The vague odor of the incense still hovered in the room,-
the odor of death, - now and again overcome by the sharper odor
of ether, penetrating and choking.
the odor of death, - now and again overcome by the sharper odor
of ether, penetrating and choking.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v26 - Tur to Wat
You are mistaken,”
said the marquis again in violent agitation.
Tears choked her voice. Then she stretched out her hands
toward Roberto without saying a word, as in those happy days
no more. Only her face, with its expression of anguish and of
agonizing entreaty, had entirely changed in twenty-four hours.
Roberto bent his head down to hers.
Both of them were upright and loyal souls, in the worldly
sense of the word, so far as it means being sincere in every
act. Since Fate had seen fit to humble these proud and worthy
heads, they were for the first time required to face a result that
abruptly upset all their logic and showed its falsity. The count-
ess's revelation had overwhelmed Danei with a sort of stupor.
At this moment, as he thought the matter over, he was terri-
fied; and in that contest of loves and duties, under the reserve
imposed upon both of them by their relationships which ren-
dered it more difficult, he found himself at a complete loss. He
spoke of themselves, of the past, of the future so full of peril;
he tried to hit upon phrases and words that should smooth the
way for his arguments, lest by their harshness they should offend
or wound a single one of those sentiments so delicate and com-
plicated.
“But just imagine, Anna! Such a marriage is out of the
question! ”
She knew not what to say. She merely murmured, “My
daughter! my daughter! ”
>
## p. 15306 (#254) ##########################################
15306
GIOVANNI VERGA
(
(
"Well! Do you wish me to go away? do you wish me to
leave you forever? You know what a sacrifice I should make!
Well, do you wish it ? ”
"If you did, she would die. ”
Roberto hesitated before bringing forth his last resource.
Then lowering his voice he said, “Well, then -- then nothing
remains but to confess everything. ”
The mother grew rigid with a nervous spasm; her fingers
clutched the arms of the easy-chair; and she replied in a muffled
voice, bending her head, "She knows it - she suspects! ”
"And in spite of it ? ” asked Danei after a brief silence.
“It would kill her. I made her believe that she was mis.
taken. ”
“And she believed you ? »
“Oh! ” exclaimed the countess with a sad smile, "love is cred-
ulous. She believed me! ”
"And you ? ” he demanded, with a quiver which he could not
control betraying itself in his voice.
“I have already sacrified everything for my daughter. ” Then
she extended her hand and added, “Do you perceive how calm I
am?
(
(
"Are you certain that you will always be as calm ? ”
She replied, "I am. " And he felt a chill at the roots of his
hair, at the back of his head.
He arose staggering, and his head sank on his chest.
<Listen, Roberto. Now it is the mother who embraces you:
Anna is dead! Think of my daughter; love her for me and for
her own sake. She is pure and beautiful as an angel. Happi.
ness will bring back all her bloom. You will love her as you
have never loved before. Forget everything that has passed; be
calm!
Roberto grew pale as death, and answered never a word.
The engagement of the Contessina Bice was officially an-
nounced a few days after she was regarded as fairly convales.
cent.
Friends and relatives came to congratulate her on these two
fortunate events. The Marquis Danei was a most suitable per-
son; and if any one indiscreetly remarked on the disparity in age
between them, or made any other disparaging remark, a chorus
of ladies unanimously arose in scandalized protest against such
criticisms.
## p. 15307 (#255) ##########################################
GIOVANNI VERGA
15307
The girl was really returning to health, and growing radi-
ant with new life, sincerity, credulity, oblivion, – the frank egoism
of happiness, which found an answering chord in the heart of the
mother, who found sufficient strength even to smile upon them.
The doctor rubbed his hands, grumbling, “I deserve no thanks.
I do like Pilate. This blessed time of youth laughs at science.
Now here is my prescription: the spring at San Remo or at
Naples; the summer at Pegli or Leghorn; a trip to Rome for
the carnival — and a handsome little son to complete the cure. ”
When Bice wanted to take her mother along with her, the
countess replied, "No. The doctor and I have nothing whatever
to do with your journey. All my desire is that you may be
(
happy. ”
And she smiled on the newly engaged pair with her rather
pathetic smile. The daughter from time to time flashed a keen
look, as it were involuntarily, first at her mother and then at
her lover. When she heard her mother say these words, she,
without knowing why, threw her arms tightly round her and hid
her face in her bosom.
The countess had said that this should be her last festival;
and at the wedding ceremony, when the rooms were brilliant
with lights and crowded with friends and relatives, her pale deli-
cate cheeks really reminded them of the days when they used to
come and inquire for Bice. Roberto, when he kissed the count-
ess's hand, could not hide a certain anxiety. Afterwards, when
the last guest had departed, and the only carriage left was the
marquis's little coupé at the entrance, and the hack had taken
their luggage to the station, and Bice had gone to change her
gown,—the countess and Roberto were left alone for a moment.
"Make her happy! ” she said.
Danei was nervous: he kept fingering the button on his over-
coat and taking off his gloves. He made no remark.
Mother and daughter held each other in a long and tender
embrace. At last the countess almost brusquely pushed her
daughter away, saying, “It's late. You will lose your train. Go,
(C
go! ”
The Countess Orlandi had coughed a little that winter, and
had occasionally called in the doctor; who, with the desire not
to frighten her, scolded her for being in the habit of spending
the morning in church, “to save her soul at the expense of her
body," he would say. The worthy man pretended to make light
>
## p. 15308 (#256) ##########################################
15308
GIOVANNI VERGA
of the matter, so as to encourage her, but in reality he was anx-
ious; thus each of them almost deceived the other with a feigned
gayety, though they both felt that the trouble was serious.
Bice wrote that she was well, that she was having a delight-
ful time, that she was so happy; and later she hinted vaguely at
a coming event which would hasten their return before the end
of the year.
»
The countess telegraphed her to do nothing, but to await the
event where they were, protesting that she feared the journey
might be deleterious for her daughter. Later she said she would
come and join her. But she did not start, inventing a thousand
excuses, putting off from day to day the journey as if she dreaded
it. Telegram followed telegram. At last Roberto had a dispatch:
«Shall arrive to-night. ”
The first person whom Anna saw on the platform of the sta-
tion when she arrived was Roberto, who was waiting for her.
She pressed her muff spasmodically to her heart, as if she found
it hard to breathe. The marquis kissed her gloved hand and
gave her his arm while she whispered, “Bice — how is she ? »
—
“Bice is well,” he replied, — "as well as could be expected.
-
She will be so glad to see you. "
It seemed as if he were trying to choose the right words.
He kept his eyes turned to the door, impatient to be at home.
They passed swiftly by rows of brightly lighted houses and shops.
Then they went into darkness as they crossed a square. Both
instinctively kept at a distance and were silent.
Bice came hurrying forward to meet her mother, and threw
herself on her neck with a storm of kisses and disconnected
words. She was nervous, and Roberto gave her his arm to help
her up-stairs. The countess followed, being herself weary, and
loaded down under her heavy fur cloak.
When they met in the parlor by daylight, she was struck by
Bice's appearance: by her loose dressing-sack, by her blue-veined
hands, resting on the arms of the easy-chair into which she had
sunk down as if exhausted, but radiant with serene happiness,
Roberto bent down to whisper something in her ear. Without
being aware of it, they kept going aside gladly, to indulge in
little private conferences near the fireplace, the flames of which
cast a roseate aureole around them; in their self-absorption far
from the world, far from every one, forgetful of everything
else.
## p. 15309 (#257) ##########################################
GIOVANNI VERGA
15309
After the first excitement of that evening, the countess seemed
calmer. When she and Roberto chanced to be alone together,
and he talked,- talked as if he were afraid of silence, — she list-
ened with an abstracted smile, leaning back in her easy-chair
near the fire, which lighted up her dark hair, and her fine profile,
which in contrast with the light seemed like a cameo.
But a cloud seemed to hover between mother and daughter
in the intimacy of the family: an annoying and insurmountable
coolness which quenched all affectionate confidences; an embarrass-
ment that rendered disquieting all Roberto's acts of politeness
toward either of them, and sometimes even his presence with
them - as if it were a shadow of the past, clouding the daughter's
eyes, sending the color from the mother's cheeks, and even dis-
turbing Roberto from time to time. A tinge of bitterness could
be detected in the simplest words, in smiles which expected no
return, in glances which passed from one to the other full of
suspicion.
