Part 18

M. Maeterlinck has had the good or bad fortune to be more promptly, and more violently, praised at the beginning of his career than at all events any other writer of whom I have spoken in this volume. His fame in France was made by a flaming article of M. Octave Mirbeau in the _Figaro_ of August 24, 1890. M. Mirbeau greeted him as the "Belgian Shakepeare," and expressed his opinion of _La Princesse Maleine_ by saying "M. Maeterlinck has given us the greatest work of genius that has been produced in our time, and the most extraordinary and the most naïve too, comparable (dare I say?) superior in beauty to what is most beautiful in Shakespeare ... more tragic than _Macbeth,_ more extraordinary in thought than _Hamlet."_ Mr. William Archer introduced M. Maeterlinck to England in an article called "A Pessimist Playwright" in the _Fortnightly Review,_ September, 1891. Less enthusiastic than M. Mirbeau, he defined the author of _La Princesse Maleine_ as "a Webster who had read Alfred de Musset." A freely adapted version of _L'Intruse_ was given by Mr. Tree at the Haymarket Theatre, January 27, 1892, and since that time many of M. Maeterlinck's plays have been acted, without cuts, or with but few cuts, at various London theatres. Several of his books have also been translated into English: _The Princesse Maleine_ (by Gerard Harry) and _The Intruder_ (by William Wilson), 1892; _Pelléas and Mélisande_ and _The Sightless_ (by Laurence Alma-Tadema), 1892; _Ruysbroeck and the Mystics_ (by J. T. Stoddart), 1894; _The Treasure of the Humble_ (by A. Sutro), 1897; _Aglavaine and Sélysette_ (by A. Sutro), 1897; _Wisdom and Destiny_ (by A. Sutro), 1898; _Alladine and Palomides_ (by A. Sutro), _Interior_ (by William Archer), and _The Death of Tintagiles_ (by A. Sutro), 1899.

I have spoken, in this volume, chiefly of Maeterlinck's essays, and but little of his plays, and I have said all that I had to say without special reference to the second volume of essays, _La Sagesse et la Destinée._ Like _Le Trésor des Humbles,_ that book is a message, a doctrine, even more than it is a piece of literature. It is a treatise on wisdom and happiness, on the search for happiness because it is wisdom, not for wisdom because it is happiness. It is a book of patient and resigned philosophy, a very Flemish philosophy, more resigned than even _Le Trésor des Humbles._ In a sense it seems to aim less high. An ecstatic mysticism has given way to a kind of prudence. Is this coming nearer to the earth really an intellectual ascent or descent? At least it is a divergence, and it probably indicates a divergence in art as well as in meditation. Yet, while it is quite possible to at least indicate Maeterlinck's position as a philosopher, it seems to me premature to attempt to define his position as a dramatist. Interesting as his dramatic work has always been, there is, in the later dramas, so singular an advance in all the qualities that go to make great art, that I find it impossible at this stage of his development, to treat his dramatic work as in any sense the final expression of a personality. What the next stage of his development may be it is impossible to say. He will not write more beautiful dramas than he has written in _Aglavaine et Sélysette_ and in _Pelléas et Mêlisande._ But he may, and he probably will, write something which will move the general world more profoundly, touching it more closely, in the manner of the great writers, in whom beauty has not been more beautiful than in writers less great, but has come to men with a more splendid energy.

TRANSLATIONS

_From Stéphane Mallarmé_

I. HÉRODIADE

Herodiade.

To mine own self I am a wilderness. You know it, amethyst gardens numberless Enfolded in the flaming, subtle deep, Strange gold, that through the red earth's heavy sleep Has cherished ancient brightness like a dream, Stones whence mine eyes, pure jewels, have their gleam Of icy and melodious radiance, you, Metals, which into my young tresses drew A fatal splendour and their manifold grace! Thou, woman, born into these evil days Disastrous to the cavern sibylline, Who speakest, prophesying not of one divine, But of a mortal, if from that close sheath, My robes, rustle the wild enchanted breath In the white quiver of my nakedness, In the warm air of summer, O prophetess, (And woman's body obeys that ancient claim) Behold me in my shivering starry shame, I die! The horror of my virginity Delights me, and I would envelop me In the terror of my tresses, that, by night, Inviolate reptile, I might feel the white And glimmering radiance of thy frozen fire, Thou that art chaste and diest of desire, White night of ice and of the cruel snow! Eternal sister, my lone sister, lo My dreams uplifted before thee! now, apart, So rare a crystal is my dreaming heart, I live in a monotonous land alone, And all about me lives but in mine own Image, the idolatrous mirror of my pride, Mirroring this Hérodiade diamond-eyed. I am indeed alone, O charm and curse!

