates Your blood for sinners shed.

THE BENEDICTION OF THE CHEESES.

"_Dignare sanctificare hanc creaturam casei quam ex adipe animalium producere dignatus es._"

When from the void, good Lord, this earth You raised, You made vast pasture-lands where cattle grazed, Where shepherds led their flocks, and shore their fleeces, And scraped their hides and cut them into pieces, When they had eaten all their nobler flesh, Which with earth's virgin odour still was fresh. O'er Herve's plateaux our cattle pass, and browse The ripe grass which the mist of summer bows, And over which the scents of forests stream. They give us butter, curds, and milk, and cream. God of the fields, Your cheeses bless to-day, For which Your thankful people kneel and pray. Let them be fat or light, with onions blent, Shallots, brine, pepper, honey; whether scent Of sheep or fields is in them, in the yard Let them, good Lord, at dawn be beaten hard; And let their edges take on silvery shades Under the most red hands of dairymaids; And, round and greenish, let them go to town Weighing the shepherd's folding mantle down; Whether from Parma or from Jura heights, Kneaded by august hands of Carmelites, Stamped with the mitre of a proud abbess, Flowered with the fragrance of the grass of Bresse, From Brie, hills of the Vosges, or Holland's plain, From Roquefort, Gorgonzola, or from Spain! Bless them, good Lord! Bless Stilton's royal fare, Red Cheshire, and the tearful, cream Gruyere! Bless Kantercaas, and bless the Mayence round, Where aniseed and other grains are found; Bless Edam, Pottekees, and Gouda then, And those that we salute with "Sir," like men.

ISI-COLLIN.

1878--.

TO THE MUSE.

Skilful the rune of symbols to unravel, And mute avowals hearkened unawares, Before the light from lips of flowers fares With chosen petals I have strown the gravel.

She I awaited came not to the lawn, And, solitary, I have chased all night The lilac's and the lily's breath in flight, And drunk it deeply in the brimful dawn.

Upon the sand these flowers that I have strown My foot has crushed them down with cruel force, And I am kneeling near the mirroring source, Where I have sought her mouth and kissed mine own.

But now I know, and sing with fire renewed Thy mercy, and thy beauty, and thy youth Eternal, and I love thee without ruth, Whom Sappho the divine and Virgil wooed.

I have all odours to perfume thee here, And dyes for mouth and eyes, and I will make Thy looks more luminous, and deep, and clear Than the stainless azure bathing in this lake.

Come with thy too red lips and painted eyes! My senses wait for thee in these bright bowers, Where they are flowering with the soul of flowers, O mother of fables and of lyric lies,

O courtesan! Come where these willows wave, Lie by the water, I would have thee bare, With nothing round thine ample shoulders save All the sun's gold vibrating in thy hair.

A DREAM.

Dream of the far hours when We were exiled beyond the pale Of our happiness; draw again Over our love that ancient veil.

Offer your lips to the evening breeze That sings among the branches and passes, Lay back your head on my knees, Where the river the willow glasses. Rest in my hands your head Tired with the weight of the autumn in its tresses red, And dream!

(A fabulous sunset bleeds In the calm water wherein, Among the reeds, Our double shadow grows thin, Bathed in the sunset's red, And the radiant gold of your head.)

Dream of your virginal spirit's plight, When I opened your robe in our wedding night.

(The noise of a wing that lags Dies in the waterflags. And the shadows which descend With the afterglow, Mysterious and slow, Stay on the bank and o'er the waters bend Their faces of silence.)

Dream of our love, of our joys, And in the shadow sing them low; At the rim of your naked lips My voice shall ambush your voice.

(The moonbeams slow and white Linger on the forest tops, Fall and glide on the river they light, And now a veil of radiance drops On our protecting willow....)

Dream, this is the hour of snow.

JEAN DOMINIQUE.

1873--.

THOU WHOM THE SUMMER CROSSES, AS A FAWN.

Thou whom the summer crosses, as a fawn, Red in the sun, through forest alleys springs, My soul with the deep shadows round thee drawn, Hast thou not seen the sad, blonde swarm of bees Pass hanging on the eddies of the breeze, Bearing on millions of exiguous wings A little motionless and gilded queen?...

Hast thou not felt the orphan grace that starts To life with life in any beast, and glows, Tormented with enchantment, in the hearts Of delicate fawns and simple eyes of does?...

My sylvan soul, so full of nests and warm, Remembering thy flown birds with pangs how keen, Shalt thou not ever, in parched summer's breath, Hang like a humming heart and keep the swarm Of gilded bees bearing their golden queen Upon thine orphan heart more sad than death?...

And shalt thou ever of ecstatic nights, And of the royal Summer crossing earth, Know but the printed foot in amorous flights Of the red fawn, and shadow-dappled mirth?...