One evening when Bice had retired earlier than usual, and
Roberto had remained in the parlor with the countess to keep
her company, silence suddenly fell between them with a strange
sense of impending evil. Anna was standing with bent head
before the dying fire, shivering from time to time; and the lamp
placed on the mantelpiece threw golden reflections on the masses
of her hair, on the delicate nape of her neck, which seemed also
to be lighted up with wandering flames. As Roberto stooped
over to pick up the tongs, she gave a sudden start and bade him
good-night, saying that she felt weary. The marquis accom-
panied her to the door: he also felt the impulse of a vague
uneasiness. At that instant Bice appeared looking like a ghost,
clad in a white dressing-sack. Mother and daughter looked at
each other, and the former stood speechless, almost breathless.
Roberto, the least embarrassed of the three, asked, “What is the
matter, Bice ? »
“ Nothing. I couldn't go to sleep. What time is it? »
“It is not late. Your mother was just going to bed; she said
she felt tired. ”
"Ah! ” replied Bice. "Ah! ” That was all she said.
Anna, still trembling, murmured with a sad smile, “Yes, I am
tired; at my age
my children! »
"Ah! ” said Bice again.
(
>
## p. 15310 (#258) ##########################################
15310
GIOVANNI VERGA
Then the mother, growing pale as death, as if choked by
unspeakable anguish, added with the same melancholy smile,
“Don't you believe me? Don't you believe, Bice? ” And lifting
her hair a little from her temples, she showed her that the locks
underneath were all white.
"Oh, it is a long time-- a long, long time!
Bice, with an affectionate impulse, threw her arms around her
neck, and hid her face without saying another word. And her
mother's hands could feel how she was all trembling. Roberto,
who felt as if he were on pins and needles, had turned to go
out, seeing that his presence must be annoying under the circum-
stances. At that instant his eyes and Anna's met. He Aushed,
and for a moment there seemed to flash forth a recollection of
the past.
(
The Countess Anna spent two weeks in her daughter's house,
feeling all the time that she was an outsider, not only to Bice
but also to Roberto. How changed they were! When he gave
her his arm to go out to the dining-room — when Bice addressed
her as “mama” without looking at her, and blushed when she
spoke of her husband -
“Forget! — Be calm! ” she had said to Roberto, and neither
the one nor the other had forgotten at all.
She shut her eyes and shuddered at the thought. Sometimes,
suddenly, she was overwhelmed by flashes of anger, of a strange
unreasoning jealousy. He had robbed her of her daughter's
heart! This man had taken everything from her!
One evening a great commotion was heard in the house. Car-
riages and servants were dispatched hastily in various directions.
The physician and a woman came anxiously, and were instantly
ushered into Bice's apartment. And not one came after her; her
own daughter did not wish her to be present at this crisis of
her life. No, no one of them had forgotten! When the man
himself came to announce the birth of her granddaughter! when
she saw him trembling and radiant - no, she had never seen him
look that way before; — when she saw him by Bice's bedside,
where the young mother lay pale as if she were dead, and his
eyes filled with love for her alone, when his eyes looked only
at her! — then she felt an implacable hatred toward this man,
who caressed her daughter in her presence, and who even at that
moment received Bice's answering smile.
## p. 15311 (#259) ##########################################
GIOVANNI VERGA
15311
>
When they gave her name to the little granddaughter, and she
held the child in her arms at the baptismal service, she said with
a smile, “Now I can die. ”
Bice was slow in recovering her strength. Her delicate organ-
ism was still shaken. In the long days of convalescence, dark
thoughts came to her mind, - moods of fierce and unreasonable
irritation, of melancholy, as if she were neglected by every one.
Then she would give her husband a strange look out of her
clouded eyes and say, “Where have you been ?
Where are you
going? Why do you leave me alone? ”
Everything hurt her feelings: she even seemed to be jealous
of the relics of beauty which her mother still possessed. And
one day, trying to hide the eagerness which in spite of her
gleamed in her eyes, she went so far as to ask her when she
intended to go home.
• The mother bent her head as if under the weight of an inevi.
table punishment.
But afterwards Bice became her natural self, and seemed to
be asking forgiveness of them all by means of affectionate words
and kisses. As soon as she was able to leave her bed, the count-
ess set the day of her departure. When they bade each other
farewell at the station, both mother and daughter were deeply
affected: they kissed each other, and at the last moment, were as
unable to say a word as if they never expected to meet again!
The countess reached home late at night, deeply depressed,
benumbed with cold. The great deserted house was also cold, in
spite of the great fire that had been lighted, in spite of the soli-
tary lights in the melancholy rooms.
The Countess Anna's health rapidly failed. At first she attrib-
uted it to her weariness after the journey, the excitement, the
severity of the season. For about three months she vibrated
between her bed and her lounge, and the doctor came to see her
every day.
"It is nothing,” she would say. "To-day I feel better. To-
morrow I shall get up. ”
To her daughter she wrote regularly, but without referring to
the seriousness of the disease that was killing her. Toward the
beginning of the autumn she seemed to be really getting better;
but all of a sudden she grew so much worse that her household
felt obliged to telegraph to the marquis.
Roberto came the following day, greatly alarmed.
## p. 15312 (#260) ##########################################
15312
GIOVANNI VERGA
»
“Bice is not well,” he said to the doctor who was awaiting
him. “I am anxious about her too. She knows nothing about
it. I was afraid that the news — the excitement the journey
« You are right. The marchesa's health must be carefully
watched. It is a disease that runs in the blood, surely. I myself
should not have assumed such a responsibility; and if it had not
been for the gravity of the case
"Is it very serious ? asked Roberto.
The doctor made a motion with his head.
The sick woman, as soon as her son-in-law's arrival was an-
nounced, became greatly agitated.
“And Bice ? » she asked as soon as she saw him, “why did
she not come ? »
He hesitated, grew as pale as she was, and felt a cold per-
spiration at the roots of his hair.
“Have you been — did you tell her not to come ? ” she asked
in a choked and broken voice.
He had never heard that voice nor seen those eyes before.
A woman, leaning over the pillow, endeavored to calm the inva-
lid. Finally she relapsed into silence, closing her eyes, and con-
vulsively clasping her hands over her bosom.
Her last confession was made that evening. After she had
partaken of the Communion she had her son-in-law called in
again, and she pressed his hand as if to ask his pardon.
The vague odor of the incense still hovered in the room,-
the odor of death, - now and again overcome by the sharper odor
of ether, penetrating and choking. Livid shadows seemed to
wander over the face of the dying countess.
« Tell her,” murmured the poor woman, “tell my daugh-
ter - »
She struggled with shortness of breath, which choked
the words that she wanted to speak, and made her eyes roll as
in delirium. Then she signified with a pitiful motion of her head
that she could say no more.
From time to time it was necessary to lift from the pillows
her poor wasted body, in the supreme anguish of the death-agony.
But she signified that Roberto was not to touch her. Her hair,
which was white as snow, was in disorder.
“No— no —” those were her last words, heard indistinctly
murmured. She put up her hands to join together the night-
robe, which had opened at the neck; and thus with her hands
folded she passed away.
>
## p. 15313 (#261) ##########################################
15313
PAUL VERLAINE
(1844-1896)
BY VICTOR CHARBONNEL
»
JUSTICE, for Paul Verlaine, came only with death.
He was
assuredly one of the greatest poets of France in the nine-
teenth century. But the strangeness of his life, and of some
parts of his work, injured his glory. Severe critics treated him as
bohemian” and “decadent,” and believed they had thus fairly judged
him. He was, according to his own expression, "a cursed poet. ”
Only now does time throw over the wrongs
of the man and the errors of the writer the
forgetfulness necessary to conceal what was
not truly noble and glorious. And the name
of Paul Verlaine has its place in the lumi-
nous train marked by the names of Victor
Hugo, Lamartine, Alfred de Musset, Alfred
de Vigny, Théodore de Banville, and Le-
conte de Lisle, across the history of French
letters.
Paul Verlaine was born at Metz in 1844.
His father was officer of a regiment of en-
gineers in that city. When, in 1851, he
retired from the army, he established him- PAUL VERLAINE
self in Paris. The future poet followed
him there, and then pursued his classical studies. He scarcely
distinguished himself except for an impatient eagerness 'to read all
the poets both ancient and modern. As soon as he had left school,
he yielded to his poetic instinct, abandoned the different employ-
ments to which they wished to attach him, and joined a group of
young poets who had published their first verses with conspicuous
success, and who were forming a kind of literary association called
the Parnasse. It was to the Parnasse that in 1866 he carried his
initial work, Les Poèmes Saturniens. ' The book was distinguished
for the gracious and harmonious freedom of rhythm, and for a charm
of tender melancholy.