Nurse. O lady, would you die then?

Herodiade. No, poor nurse; Be calm, and leave me; prithee, pardon me, But, ere thou go, close to the casement; see How the seraphical blue in the dim glass smiles, But I abhor the blue of the sky! Yet miles On miles of rocking waves! Know'st not a land Where, in the pestilent sky, men see the hand Of Venus, and her shadow in dark leaves? Thither I go. Light thou the wax that grieves In the swift flame, and sheds an alien tear Over the vain gold; wilt not say in mere Childishness?

Nurse. Now?

Herodiade. Farewell. You lie, O flower Of these chill lips! I wait the unknown hour, Or, deaf to your crying and that hour supreme, Utter the lamentation of the dream Of childhood seeing fall apart in sighs The icy chaplet of its reveries.

II. SIGH

My soul, calm sister, towards thy brow, whereon scarce grieves An autumn strewn already with its russet leaves, And towards the wandering sky of thine angelic eyes, Mounts, as in melancholy gardens may arise Some faithful fountain sighing whitely towards the blue! Towards the blue pale and pure that sad October knew, When, in those depths, it mirrored languors infinité, And agonising leaves upon the waters white, Windily drifting, traced a furrow cold and dun, Where, in one long last ray, lingered the yellow sun.

III. SEA-WIND

The flesh is sad, alas! and all the books are read. Flight, only flight! I feel that birds are wild to tread The floor of unknown foam, and to attain the skies! Nought, neither ancient gardens mirrored in the eyes, Shall hold this heart that bathes in waters its delight, O nights! nor yet my waking lamp, whose lonely light Shadows the vacant paper, whiteness profits best, Nor the young wife who rocks her baby on her breast. I will depart! O steamer, swaying rope and spar, Lift anchor for exotic lands that lie afar! A weariness, outworn by cruel hopes, still clings To the last farewell handkerchief's last beckonings! And are not these, the masts inviting storms, not these That an awakening wind bends over wrecking seas, Lost, not a sail, a sail, a flowering isle, ere long? But, O my heart, hear thou, hear thou the sailors' song!

IV. ANGUISH

To-night I do not come to conquer thee, O Beast that dost the sins of the whole world bear, Nor with my kisses' weary misery Wake a sad tempest in thy wanton hair; It is that heavy and that dreamless sleep I ask of the close curtains of thy bed, Which, after all thy treacheries, folds thee deep, Who knowest oblivion better than the dead. For Vice, that gnaws with keener tooth than Time, Brands me as thee, of barren conquest proud; But while thou guardest in thy breast of stone A heart that fears no fang of any crime, I wander palely, haunted by my shroud, Fearing to die if I but sleep alone.

_From Paul Verlaine: Fêtes Galantes_

I. CLAIR DE LUNE

Your soul is a sealed garden, and there go With masque and bergamasque fair companies Playing on lutes and dancing and as though Sad under their fantastic fripperies.

Though they in minor keys go carolling Of love the conqueror and of life the boon They seem to doubt the happiness they sing And the song melts into the light of the moon,

The sad light of the moon, so lovely fair That all the birds dream in the leafy shade And the slim fountains sob into the air Among the marble statues in the glade.

II. PANTOMIME

Pierrot, no sentimental swain, Washes a paté down again With furtive flagons, white and red.

Cassandre, with demure content, Greets with a tear of sentiment His nephew disinherited.

That blackguard of a Harlequin Pirouettes, and plots to win His Columbine that flits and flies.

Columbine dreams, and starts to find A sad heart sighing in the wind, And in her heart a voice that sighs.

III. SUR L'HERBE

The Abbé wanders.--Marquis, now Set straight your periwig, and speak! --This Cyprus wine is heavenly, how Much less, Camargo, than your cheek!