Soul whom the Winter too shall cross ere long, And, after, Passion's Spring as bindweeds strong, More sad than death shall thou not ever seize This little orphan, golden queen, in state Borne round the world upon the eddying breeze By many a thousand longings that vibrate?...

THE LEGEND OF SAINT URSULA.

_Painted by Carpaccio._

The slender Ursula has decked her hair, And her pale visage, and her trailing gown With odorous collars and with shining pearls; Her tapering hand the precious burden holds Of a sheaf of delicately broken folds; Her fragile temple bears the seal of God.

There comes to meet her, o'er the port's green wave, A gallant pagan prince clad with gold hair, And grace and love, and loveliness suave. The maiden and the youth have mouths so grave, That in the sleeping air on the lagoon Already seem the harps of death to swoon....

Ursula, virgin, humble as blonde thatch, Is earnest, and in costly raiment straight, And like a kingdom taketh her the prince.... But she already knows love there is none!

But she already knows another youth, The fairest archer of a lordly race, Awaits her at another ocean's rim To free her sovran soul to fly to God....

And yet she cometh, with her exquisite neck Beaten by tresses garlanded with pearls, And the golden youth who loves her with sad cheer Hearkens approaching nigh his trembling heart, Following her silent step, a host of wings!...

THE SOUL'S PROMISE.

If you can see my soul within my eyes, I will be softer than a bed of down For your fatigue to sigh in and to swoon; I will be kinder to you and more sweet Than after vain adieux returning soon, And tenderer than a sky bedimmed with doves!

Ah! if you feel my heart rise in my eyes, Like the sick perfume of the autumn rose, If you will enter on my spirit's waste, Upon whose stones no foot but yours shall sound, If you will love my visions and my vows, I will be more your kin than all your own!

Upon my soul's wild thyme and moss, and on Its bare stones where the sun is wont to dance, And in its wind with fire and solace laden, In the whole desert of my crimson love, I will immerse you in my honeycombs.

Ah! can you gaze into my blinding soul, And know my heart has leapt into my eyes, As the sling sends after the singing bird A stone at the mysterious welkin thrown?...

If you will scan the desert of mine eyes, O you will see what suffering immense, And what vast joy and silence how divine, When, from my soul's height I shall bear you at, We shall feel rise in us the wondrous wave Of scents of roses and the falling night!...

A SECRET.

I will put my two hands on my mouth, to hush The words that, when I see you, to it rush.

I will put my two hands on mine eyes, lest you Should in them find what I were fain you knew.

I will put them on my bosom, to conceal That which might seem the desperate heart's appeal.

And I will put them gently into yours, My two hands sick with grief that long endures....

And they shall come full of their tenderness, Most silently, and even with no caress,

With the whole burden of a secret broken, Of which my mouth, eyes, heart had gladly spoken.

Tired of being empty they to you shall come, Heavy with sadness, sad with being dumb;

So desolate, discouraged, pale and frail, That you may bend, perhaps, and see they ail!...

MAX ELSKAMP.

1862--.

OF EVENING.

All at the heart of a far domain, With those to whom our hearts do strain, My Truelove weeps for me, distraught By my death the week has wrought. My heart's Beloved grieveth sore, And plunges her two hands like flowers Into her eyes whose sorrow showers, My heart's Beloved grieveth sore.

All at the heart of a far domain, Unto her feet her skates she ties, Feeling that in her heart is ice, Far unto me her tired feet strain; My Truelove hangs to the Chapel pane, That gazes over all the plain, With rings, and salt, and dry bread, my Wretched soul that will not die.

All at the heart of a far domain, My Truelove never will weep again The festivals the seasons bring, With family rings on fingers twain; My Love has seen me promising, Like a saint, to spirits pure A Sunday that shall aye endure, And all at the heart of a far domain.

FULL OF GRACE.

And Jesus all rosy, And the earth all blue, Mary of grace, in your round hands upcurled, As might two fruits be: Jesus and the world, And Jesus all rosy, And the earth all blue.

And Jesus, and Mary, And Joseph the spouse, For all my life I place my trust in you, As they in Brittany and childhood do, And Joseph the spouse, And Jesus and Mary.

Then Egypt too, The flight and Herod, My old soul and my feet that tremble, seeing Towards the distant places ambling, fleeing, And the ass and Herod, And Egypt too.

Now, Jesus all golden, Like statues of Christ, O Mary, in your hands that hold the sword, Over my town whereon your tears are poured, Jesus more golden In your arms and Christ.

FULL OF GRACE.

Now more and more, fain were my lips Your inexhaustible Grace to say, O Mary, at the sailing-day Of bowsprits and of all my ships

Unto the islands of the sea, Where went my merchandize of old, By winds on other oceans rolled From isle to island of the sea.

But I have donned the broken shoes Of those who dwell on land, and sprent My tongue with ash of discontent Because my memory seems to lose