From that time the young author became the friend of the Par-
nassians”: of Leconte de Lisle, of Sully-Prudhomme, of Léon Diers,
of Catulle Mendès, and especially of François Coppée.
XXVI–958
## p. 15314 (#262) ##########################################
15314
PAUL VERLAINE
In 1867, the Fêtes Galantes' appeared. The novelty and the
poetic daring of this work were warmly discussed. Then Verlaine
went away from literary environments, and lived a life of mad de-
bauchery. He returned to letters in 1870 with a volume entitled
"La Bonne Chanson,' in which are some of his best pieces.
Married to a young girl of sixteen, he made her very unhappy by
the eccentricities of his character. Moreover, having allowed him-
self to be drawn into the revolutionary movement of the Commune
of Paris in 1871, he was obliged to leave France and take refuge in
London. This separation completed the disunion between the poet
and his young wife. Henceforth it was impossible for them to estab-
lish a good understanding with each other. This domestic misfortune
certainly seems to have been the primary cause of all the miseries
and disorders of Verlaine's existence.
In his forlorn condition he bound himself in close friendship with
a young poet, Arthur Rimbaud. As the two friends were traveling
together in Belgium, Paul Verlaine, carried away by a sudden in-
explicable fit of wrath, drew a revolver and shot his companion twice.
The court of Brussels condemned him to two years' imprisonment.
It was then, from 1873 to 1875, that he wrote in the prison of
Brussels Romances Sans Paroles”; (Romances Without Words); and
that in the prison of Mons, he pondered over the poems which were
to compose his masterpiece, “Sagesse. ' This last book was not pub-
lished, however, until 1881. Meantime Verlaine had exiled himself in
England, not having dared to revisit his friends in France, and had
earned his living as a teacher of French and of the classics. These
years were, he says in the preface of (Sagesse' (Wisdom), «six years
of austerity, of meditation, of obscure labor. ” Converted by the good
counsels of the chaplain of the Mons prison, there was revived in his
spirit the Christian sentiments of his childhood.
But, returned to Paris, he abandoned himself to debauchery again,
and lived in the greatest distress. His friends gave him some assist-
ance; and when he no longer had bread, or when disease succeeded
long privations, he went to the hospital. For fifteen years he was
the “poor Lélian. ”
His work since (Sagesse (1881) is quite considerable, and very
confused. There are in verse — Jadis et Naguère) (Days Past and
Gone: 1885). Amour (Love: 1888), Parallèlement' (In Parallels:
1889), (Dédicaces) (Dedications: 1890), "Bonheur (Happiness: 1891),
(Choix de Poésies) (Chosen Poems: 1891), Chansons pour Elle
(Songs for Her: 1891), "Liturgies Intimes) (Personal Liturgies: 1892),
*Elegies) (1893), Odes en Son Honneur) Odes in Her Honor: 1893),
Dans les Limbes (In Limbo: 1894), "Epigrammes) (1894), (Chair'
(Flesh : 1896); and in prose —'Les Poètes Maudits) (The Cursed Poets:
)
(
(
## p. 15315 (#263) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15315
>
1884), Memoires d'un Veuf' (Memories of a Widower: 1892), Mes
Hôpitaux (My Hospitals: 1892), Mes Prisons' (1893), Confessions
(1895), Quinze jours en Hollande) (A Fortnight in Holland: 1895),
twenty-six biographies in "Les Hommes d'Aujourd'hui (The Men of
To-day).
Paul Verlaine died the 8th of January, 1896. His end was with-
out suffering. Death was gentler than life had been to him. A11
the poets, and the poets only, accompanied his coffin to the church
and to the cemetery. He received no official honors. And the noble
simplicity of this funeral was a touching spectacle, well befitting
“poor Lélian. ”
Before his tomb, the poet François Coppée thus began his address
of farewell to the dead: “Let us bow over the bier of a child; let
us respectfully salute the tomb of a true poet. ” A child in his life,
a true poet in his work: such indeed was Paul Verlaine. . Like a
child, he had a tender heart, a candid and changeable spirit, a weak
and capricious character. According to chance, sometimes evil car-
ried him away, and sometimes good. One might almost say that good
and evil sprang up within him in a kind of dim half-consciousness,
but that he did not do either good or evil. If he had a sinful life,
it was a life without perversity. And his repentance, apparently
childish, attained the grandeur of holy tears. He remained a child
always; and a child whose natural goodness was better than its
existence. Even by this he was the poet. Like all true poets, he
spoke out the sincerity of his soul. His poetry is a cry of the soul.
.
It is a song of faith, or a complaint; it is the free fancy of a being
who is happy or who weeps. By a kind of art, involuntary, sponta-
neous, and yet refined and supremely delicate, he wrote exquisite
little songs; and also the most serious, most Christian poems of this
century.
kietor Charbonneh
.
[The following poems by Paul Verlaine are reprinted by permission of Stone
& Kimball, publishers. ]
CLAIR DE LUNE
Your
OUR soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes, and dance, and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.
,
## p. 15316 (#264) ##########################################
15316
PAUL VERLAINE
The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain, -
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,
The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.
LE FAUNE
A
N ANCIENT terra-cotta Faun,
A laughing note in 'mid the green,
Grins at us from the central lawn,
With secret and sarcastic mien.
It is that he foresees, perchance,
A bad end to the moments dear,
That with gay music and light dance
Have led us, pensive pilgrims, here.
MANDOLINE
T
HE courtly serenaders,
The beauteous listeners,
Sit idling 'neath the branches;
A balmy zephyr stirs.
It's Tircis and Aminta,
Clitandre, - ever there!
Damis, of melting sonnets
To many a frosty fair.
Their trailing flowery dresses,
Their fine beflowered coats,
Their elegance and lightness,
And shadows blue, - all floats
And mingles, - circling, wreathing,
In moonlight opaline,
While through the zephyr's harping
Tinkles the mandoline.
## p. 15317 (#265) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15317
L'AMOUR PAR TERRE
THE
He wind the other night blew down the Love
That in the dimmest corner of the park
So subtly used to smile, bending his arc,
And sight of whom did us so deeply move
One day! The other night's wind blew him down!
The marble dust whirls in the morning breeze.
Oh, sad to view, o'erblotted by the trees,
There on the base, the name of great renown!
Oh, sad to view the empty pedestal!
And melancholy fancies come and go
Across my dream, whereon a day of woe
Foreshadowed is. -I know what will befall!
Oh, sad ! — And you are saddened also, Sweet,
re not you, by this scene? although your eye
Pursues the gold and purple butterfly
That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.
THE SPELL
“Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore. — PÉTRUS BOREL.
TH?
HE keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
About the room where perfumes of Her stray.
What is this sudden quiet cradling me
To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall ?
What do you want with me, pale melody?
What is it that you want, ghost musical,
That fades toward the window waveringly,
A little open on the garden small ?
## p. 15318 (#266) ##########################################
15318
PAUL VERLAINE
FROM BIRDS IN THE NIGHT)
SOME
OME moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark
That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
And seeing not Our Lady through the dark,
Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.
Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end,
That knows his doom if he unshriven go,
And losing hope of any ghostly friend,
Sees hell already gape, and feels it glow.
Oh, but! -some moments, I've the spirit stout
Of early Christians in the lion's care,
That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
A nerve's revolt or turning of a hair!
1
1
Give ear unto the gentle lay
That's only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:
A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.
The voice was known to you, and dear ? )
But it is muffled latterly
As is a widow,- still, as she
It doth its sorrow proudly bear,
And through the sweeping mourning-veil
That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
Unto the heart that wonders, shows
Truth like a star now flash, now fail.
It says — the voice you knew again!
That kindness, goodness, is our life;
And that of envy, hatred, strife,
When death is come, shall naught remain.
It says how glorious to be
Like children, without more delay,
The tender gladness it doth say
Of peace not bought with victory.
Accept the voice,- ah, hear the whole
Of its persistent, artless strain:
Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain,
As making glad another soul !
## p. 15319 (#267) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15319
It pines in bonds but for a day,-
The soul that without murmur bears.
How unperplexed, how free it fares!
Oh, listen to the gentle lay!
I've seen again the One child, verily;
I felt the last wound open in my breast, -
The last, whose perfect torture doth attest
That on some happy day I too shall die!
Good, icy arrow, piercing thoroughly!
Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest
The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,
And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.
I still hear, still I see! O worshiped rule
,
Of God! I know at last how comfortful
To hear and see! I see, I hear alway!
O innocence, O hope! Lowly and mild,
How I shall love you, sweet hands of my child,
Whose task shall be to close our eyes one day!
The sky-blue smiles above the roof
Its tenderest;
A green tree rears above the roof
Its waving crest.
The church-bell in the windless sky
Peaceably rings;
A skylark soaring in the sky
Endlessly sings.
My God, my God, all life is there,
Simple and sweet;
The soothing beehive murmur there
Comes from the street!
What have you done, O you that weep
In the glad sun,
Say, with your youth, you man that weep,
What have you done?
## p. 15320 (#268) ##########################################
15320
PAUL VERLAINE
APRÈS TROIS ANS
HEN I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
Once more I stood within the green retreat;
Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,
And every flower a humid spangle wore.
W***
Nothing is changed. I see it all once more:
The vine-clad arbor with its rustic seat;
The water-jet still plashes silver sweet,
The ancient aspen rustles as of yore.
The roses throb as in a bygone day,
As they were wont; the tall proud lilies sway.
Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.
I even found the Flora standing yet,
Whose plaster crumbles at the alley's end
Slim, 'mid the foolish scent of mignonette.
MON RÊVE FAMILIER
O
Ft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite
dwell
The same,- and loves me well, and knows me as I am.
For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam
To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable
To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel
My grief, cooling my brow with her tears' gentle stream.
Is she of favor dark or fair ? - I do not know.
Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow
Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost.
Her eyes are like the statues', — mild, grave, and wide;
And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost
Of other voices, - well-loved voices that have died.
## p. 15321 (#269) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
1532 1
LE ROSSIGNOL
L"
IKE to a swarm of birds, with jarring cries
Descend on me my swarming memories;
Light 'mid the yellow leaves, that shake and sigh,
Of the bowed alder — that is even I! -
Brooding its shadow in the violet
Unprofitable river of Regret,
hey settle screaming. Then the evil sound,
By the moist wind's impatient hushing drowned,
Dies by degrees, till nothing more is heard
Save the long singing of a single bird,
Save the clear voice-o singer, sweetly done! -
Warbling the praises of the Absent One.
And in the silence of a summer night
Sultry and splendid, by a late moon's light
That sad and sallow peers above the hill,
The humid hushing wind that ranges still
Rocks to a whispered sleep-song languidly
The bird lamenting and the shivering tree.
INSPIRATION
H,
A* Egeria with the lightsome eyes profound,
Sudden Erato, Genius quick to grant,
Old picture Angel of the gilt background!
Muse, – ay, whose voice is powerful indeed,
Since in the first-come brain it makes to grow
Thick as some dusty yellow roadside weed,
A gardenful of poems none did sow! -
Dove, Holy Ghost, Delirium, Sacred Fire,
Transporting Passion,-seasonable queen!
Gabriel and lute, Latona's son and lyre, -
Ay, Inspiration, summoned at sixteen!
What we have need of, we, the poets true,
That not believe in gods, and yet revere,
That have no halo, hold no golden clue,
For whom no Beatrix leaves her radiant sphere,-
## p. 15322 (#270) ##########################################
15322
PAUL VERLAINE
We that do chisel words like chalices,
And moving verses shape with unmoved mind,
Whom wandering in groups by evening seas,
In musical converse ye scarce shall find, -
What we need is, in midnight hours dim-lit,
Sleep daunted, knowledge earned, - more knowledge
still!
Is Faust's brow, of the woodcuts, sternly knit,-
Is stubborn Perseverance, and is Will!
Is Will eternal, holy, absolute,
That grasps — as doth a noble bird of prey
The steaming flanks of the foredoomed brute –
Its project, and with it - skyward, away!
What we need, we, is fixedness intense,
Unequaled effort, strife that shall not cease;
Is night, the bitter night of labor, whence
Arises, sun-like, slow, the Masterpiece!
Let our inspired hearts, by an eye-shot tined,
Sway with the birch-tree to all winds that blow,
Poor things! Art knows not the divided mind -
Speak - Milo's Venus, is she stone or no?
We therefore, carve we with the chisel thought
The pure block of the beautiful, and gain
From out the marble cold where it was not,
Some starry-chiton'd statue without stain,
That one far day, posterity, new morn,
Enkindling with a golden-rosy flame
Our work, new Memnon, shall to ears unborn
Make quiver in the singing air our name!
The above translations are all by Gertrude Hall.
## p. 15323 (#271) ##########################################
15323
JONES VERY
(1803–1880)
F A parallel were sought from nature in describing a poet
like Jones Very, the hermit-thrush might well be named.
His life had the seclusion of that with awn chanter in the
woods, his song had the shy removed quality and the spiritual note
of that most ethereal of bird-inusicians. A New-Englander, a tran-
scendentalist, naturally affiliating with men
like Channing and Emerson, Very walked
by the inner light, and obeyed the vision.
His unworldliness had in it something
almost uncanny. He made a unique im-
pression upon observant souls. “American
soil,” says James Freeman Clarke, «has
produced no other man like Jones Very. ”
In the case of one with whom the life
of the spirit is all-important, the outward
events of his career seem of little moment:
they were uneventful with Very. He was
born August 28th, 1813, at Salem, Massa-
chusetts; and his father was a sea-captain,
JONES VERY
at a time when men of that ancient profes-
sion were among the most respected citizens of the community, pos-
sessed of character and culture. He made several voyages with his
father; attended school in Salem, and in New Orleans, Louisiana; and
by teaching, saved money enough to go to Harvard, where he was
graduated in 1836, remaining as a tutor of Greek for two years more.
He then studied theology, and was licensed a Unitarian preacher of
the Cambridge Association in 1843. But he never took a pastorate:
he returned to his native town and led a retired life, contributing
occasionally to the Salem Gazette, the Christian Register, and other
papers representing his denomination. He read literature, ancient
and modern; but his main interest was always in religious and
ethical themes. When he felt a call to do so, he accepted an invita-
tion to preach. If he deemed that God wished him to go to Boston
for converse with Dr. Channing, thither he went. His smallest acts
were in response to heavenly guidance.
In 1839 appeared the volume of Very's essays and poems.
The
former are scholarly and thoughtful; but the chief interest centres in
## p. 15324 (#272) ##########################################
15324
JONES VERY
the verse, posthumous editions of which were published in 1883 and
1886. In few books by an American poet has the note been more
distinctive. Very's sonnets and lyrics are the musings of a mystic.
The sonnets in particular express the history of the poet's religious
nature. In the lyrics there is less subjectivity, more variety of form,
and a wider range of theme; so that this portion of his work, as a
whole, will have stronger attraction for the general reader. But in
the irregular Shakespearean sonnet, with an extra syllable in the
final line, Very has made his most intimate revelation of himself.
He seems to have found this form peculiarly suited to the expression
of his inmost ideals. Such verses — introspective, subtle, delicate,
dealing with the loftiest aspirations of the human soul — cannot be
expected to make a wide appeal. But they embody a remarkable
poetic sentiment of the life of the spirit, and will always be precious
to those for whom they were written. Lowell admired and loved
Very's poetry; it has always found critical appreciation. Few poets
had a deeper feeling for nature - nature as the garment of God -
than this Salem recluse. He is at his happiest when breathing out
his spiritual thought in descriptions which note affectionately, with a
lover's constant eye, the grass, the tree, and the flower, and inter-
pret the insect on the earth, and the clouds of the sky, as symbols of
the One, maker of them all. When he died in his native town on
May 8th, 1880, there were those who felt that one of the choicest of
that noteworthy group of New England idealists had been removed.
[All the following poems are copyrighted, and they are republished here by
permission of the family of Mr. Very. )
THE TREE
I
LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor, longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen,
To veil from view the early robin's nest,
I love to lie beneath thy waving screen
With limbs by summer's heat and toil opprest;
And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,
I love to watch thy shadowy form below,
And through thy leafless arms to look above
On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.
## p. 15325 (#273) ##########################################
JONES VERY
15325
DAY
D^
AY!
said the marquis again in violent agitation.
Tears choked her voice. Then she stretched out her hands
toward Roberto without saying a word, as in those happy days
no more. Only her face, with its expression of anguish and of
agonizing entreaty, had entirely changed in twenty-four hours.
Roberto bent his head down to hers.