--My goddess ...--Do, mi, sol, la, si. --Abbé, such treason who'll forgive you? --May I die, ladies, if there be A star in heaven I will not give you!

--I'd be my lady's lapdog; then ... --Shepherdess, kiss your shepherd soon, Shepherd, come kiss ...--Well, gentlemen? --Do, mi, so.--Hey, good-night, good moon!

IV. L'ALLÉE

As in the age of shepherd king and queen, Painted and frail amid her nodding bows, Under the sombre branches and between The green and mossy garden-ways she goes, With little mincing airs one keeps to pet A darling and provoking perroquet. Her long-trained robe is blue, the fan she holds With fluent fingers girt with heavy rings, So vaguely hints of vague erotic things That her eye smiles, musing among its folds. --Blonde too, a tiny nose, a rosy mouth, Artful as that sly patch that makes more sly, In her divine unconscious pride of youth, The slightly simpering sparkle of the eye.

V. A LA PROMENADE

The sky so pale, and the trees, such frail things, Seem as if smiling on our bright array That flits so light and gay upon the way With indolent airs and fluttering as of wings.

The fountain wrinkles under a faint wind, And all the sifted sunlight falling through The lime-trees of the shadowy avenue Comes to us blue and shadowy-pale and thinned.

Faultlessly fickle, and yet fond enough, With fonds hearts not too tender to be free, We wander whispering deliciously, And every lover leads a lady-love,

Whose imperceptible and roguish hand Darts now and then a dainty tap, the lip Revenges on an extreme finger-tip, The tip of the left little finger, and,

The deed being so excessive and uncouth, A duly freezing look deals punishment, That in the instant of the act is blent With a shy pity pouting in the mouth.

VI. DANS LA GROTTE

Stay, let me die, since I am true, For my distress will not delay, And the Hyrcanian tigress ravening for prey Is as a little lamb to you.

Yes, here within, cruel Clymène, This steel which in how many wars How many a Cyrus slew, or Scipio, now prepares To end my life and end my pain.

But nay, what need of steel have I To haste my passage to the shades? Did not Love pierce my heart, beyond all mortal aids, With the first arrow of your eye?

VII. LES INGENUS

High heels and long skirts intercepting them, So that, according to the wind or way, An ankle peeped and vanished as in play; And well we loved the malice of the game.

Sometimes an insect with its jealous sting Some fair one's whiter neck disquieted, From which the gleams of sudden whiteness shed Met in our eyes a frolic welcoming.

The stealthy autumn evening faded out, And the fair creatures dreaming by our side Words of such subtle savour to us sighed That since that time our souls tremble and doubt.

VIII. CORTÈGE

A silver-vested monkey trips And pirouettes before the face Of one who twists a kerchief's lace Between her well-gloved finger-tips.

A little negro, a red elf, Carries her dropping train, and holds At arm's length all the heavy folds, Watching each fold displace itself.

The monkey never lets his eyes Wander from the fair woman's breast, White wonder that to be possessed Would call a god out of the skies.

Sometimes the little negro seems To lift his sumptuous burden up Higher than need be, in the hope Of seeing what all night he dreams.

She goes by corridor and stair, Still to the insolent appeals Of her familiar animals Indifferent or unaware.

IX. LES COQUILLAGES

Each shell incrusted in the grot Where we two loved each other well An aspect of its own has got.

The purple of a purple shell Is our souls' colour when they make Our burning heart's blood visible.

This pallid shell affects to take Thy languors, when thy love-tired eyes Rebuke me for my mockery's sake.

This counterfeits the harmonies Of thy pink ear, and this might be Thy plump short nape with rosy dyes.

But one, among these, troubled me.

X. EN PATINANT

We were the victims, you and I, Madame, of mutual self deceits; And that which set our brains awry May well have been the summer heats.

And the spring too, if I recall, Contributed to spoil our play, And yet its share, I think, was small In leading you and me astray.

For air in springtime is so fresh That rose-buds Love has surely meant To match the roses of the flesh Have odours almost innocent;

And even the lilies that outpour Their biting odours where the sun Is new in heaven, do but the more Enliven and enlighten one,

So stealthily the zephyr blows A mocking breath that renders back The heart's rest and the soul's repose And the flower's aphrodisiac,

And the five senses, peeping out, Take up their station at the feast, But, being by themselves, without Troubling the reason in the least.