Both of them were upright and loyal souls, in the worldly
sense of the word, so far as it means being sincere in every
act. Since Fate had seen fit to humble these proud and worthy
heads, they were for the first time required to face a result that
abruptly upset all their logic and showed its falsity. The count-
ess's revelation had overwhelmed Danei with a sort of stupor.
At this moment, as he thought the matter over, he was terri-
fied; and in that contest of loves and duties, under the reserve
imposed upon both of them by their relationships which ren-
dered it more difficult, he found himself at a complete loss. He
spoke of themselves, of the past, of the future so full of peril;
he tried to hit upon phrases and words that should smooth the
way for his arguments, lest by their harshness they should offend
or wound a single one of those sentiments so delicate and com-
plicated.
“But just imagine, Anna! Such a marriage is out of the
question! ”
She knew not what to say. She merely murmured, “My
daughter! my daughter! ”
>
## p. 15306 (#254) ##########################################
15306
GIOVANNI VERGA
(
(
"Well! Do you wish me to go away? do you wish me to
leave you forever? You know what a sacrifice I should make!
Well, do you wish it ? ”
"If you did, she would die. ”
Roberto hesitated before bringing forth his last resource.
Then lowering his voice he said, “Well, then -- then nothing
remains but to confess everything. ”
The mother grew rigid with a nervous spasm; her fingers
clutched the arms of the easy-chair; and she replied in a muffled
voice, bending her head, "She knows it - she suspects! ”
"And in spite of it ? ” asked Danei after a brief silence.
“It would kill her. I made her believe that she was mis.
taken. ”
“And she believed you ? »
“Oh! ” exclaimed the countess with a sad smile, "love is cred-
ulous. She believed me! ”
"And you ? ” he demanded, with a quiver which he could not
control betraying itself in his voice.
“I have already sacrified everything for my daughter. ” Then
she extended her hand and added, “Do you perceive how calm I
am?
(
(
"Are you certain that you will always be as calm ? ”
She replied, "I am. " And he felt a chill at the roots of his
hair, at the back of his head.
He arose staggering, and his head sank on his chest.
<Listen, Roberto. Now it is the mother who embraces you:
Anna is dead! Think of my daughter; love her for me and for
her own sake. She is pure and beautiful as an angel. Happi.
ness will bring back all her bloom. You will love her as you
have never loved before. Forget everything that has passed; be
calm!
Roberto grew pale as death, and answered never a word.
The engagement of the Contessina Bice was officially an-
nounced a few days after she was regarded as fairly convales.
cent.
Friends and relatives came to congratulate her on these two
fortunate events. The Marquis Danei was a most suitable per-
son; and if any one indiscreetly remarked on the disparity in age
between them, or made any other disparaging remark, a chorus
of ladies unanimously arose in scandalized protest against such
criticisms.
## p. 15307 (#255) ##########################################
GIOVANNI VERGA
15307
The girl was really returning to health, and growing radi-
ant with new life, sincerity, credulity, oblivion, – the frank egoism
of happiness, which found an answering chord in the heart of the
mother, who found sufficient strength even to smile upon them.
The doctor rubbed his hands, grumbling, “I deserve no thanks.
I do like Pilate. This blessed time of youth laughs at science.
Now here is my prescription: the spring at San Remo or at
Naples; the summer at Pegli or Leghorn; a trip to Rome for
the carnival — and a handsome little son to complete the cure. ”
When Bice wanted to take her mother along with her, the
countess replied, "No. The doctor and I have nothing whatever
to do with your journey. All my desire is that you may be
(
happy. ”
And she smiled on the newly engaged pair with her rather
pathetic smile. The daughter from time to time flashed a keen
look, as it were involuntarily, first at her mother and then at
her lover. When she heard her mother say these words, she,
without knowing why, threw her arms tightly round her and hid
her face in her bosom.
The countess had said that this should be her last festival;
and at the wedding ceremony, when the rooms were brilliant
with lights and crowded with friends and relatives, her pale deli-
cate cheeks really reminded them of the days when they used to
come and inquire for Bice. Roberto, when he kissed the count-
ess's hand, could not hide a certain anxiety. Afterwards, when
the last guest had departed, and the only carriage left was the
marquis's little coupé at the entrance, and the hack had taken
their luggage to the station, and Bice had gone to change her
gown,—the countess and Roberto were left alone for a moment.
"Make her happy! ” she said.
Danei was nervous: he kept fingering the button on his over-
coat and taking off his gloves. He made no remark.
Mother and daughter held each other in a long and tender
embrace. At last the countess almost brusquely pushed her
daughter away, saying, “It's late. You will lose your train. Go,
(C
go! ”
The Countess Orlandi had coughed a little that winter, and
had occasionally called in the doctor; who, with the desire not
to frighten her, scolded her for being in the habit of spending
the morning in church, “to save her soul at the expense of her
body," he would say. The worthy man pretended to make light
>
## p. 15308 (#256) ##########################################
15308
GIOVANNI VERGA
of the matter, so as to encourage her, but in reality he was anx-
ious; thus each of them almost deceived the other with a feigned
gayety, though they both felt that the trouble was serious.
Bice wrote that she was well, that she was having a delight-
ful time, that she was so happy; and later she hinted vaguely at
a coming event which would hasten their return before the end
of the year.
»
The countess telegraphed her to do nothing, but to await the
event where they were, protesting that she feared the journey
might be deleterious for her daughter. Later she said she would
come and join her. But she did not start, inventing a thousand
excuses, putting off from day to day the journey as if she dreaded
it. Telegram followed telegram. At last Roberto had a dispatch:
«Shall arrive to-night. ”
The first person whom Anna saw on the platform of the sta-
tion when she arrived was Roberto, who was waiting for her.
She pressed her muff spasmodically to her heart, as if she found
it hard to breathe. The marquis kissed her gloved hand and
gave her his arm while she whispered, “Bice — how is she ? »
—
“Bice is well,” he replied, — "as well as could be expected.
-
She will be so glad to see you. "
It seemed as if he were trying to choose the right words.
He kept his eyes turned to the door, impatient to be at home.
They passed swiftly by rows of brightly lighted houses and shops.
Then they went into darkness as they crossed a square. Both
instinctively kept at a distance and were silent.
Bice came hurrying forward to meet her mother, and threw
herself on her neck with a storm of kisses and disconnected
words. She was nervous, and Roberto gave her his arm to help
her up-stairs. The countess followed, being herself weary, and
loaded down under her heavy fur cloak.
When they met in the parlor by daylight, she was struck by
Bice's appearance: by her loose dressing-sack, by her blue-veined
hands, resting on the arms of the easy-chair into which she had
sunk down as if exhausted, but radiant with serene happiness,
Roberto bent down to whisper something in her ear. Without
being aware of it, they kept going aside gladly, to indulge in
little private conferences near the fireplace, the flames of which
cast a roseate aureole around them; in their self-absorption far
from the world, far from every one, forgetful of everything
else.
## p. 15309 (#257) ##########################################
GIOVANNI VERGA
15309
After the first excitement of that evening, the countess seemed
calmer. When she and Roberto chanced to be alone together,
and he talked,- talked as if he were afraid of silence, — she list-
ened with an abstracted smile, leaning back in her easy-chair
near the fire, which lighted up her dark hair, and her fine profile,
which in contrast with the light seemed like a cameo.
But a cloud seemed to hover between mother and daughter
in the intimacy of the family: an annoying and insurmountable
coolness which quenched all affectionate confidences; an embarrass-
ment that rendered disquieting all Roberto's acts of politeness
toward either of them, and sometimes even his presence with
them - as if it were a shadow of the past, clouding the daughter's
eyes, sending the color from the mother's cheeks, and even dis-
turbing Roberto from time to time. A tinge of bitterness could
be detected in the simplest words, in smiles which expected no
return, in glances which passed from one to the other full of
suspicion.
One evening when Bice had retired earlier than usual, and
Roberto had remained in the parlor with the countess to keep
her company, silence suddenly fell between them with a strange
sense of impending evil. Anna was standing with bent head
before the dying fire, shivering from time to time; and the lamp
placed on the mantelpiece threw golden reflections on the masses
of her hair, on the delicate nape of her neck, which seemed also
to be lighted up with wandering flames. As Roberto stooped
over to pick up the tongs, she gave a sudden start and bade him
good-night, saying that she felt weary. The marquis accom-
panied her to the door: he also felt the impulse of a vague
uneasiness. At that instant Bice appeared looking like a ghost,
clad in a white dressing-sack. Mother and daughter looked at
each other, and the former stood speechless, almost breathless.
Roberto, the least embarrassed of the three, asked, “What is the
matter, Bice ? »
“ Nothing. I couldn't go to sleep. What time is it? »
“It is not late. Your mother was just going to bed; she said
she felt tired. ”
"Ah! ” replied Bice. "Ah! ” That was all she said.
Anna, still trembling, murmured with a sad smile, “Yes, I am
tired; at my age
my children! »
"Ah! ” said Bice again.
(
>
## p. 15310 (#258) ##########################################
15310
GIOVANNI VERGA
Then the mother, growing pale as death, as if choked by
unspeakable anguish, added with the same melancholy smile,
“Don't you believe me? Don't you believe, Bice? ” And lifting
her hair a little from her temples, she showed her that the locks
underneath were all white.
"Oh, it is a long time-- a long, long time!
Bice, with an affectionate impulse, threw her arms around her
neck, and hid her face without saying another word. And her
mother's hands could feel how she was all trembling. Roberto,
who felt as if he were on pins and needles, had turned to go
out, seeing that his presence must be annoying under the circum-
stances. At that instant his eyes and Anna's met. He Aushed,
and for a moment there seemed to flash forth a recollection of
the past.
(
The Countess Anna spent two weeks in her daughter's house,
feeling all the time that she was an outsider, not only to Bice
but also to Roberto. How changed they were! When he gave
her his arm to go out to the dining-room — when Bice addressed
her as “mama” without looking at her, and blushed when she
spoke of her husband -
“Forget! — Be calm! ” she had said to Roberto, and neither
the one nor the other had forgotten at all.
She shut her eyes and shuddered at the thought. Sometimes,
suddenly, she was overwhelmed by flashes of anger, of a strange
unreasoning jealousy. He had robbed her of her daughter's
heart! This man had taken everything from her!
One evening a great commotion was heard in the house. Car-
riages and servants were dispatched hastily in various directions.
The physician and a woman came anxiously, and were instantly
ushered into Bice's apartment. And not one came after her; her
own daughter did not wish her to be present at this crisis of
her life. No, no one of them had forgotten! When the man
himself came to announce the birth of her granddaughter! when
she saw him trembling and radiant - no, she had never seen him
look that way before; — when she saw him by Bice's bedside,
where the young mother lay pale as if she were dead, and his
eyes filled with love for her alone, when his eyes looked only
at her! — then she felt an implacable hatred toward this man,
who caressed her daughter in her presence, and who even at that
moment received Bice's answering smile.
## p. 15311 (#259) ##########################################
GIOVANNI VERGA
15311
>
When they gave her name to the little granddaughter, and she
held the child in her arms at the baptismal service, she said with
a smile, “Now I can die. ”
Bice was slow in recovering her strength. Her delicate organ-
ism was still shaken. In the long days of convalescence, dark
thoughts came to her mind, - moods of fierce and unreasonable
irritation, of melancholy, as if she were neglected by every one.
Then she would give her husband a strange look out of her
clouded eyes and say, “Where have you been ?
Where are you
going? Why do you leave me alone? ”
Everything hurt her feelings: she even seemed to be jealous
of the relics of beauty which her mother still possessed. And
one day, trying to hide the eagerness which in spite of her
gleamed in her eyes, she went so far as to ask her when she
intended to go home.
• The mother bent her head as if under the weight of an inevi.
table punishment.
But afterwards Bice became her natural self, and seemed to
be asking forgiveness of them all by means of affectionate words
and kisses. As soon as she was able to leave her bed, the count-
ess set the day of her departure. When they bade each other
farewell at the station, both mother and daughter were deeply
affected: they kissed each other, and at the last moment, were as
unable to say a word as if they never expected to meet again!
The countess reached home late at night, deeply depressed,
benumbed with cold. The great deserted house was also cold, in
spite of the great fire that had been lighted, in spite of the soli-
tary lights in the melancholy rooms.
The Countess Anna's health rapidly failed. At first she attrib-
uted it to her weariness after the journey, the excitement, the
severity of the season. For about three months she vibrated
between her bed and her lounge, and the doctor came to see her
every day.
"It is nothing,” she would say. "To-day I feel better. To-
morrow I shall get up. ”
To her daughter she wrote regularly, but without referring to
the seriousness of the disease that was killing her. Toward the
beginning of the autumn she seemed to be really getting better;
but all of a sudden she grew so much worse that her household
felt obliged to telegraph to the marquis.
Roberto came the following day, greatly alarmed.
## p. 15312 (#260) ##########################################
15312
GIOVANNI VERGA
»
“Bice is not well,” he said to the doctor who was awaiting
him. “I am anxious about her too. She knows nothing about
it. I was afraid that the news — the excitement the journey
« You are right. The marchesa's health must be carefully
watched. It is a disease that runs in the blood, surely. I myself
should not have assumed such a responsibility; and if it had not
been for the gravity of the case
"Is it very serious ? asked Roberto.
The doctor made a motion with his head.
The sick woman, as soon as her son-in-law's arrival was an-
nounced, became greatly agitated.
“And Bice ? » she asked as soon as she saw him, “why did
she not come ? »
He hesitated, grew as pale as she was, and felt a cold per-
spiration at the roots of his hair.
“Have you been — did you tell her not to come ? ” she asked
in a choked and broken voice.
He had never heard that voice nor seen those eyes before.
A woman, leaning over the pillow, endeavored to calm the inva-
lid. Finally she relapsed into silence, closing her eyes, and con-
vulsively clasping her hands over her bosom.
Her last confession was made that evening. After she had
partaken of the Communion she had her son-in-law called in
again, and she pressed his hand as if to ask his pardon.
The vague odor of the incense still hovered in the room,-
the odor of death, - now and again overcome by the sharper odor
of ether, penetrating and choking. Livid shadows seemed to
wander over the face of the dying countess.
« Tell her,” murmured the poor woman, “tell my daugh-
ter - »
She struggled with shortness of breath, which choked
the words that she wanted to speak, and made her eyes roll as
in delirium. Then she signified with a pitiful motion of her head
that she could say no more.
From time to time it was necessary to lift from the pillows
her poor wasted body, in the supreme anguish of the death-agony.
But she signified that Roberto was not to touch her. Her hair,
which was white as snow, was in disorder.
“No— no —” those were her last words, heard indistinctly
murmured. She put up her hands to join together the night-
robe, which had opened at the neck; and thus with her hands
folded she passed away.
>
## p. 15313 (#261) ##########################################
15313
PAUL VERLAINE
(1844-1896)
BY VICTOR CHARBONNEL
»
JUSTICE, for Paul Verlaine, came only with death.
He was
assuredly one of the greatest poets of France in the nine-
teenth century. But the strangeness of his life, and of some
parts of his work, injured his glory. Severe critics treated him as
bohemian” and “decadent,” and believed they had thus fairly judged
him. He was, according to his own expression, "a cursed poet. ”
Only now does time throw over the wrongs
of the man and the errors of the writer the
forgetfulness necessary to conceal what was
not truly noble and glorious. And the name
of Paul Verlaine has its place in the lumi-
nous train marked by the names of Victor
Hugo, Lamartine, Alfred de Musset, Alfred
de Vigny, Théodore de Banville, and Le-
conte de Lisle, across the history of French
letters.
Paul Verlaine was born at Metz in 1844.
His father was officer of a regiment of en-
gineers in that city. When, in 1851, he
retired from the army, he established him- PAUL VERLAINE
self in Paris. The future poet followed
him there, and then pursued his classical studies. He scarcely
distinguished himself except for an impatient eagerness 'to read all
the poets both ancient and modern. As soon as he had left school,
he yielded to his poetic instinct, abandoned the different employ-
ments to which they wished to attach him, and joined a group of
young poets who had published their first verses with conspicuous
success, and who were forming a kind of literary association called
the Parnasse. It was to the Parnasse that in 1866 he carried his
initial work, Les Poèmes Saturniens. ' The book was distinguished
for the gracious and harmonious freedom of rhythm, and for a charm
of tender melancholy.
From that time the young author became the friend of the Par-
nassians”: of Leconte de Lisle, of Sully-Prudhomme, of Léon Diers,
of Catulle Mendès, and especially of François Coppée.
XXVI–958
## p. 15314 (#262) ##########################################
15314
PAUL VERLAINE
In 1867, the Fêtes Galantes' appeared. The novelty and the
poetic daring of this work were warmly discussed. Then Verlaine
went away from literary environments, and lived a life of mad de-
bauchery. He returned to letters in 1870 with a volume entitled
"La Bonne Chanson,' in which are some of his best pieces.