That was the time of azure skies, (Madame, do you remember it?) And sonnets to my lady's eyes, And cautious kisses not too sweet.

Free from all passion's idle pother, Full of mere kindliness, how long, How well we liked not loved each other, Without one rapture or one wrong!

Ah, happy hours! But summer came: Farewell, fresh breezes of the spring! A wind of pleasure like a flame Leapt on our senses wondering.

Strange flowers, fair crimson-hearted flowers Poured their ripe odours over us, And evil voices of the hours Whispered above us in the boughs.

We yielded to it all, ah me! What vertigo of fools held fast Our senses in its ecstasy Until the heat of summer passed?

There were vain tears and vainer laughter, And hands indefinitely pressed, Moist sadnesses, and swoonings after, And what vague void within the breast?

But autumn came to our relief, Its light grown cold, its gusts grown rough, Came to remind us, sharp and brief, That we had wantoned long enough,

And led us quickly to recover The elegance demanded of Every quite irreproachable lover And every seemly lady-love.

Now it is winter, and, alas, Our backers tremble for their stake; Already other sledges pass And leave us toiling in their wake.

Put both your hands into your muff, Sit back, now, steady! off we go. Fanchon will tell us soon enough Whatever news there is to know.

XI. FANTOCHES

Scaramouche waves a threatening hand To Pulcinella, and they stand, Two shadows, black against the moon.

The old doctor of Bologna pries For simples with impassive eyes, And mutters o'er a magic rune.

The while his daughter, scarce half-dressed, Glides slyly 'neath the trees, in quest Of her bold pirate lover's sail;

Her pirate from the Spanish main, Whose passion thrills her in the pain Of the loud languorous nightingale.

XII. CYTHÈRE

By favourable breezes fanned, A trellised harbour is at hand To shield us from the summer airs;

The scent of roses, fainting sweet, Afloat upon the summer heat, Blends with the perfume that she wears.

True to the promise her eyes gave, She ventures all, and her mouth rains A dainty fever through my veins;

And, Love fulfilling all things, save Hunger, we 'scape, with sweets and ices, The folly of Love's sacrifices.

XIII. EN BATEAU

The shepherd's star with trembling glint Drops in black water; at the hint The pilot fumbles for his flint.

Now is the time or never, sirs. No hand that wanders wisely errs: I touch a hand, and is it hers?

The knightly Atys strikes the strings, And to the faithless Chloris flings A look that speaks of many things.

The abbé has absolved again Eglé, the viscount all in vain Has given his hasty heart the rein.

Meanwhile the moon is up and streams Upon the skiff that flies and seems To float upon a tide of dreams.

XIV. LE FAUNE

An aged faun of old red clay-Laughs from the grassy bowling-green, Foretelling doubtless some decay Of mortal moments so serene

That lead us lightly on our way (Love's piteous pilgrims have we been!) To this last hour that runs away Dancing to the tambourine.

XV. MANDOLINE

The singers of serenades Whisper their faded vows Unto fair listening maids Under the singing boughs.

Tircis, Aminte, are there, Clitandre has waited long, And Damis for many a fair Tyrant makes many a song.

Their short vests, silken and bright, Their long pale silken trains, Their elegance of delight, Twine soft blue silken chains.

And the mandolines and they, Faintlier breathing, swoon Into the rose and grey Ecstasy of the moon.

XVI. A CLYMÈNE

Mystical strains unheard, A song without a word, Dearest, because thine eyes, Pale as the skies,

Because thy voice, remote As the far clouds that float Veiling for me the whole Heaven of the soul,

Because the stately scent Of thy swan's whiteness, blent With the white lily's bloom Of thy perfume,

Ah! because thy dear love, The music breathed above By angels halo-crowned, Odour and sound,

Hath, in my subtle heart, With some mysterious art Transposed thy harmony, So let it be!