Married to a young girl of sixteen, he made her very unhappy by
the eccentricities of his character. Moreover, having allowed him-
self to be drawn into the revolutionary movement of the Commune
of Paris in 1871, he was obliged to leave France and take refuge in
London. This separation completed the disunion between the poet
and his young wife. Henceforth it was impossible for them to estab-
lish a good understanding with each other. This domestic misfortune
certainly seems to have been the primary cause of all the miseries
and disorders of Verlaine's existence.
In his forlorn condition he bound himself in close friendship with
a young poet, Arthur Rimbaud. As the two friends were traveling
together in Belgium, Paul Verlaine, carried away by a sudden in-
explicable fit of wrath, drew a revolver and shot his companion twice.
The court of Brussels condemned him to two years' imprisonment.
It was then, from 1873 to 1875, that he wrote in the prison of
Brussels Romances Sans Paroles”; (Romances Without Words); and
that in the prison of Mons, he pondered over the poems which were
to compose his masterpiece, “Sagesse. ' This last book was not pub-
lished, however, until 1881. Meantime Verlaine had exiled himself in
England, not having dared to revisit his friends in France, and had
earned his living as a teacher of French and of the classics. These
years were, he says in the preface of (Sagesse' (Wisdom), «six years
of austerity, of meditation, of obscure labor. ” Converted by the good
counsels of the chaplain of the Mons prison, there was revived in his
spirit the Christian sentiments of his childhood.
But, returned to Paris, he abandoned himself to debauchery again,
and lived in the greatest distress. His friends gave him some assist-
ance; and when he no longer had bread, or when disease succeeded
long privations, he went to the hospital. For fifteen years he was
the “poor Lélian. ”
His work since (Sagesse (1881) is quite considerable, and very
confused. There are in verse — Jadis et Naguère) (Days Past and
Gone: 1885). Amour (Love: 1888), Parallèlement' (In Parallels:
1889), (Dédicaces) (Dedications: 1890), "Bonheur (Happiness: 1891),
(Choix de Poésies) (Chosen Poems: 1891), Chansons pour Elle
(Songs for Her: 1891), "Liturgies Intimes) (Personal Liturgies: 1892),
*Elegies) (1893), Odes en Son Honneur) Odes in Her Honor: 1893),
Dans les Limbes (In Limbo: 1894), "Epigrammes) (1894), (Chair'
(Flesh : 1896); and in prose —'Les Poètes Maudits) (The Cursed Poets:
)
(
(
## p. 15315 (#263) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15315
>
1884), Memoires d'un Veuf' (Memories of a Widower: 1892), Mes
Hôpitaux (My Hospitals: 1892), Mes Prisons' (1893), Confessions
(1895), Quinze jours en Hollande) (A Fortnight in Holland: 1895),
twenty-six biographies in "Les Hommes d'Aujourd'hui (The Men of
To-day).
Paul Verlaine died the 8th of January, 1896. His end was with-
out suffering. Death was gentler than life had been to him. A11
the poets, and the poets only, accompanied his coffin to the church
and to the cemetery. He received no official honors. And the noble
simplicity of this funeral was a touching spectacle, well befitting
“poor Lélian. ”
Before his tomb, the poet François Coppée thus began his address
of farewell to the dead: “Let us bow over the bier of a child; let
us respectfully salute the tomb of a true poet. ” A child in his life,
a true poet in his work: such indeed was Paul Verlaine. . Like a
child, he had a tender heart, a candid and changeable spirit, a weak
and capricious character. According to chance, sometimes evil car-
ried him away, and sometimes good. One might almost say that good
and evil sprang up within him in a kind of dim half-consciousness,
but that he did not do either good or evil. If he had a sinful life,
it was a life without perversity. And his repentance, apparently
childish, attained the grandeur of holy tears. He remained a child
always; and a child whose natural goodness was better than its
existence. Even by this he was the poet. Like all true poets, he
spoke out the sincerity of his soul. His poetry is a cry of the soul.
.
It is a song of faith, or a complaint; it is the free fancy of a being
who is happy or who weeps. By a kind of art, involuntary, sponta-
neous, and yet refined and supremely delicate, he wrote exquisite
little songs; and also the most serious, most Christian poems of this
century.
kietor Charbonneh
.
[The following poems by Paul Verlaine are reprinted by permission of Stone
& Kimball, publishers. ]
CLAIR DE LUNE
Your
OUR soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes, and dance, and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.
,
## p. 15316 (#264) ##########################################
15316
PAUL VERLAINE
The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain, -
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,
The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.
LE FAUNE
A
N ANCIENT terra-cotta Faun,
A laughing note in 'mid the green,
Grins at us from the central lawn,
With secret and sarcastic mien.
It is that he foresees, perchance,
A bad end to the moments dear,
That with gay music and light dance
Have led us, pensive pilgrims, here.
MANDOLINE
T
HE courtly serenaders,
The beauteous listeners,
Sit idling 'neath the branches;
A balmy zephyr stirs.
It's Tircis and Aminta,
Clitandre, - ever there!
Damis, of melting sonnets
To many a frosty fair.
Their trailing flowery dresses,
Their fine beflowered coats,
Their elegance and lightness,
And shadows blue, - all floats
And mingles, - circling, wreathing,
In moonlight opaline,
While through the zephyr's harping
Tinkles the mandoline.
## p. 15317 (#265) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15317
L'AMOUR PAR TERRE
THE
He wind the other night blew down the Love
That in the dimmest corner of the park
So subtly used to smile, bending his arc,
And sight of whom did us so deeply move
One day! The other night's wind blew him down!
The marble dust whirls in the morning breeze.
Oh, sad to view, o'erblotted by the trees,
There on the base, the name of great renown!
Oh, sad to view the empty pedestal!
And melancholy fancies come and go
Across my dream, whereon a day of woe
Foreshadowed is. -I know what will befall!
Oh, sad ! — And you are saddened also, Sweet,
re not you, by this scene? although your eye
Pursues the gold and purple butterfly
That flutters o'er the wreck strewn at our feet.
THE SPELL
“Son joyeux, importun, d'un clavecin sonore. — PÉTRUS BOREL.
TH?
HE keyboard, over which two slim hands float,
Shines vaguely in the twilight pink and gray,
Whilst with a sound like wings, note after note
Takes flight to form a pensive little lay
That strays, discreet and charming, faint, remote,
About the room where perfumes of Her stray.
What is this sudden quiet cradling me
To that dim ditty's dreamy rise and fall ?
What do you want with me, pale melody?
What is it that you want, ghost musical,
That fades toward the window waveringly,
A little open on the garden small ?
## p. 15318 (#266) ##########################################
15318
PAUL VERLAINE
FROM BIRDS IN THE NIGHT)
SOME
OME moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark
That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray,
And seeing not Our Lady through the dark,
Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray.
Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end,
That knows his doom if he unshriven go,
And losing hope of any ghostly friend,
Sees hell already gape, and feels it glow.
Oh, but! -some moments, I've the spirit stout
Of early Christians in the lion's care,
That smile to Jesus witnessing, without
A nerve's revolt or turning of a hair!
1
1
Give ear unto the gentle lay
That's only sad that it may please;
It is discreet, and light it is:
A whiff of wind o'er buds in May.
The voice was known to you, and dear ? )
But it is muffled latterly
As is a widow,- still, as she
It doth its sorrow proudly bear,
And through the sweeping mourning-veil
That in the gusts of Autumn blows,
Unto the heart that wonders, shows
Truth like a star now flash, now fail.
It says — the voice you knew again!
That kindness, goodness, is our life;
And that of envy, hatred, strife,
When death is come, shall naught remain.
It says how glorious to be
Like children, without more delay,
The tender gladness it doth say
Of peace not bought with victory.
Accept the voice,- ah, hear the whole
Of its persistent, artless strain:
Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain,
As making glad another soul !
## p. 15319 (#267) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
15319
It pines in bonds but for a day,-
The soul that without murmur bears.
How unperplexed, how free it fares!
Oh, listen to the gentle lay!
I've seen again the One child, verily;
I felt the last wound open in my breast, -
The last, whose perfect torture doth attest
That on some happy day I too shall die!
Good, icy arrow, piercing thoroughly!
Most timely came it from their dreams to wrest
The sluggish scruples laid too long to rest,
And all my Christian blood hymned fervently.
I still hear, still I see! O worshiped rule
,
Of God! I know at last how comfortful
To hear and see! I see, I hear alway!
O innocence, O hope! Lowly and mild,
How I shall love you, sweet hands of my child,
Whose task shall be to close our eyes one day!
The sky-blue smiles above the roof
Its tenderest;
A green tree rears above the roof
Its waving crest.
The church-bell in the windless sky
Peaceably rings;
A skylark soaring in the sky
Endlessly sings.
My God, my God, all life is there,
Simple and sweet;
The soothing beehive murmur there
Comes from the street!
What have you done, O you that weep
In the glad sun,
Say, with your youth, you man that weep,
What have you done?
## p. 15320 (#268) ##########################################
15320
PAUL VERLAINE
APRÈS TROIS ANS
HEN I had pushed the narrow garden-door,
Once more I stood within the green retreat;
Softly the morning sunshine lighted it,
And every flower a humid spangle wore.
W***
Nothing is changed. I see it all once more:
The vine-clad arbor with its rustic seat;
The water-jet still plashes silver sweet,
The ancient aspen rustles as of yore.
The roses throb as in a bygone day,
As they were wont; the tall proud lilies sway.
Each bird that lights and twitters is a friend.
I even found the Flora standing yet,
Whose plaster crumbles at the alley's end
Slim, 'mid the foolish scent of mignonette.
MON RÊVE FAMILIER
O
Ft do I dream this strange and penetrating dream:
An unknown woman, whom I love, who loves me well,
Who does not every time quite change, nor yet quite
dwell
The same,- and loves me well, and knows me as I am.
For she knows me! My heart, clear as a crystal beam
To her alone, ceases to be inscrutable
To her alone, and she alone knows to dispel
My grief, cooling my brow with her tears' gentle stream.
Is she of favor dark or fair ? - I do not know.
Her name? All I remember is that it doth flow
Softly, as do the names of them we loved and lost.
Her eyes are like the statues', — mild, grave, and wide;
And for her voice she has as if it were the ghost
Of other voices, - well-loved voices that have died.
## p. 15321 (#269) ##########################################
PAUL VERLAINE
1532 1
LE ROSSIGNOL
L"
IKE to a swarm of birds, with jarring cries
Descend on me my swarming memories;
Light 'mid the yellow leaves, that shake and sigh,
Of the bowed alder — that is even I! -
Brooding its shadow in the violet
Unprofitable river of Regret,
hey settle screaming. Then the evil sound,
By the moist wind's impatient hushing drowned,
Dies by degrees, till nothing more is heard
Save the long singing of a single bird,
Save the clear voice-o singer, sweetly done! -
Warbling the praises of the Absent One.
And in the silence of a summer night
Sultry and splendid, by a late moon's light
That sad and sallow peers above the hill,
The humid hushing wind that ranges still
Rocks to a whispered sleep-song languidly
The bird lamenting and the shivering tree.
INSPIRATION
H,
A* Egeria with the lightsome eyes profound,
Sudden Erato, Genius quick to grant,
Old picture Angel of the gilt background!
Muse, – ay, whose voice is powerful indeed,
Since in the first-come brain it makes to grow
Thick as some dusty yellow roadside weed,
A gardenful of poems none did sow! -
Dove, Holy Ghost, Delirium, Sacred Fire,
Transporting Passion,-seasonable queen!
Gabriel and lute, Latona's son and lyre, -
Ay, Inspiration, summoned at sixteen!
What we have need of, we, the poets true,
That not believe in gods, and yet revere,
That have no halo, hold no golden clue,
For whom no Beatrix leaves her radiant sphere,-
## p. 15322 (#270) ##########################################
15322
PAUL VERLAINE
We that do chisel words like chalices,
And moving verses shape with unmoved mind,
Whom wandering in groups by evening seas,
In musical converse ye scarce shall find, -
What we need is, in midnight hours dim-lit,
Sleep daunted, knowledge earned, - more knowledge
still!
Is Faust's brow, of the woodcuts, sternly knit,-
Is stubborn Perseverance, and is Will!
Is Will eternal, holy, absolute,
That grasps — as doth a noble bird of prey
The steaming flanks of the foredoomed brute –
Its project, and with it - skyward, away!
What we need, we, is fixedness intense,
Unequaled effort, strife that shall not cease;
Is night, the bitter night of labor, whence
Arises, sun-like, slow, the Masterpiece!
Let our inspired hearts, by an eye-shot tined,
Sway with the birch-tree to all winds that blow,
Poor things! Art knows not the divided mind -
Speak - Milo's Venus, is she stone or no?
We therefore, carve we with the chisel thought
The pure block of the beautiful, and gain
From out the marble cold where it was not,
Some starry-chiton'd statue without stain,
That one far day, posterity, new morn,
Enkindling with a golden-rosy flame
Our work, new Memnon, shall to ears unborn
Make quiver in the singing air our name!
The above translations are all by Gertrude Hall.
## p. 15323 (#271) ##########################################
15323
JONES VERY
(1803–1880)
F A parallel were sought from nature in describing a poet
like Jones Very, the hermit-thrush might well be named.
His life had the seclusion of that with awn chanter in the
woods, his song had the shy removed quality and the spiritual note
of that most ethereal of bird-inusicians. A New-Englander, a tran-
scendentalist, naturally affiliating with men
like Channing and Emerson, Very walked
by the inner light, and obeyed the vision.
His unworldliness had in it something
almost uncanny. He made a unique im-
pression upon observant souls. “American
soil,” says James Freeman Clarke, «has
produced no other man like Jones Very. ”
In the case of one with whom the life
of the spirit is all-important, the outward
events of his career seem of little moment:
they were uneventful with Very. He was
born August 28th, 1813, at Salem, Massa-
chusetts; and his father was a sea-captain,
JONES VERY
at a time when men of that ancient profes-
sion were among the most respected citizens of the community, pos-
sessed of character and culture. He made several voyages with his
father; attended school in Salem, and in New Orleans, Louisiana; and
by teaching, saved money enough to go to Harvard, where he was
graduated in 1836, remaining as a tutor of Greek for two years more.
He then studied theology, and was licensed a Unitarian preacher of
the Cambridge Association in 1843. But he never took a pastorate:
he returned to his native town and led a retired life, contributing
occasionally to the Salem Gazette, the Christian Register, and other
papers representing his denomination. He read literature, ancient
and modern; but his main interest was always in religious and
ethical themes. When he felt a call to do so, he accepted an invita-
tion to preach. If he deemed that God wished him to go to Boston
for converse with Dr. Channing, thither he went. His smallest acts
were in response to heavenly guidance.
In 1839 appeared the volume of Very's essays and poems.
The
former are scholarly and thoughtful; but the chief interest centres in
## p. 15324 (#272) ##########################################
15324
JONES VERY
the verse, posthumous editions of which were published in 1883 and
1886. In few books by an American poet has the note been more
distinctive. Very's sonnets and lyrics are the musings of a mystic.
The sonnets in particular express the history of the poet's religious
nature. In the lyrics there is less subjectivity, more variety of form,
and a wider range of theme; so that this portion of his work, as a
whole, will have stronger attraction for the general reader. But in
the irregular Shakespearean sonnet, with an extra syllable in the
final line, Very has made his most intimate revelation of himself.
He seems to have found this form peculiarly suited to the expression
of his inmost ideals. Such verses — introspective, subtle, delicate,
dealing with the loftiest aspirations of the human soul — cannot be
expected to make a wide appeal. But they embody a remarkable
poetic sentiment of the life of the spirit, and will always be precious
to those for whom they were written. Lowell admired and loved
Very's poetry; it has always found critical appreciation. Few poets
had a deeper feeling for nature - nature as the garment of God -
than this Salem recluse. He is at his happiest when breathing out
his spiritual thought in descriptions which note affectionately, with a
lover's constant eye, the grass, the tree, and the flower, and inter-
pret the insect on the earth, and the clouds of the sky, as symbols of
the One, maker of them all. When he died in his native town on
May 8th, 1880, there were those who felt that one of the choicest of
that noteworthy group of New England idealists had been removed.
[All the following poems are copyrighted, and they are republished here by
permission of the family of Mr. Very. )
THE TREE
I
LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor, longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen,
To veil from view the early robin's nest,
I love to lie beneath thy waving screen
With limbs by summer's heat and toil opprest;
And when the autumn winds have stript thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,
I love to watch thy shadowy form below,
And through thy leafless arms to look above
On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.
## p. 15325 (#273) ##########################################
JONES VERY
15325
DAY
D^
AY!