XVII. LETTRE

Far from your sight removed by thankless cares (The gods are witness when a lover swears) I languish and I die, Madame, as still My use is, which I punctually fulfil, And go, through heavy-hearted woes conveyed, Attended ever by your lovely shade, By day in thought, by night in dreams of hell, And day and night, Madame, adorable! So that at length my dwindling body lost In very soul, I too become a ghost, I too, and in the lamentable stress Of vain desires remembering happiness, Remembered kisses, now, alas, unfelt, My shadow shall into your shadow melt.

Meanwhile, dearest, your most obedient slave.

How does the sweet society behave, Thy cat, thy dog, thy parrot? and is she Still, as of old, the black-eyed Silvanie (I had loved black eyes if thine had not been blue) Who ogled me at moments, palsambleu!

Thy tender friend and thy sweet confidant? One dream there is, Madame, long wont to haunt This too impatient heart: to pour the earth And all its treasures (of how little worth!) Before your feet as tokens of a love Equal to the most famous flames that move The hearts of men to conquer all but death. Cleopatra was less loved, yes, on my faith, By Antony or Cæsar than you are, Madame, by me, who truly would by far Out-do the deeds of Cæsar for a smile, O Cleopatra, queen of word and wile, Or, for a kiss, take flight with Antony

With this, farewell, dear, and no more from me; How can the time it takes to read it, quite Be worth the trouble that it took to write?

XVIII. LES INDOLENTS

Bah! spite of Fate, that says us nay, Suppose we die together, eh? --A rare conclusion you discover

--What's rare is good. Let us die so, Like lovers in Boccaccio. --Ha! ha! ha! you fantastic lover!

--Nay, not fantastic. If you will, Fond, surely irreproachable. Suppose, then, that we die together?

--Good sir, your jests are fitlier told Than when you speak of love or gold. Why speak at all, in this glad weather?

Whereat, behold them once again, Tircis beside his Dorimène, Not far from two blithe rustic rovers,

For some caprice of idle breath Deferring a delicious death. Ha! ha! ha! what fantastic lovers!

XIX. COLUMBINE

The foolish Leander, Cape-covered Cassander, And which Is Pierrot? 'tis he With the hop of a flea Leaps the ditch;

And Harlequin who Rehearses anew His sly task, With his dress that's a wonder, And eyes shining under His mask;

Mi, sol, mi, fa, do! How gaily they go, And they sing And they laugh and they twirl Round the feet of a girl Like the Spring,

Whose eyes are as green As a cat's are, and keen As its claws, And her eyes without frown Bid all new-comers Down With your paws!

On they go with the force Of the stars in their course, And the speed: O tell me toward what Disaster unthought, Without heed

The implacable fair, A rose in her hair, Holding up Her skirts as she runs Leads this dance of the dunce And the dupe?

XX. L'AMOUR PAR TERRE

The other night a sudden wind laid low The Love, shooting an arrow at a mark, In the mysterious corner of the park, Whose smile disquieted us long ago.

The wind has overthrown him, and above His scattered dust, how sad it is to spell The artist's name still faintly visible Upon the pedestal without its Love,

How sad it is to see the pedestal Still standing! as in dream I seem to hear Prophetic voices whisper in my ear The lonely and despairing end of all.

How sad it is! Why, even you have found A tear for it, although your frivolous eye Laughs at the gold and purple butterfly Poised on the piteous litter on the ground.

XXI. EN SOURDINE

Calm where twilight leaves have stilled With their shadow light and sound, Let our silent love be filled With a silence as profound.

Let our ravished senses blend Heart and spirit, thine and mine, With vague languors that descend From the branches of the pine.

Close thine eyes against the day, Fold thine arms across thy breast, And for ever turn away All desire of all but rest.

Let the lulling breaths that pass In soft wrinkles at thy feet, Tossing all the tawny grass, This and only this repeat.

And when solemn evening Dims the forest's dusky air, Then the nightingale shall sing The delight of our despair.

XXII. COLLOQUE SENTIMENTAL

In the old park, solitary and vast, Over the frozen ground two forms once passed.

Their lips were languid and their eyes were dead, And hardly could be heard the words they said.

In the old park, solitary and vast, Two ghosts once met to summon up the past.

--Do you remember our old ecstasy? --Why would you bring it back again to me?

--Do you still dream as you dreamed long ago? Does your heart beat to my heart's beating? --No.